Dar Williams' song "It's Alright" from her Promised Land CD album is rollicking along on my stereo tonight, and I find that, indeed, "it's all alright." After a first semester of graduate school in which I took a bit of a walloping and struggled to keep on kicking, I've found my stride here, in more ways than one. I actually love that phrase because when I'm feeling out of sorts, stressed, or a little lost I oftentimes walk great distances, and even though it is something I frequently do as someone who backpacks, it always takes a bit of walking and a bit of struggling before I finally find my stride.
Our second semester began last week, a fact I can hardly fathom. The way my graduate program works, the second semester blows into the summer (which is filled with research - for me, a summer-long trip to Asia), which blows right back into the fall. It feels a little bit like all that time is already lost to me, as I know the pace at which things will move once this weekend passes. But so it goes. Time always goes more quickly than I would will it to.
I reviewed my old blog posts earlier tonight, and was reminded of a friend I met this summer while working in Costa Rica. He was a videographer on the field research project with which I assisted, and we shared a bunkbed in a family vacation house out of which we were based. I had the luckless upper bunk, and every night after I stepped off his heavy duty camera box (locked by a heavy silver chain to the bed itself during our days in the field) and up onto the rungs of the bed, he would take a few minutes to scribble something in a small notebook before shutting the light and wishing me a good night.
Not known for my recalcitrance (not one bit!), I asked him what he was up to, and was caught very much off guard by his answer that it was his "diary." Now, this is not some skinny hipster boy, and not some soulful, introverted nerdy boy (at least not on the outside) either. This is a strong, rather attractive, outdoorsy type. The solid built, Nordic skiing, wrap-your-arms-around-my-chest-and-hang-on-little-lady, type of guy. Consummate professional, passionate about his craft, committed to nailing the shot. No way would I have guessed that under his pillow was a five year diary.
It turns out that his father and I believe grandfather before him had kept these diaries, scribbling down not what the day felt like, but mostly what happened, where, and with whom. He told me that his father had a diary entry for most of the days of his life, including his wedding to this fellow's mother, and the days he and his sibling were born. When the kids became old enough his dad shared what he had written on those life-changing days, and it was something my friend had always valued and respected. So there he was, 27 some odd years old this summer, a committed diarist, recording the days' events for his own recollection, if not public posterity. Come to think of it, there's a day or two I would be curious to read his thoughts on...
I thought of that little bound book of personal history today as I reviewed this site, mulling over a conversation with a friend about where and how we share our thoughts and reflection, and caught myself grinning (still!) at the story about Greg and Alaska, aching for the loneliness of the days after Paul (and there were so many), and cracking a grin at the fishtank story. Maybe my blogging quietly and infrequently over the last almost three years hasn't been the lackluster effort I've characterized it as, but simply an implicit acknowledgement of what I might have guessed - that in a big way, I'm telling these stories for myself. In which case, it's not a symtom of my failure that no one reads this blog (since I've not done anything to link it to anyone else), but a document that so far has existed for me, as a chronology of who I am.
But I do have stories I want to tell, and to have heard and more importantly read by others, and I spend countless and inappropriate hours pining for the courage to take the steps to make that happen. Sometimes it feels like I am made up of no more than a long series of sometimes endless stories. Maybe all of life is made up of such epic tales. In which case, we shouldn't hesitate to fail, or thrash, or struggle along the way, as I did last semester. Maybe some of the stories are about failures, and maybe their juxtaposition with the successes is what makes the latter shine so brightly in the telling. Maybe, maybe, maybe...
But tonight, it's alright, it's alright, it's alright. A new semester lies ahead. I spent the weekend in DC, and returned feeling refreshed and revived by the friendships and shared energies of conversations I have and had there. I've changed my advisor, I've interviewed for a scholarship. Everything is looking up, even as I remind myself to be cautious in celebration of little successes. And of course, as with all moments in which things look up, I've somewhat recently meant someone I could really care for, given timing, communication, mutual will and, perhaps, alignment of the cosmos. I really don't know if it's anything or if he wants it, and that's okay. The only thing that's for sure is that we will see, and time will tell - truths previous posts belie.
But it's alright, it's alright, it's alright. For tonight, I can wait.
January 22, 2009
December 13, 2008
The only way to it is through it
My brother inspired me tonight. He has a blog he is working on that I just checked up on for the first time in awhile, and now here I am. I started this blog 2+ years ago this fall, but have only written a meager 2+ entries...but oh, where the world has taken me.
I am in the midst of final examinations in my program at Yale, in my first semester of a two year graduate degree that I (still!) think costs far too much money. It's been a stressful, hard semester - more so than I would like to admit. I re-learned things about myself as a student (horrible procrastinator) that I really would have rather forgotten, and I have found I am a very different student as an adult than I was as an undergrad. I think I should have expected that, and should have been prepared for it, but it caught me by surprise.
You can't do grad school like you did undergrad - it's harder, and more personal, and a bigger judgment on who you are and what you're made of. I feel deeply flawed today for not being done with this anthro paper from hell, which was due at 5pm. I had a little bit of beer for the first time in...I don't remember the last time I had a drink of any kind, actually...maybe since Thanksgiving? Drinking alcohol of any kind absolutely destroys my productivity, so I rarely do it at graduate school. As in, almost never. I did tonight, however, and it got me all off track. Now I'm sitting here in my dumb, overpriced Yale sweatshirt, eyes mostly closed with exhaustion, paper not done and simply awful, really, but cheeks warm from the beer, and soul a little lighter from the conversation.
Life is full of trade offs, I think. Sometimes you trade a good, heartfelt conversation with your roommates (about heartbreak, of all things) for a 25 page anthropology paper. Sometimes you know you should double-down and crank it out, but you just don't (or can't) care. I'm not sure if that makes me a bad person - I know it makes me a horribly lazy one. But I just think - this 25 page paper will not define me. No one but the professor and the teaching fellows will ever read it (25 pages is a stupid length to assign, for what its worth - I'll write up to 15 'cause you can publish it as an article, but 25? What a trivial length. Why not just assign us a book to write?) so I am still here. Staring at freaking Microsoft Word, wishing it would self populate with the details surrounding incorporation of women into community forestry in Southern Asia. But it doesn't, so I don't beat myself up over it. I just sit here, I do my best, and I write.
My motto falls somewhere along those lines, these days..."just do your best, in the time you have...and then move on". It's really all you can do. I think I learned this last spring when I was frantically trying to reestablish who I was before the Yale deadline, and had to resign myself to doing my best within the real time constraints of the situation at hand. I think its realistic, though. You never get the perfect amount of time, you'll never be able to finish all of your assignments, you'll never stay in complete touch with all of your friends. But if you can do your best, with the time you have...you should at least be able to sleep soundly at night.
I am in the midst of final examinations in my program at Yale, in my first semester of a two year graduate degree that I (still!) think costs far too much money. It's been a stressful, hard semester - more so than I would like to admit. I re-learned things about myself as a student (horrible procrastinator) that I really would have rather forgotten, and I have found I am a very different student as an adult than I was as an undergrad. I think I should have expected that, and should have been prepared for it, but it caught me by surprise.
You can't do grad school like you did undergrad - it's harder, and more personal, and a bigger judgment on who you are and what you're made of. I feel deeply flawed today for not being done with this anthro paper from hell, which was due at 5pm. I had a little bit of beer for the first time in...I don't remember the last time I had a drink of any kind, actually...maybe since Thanksgiving? Drinking alcohol of any kind absolutely destroys my productivity, so I rarely do it at graduate school. As in, almost never. I did tonight, however, and it got me all off track. Now I'm sitting here in my dumb, overpriced Yale sweatshirt, eyes mostly closed with exhaustion, paper not done and simply awful, really, but cheeks warm from the beer, and soul a little lighter from the conversation.
Life is full of trade offs, I think. Sometimes you trade a good, heartfelt conversation with your roommates (about heartbreak, of all things) for a 25 page anthropology paper. Sometimes you know you should double-down and crank it out, but you just don't (or can't) care. I'm not sure if that makes me a bad person - I know it makes me a horribly lazy one. But I just think - this 25 page paper will not define me. No one but the professor and the teaching fellows will ever read it (25 pages is a stupid length to assign, for what its worth - I'll write up to 15 'cause you can publish it as an article, but 25? What a trivial length. Why not just assign us a book to write?) so I am still here. Staring at freaking Microsoft Word, wishing it would self populate with the details surrounding incorporation of women into community forestry in Southern Asia. But it doesn't, so I don't beat myself up over it. I just sit here, I do my best, and I write.
My motto falls somewhere along those lines, these days..."just do your best, in the time you have...and then move on". It's really all you can do. I think I learned this last spring when I was frantically trying to reestablish who I was before the Yale deadline, and had to resign myself to doing my best within the real time constraints of the situation at hand. I think its realistic, though. You never get the perfect amount of time, you'll never be able to finish all of your assignments, you'll never stay in complete touch with all of your friends. But if you can do your best, with the time you have...you should at least be able to sleep soundly at night.
May 05, 2008
On My Way Out
Two in one day - how's that for exciting?!
Although my blog documents the decision-making process that led to me deciding to matriculate at FES this fall, this month, my last in DC, finds me a bit mired in nostalgia, with more affection for the city than I would generally like to admit to.
I have 26 more days in the 20010 zip code, 26 more days of my fantastically diverse neighborhood, with all the drama and problems that that encompasses. 26 more days of sitting on my shoddy back porch with the housemates, doing almost nothing at all besides enjoying the gorgeous DC spring. 26 more days of this fabulous cast of characters being my housemates, at all.
Of course, there are good reasons to leave, but it's easier to see the reasons to stay when you're facing your own certain departure, especially when the line, "this month, my last in DC," is so familiar.
As I've said or alluded to in previous posts, December 2007 was supposed to be my last in DC, and January 14 was supposed to be the day I tried not to cry while driving away.
Luckily for me (mind the change in perspective!), my then-boyfriend broke up with me, leaving me to reclaim my room in the group house I share with four others, reestablish ties with people, friends I thought I was leaving, and rediscover that, truly, I love DC.
Instead I stayed, and re-did all of those things, and accomplished a few new ones as well.
I learned to work from home, as a consultant, and manage my time better. I created a home office to work out of, saved up for and paid some big bucks for a friend's destination wedding (which was worth every cent), and made new friends. I followed up on barely-there friendships from my last 9-to-5 (or 6, or 7), and turned them into true friendships, and I learned a lot about myself as a person. Like that I'm just as strong as I thought I was and, in many ways, stronger.
I even came around to see the bright side of Paul breaking up with me, which is that I don't know if I would have decided to pursue the graduate school program to which I was admitted if I was looking the debt in the face with him by my side (he is profoundly debt-averse), especially since he wanted to go West, not North and East. But instead, I was able to take stock in my options, and decide to go North and East alone. (So there, Paul!)
But now after all these good and healthy realizations, the renewed direction and reinvigorated...EVERYTHING, I am leaving this base that has provided the foundation for all the self-defense and self-reflection I needed to do in the last few months, and I admit it's a tad scary. DC has been good to me. My friends have been good to me here.
So with 26 more days, what's a girl to do?
I want to go to the National Gallery and the Sackler, the museums I never got to. I wanted to go to the Hotel Washington rooftop restaurant and watch the sun go down over the National Mall, but late last week I found out it's been liquidated (oh, well). I want to go camping with my friends and do happy hours, and I want to walk around Columbia Heights more. I want to explore my neighborhood and meet more of my neighbors (belatedly, I know), and I want to dance with my girlfriends. I want to sit out on the back porch with my housemates wrapped in a comforter, tea on the wicker table in front of me, as I did yesterday, and do nothing in the company of friends.
For my last 26 days in DC I want to be still and content, and just be here, and not anywhere else.
I have loved DC.
Although my blog documents the decision-making process that led to me deciding to matriculate at FES this fall, this month, my last in DC, finds me a bit mired in nostalgia, with more affection for the city than I would generally like to admit to.
I have 26 more days in the 20010 zip code, 26 more days of my fantastically diverse neighborhood, with all the drama and problems that that encompasses. 26 more days of sitting on my shoddy back porch with the housemates, doing almost nothing at all besides enjoying the gorgeous DC spring. 26 more days of this fabulous cast of characters being my housemates, at all.
Of course, there are good reasons to leave, but it's easier to see the reasons to stay when you're facing your own certain departure, especially when the line, "this month, my last in DC," is so familiar.
As I've said or alluded to in previous posts, December 2007 was supposed to be my last in DC, and January 14 was supposed to be the day I tried not to cry while driving away.
Luckily for me (mind the change in perspective!), my then-boyfriend broke up with me, leaving me to reclaim my room in the group house I share with four others, reestablish ties with people, friends I thought I was leaving, and rediscover that, truly, I love DC.
Instead I stayed, and re-did all of those things, and accomplished a few new ones as well.
I learned to work from home, as a consultant, and manage my time better. I created a home office to work out of, saved up for and paid some big bucks for a friend's destination wedding (which was worth every cent), and made new friends. I followed up on barely-there friendships from my last 9-to-5 (or 6, or 7), and turned them into true friendships, and I learned a lot about myself as a person. Like that I'm just as strong as I thought I was and, in many ways, stronger.
I even came around to see the bright side of Paul breaking up with me, which is that I don't know if I would have decided to pursue the graduate school program to which I was admitted if I was looking the debt in the face with him by my side (he is profoundly debt-averse), especially since he wanted to go West, not North and East. But instead, I was able to take stock in my options, and decide to go North and East alone. (So there, Paul!)
But now after all these good and healthy realizations, the renewed direction and reinvigorated...EVERYTHING, I am leaving this base that has provided the foundation for all the self-defense and self-reflection I needed to do in the last few months, and I admit it's a tad scary. DC has been good to me. My friends have been good to me here.
So with 26 more days, what's a girl to do?
I want to go to the National Gallery and the Sackler, the museums I never got to. I wanted to go to the Hotel Washington rooftop restaurant and watch the sun go down over the National Mall, but late last week I found out it's been liquidated (oh, well). I want to go camping with my friends and do happy hours, and I want to walk around Columbia Heights more. I want to explore my neighborhood and meet more of my neighbors (belatedly, I know), and I want to dance with my girlfriends. I want to sit out on the back porch with my housemates wrapped in a comforter, tea on the wicker table in front of me, as I did yesterday, and do nothing in the company of friends.
For my last 26 days in DC I want to be still and content, and just be here, and not anywhere else.
I have loved DC.
My First Blog
While procrastinating on work today I spent some time catching up on Feministing, one of my all time favorite Feminist blogs, and one which I have been reading for almost two years now, as I realized with a shock about a week or two ago. Feministing blogger Ann (a fellow DC resident - Hey-yeah!) had given props to another Feminist blog, Feminist Finance, which she recently discovered, and which I promptly read, enjoyed, and bookmarked under my blogs tab (where all good procrastinators go to die, or, at least, to find some interesting food for thought to power them through the long part of the afternoon).
While on the topic of Feminist Finance, the post I particularly enjoyed (on 'Marrying Debt') can be found here.
Finding a new blog I liked made me think a bit about my first one, and how I became interested in blogs altogether.
I know there's a healthy proportion of our population that don't do anything with (read, write, comment on, or discuss) blogs, but I think they have a lot of value. Although I was interested in blogging as an idea and a venue for writing (and for practicing writing), I probably wouldn't have ever become a blogger (albeit one who is thus far inconsistent, and as far as one can tell, unread!) or reader of blogs if it wasn't for the Washington Post and Bad Feminist.
Two years or so ago I read a Washington Post article on some vaguely feminist issue, and saw that the sidebar included a list of blogs that had recently commented on the piece. I don't think they have this functionality anymore (that, or I just haven't read the WaPo recently enough), because they probably realized they were driving some seriously valuable traffic away from their site. But the blog's name was "Bad Feminist," and the blogger was awesome.
Bad Feminist took some seriously, awesomely antiquated 1950's and earlier imagery and used it to spice up her blog posts, and posted about personal issues, in her own voice, in a direct and engaging way that inspired me. At a time when I felt a bit adrift in my own feminism, and relatively unsupported as an as-yet-unconnected (read: newly arrived) feminist in DC, Bad Feminist made me feel like I was not the only one wrestling with many of these ideas, or ascribed to the values that are to me what feminism is all about.
It is ironic, then, for me to recall that Bad Feminist was some level of Yale student, as I will soon be, and saddening that she eventually closed up shop, and stopped blogging. I keep her on my blogroll as a kind of tribute, and also for the other blogs she exposed me to.
From the Bad Feminist blogroll I eventually branched out to discover Feministing, F-Words, Broadsheet (for which I have some serious love and respect), Bitch Ph.D., Pandagon, Feministe, and many others, and started to develop an interest in blogging, myself.
That I would continue to discover new blogs by moving from these more well-established bases, and that this process would continue to unfold, has been exciting, as I love the moment when I read a new blog and something clicks. I know not all blogs will hit home with me (of the ones listed above, Feministing, F-Words, and Broadsheet have been nearly daily sources of information and inspiration for me), just as I know not everyone will like my writing, or my little blog project. Some people might think writing about personal experiences, and in the first person, is boring. But I like personal experiences, and I enjoy learning that my own experiences are common to others - it's reassuring, surprising, exciting, and validating.
I just hope that at least a few people will find my blog worth a read, once in awhile, and that I will continue to develop my voice, much as I have watched these other ladies develop theirs.
While on the topic of Feminist Finance, the post I particularly enjoyed (on 'Marrying Debt') can be found here.
Finding a new blog I liked made me think a bit about my first one, and how I became interested in blogs altogether.
I know there's a healthy proportion of our population that don't do anything with (read, write, comment on, or discuss) blogs, but I think they have a lot of value. Although I was interested in blogging as an idea and a venue for writing (and for practicing writing), I probably wouldn't have ever become a blogger (albeit one who is thus far inconsistent, and as far as one can tell, unread!) or reader of blogs if it wasn't for the Washington Post and Bad Feminist.
Two years or so ago I read a Washington Post article on some vaguely feminist issue, and saw that the sidebar included a list of blogs that had recently commented on the piece. I don't think they have this functionality anymore (that, or I just haven't read the WaPo recently enough), because they probably realized they were driving some seriously valuable traffic away from their site. But the blog's name was "Bad Feminist," and the blogger was awesome.
Bad Feminist took some seriously, awesomely antiquated 1950's and earlier imagery and used it to spice up her blog posts, and posted about personal issues, in her own voice, in a direct and engaging way that inspired me. At a time when I felt a bit adrift in my own feminism, and relatively unsupported as an as-yet-unconnected (read: newly arrived) feminist in DC, Bad Feminist made me feel like I was not the only one wrestling with many of these ideas, or ascribed to the values that are to me what feminism is all about.
It is ironic, then, for me to recall that Bad Feminist was some level of Yale student, as I will soon be, and saddening that she eventually closed up shop, and stopped blogging. I keep her on my blogroll as a kind of tribute, and also for the other blogs she exposed me to.
From the Bad Feminist blogroll I eventually branched out to discover Feministing, F-Words, Broadsheet (for which I have some serious love and respect), Bitch Ph.D., Pandagon, Feministe, and many others, and started to develop an interest in blogging, myself.
That I would continue to discover new blogs by moving from these more well-established bases, and that this process would continue to unfold, has been exciting, as I love the moment when I read a new blog and something clicks. I know not all blogs will hit home with me (of the ones listed above, Feministing, F-Words, and Broadsheet have been nearly daily sources of information and inspiration for me), just as I know not everyone will like my writing, or my little blog project. Some people might think writing about personal experiences, and in the first person, is boring. But I like personal experiences, and I enjoy learning that my own experiences are common to others - it's reassuring, surprising, exciting, and validating.
I just hope that at least a few people will find my blog worth a read, once in awhile, and that I will continue to develop my voice, much as I have watched these other ladies develop theirs.
April 15, 2008
April 14, 2008
Free, With a History
Ryan Adams wrote a beautiful song called "Harder Now that it's Over," which I listened to perhaps a dozen times a day when Paul first broke off our relationship. Feeling mellow tonight, I put on the playlist I created when our relationship ended, and let myself look through some of the old GMails I found while double-checking that my 2007 tax returns were definitely submitted and received (and they were).
Love is so funny, is all I can come up with. My GMail account is the story of my life in Washington, and in particular is the story of my many loves. Not all true loves, not by a long shot, but loves in the way that I was filled with love by the experience.
I scanned past the early history of my and Paul's relationship - there was so much love and silliness throughout, that it still sometimes takes my breath away that it's over. Even in my emails, you can tell that I never saw it coming.
Before Paul was BB, the crazy one, the one no one (least of all me) understood. Charming yet demeaning, he didn't last long.
And prior to BB was PP (love those alliterative boys, don't I?), the college boyfriend who set me free to do what I already knew was right by cheating on me my very first weekend here in DC, when I didn't even know enough people to mourn with. I had briefly written that he broke my heart in the previous sentence, but that is untrue. He set me free. And when I doubted my freedom six months later, and contemplated reuniting with him, I broke his heart.
How revealing, though, to read those exchanges, and to mull over the little elements of truth that emerged over the years, and how those elements became molded into something bigger, and stronger, and unavoidably integral to my person as I worked harder and harder to face my own truths, in love, work, and otherwise. I feel like I owe GMail one for still being able to be a witness to that.
I am amazed to realize that it has taken me three months of mourning everyday to be able to resign myself to Paul's having left. Had I been told before that I would be so deeply effected, I may have believed it, but I could never have imagined what that would mean. I feel like I spent the last three months living in a very dark cave, and struggle to remember feeling joy at all throughout that time. It makes me feel stuck in the dark even to try to recall how I passed the days.
I still feel sad about Paul several days a week, now, but the change from the all-encompassing sadness of late winter is so drastic that I feel light, and...joyous, even while I am sad, these last few weeks.
And yet today was a sadder day than has been my norm, of late, because yesterday my housemate Judith and I went for a long, unutterably hair-brained bike ride (my idea), which ended in cold defeat, on the side of a small highway, in the dark. And somewhere in there, I thought of Paul, and what he might think of me were he to see me, and I carried that curiosity into today. I still think about whether he would be proud of me, although I know he is no longer thinking anywhere along the same lines. I still wish for him to be proud of me.
And yet there was a bit of happiness in that, too. My other housemate, Ben, came to pick us up in his car (hence our static presence on the side of the parkway), good-naturedly coming out after nine to rescue his outlandish housemates. And when I saw his profile lit up by a passing car as he pulled up next to us, I felt this little stir of something. A crush, perhaps? Excitement and fondness, and perhaps a small amount of pleasure or - better put - desire.
I was glad to see him in part to get out of the cold, but there was more to it than that, so I stepped up to give him a hug and it turned out to be warmer and longer than I might have imagined or intended. When we parted to grab the bicycles, I found I instinctively wanted to reach for his face with my hands and very tenderly kiss it, very differently than I might have wanted to in the past. The feeling of it warmed me up, so perhaps that may bring something worthy of a good look forward.
And, hence, the title. I find myself free, but with a history.
April 08, 2008
Entrenched
I almost fell off the wagon (again!) but I'm back. I've been entrenched in the busy-ness of mid-twenties life: after returning from Easter in NJ I worked a few days, and went for a solo backpacking trip to Shenandoah National Park, the 'Delaware Water Gap of Virginia,' with the hope of figuring out what to do about Yale. I came back a few bumps and bruises (and one decidedly illegal campfire later) raving about what I had realized about Yale and money (hint: I was more interested in prioritizing the former than the latter), but have since vacillated on my decision several times. Let's call it "Indecision 2008," shall we?
So I worked another week, and blasted straight into one of my all time favorite people's bachelorette party. My very good friend from High School is getting married at the end of the month, and in so doing makes herself my first close, long time friend to take such a step. Debauchery and deep feminist conversation ensued (of course!) and I am glad to say I am better for it.
There are several things I want to talk about, tomorrow, when I'm a little less buzzed and a little more cogent. So let's list them, and that way I'll feel obliged to follow up.
1. Hillary Clinton - I saw her speak at the Daughters of the American Revolution Hall, and she was really, truly, excellent.
2. Backpacking solo - How my trip went, creating "an intention for my practice" (hello, Yogis!), and the amazing people you meet on the trail.
3. The Bachelorette - what it is to watch someone you love get married, especially after a painful breakup.
4. Saturday night - the amazing, incredible group of women and our discussion on Saturday night, after the wine tour/hot tub combo.
5. Beatings on the metro - when I boarded my metro car this morning, a man was being pulled off by a cop for beating his female companion. Last week, I saw a woman on some kind of drug pee in her seat, before being pulled off by a less-than-savory character, whom I've wondered about the intentions of ever since.
6. The new documentary on Rape in Congo, which aired tonight on HBO, not that I have a TV. Thoughts on rape as a tool of war, on fear, on gender, and on men.
And with that, I'll call it a night. More tomorrow. For real!
So I worked another week, and blasted straight into one of my all time favorite people's bachelorette party. My very good friend from High School is getting married at the end of the month, and in so doing makes herself my first close, long time friend to take such a step. Debauchery and deep feminist conversation ensued (of course!) and I am glad to say I am better for it.
There are several things I want to talk about, tomorrow, when I'm a little less buzzed and a little more cogent. So let's list them, and that way I'll feel obliged to follow up.
1. Hillary Clinton - I saw her speak at the Daughters of the American Revolution Hall, and she was really, truly, excellent.
2. Backpacking solo - How my trip went, creating "an intention for my practice" (hello, Yogis!), and the amazing people you meet on the trail.
3. The Bachelorette - what it is to watch someone you love get married, especially after a painful breakup.
4. Saturday night - the amazing, incredible group of women and our discussion on Saturday night, after the wine tour/hot tub combo.
5. Beatings on the metro - when I boarded my metro car this morning, a man was being pulled off by a cop for beating his female companion. Last week, I saw a woman on some kind of drug pee in her seat, before being pulled off by a less-than-savory character, whom I've wondered about the intentions of ever since.
6. The new documentary on Rape in Congo, which aired tonight on HBO, not that I have a TV. Thoughts on rape as a tool of war, on fear, on gender, and on men.
And with that, I'll call it a night. More tomorrow. For real!
March 24, 2008
Money Trouble
Tonight I finally got my financial aid package from Yale. Or I should say, my estimation of debt package. I'm delighted to be admitted to Yale, I really am...but I struggle with what the point is if I can't even dream of affording it. For what Yale estimates the cost will be to me over the two years I would attend, I could put a down payment on a (good) house. For a Master's degree in an environmental field, which everyone knows does not pay itself back, like a JD or an MBA would.
That's really all I've got for tonight. How can you tell someone who grossed barely over $30K last year that they should be able to pay almost $10K out of pocket? How can you expect them to pick up $50K of debt over the next two years (and that's just for the nine months of the school year)???
I am mystified. What happened to the cost of education in America? Are we INSANE to even discuss paying this much for a two year degree in a field that, like all altruistic fields, will only ever pay just enough to live on? How could I even possibly dream of paying that $50K back, on top of the $10K I owe from college (after the $5K I've already paid)??
Maybe they should do our financial aid estimates before they admit us. That way we can look at the numbers, sigh, and say, "Oh, nevermind. I'd rather have housing."
This is nuts. That's all I've got for tonight. This is nuts.
That's really all I've got for tonight. How can you tell someone who grossed barely over $30K last year that they should be able to pay almost $10K out of pocket? How can you expect them to pick up $50K of debt over the next two years (and that's just for the nine months of the school year)???
I am mystified. What happened to the cost of education in America? Are we INSANE to even discuss paying this much for a two year degree in a field that, like all altruistic fields, will only ever pay just enough to live on? How could I even possibly dream of paying that $50K back, on top of the $10K I owe from college (after the $5K I've already paid)??
Maybe they should do our financial aid estimates before they admit us. That way we can look at the numbers, sigh, and say, "Oh, nevermind. I'd rather have housing."
This is nuts. That's all I've got for tonight. This is nuts.
March 23, 2008
Protracted Feelings of Loss
Happy Easter to any who may stumble upon my little forays into blogging.
I spent this weekend visiting my first college roommate in New Hampshire, spending a night at her apartment, a night at her parents' (wonderful, cozy, homey) farmhouse, and then returned to my native NJ, to join my mother's side of the family for Easter dinner.
I am not, generally, so much a fan of Easter as I am a fan of family. I am a true, confirmed, comfortable atheist. I have now come through loss and death in the family, and remain atheist, and so feel comfortable that it will stick. I only wish Atheist didn't sound so dark, so hopeless. I find it honest, not untruthful.
To the point, however - today was a different kind of Easter. We, the 20-30 something generation, have birthed two babies this last year, and this was the first holiday that my little second cousin (and her cousin - my third cousin??) were old enough to do more than burp. Which is to say, they wiggled and kicked, and in one case, did so quite vigorously
The afternoon's entertainment are 8 and 5 months, respectively, and it was...weird. There was almost no adult conversation (whatsoever), with the exception of a quick insertion by my uncle about his finding Bear Stearns to be a sleazy company in his professional experience, and even that was aborted when one of the babies did something exciting...like raising a leg. Or burping. Or drooling. Or all three.
I, who don't want a baby, and finally just told my mother that the subject of children was a defining point in Paul's decision to terminate our relationship, was handed a baby by my wonderful cousin-in-law, the proud (ridiculously, sweetly proud) father. I haven't held a baby (before theirs at Thanksgiving and then Christmas) since my less-fearful youth, when I babysat. So not for about...8 years.
My cousin-in-law wanted to help his wife clean up and set up (they were hosting - I have no idea why we let the new parents host), and turned, smiled, held out his child, and deposited her in my arms while I sat at the dinner table.
I'm not sure how to describe what happened next. It moved me. This beautiful (crying) little baby wiggled around and looked up at me, then out the window, then at my father (who was making old-man-gaga-for-a-baby faces - you know the type), and then back at me. And I started to bounce her gently, and smooth her hair while leaning her head on the soft part of my shoulder...and she stopped crying.
I am not an instant convert. A fairly consistent, even, and logical person, I am not someone who will be instantaneously smitten by a sweet-faced child, although I think my cousins' daughter is beautiful. It's what comes after the baby (the toddler, the child, the preteen, the teenager) that I am wary of, and it is the concessions that all of the women I know have made, that make me dread motherhood. I don't want to lose myself in the mix of childbirth, of motherhood. I don't want a husband that goes to work while I stay home, and I don't want the grass is greener resentment I've seen such bifurcation of responsibilities yield. I don't want to live a life that ends up looking like that.
But while I held the baby today I had such a moment - I was really deeply moved. And with a sudden jerk she swung her head back, and then forward, and planted her little mouth firmly on the small amount of breast showing above the line of my shirt. And that moved me too. It wasn't strange, or confusing, or peculiar - I felt as though, were she my child, I would be capable of fluidly, effortlessly feeding her, that I knew the steps without ever having practiced them, without ever having thought about how it's done. I don't know how better to express it - I was moved.
But then came the loss. Paul loved babies, and I had looked forward to the day we would be able to visit my cousins, and he could play with them. I wanted to show him that maybe I wasn't missing some piece of what he thought was important in a woman, that I too can make silly faces at children, can love them, even if I don't want them. I think I had secretly hoped that Paul and I would visit my cousins and their baby, and I would be moved, and I would discover something in myself that was deeper and more primal than my politics, my goals.
And so when I was moved, although it was not towards a desire for motherhood, I reached my head around to show him, to share the moment and the pride of connectedness - and he was not there. Was not there and won't be, and I am alone.
Even now, hours later, in the last moments of Easter, I wish I could reach out to him and share. I miss him.
I spent this weekend visiting my first college roommate in New Hampshire, spending a night at her apartment, a night at her parents' (wonderful, cozy, homey) farmhouse, and then returned to my native NJ, to join my mother's side of the family for Easter dinner.
I am not, generally, so much a fan of Easter as I am a fan of family. I am a true, confirmed, comfortable atheist. I have now come through loss and death in the family, and remain atheist, and so feel comfortable that it will stick. I only wish Atheist didn't sound so dark, so hopeless. I find it honest, not untruthful.
To the point, however - today was a different kind of Easter. We, the 20-30 something generation, have birthed two babies this last year, and this was the first holiday that my little second cousin (and her cousin - my third cousin??) were old enough to do more than burp. Which is to say, they wiggled and kicked, and in one case, did so quite vigorously
The afternoon's entertainment are 8 and 5 months, respectively, and it was...weird. There was almost no adult conversation (whatsoever), with the exception of a quick insertion by my uncle about his finding Bear Stearns to be a sleazy company in his professional experience, and even that was aborted when one of the babies did something exciting...like raising a leg. Or burping. Or drooling. Or all three.
I, who don't want a baby, and finally just told my mother that the subject of children was a defining point in Paul's decision to terminate our relationship, was handed a baby by my wonderful cousin-in-law, the proud (ridiculously, sweetly proud) father. I haven't held a baby (before theirs at Thanksgiving and then Christmas) since my less-fearful youth, when I babysat. So not for about...8 years.
My cousin-in-law wanted to help his wife clean up and set up (they were hosting - I have no idea why we let the new parents host), and turned, smiled, held out his child, and deposited her in my arms while I sat at the dinner table.
I'm not sure how to describe what happened next. It moved me. This beautiful (crying) little baby wiggled around and looked up at me, then out the window, then at my father (who was making old-man-gaga-for-a-baby faces - you know the type), and then back at me. And I started to bounce her gently, and smooth her hair while leaning her head on the soft part of my shoulder...and she stopped crying.
I am not an instant convert. A fairly consistent, even, and logical person, I am not someone who will be instantaneously smitten by a sweet-faced child, although I think my cousins' daughter is beautiful. It's what comes after the baby (the toddler, the child, the preteen, the teenager) that I am wary of, and it is the concessions that all of the women I know have made, that make me dread motherhood. I don't want to lose myself in the mix of childbirth, of motherhood. I don't want a husband that goes to work while I stay home, and I don't want the grass is greener resentment I've seen such bifurcation of responsibilities yield. I don't want to live a life that ends up looking like that.
But while I held the baby today I had such a moment - I was really deeply moved. And with a sudden jerk she swung her head back, and then forward, and planted her little mouth firmly on the small amount of breast showing above the line of my shirt. And that moved me too. It wasn't strange, or confusing, or peculiar - I felt as though, were she my child, I would be capable of fluidly, effortlessly feeding her, that I knew the steps without ever having practiced them, without ever having thought about how it's done. I don't know how better to express it - I was moved.
But then came the loss. Paul loved babies, and I had looked forward to the day we would be able to visit my cousins, and he could play with them. I wanted to show him that maybe I wasn't missing some piece of what he thought was important in a woman, that I too can make silly faces at children, can love them, even if I don't want them. I think I had secretly hoped that Paul and I would visit my cousins and their baby, and I would be moved, and I would discover something in myself that was deeper and more primal than my politics, my goals.
And so when I was moved, although it was not towards a desire for motherhood, I reached my head around to show him, to share the moment and the pride of connectedness - and he was not there. Was not there and won't be, and I am alone.
Even now, hours later, in the last moments of Easter, I wish I could reach out to him and share. I miss him.
March 19, 2008
Between a Rock and a Hard Place
The amount of time and activity that has passed between each of these all-too-weak blog posts is embarrassing, and amazing. I am constantly in a state of surprise at how quickly the time passes, even while seeming to drag along. I constantly wonder what it is I am racing towards, and if, when I get there, I will feel as if I missed some important part, some space that was supposed to be populated by a deep breath, some fresh air, a renewed sense of self, and an actual decision about my future.
Decision-making has become more important to me, as of late, because in January I lost the ability to make decisions, and became a bystander to my own...fate, for lack of a better word.
When I last blogged, I was in love. Terribly, wonderfully, totally taken with it, in love. I actually (I blush a little typing this) didn't know love could feel that way. I didn't know how deeply I could be consumed by my affection for another person, how completely it would permeate all the different layers of the person I thought I was.
And as a result, I couldn't begin to understand how badly it would hurt me if I lost it, which I did. In December, the man I love(d?) returned from two months in Mexico, to a version of myself that seems remarkably distant, and ended our relationship, in a fiery showdown in a hotel lobby, two weeks before I moved to Minnesota to be with him.
It almost reads like a movie, but it wasn't, and it was heart wrenching. It still is heart wrenching, every day, and I'm still trying to work through it. But as I recover, or perhaps rediscover myself -isolated from the large whole into which I had so happily and unwittingly been subsumed, I am trying to return to that list of things which "I've always wanted to try." And this blog is one of them.
I lost decision-making capability on another front in January, as well. In the day before Paul and I finalized our break up (I resent the use of 'I' as an actor in this sentence), I submitted a single graduate school application - to the Yale School of Forestry and Environmental Studies, a program about which I cared passionately, until Paul came home from Mexico, at least.
On that front, I am pleased to discover that my decision-making capacity has been restored, at least temporarily - I find myself admitted to Yale for 2008, although I'm not sure I can enroll without taking due time to mourn, some more, and to find myself, first.
So that's where I've been, and that's why the title. I was off between a rock and a hard place.
Decision-making has become more important to me, as of late, because in January I lost the ability to make decisions, and became a bystander to my own...fate, for lack of a better word.
When I last blogged, I was in love. Terribly, wonderfully, totally taken with it, in love. I actually (I blush a little typing this) didn't know love could feel that way. I didn't know how deeply I could be consumed by my affection for another person, how completely it would permeate all the different layers of the person I thought I was.
And as a result, I couldn't begin to understand how badly it would hurt me if I lost it, which I did. In December, the man I love(d?) returned from two months in Mexico, to a version of myself that seems remarkably distant, and ended our relationship, in a fiery showdown in a hotel lobby, two weeks before I moved to Minnesota to be with him.
It almost reads like a movie, but it wasn't, and it was heart wrenching. It still is heart wrenching, every day, and I'm still trying to work through it. But as I recover, or perhaps rediscover myself -isolated from the large whole into which I had so happily and unwittingly been subsumed, I am trying to return to that list of things which "I've always wanted to try." And this blog is one of them.
I lost decision-making capability on another front in January, as well. In the day before Paul and I finalized our break up (I resent the use of 'I' as an actor in this sentence), I submitted a single graduate school application - to the Yale School of Forestry and Environmental Studies, a program about which I cared passionately, until Paul came home from Mexico, at least.
On that front, I am pleased to discover that my decision-making capacity has been restored, at least temporarily - I find myself admitted to Yale for 2008, although I'm not sure I can enroll without taking due time to mourn, some more, and to find myself, first.
So that's where I've been, and that's why the title. I was off between a rock and a hard place.
October 29, 2007
Let's Try this Again...
It's been about a year since I posted on this blog, and I'm not really sure where the time went. My old posts lacked formatting and a main thrust to hold them together, and so, after reviewing the content last fall, I decided I should hold off for awhile before putting anymore time into it.
A year later, I still love the name of this blog, and I still want to do it, if only for the opportunity to actively continue writing and to interact with others about my ideas.
The plan is to do a business style strategy of what the point is, and take it from there. Hopefully there will be better formatting, more utility, greater 'thrust' (a great word), and a closer correlation to the subject matter being covered in the blogs I love - Feministing and Broadsheet among them.
I'm going to try to do this while applying to graduate programs (whew!!) but I think I can make it learn. Turns out this year I finally learned to multitask!
See you all soon, after I get this sucker in motion. ;)
flag
A year later, I still love the name of this blog, and I still want to do it, if only for the opportunity to actively continue writing and to interact with others about my ideas.
The plan is to do a business style strategy of what the point is, and take it from there. Hopefully there will be better formatting, more utility, greater 'thrust' (a great word), and a closer correlation to the subject matter being covered in the blogs I love - Feministing and Broadsheet among them.
I'm going to try to do this while applying to graduate programs (whew!!) but I think I can make it learn. Turns out this year I finally learned to multitask!
See you all soon, after I get this sucker in motion. ;)
flag
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