Kristen Lea's Wonderful World of Academia

Tanto Tempo

2011-12-11T11:53:00.000-08:00

Ando tanto tempo a perguntar
Porque esperar tanto assim de alguem
Percorrendo espacos no mesmo lugar
Nao sei a quanto tempo estou a te buscar.

One of These Things First

2011-12-02T22:01:00.000-08:00

"I could have been a sailor, could have been a cook
A real live lover, could have been a book
I could have been a signpost, could have been a clock
As simple as a kettle, steady as a rock
I could be here and now
I would be, I should be, but how?
I could have been one of these things first"
Nick Drake

It occurred to me, four months into the semester, that I now have a career. Of course, I told myself this when I entered the program. I was told this by my colleagues, who insist I need to break my bureaucratic mindset. I was told this by faculty mentor, who mentioned that she would wake up, style her hair, and spend the rest of her day studying. I add the hygiene details to remind myself it is okay to relish some vanity, because the rest of my self-esteem has long since withered. At any rate, I internalized just this week that I indeed have a career.*

With this endeavor, along with any other, you anticipate one thing and get another that is strangely reminiscent of the expectation. Somehow, I thought the advice and warnings that had been dispensed over the years would certainly not apply to me, but it is apparent that any doctoral program is a little self contained hell that any sane person would flee yet compels you to stay. It is a little Foucoult, a total institution of sorts (see, it even seeps into the mundane blog world).

So, it hasn't exactly been rainbows, sunshine, and kittens. The one thing, though, nobody mentions is the overwhelming sense of loneliness. When somebody asks, "How are you?" and wants to know how things are going, I immediately think, "Become a cabbage."** I am at a loss of what to say-- The abstract soup in my head does not come together. But at the very times I need to talk the most, there is a captive audience, but let's face it, who really wants to listen to the gizzards of your dissertation?

That is the lonely part. Being a so-called "expert"*** on some arcane, recherche subject that is a mind boner for you and something vaguely interesting to everyone else. Compile that with the stress, which is knowing that each thing that should break the proverbial camel's back will not yet could be the catalyst for a cataclysmic breakdown if you let it. (The constant awkwardness is for a different post altogether).

Sometimes, I wonder, or try to remember, what it is to be smoothly sailing instead of barely keeping my head above the water. Trying to glean that gap between expectation and reality. Because there is no going back, only moving forward. There really is no other way. And that within itself makes it totally worth it.

Listening To: Gretchen Parlato, Esperanza Spaulding, Nick Drake

Reading: Ugh. I'm not.

*I'm really not just "some dumb secretary". Look it up.

**Naomi Shihab-Nye. Lovely, I know.

***A pretend expert.

"Well. I would say I'm just drifting. Here in the pool."

2011-03-27T18:10:00.000-07:00

You Take My Self Control

2011-03-18T21:47:00.001-07:00

I probably have more guilty pleasures than most. More than a few vices. By nature, I am an hedonist with little self control when it comes to certain things. So, guilty pleasures. Why am I doing this? Because I need nothing to do.

1. Dolce Far Niente. The sweetness of doing nothing. The older I get, the lazier I get. It’s not out of any lack of ambition, but with a never ending to-do list which represents the Seven Cycles of Hell, sometimes there is nothing more delicious.

2. Reading the end of a book first. I just have to know what happens before I read the rest of the book.

3. Magazines. I love literature like the next person who has attempted and abandoned more literature degrees than can be counted on my left hand, but I need something quick, light, stimulating, and full of advertisements for things I shouldn’t be buying.

4. Nonfiction. When I do have time to read something for entertainment (ha), I may try to read a novel, but by page ten, I have already set it aside in favor of a memoir or biography. Guilt is the stack of novels, all earmarked somewhere in the middle of Chapter 1.

5. Nail polish. I have an entire shelf of nail polish. Yes, the OPI names inspire me. The guilty part is that I really only wear a handful of the colors.

6. “Your Mama” Jokes. I really can’t help myself.

7. Facebook. I realize I am on the brink of a major discovery that will cure the world of all of its ills, but I can’t tear myself away from the news feed long enough to get to it. Also, looking up long-lost preschool friends is mandatory when working up on a deadline.

8. Passive-Aggressive Notes. My desk is covered with them, ranging from Mr. Yuk to blatant “touch my crap and you’ll pay.”

9. Reading Commentary on News Sites (or Social Media). I really shouldn’t, because it really riles me up to see such idiocy posted in writing on public forums, but I can’t help myself. I feel really guilty, though, when I sign in as Captain Obvious and tell a person about themselves (and their poor grammar).

10. Target popcorn. I trip to Target feels otherwise empty.

11. Ballet flats. If my husband really counted how many pairs I own, he would stage an intervention.

12. Mascara. I wear two. Flat iron. Won’t go on a trip without one. I lumped these together because otherwise I would look much prissier than I actually am.

13. Perfume. I have no signature “smell.” Fragrance depends on the mood.

14. I research random facts about every movie I watch. I also like to know the ending at the beginning for movies too.

15. Loud music. When home alone and left to my own devices, I turn my iPod as loud as I can and dance around the house.

16. If I cannot buy something I want, usually a book that is out of print or a song on a hard to find album, I will search high and low for it and I will find it. In 2005, for example, after “Beyond the Sea” came out, I absolutely had to have the biography “Dream Lover” (see No. 13). Except it was out of print and the cheapest copy was around $150. No problem. Found a copy for a dollar at a used bookstore's sidewalk sale. But don’t consider this a special skill. Six years later, a copy can be purchased on Amazon for $3.86.

17. Travel. There are few things I love more in life than riding in a plane to my next destination. The red carpet treatment makes it a little sweeter.

18. Blankets. I really don’t feel guilty about this, but the husband-guy thinks I have twenty too many.

19. Jackets and coats. By the end of winter, I absolutely hate everything in my wardrobe and the only thing that makes it tolerable is wearing a new coat.

20. Pearls. Lots and lots of pearls. Never guilty, just classy.
21. Stray cats.
22. Sleep. I saved the best for last.

Baby You Can't Drive My Car

2011-02-02T20:33:00.000-08:00

I could not possibly rekindle a dead blog with a year’s worth of living. I got married, lost my grandmother, transferred grad programs, visited four countries, and wrote more papers than once thought humanly possible. Which is mostly the reason I have not been blogging. I no longer read or write for fun, but as my livelihood.

I also lost my zest for the blog. Sure, I follow a handful of blogs, but no longer consider part of my literature repertoire. If it does not come from LexisNexis, it probably is not on my radar (except during finals).

The new blog trend is the “Blog Challenge,” which I personally find a little cheesy, but perhaps an inevitable reintroduction to my blog. It is also a little mindless, which is much appreciated because most days all I do is think (except Friday, Saturday, and Sunday until 4 pm). I am going to this my way, and that way means no promises. I probably will not take the so-called challenge in order. Nor will I necessarily make the prompt obvious. So here goes.

“Baby You Can’t Drive My Car”

My car is my palace and I feel no shame unabashedly proclaiming this. Cars tell you a lot about the owner, even if the owner insists that they only use it as an instrument to get from point A to point B. I probably was not always this way. In middle school, I was certain that I would inherit my mom’s Celebrity Eurosport as a teenager until she sold it. Then, I was certain I would drive a black Neon, why I do not know. By the time I got my learner’s permit and subsequent license, I did not care what I drove as long as it had four wheels and could accelerate. I became what my friend calls a “car person” when my father selected my first vehicle.

I am not going to comment too much about my car history except to say Camaro V8, Camaro RS, and Mustang. With married life and a hellacious daily commute, the beloved blue Mustang gave way to the sleek and gently used luxury of an Acura TSX. Which met its unfortunate demise just a few short weeks ago.

As much as I loved, and I mean loved, that car, I have learned to love again. Love is a Honda Accord V6 coupe with all of the options as the TSX-- black leather interior, satellite radio and navigation, and you better believe a sunroof.

I also really love my husband who may not drive my car.

Reading: "Cutting For Stone" by Abraham Verghese. Along with literally 60 other things.
Listening To: The Bird and the Bee, Feist
Breakfast: Special K and the mandatory morning cookie

River

2009-12-15T20:45:00.000-08:00

It's coming on Christmas
They're cutting down trees
They're putting up reindeer
And singing songs of joy and peace
I wish I had a river
I could skate away on
Joni Mitchell, "River"

Christmas is next week and I thought about going out shopping tonight, but instead, I piddled around the empty house doing absolutely nothing. I really can't recall what is was that I did tonight.

I am still not a fan of the holidays, mostly because this is the time of the year that is dark, the roadways clogged with crazy nutty drivers doing every annoying habit possible on the roadways, and inevitably, the time of year where I realize just how broke I really am. I try not to be so hard on myself. I try to reason with my bank statement by explaining, "I am a graduate student. I am not doing so bad." Then I wiggle numbers so that magically some extra digits appear. It never works.

I am probably too old to ask Santa for presents, and this probably indicates some narcissistic tendency on my behalf, but let's face it: It's fun making Christmas lists. You know that there is that little chubby cheeked urchin inside of you that is just begging Santa for that Jem and the Holograms limousine (or whatever you boys like, I don't know) and trying your best to convince him that you have been good. Kind of like me and the bank account.

Anyways, if I could make a Christmas list, this is what I would make:

Dolce & Gabbana L'Imperatrice. I remember the good old days when I was a tender 22 year old who loved the Bath & Body Works splashes, and I still do. But something has happened in the past 5 years to turn me into a perfume snob, and I have to say, I believe Claudia Schiffer when she says I need a perfume for different times of the day to reflect my mood. Because only in a dream world do you actually get to change your scent with $65 perfumes to "reflect your mood."
Bath & Body Works Lambie Blanket. Okay, so my homeslice is right: I have Lambie blankets. Lots of Lambie Blankets. But as I say, there is always room for one more.
Bath & Body Works Licorice scent. Love it. Got to have it. I missed out on stocking up on Gumdrops a few years back because I was "vacationing" in Pittsburgh. I will miss out on stocking up on Licorice because I will be vacationing in Japan.
Bra Money. I was informed by the kind ladies at Nordstrom that while I thought I was big, I am actually bigger. My "girls" are actually robust women.
I accept any offerings and donations from the Gap, even though I have exhausted their fall line.

If Santa skips over the chimney that we never use, that's okay. Since I am getting married the day after Christmas, I am already spoiled rotten by my friends and family. This has really been a magical experience all of it and I have enjoyed every step of the way, and what is better is that I get to marry a wonderful and adoring man who I love a little more each day.

There are a lot of comfort items on my wish list, some that are soft and warm or smells that make me happy. L'Imperatrice reminds me of shopping with my grandmother for the last time this autumn at Dillard's, looking for pearl earrings. I say the last time; she is not going to get better. It also reminds me of having my engagement ring fixed and how it sparkled when I got it back. The Lambie Blanket is like the one my homeslice bought for me last Christmas, when we were just getting to know each other; I could wrap myself up in that memory all day long. The smells and textures remind me of longing and feeling at home, and even though the commercials remind us and we all roll our eyes, that is what this is all about.

The things I really want for Christmas I cannot ask for on a list. The things that have fallen apart or the worries that threaten to make the other shoe drop are the very things that no matter how good you are, how much you pray, or scour for answers, that you have the least control over. Enjoy today, because too soon it will be gone. Relish in your good health because who knows what yesterday will be like tomorrow. For this reason, my list is small and silly, trivial. I have everything I could ever ask for today, and if that is all I get, I am lucky.

You can't buy a thrill. So, if I could ask for just one thing this Christmas, it would be peace. Not peace on earth and mercy mild, but just peace. To enjoy the quiet. To live a lifetime in 60 seconds. To accept the things I cannot change. To laugh. To love and feel loved. To have all of these things Christmas Day and never forget them, the way they smell, the way they feel.

Left Leanings. . .

2009-11-28T11:29:00.000-08:00

My Political Views
I am a left social moderate
Left: 5.62, Libertarian: 0.96

Political Spectrum Quiz

My Foreign Policy Views
Score: -5.25

Political Spectrum Quiz

My Culture War Stance
Score: -7.3

Political Spectrum Quiz

2009-11-23T19:25:00.001-08:00

She loved him all her life
And when she thought he might die,
She tied her wrist to his at night so that
his pulse would not flutter away from
her suddenly and leave her stranded.
Lynne Alvarez

Aisha

2009-11-20T21:04:00.000-08:00

The fragile, rustling red tips of the trees waving in the early sunset before they tumble onto the black street or dissolve in the murky lake reminds me of transience. The Japanese treasure the cherry blossom in the spring. Perhaps we idolize the falling leaves of autumn; the leaves tremble from branches, admirable beauty and then detach, drifting to a certain demise.

The golden hues and red flames of trees ready to tumble to the ground like the bass notes of a piano, the sun drooping, orange and sagging in the sky, I think of Aisha. With the indigo sky and a harvest moon slung like a saucepan, I think of Equinox. Autumns are not the burning glory to a cold death. It is about new beginnings. Perhaps the New Year has nothing to do with Easter like I used to believe, the struggling growth of sprite, green buds and stern daffodils. Perhaps only the ends of things can bring new beginnings, even under an endless grey sky. Always in autumn is the best promise.

This time, last year, I was on my way to Pittsburgh. It was not warm like this year, the bastard weather of impending winter, but instead snowing as I was a tagalong on the Pennsylvania Turnpike. I walked around Oakland in my leather jacket in blistering cold, hoping for another chance, getting another night. Wesley Posvar Hall, Old Engineering Hall, Cathedral of Learning, convincing my convictions.

Now, it is a damp November in Richmond, with lightening storms at night and the remnants of hurricanes. No doubt the result of a listless lulling summer where everything unraveled and thawed, those things I believed and pitched. When only left with rusty tools to rebuild, you have to evaluate the foundation that you base your life on.

My fingers no longer travel along the ivory covered wooden keys of the piano, but instead pinch dough for baking and lost are the ninety degree arabesques I worked on since resuming ballet. I have lost the pleasure of leisure reading, but that does not mean I love it any less.

I have stopped loving things. They dried up like the carnations I brought home from the grocery store during the summer, heads bowing, resigned. Regardless of the fresh water I filled up the glass Coke bottle, they would darken and droop. I trimmed the stems to the point that have of the green was missing. Despite measures to save something understood as momentary, the result was the same as anticipated.

I love books. I do not love scrutinizing the words, squeezing them like wringing water out of cloth. I miss home, but I enjoy staying behind a stack of papers, stamping them with red ink to deliver a need. I appreciate succinctness. I adore brevity. With that, I am taking my leave.

The one who told me how to be is now a shell. So, I take what I can. Pressed slacks. Impeccably groomed, even without rouge. The old places, Miller & Rhodes, 6th Street Marketplace, are within view from the 11th floor. I pick a study that I can bridle passion and live a life. Within these modifications, no one, nothing is lost.
November is ominous. I can wear scarlet reds comfortably or accessorize with burnt oranges. Nobody has to know the way there. The inky skies will remain faithful company until they are shortened with the greens of summer, when the heat hangs heavy and ambitions halt. The clarity of barren trees, void of their crumbling leaves, reveals the new. A chimney shooting up from the ground. A new neighbor. A pond hidden by the lush branches of summer. As the remains of the season flutter to the ground, it is impossible to shake off the lurking chill.

Something New. . .

2009-10-17T13:39:00.001-07:00

And it's not what you think!

Introverted (I) 89.66% Extroverted (E) 10.34%
Intuitive (N) 66.67% Sensing (S) 33.33%
Thinking (T) 70.27% Feeling (F) 29.73%
Judging (J) 64.71% Perceiving (P) 35.29%

INTJ - "Mastermind". Introverted intellectual with a preference for finding certainty. A builder of systems and the applier of theoretical models. 2.1% of total population.

Free Jung Personality Test (similar to Myers-Briggs/MBTI)

loner, more interested in intellectual pursuits than relationships or family, not very altruistic, not very complimentary, would rather be friendless than jobless, observer, values solitude, perfectionist, detached, private, not much fun, hidden, skeptical, does not tend to like most people, socially uncomfortable, not physically affectionate, unhappy, does not talk about feelings, hard to impress, analytical, likes esoteric things, tends to be pessimistic, not spontaneous, prone to discontentment, guarded, does not think they are weird but others do, responsible, can be insensitive or ambivalent to the misfortunes of others, orderly, clean, organized, familiar with darkside, tends not to value organized religion, suspicious of others, can be lonely, rarely shows anger, punctual, finisher, prepared

Favored Careers:
scientist, dictator, forensic anthropologist, systems analyst, philosopher, nuclear engineer, political analyst, researcher, statistician, scholar, research scientist, computer scientist, software designer, curator, computer programmer, aerospace engineer, electrical engineer, paleontologist, english professor, philosophy professor, chemical engineer, epidemiologist, forensic scientist, museum curator, research assistant, mechanic, astronomer, figher pilot, librarian, systems administrator, neurosurgeon, book editor, biotechnology, archeologist, lab tech, bookstore owner

Disfavored Careers:
advertising executive, job in entertainment industry, performer, singer, art therapist, childcare worker, bartender, dj, even coordinator, hair dresser, wedding planner

Just in case anybody was wondering. . .

All I Have is the Bristol Herald Courier

2009-08-29T20:29:00.001-07:00

This is an assignment for my ENGL 627 Creative Nonfiction course. The assignment is to describe where we were on September 11th. The most difficult aspect of this particular piece, as we discussed in class, was accurately describing things as they happened. I found, despite having vivid snapshots of the day before, the actual event and the days after, it is difficult to be certain when things happened.

All I Have is the Bristol Herald Courier
Kristen Lea Luck

We now have a mark of distinction. Your grandmother has Pearl Harbor, your mom has the Kennedy assassination and you have 9/11. You have a memory etched in your mind like the jagged tattoos of scars running up your legs, each a story behind them (“This one is from the sliding board behind my house on Retriever Road, and this one is from a shell sticking up from the ocean floor at Emerald Isle.”) . You have an icebreaker, a conversation starter, at least one thing in common with the man you have started dating (it could have been the second or third date, but you distinctly recall driving past bales of hay in autumn as he described how his teaching college was not far from where Flight 93 crashed, how the students were fearful, and you remember this story when he decides he likes you enough to take you home to meet his parents and tour his alma mater, aging beside a river).

You were just a couple of weeks into your first week of college. You probably woke up that morning, showered, dried your hair, applied an Avon blue eye shadow, spritzed tea rose perfume, slipped on your brown loafers. You never went to class without looking pristine and polished. It was a Tuesday or a Thursday; you know this because you had an early morning Comparative Politics class. The professor, a balding Lebanese Christian who made self-deprecating jokes about Arabs and flying carpets, asked the class about current events. A tall boy, one who was not entirely handsome but you could not help but to look at because he reminded you of someone you never wanted to forget, said the World Trade Center was bombed. You were not terribly concerned, remembering the failed 1993 car bomb attack.

It wasn’t until you returned to your dormitory, an old u-shaped building erected specifically for the merging of a women’s college in the 1960s with décor to match, on the third floor landing where a group of girls gathered around a brown wooden television set, that you knew it was something bad. You didn’t need to ask anyone. You just stood there, deciphering reporters’ flat, Midwestern accents depicting what you should be seeing through the smoke and ash. It was not a bomb, you learn, but two airplanes. You have never even flown on an airplane.

You decided to call your mother, punching the calling card numbers into the purple cordless phone. This still should have no real impact on you. New York and Tennessee are different worlds, with different drawls and different landscapes. The only real reason you call is because your grandmother was visiting old high school friends in New Hampshire, and although New England is not New York, it is close enough to warrant a friendly check-in. You expect to hear your toddler sister asking for a juice box or the barking of your incorrigible dogs. You do not expect to hear that your grandmother had taken the early morning train into Manhattan that morning. Nobody has heard from her. There is a feeling you get when you are sudden presented with a stimulus that provokes anxiety. Your heart drops like the Falling Man into your stomach and your stomach rejects the news by shriveling into a little ball. I don’t understand, you say into the receiver, because you don’t as you recollect geography. Your grandmother, before returning, decided to stay in her childhood borough on Long Island with friends. Peg asked her to stay later, after all, it was a small vacation, but you could already imagine how your early riser grandmother would have resisted such tardiness and was already on the tracks at 8:46 a.m. You are not completely sure of the severity of the situation. Nobody knows what is going on. Your mother tells you that there are some concerns about some of the federal buildings in your hometown, just as they were worried about Fort Knox in Tennessee. That is to be expected. You hang up on the promise that someone will call you and let you know everything is okay.

The news rolls in, mostly in pictures. You know now that graphic images will never shock you ever again. You grew thick skin. You phone your boyfriend on the other side of the campus; he is a National Guardsman and who could receive an order to pack all of his gear and head out. He actually receives this order two months later, when the war starts, when Guardsmen rummage through debris, when they stand guard at airports. You held your breath that weekend, but he did return, complaining that you forgot to pack his jacket.

The floor RA notifies all of the rooms that the dinner scheduled with the college’s president is still on for the evening, despite her numerous protests. So the college tradition goes that every freshman has dinner with the president, one floor at a time, and even with the sky falling, the tradition will continue. This is actually a great lesson for you to learn because, as Bliss Boyard writes, “that a mark of adulthood is the ability to live with uncertainty.”

What you remember from dinner is learning etiquette from the President’s wife, Barbara Lynn, or maybe it was Barbara Ann, with their cocker spaniel, Pam, running in their yard that backed up to the golf courses. Sweetener packets go under the plate when emptied, butter only a piece of the dinner roll at a time. Afterwards, you go to chapel. A candlelit memorial, complete with handmade posters and candles, is set up by the duck pond.

In the days to come, a headline will catch your eye. President Bush declares that “we will not fail.” But you don’t believe him. Life has already changed, an era ended. The night before the towers fell, you ate a late night dinner at the Omelet Shop, indulging in a greasy hamburger and fries. As you returned to campus with your friends in a dark green Honda and walked across the railroad tracks, you thought that you could never be happier than at that moment. You were confident that the prosperous decade that preceded you, where the only significant worries included saving other nations in need and a president who could not control his libido, would continue for you. Everything was getting bigger, better and faster. Any girl could be a Carrie Bradshaw, drinking a pink Cosmo and wearing Manolos bought with her easy earned money. Once the towers fell, it was wars, manhunts, bullets, politicians. Bang and blame. A week later, you buy Tori Amos’ “Strange Little Girls” and Ben Folds‘ “Rockin‘ the Suburbs”. Forwarded emails of Bin Laden toilet paper and chain prayers flood your inbox. You put an origami crane in all of your letters going home. Phone calls, writing, even jokes were closely monitored. You eventually contemplate going to an Arabic language immersion camp where your Lebanese professor jokes that for one low price, you get him teaching you the fundamentals of learning Arabic, magic carpet rides and making car bomb. You laugh, but you are not sure if you are supposed to anymore.

The day after the “despicable acts of terror”, planes are absent from the sky. It is something you notice, having grown up near an airport with the hum of flying machines droning constantly, as you ride down Interstate 81 on your way back from volunteering at a nursing home with your friend, her fine blonde hair and big teeth, her blue-green car. You thought about the Eisenhower highway system and how it is useless with no aircraft in the sky. You remember this day when you move into her old room the following semester, which she vacated with her roommate, both girls in “trouble” and victims of morning sickness. You wonder if she still remembers the empty sky.

Your grandmother was safe. After being shuffled around and riding in a train at what was described as “30 mph”, she arrived safely in Richmond. You are not surprised; your grandmother, who worked for Wall Street in the 1940s, could adapt easily to any situation. It is the New York way. Years later, when her memory is slipping with Alzheimer’s, she can still describe to her granddaughters as they rode together on one last trip to New York the events that occurred that day. How a lady on the Long Island Rail Road began to weep suddenly. When she asked what was wrong, a man said to her, “Lady, take a look out of that window.” She saw it all. She described a mysterious man who helped her with her luggage and disappeared. Even seven years later, she did not come with you to see Ground Zero. When you looked into the hole, you felt nothing and only wondered what remnants remained of those who disappeared: hair, papers, cloth, fingernails. What took your breath away was walking on the streets around the hole, how life moved now as it did then, and how lives could vanish into a thick air of ash. It is the same feeling you get when you see old picture of the Twin Towers. They can never be brought back. Didn’t someone tell you that nostalgia is longing for a past that never happened?

You keep a box. It is filled with awards from that first year away, for scholarship and journalism. There are photographs and playbills. Magazines from the months before and after September 11th. Perhaps you will have a daughter curious just like you looking at pictures of your grandmother in bobby sox or your mother with mood rings. There are campus newspapers about vigils and in your journal red, white and blue ribbons to commemorate the date. Absent is the New York Times or USA Today, the epicenter, a place removed from the safe, hidden valleys of Appalachia. No. All I have is the Bristol Herald Courier. The smaller headline says it all. “Mountain Empire watches as terror rains on U.S.”

You Don't Know Me

2009-08-27T21:20:00.000-07:00

You could have just propped me up on the table like a mannequin
Or a cardboard stand-up and paint me (paint me anything)
Any face that you wanted me
To be seen.
Ben Folds, “You Don’t Know Me”

Education is an admirable thing, but it is well to remember from time to time that nothing that is worth knowing can be taught.
Oscar Wilde

The first days of school are always the most restless and excitable. Some things change as we get older. No longer do I rush out for a new backpack and colored pencils as I did every year up until I received my Bachelor’s degree but instead rely on the same purple highlighter and messenger bag I have had since getting my first student loan bill. Some things remain the same. For example, my first day of public school in the first grade, my gentle mother packed me a delicious lunch of Spaghettios in my Holly Hobbit thermos while also furnishing me with $5.00 to buy lunch tickets. Confused, I bought lunch that day and ate the packed lunch. I did the same thing last week, eating dinner before my first class with Mom and after with my home slice. I still sit in the back of the classroom where my snickers and sarcastic remarks can be kept to myself (unless it is a large class, then I sit dutifully in the front of the room).

One thing I loathe are self introductions. I enjoy my disdainful anonymity. I understand that graduate school is all about joining a professional field and networking, but I always prefer to sit back and observe. I generally refrain from saying too much in class unless participation points are in jeopardy simply because I personally believe that since I am signing my soul to the devil to pay my tuition, I want to hear it first hand from an expert.

My introversion is usually perceived as snobbishness, and that’s fine. One evening, as an undergraduate, I offered to drive two classmates to their cars, which were parked on a backstreet in the ghetto. They were shocked to find out I drove a Camaro and blasted Eric Clapton. “This is not what we expected from you. At all,” the one woman exclaimed.

However, even the most soft-spoken professor does not value my wish to sit unnoticed. My first self-introduction was for my public administration class. After listening to rounds of lengthy introductions, including hometown, undergraduate degree, professional experiences, award, pets, children, hobbies and random fact, my wild-haired professor turned his gaze towards me.

“My name is Kristen. I graduated from VCU in 2006 with a degree in International Studies. In addition to my graduate certificate, I am earning a MA in English.”
“That’s it?”
“Yes.”
“No hobbies?”

The thing is, if I have learned anything over the summer, it is that silence is not golden. It is platinum. Shutting your mouth and saying nothing yields better results than trying to explain things. Even though I strictly adhere to Dear Abby’s “always say less than you think” motto, this still took me a little while to wrangle in. For example, I found it very important to explain to an officer writing me a speeding ticket why I was actually speeding. For once, I really was not trying to be a punk, but assumed like everyone else in the Richmond tri-city area that the speed limit was 55 mph on the Powhite Parkway, not 45 mph, and sped up to merge away from the flashing lights of what appeared to be emergency vehicles tending an accident. You can imagine my horror when I saw a lidar gun pointing at my car and a cop excitedly jumping into his patrol car in an apparent revenue sting.

When I went to court, I thought surely Her Honor would understand my predicament. I looked around at the courtroom, which was standing room only. Several “defendants” brought pictures of the Powhite Parkway in an apparent attempt to exonerate themselves.

I had already decided to plea no contest, since I did not want admit guilt nor claim innocence. I just wanted to go to driving school. However, my prospects were looking bleak, particularly when Her Honor asked all those who want to plead guilty to please stand and form a line. There went two-thirds of the courtroom. I sat intently. I did not want to plead guilty. I do not have to plead guilty. I am well within my rights to plead however I choose. I am a citizen of the United States. I know my rights! But as she continued down the line, merciful to some and vengeful to others, I stood up and quietly made my way to the end of the line.

But then, I had another change of heart. She banished one giggly girl who apparently thought she was cute to the back of the courtroom to await her decision. At one point at least 45 minutes later, she called her name and as the “defendant” stood up, Her Honor said coolly, “You may have a seat. I was just seeing if you were still here.” Smile.

My favorite case actually happened on my way to court. As I realized I was lost, I pulled up next to a city cop and a state trooper. I honked and caught the attention of the city cop, who kindly gave me directions to the courthouse. A block up, the state trooper turned on her lights and swung over to pull a car which happened to go the wrong way up a one-way street. The driver was giggling and the trooper, a muscular woman with short, spiky bleached hair and sort of resembled a Rottweiler, made a gesture to the city cop in disbelief. The trooper was indeed heading to traffic court, sitting in the same courtroom as me. She was called to the bench, as was a pregnant woman who explained that she got her speeding ticket because she was not familiar with the area.
“You honor,” the trooper interjected, “just a little back story. I pulled her again this morning on the way to court. She going the wrong way on a one-way street.” I mean, what are the chances?

In the time all of this was going on, I had sat down again. It appeared that in her decision, Her Honor rarely allowed the “defendant” to speak, only glancing over their driving records. I had to at least give it a chance. But as she started throwing the book at some people, I decided that a lengthy explanation, no matter how valid or how unguilty, was going to piss this woman off. I stood up and decided to plead guilty, even if I didn’t feel like it.

With only saying two words, “yes” and “thank you”, I was on my way to the clerk’s office with a list of driving schools.

I think this summer has been one of the most challenging summers of my life. I kept wondering where I would see the silver lining, what would become of it. There had to be some moral to the story. The moral is to say nothing. You don’t have to.

Sometimes, it does not matter what you meant or the small details. Everybody wants to be heard, but rarely does anyone possess the gift to listen. More often than not, people do not want the burden of nuances and assumptions, but ascertainments. Black or white, no shades of grey.

One thing I said nothing about was where I would be attending school. I avoided the emails, because I knew, despite having gone through every avenue and having good reason not to go, I just did not have the heart to make the phone call.

In my silence, I received an email from Pittsburgh.

They will wait for me.

So, what I'm trying to say is
What (What?)
I'm trying to tell you
It's not gonna come out like I wanna say it cause I know you'll only change it.
(Say it.)

(You don't know me)
You don't know me at all
(You don't know me)
You don't know me at all (at all).

Reading: I was informed this week that I do not read for fun anymore.

Listening To: Nothing new, I'm afraid. Any suggestions?

Watching: I don't have time for TV.

Something New and Good: I am getting packages everyday from Amazon.com. It's like Christmas in August.

Something Old and Bad: I am getting packages everyday from Amazon.com. It's like getting coal from Santa.

Thought: Speaking of keeping quiet, I am always hesitant to admit that I am working on an English MA and a public admin certificate to people. The usual response is, "That is a really interesting combination." A cashier at Old Navy last week asked me what I am studying (when I declined a credit card stating I am a poor grad student). When I got the "interesting" reply, I said sheepishly, "Yeah, I know, it's a little different."

"No, no," he replied. "That's great. You get to study what you love and what is practical at the same time. I want to go back."

Happy Birthday To You

2009-07-12T22:09:00.001-07:00

“Where to?”
“About ten years ago. . .”
(“A Star Is Born”)

“Probable motes that tick the years off my life.
You are silver-suited for the occasion. O adding machine--”
Sylvia Plath, “A Birthday Present”

You look likee a perfect fit,
For a girl in need. of a tourniquette.
But can you save me?
Come on and save me.
If you could save me,
From the ranks of the freaks,
Who suspect they could never love anyone.
“Save Me” Aimee Mann

Last Monday, I went to Williamsburg, which is a birthday tradition that was always shared with my mom, sister, Grandma Joan and now, her caretaker. Every year since high school when we made our seasonal trip, I would hide under headphones, running my fingers through my freshly colored hair and daydream about what things were to come. This year, I realized I had many of my answers and I wondered, would my seventeen year old self be proud of my twenty-seven year old self? Would I give her any advice? Which one of us needs to be saved?

There was a series of magazine ads I saw a while ago where women wrote letters to their younger selves. Here is what I would say to my seventeen year old self.

Dear Kris, on your birthday,

I cannot recall what you are doing on this evening. Perhaps this is the year your mother created the McDonald’s cake. You are getting ready to go to Princeton for a Japanese exchange program and it will be your first time away from home. You think you are in love. Maybe I remember so little because you are having a lovely time.

Things are about to change. Enjoy this summer, because soon your life will soon resemble nothing as it was. You will eventually get used to it. We all do.

First of all, you will eventually master the hair. Right now, you just can’t get it to behave, short, sleek styles elude you, and humidity turns it into a black ball of fuzz, but you will be introduced to the flat-iron and you will have the hair you desire. . . And that others envy. You become comfortable with your appearance; you do not realize just how pretty you are under there. This leads you to make some interesting statements with your appearance (what is that look you have going on there? Tortured artist who can’t draw? Sex kitten?). Remember, you always look your best with classy. Enjoy playing with your hair color-- red streaks are fabulous but blonde chunks, as fun as they are, just are not flattering.

Right now, the world is separated into two groups: virgins and non-virgins. You are surrounded by people who are pledging their virginity or giving it up over and over again in the backseat of a car somewhere, and this is a bit of a conundrum for you. Learn to be comfortable with your sexuality. You prefer to be in love and you won’t know what that is for a while. So just relax.

Speaking of the opposite sex, just avoid them for a while. You have a habit of settling a little less than what you deserve, because they are nice and they don’t fight back. They don’t make you wonder if you belong on their arm. This is going to give you a lot of grief. Once you start wondering how they look on your arm and if you even like them, things will turn around. Trust me, he’s wonderful.

You are starting to discover holes and gaps. The hole in your eardrum has reopened. Take good care of it. One day, you may not be able to hear so much. Your parents are not going to take you to an orthodontist, so start loving the gap between your lower teeth. There is a hole in your heart and a chip on your shoulder. I think this is where you start getting a little hasty in life.

You will realize that you cannot be great at everything, and the things you choose to pursue will alienate people and give the opportunity for sharp criticism. Listen to them and their doubting too, but ignore the advice that is not uplifting. Trust me, you do not change and will regret the things you never did.

Speaking of not changing, you are determined, independent and enjoy your freedom. Do not try to assuage this and settle down. You will try twice and fail twice. Don’t look at it as a fail but as a victory over things not meant to be.

Never look a gift horse in the mouth. You are going to find some people who really believe in you, so much in fact, they will cover large tabs to fund your talents. Keep these people in mind when you feel lonely and become determined to take things over yourself, because this will limit you later on in life, and while you may become used to the disappointment, it never had to be this way. The people with favors, small and large, will always continue to amaze you because their hearts are so big.

Listen to your grandmother. She is trying tell you something important. One day she will not be able to recall what she was about to say or your name.

Although you are constantly being told you are a member of the intelligentsia, please take an economics or finance course or two or three while you are reciting haiku in Japanese and writing research papers on gender politics. You hate math, but really you are much more capable than you give yourself credit for, and will be really proud of yourself once you have mastered the coursework. You will be even more pleased when you have a cool job and an impressive paycheck to accompany it.

You will go along in the years thinking that hard work and loyalty will come with a huge pay-off. Guess what? Life is not a meritocracy. In ten years, nobody will care that you worked every weekend during college, took extra shifts, stayed late. So go have fun. Take the summer off. Save some of your money and go to France over winter break. Tell your coworker no, you cannot cover her shift because you have a life, and you just don’t want to miss anything.

While you don’t end up with corner office and a Corvette by the time you reach my age, don’t fret: You have an awesome blue Mustang.

Do not, rid of that Camaro. The guys in the parking give you a hard time, but there is a reason for it. Because that car is sweet and your engine is bigger. You will continually demonstrate this. They know this.

You are either too blunt or end up overcorrecting by being too accomodating. Just tactfully say what is on your mind and forget what everyone else thinks.

Don’t stop dancing or playing piano. You are allowed to have hobbies.

Look out for number one. When you finally begin to love yourself and nurture your gifts, life will be much easier for you. Everything will turn out the way it should be and you realize one night when you cannot fall asleep that getting older doesn’t suck because sometimes, you just have to be at a certain place in your life to do the things you long for, and that is the beauty of getting older.

Love,
Kristen

New Age

2009-06-19T10:32:00.000-07:00

Looking at my hands today
Look to me that they're made of ivory
I had a funny call today
Someone died and someone married
You know that it's my fancy to make it with
Franky and nancy

Over the bridge they go
Looking for love (Velvet Underground/Tori Amos)

I woke up today thinking about Tennessee. With the sunlight trickling through the giant leaves outside of my window, I thought about the morning splaying down Interstate 81 and westward, through Sullivan and Knoxville and Nashville, carrying the road odes of folksy country singers. I imagined what it would be like to be waking up there right now, certainly waking up in my bed in suburban Richmond is some mistake.

I still wonder, from time to time, what my life would have been like in Tennessee. Sometimes it happens as I walk under the indigo skies at night by myself, beside the grim lights along the street. Sometimes it happens as I daydream during morning meetings. Today, I woke up with it. See, there could have been a man with a crooked mustache who loved music, especially in the morning. I would be soft and maternal, only cussing when caught by surprise and never messy. Perhaps I would go to church on Sundays. We would grow corn in the backyard and read Samuel L. Huntington. I would have a job that I loved, doing good for others.

It seems that my friends with whom I started college with found this. They balanced their intellect and passions with purpose. They haven’t changed so much, just better and more modified versions of their wide-eyed selves eight years ago. Maybe I just didn’t pray enough.

I had my chance. My grandmother Joan was determined to help me mine my potential. As we toured the small, private campus in a tour given by a junior with a mustache, I had never seen one on someone so young, my grandmother, mother and I took in all of the lush, green lawns, old buildings, and lounging students studying for their finals. As we passed the tennis courts, my mom whispered, “She’ll come back playing tennis. I know it.” Somehow, I didn’t think of tennis lessons at summer camp at age 8, 9 and 10 given at some hot and stuffy country club with my mother‘s ancient rackets (a relic from her West End high school years), wishing I was inside taking piano lessons in the air conditioner. Instead, I envisioned myself with a crisp white tennis skirt and shiny new rackets, swiftly challenging my opponent.

When the tour ended and we walked to our next meeting, a lunch with a professor from the music department, the admissions counselor sang our tour guide’s praises.
“He married last year’s homecoming queen,” he gloated.
“You could be homecoming queen,” my grandmother hissed into my ear. Potential, it seems, was wide and endless.

Instead, I found myself in autumn staring at the reddening trees outside of my dorm window, alone and restless, studying ad nauseam and thinking about the girl who hanged herself in the bathroom some forty years earlier, wondering if she felt the same loneliness. It would appear that things were just perfect: I wore brown loafers and J. Crew sweaters to class, maintained a near perfect GPA, consistently turned in shining reports to my scholarship advisor, and dated. My International Studies advisor, sitting in front of a poster of Arabic letters, blatantly disregarded my second major in English and instead deafly pushed me towards an international law track. I dreamed of a Master’s degree and a career with the government, perhaps working in the hustle of Washington for the CIA, wearing tailored suits and doing meaningful work. I was not going to be the homecoming queen, but I was going to be a better me. There are moments when I think of this and the chagrin is unbearable.

Things have changed so dramatically for me in the past few months I have absolutely no idea what to expect and it scares the hell out of me. I wish I could write something humorous or inspiring, but I just don’t have it in me right now.

In a time when I need Joan the most, she is the farthest away. I am “that girl” with the sad face who wants to go to school and has “a friend”. Joan would know what to do, or at least offer a bed to sleep on it. She is no stranger to hardship. I wish I paid more attention when she was telling me things. Now, it is putting into action years of pruning and advice. Wear the right delicate pink shell under a skirt suit with pearls for an interview. Dressing with class speaks volumes. Wear lipstick and speak articulately when surrounded by patrons of the boys’ club; it‘s not always fair but you have to play by the rules until you can break them. You can always look someone in the eye and firmly tell them you refuse to accept anything less than your worth. As I walked by myself in Williamsburg a couple of weeks ago, I stopped into an Eddie Bauer, one of her favorite stores, and I realized what she left with me were literally departing words I could put into action to avoid missing the 45 years she lost.

I wonder when I will find that line for passion or purpose and cross it? Will I even know it?

I have no answers. I cannot tell you what is going on. When I know, I’ll tell you.

For now, it is one breath at a time. It’s a momentary prayer. I relish the time I get to spend with my love, so much more wonderful than I could have imagined, talking about our dreams, eating chicken fingers, traveling, making bawdy jokes, and sweet kisses even during the darkest moments of the day. I will try to enjoy the sunsets over the lake,wearing shorts, eating popsicles, listening to the oldies station, and just knowing tomorrow will be better.

I will see you in when school starts.

Over the bridge we go, looking for love. . .

Reading: “The Mayor of Castro Street” by Randy Shilts and “The Pursuit of Happyness” by Chris Gardner.

Listening To: Okay, this is bad, but Lady Gaga. Hear me out. She’s catchy. And the girl has a brain-- she started out as a songwriter for other big acts before she began recording. She isn’t meant to be taken seriously, but she is an entertainer. And we all like a good show, right?

Watching: I watched “30 Rock” on the plane and loved it. Tina Fey, you are my hero.

Something Good and New: SAN FRANCISCO. The best trip ever! I absolutely loved the city. Well, except public transportation, but definitely added to the Places I Could Live list. I loved Castro Street and the Golden Gate Bridge, and of course, Japantown where I was able to find the gum I chewed in Japan and the melon bread I used to eat for breakfast. I owe a big Big BIG thanks to the Good Lookin’ Guy, who made the trip phenomenal!

(A-Man, you make the man with the crooked mustache look well, silly. Why? Because you can grow a friggin’ beard. And you are simply wonderful.)

Time of No Reply

2009-05-03T08:18:00.000-07:00

The time of no reply is calling me to stay
There is no hello and no goodbye
To leave there is no way.

The trees on the hill had nothing to say
They would keep their dreams till another day
So they stood and thought and wondered why
For this was the time of no reply.
Time of No Reply, Nick Drake

I think I should be happy. I don’t think I should have spent the first thunderstorms of the season sucking my thumb. Today, it rained so hard that it found its way through the cracks of the windows, threatening photographs and memories. The sky was that odd, mercurial mixture of near sun and rain, settling into a creamsicle shade in what would have been a great sunset. Somehow, the smell of the flowers was augmented into a fantastic aroma. With good news in my pocket, I should not be carrying these worries around with me.

So, after nearly two years of trying, I have been accepted not only to Ohio State, but VCU and my first choice, the University of Pittsburgh, for graduate study. My correspondence with Ohio State has left such a sour impression that it is no longer a consideration. I initially promised that this would be a no-brainer. If I was accepted into Pitt, I would undoubtedly go no matter the cost; VCU was just a back up.

Somehow, this ended up complicated and messy. The decision is all mine, which is a responsibility I really do not want. The dilemma came with a letter from Pittsburgh, a scholarship letter that probably was not worded too well. In it, I was awarded a scholarship which I thought was per year (the period was unspecified in the letter), but was in fact per term. The actual tuition is nearly $16,000 (per year, let‘s specify), which is not too unreasonable for a graduate program, except that living expenses have to be calculated into the equation. With rent and my current bills, the worst case scenerio looks like and additional $10,000 in loans would be needed unless I could secure a part-time job. Which may be just a tad bit difficult with the economy. Then I would have to worry about funding for my second year as well.

VCU, which was once a backup plan, is now a serious consideration for all reasons practical and ridiculous. There would be a full-time salary with benefits and leave. With the English MA, I will be focusing on immigrant literature and thesis while collaborating with a Dr. B (who I want to be when I grow up); she specializes in documentaries, nonfiction and multi-ethnic literature. The diversified degree could give me a leg up when applying to doctoral programs and would be a tremendous help when gaining employment in Japan. The degree would nearly be free, which will free up my expenses quite a bit by the time I graduate. But there would be no Japanese language study.

Pittsburgh, however, is much more aligned with my academic goals. Not only did I make it into the program after working continually since my last rejection letter to get in, the IDMA program in East Asian Studies is superb. At Pitt, as we probably all know at this point, I would be working on a thesis track MA, focusing on Japan and using primary resources in Japanese. My proposed research is studying how gender affected nationalism in Japan leading up to WWII, specifically focusing on how women affected maritime aggression. I fully reveal my complete nerdiness and passion by saying I would not mind being locked in a ugly library for two years researching this topic. My faculty advisor specializes in gender and nationalism (as well as Dutch trade, how this fits, I do not know). I also have an opportunity to work at the East Asian Library, but no particulars have been set for this potential arrangement.

Some people say choice is lucky. There are times when the elevator doors close and I find myself staring at my reflection in the metallic walls that I resist a strong urge to hit the emergency stop button, just so I am confined with my options and alone.

I little part of me dies when I tell someone, usually a professor who asks in passing, that I finally got into the University of Pittsburgh. The general response is, “That’s fantastic! You should go! Don’t spin your wheels here.” I even had one tell me, “If you don’t go, you will regret the decision as soon as you do it.” Don’t I already know it.

I blurted it out to Dr. B one evening. She got it. We’re getting creative. Literature, she told me, does not have to be confined to books. We are looking at cultural studies, focusing on oral histories of Asian immigrants.

But what about the what-ifs? I would remain in Richmond another two years, which has me seriously questioning if I will ever get out of here. This thought alone has left me breathless as I walk on the uneven sidewalks during the day, loving and dreading the city at the same time. What if I cannot get into a reputable PhD program in History or Anthropology? What if I miss out entirely?

Perhaps I have a bad taste in my mouth. No matter how many times I tell myself that I am not 19 years old anymore, making a bad decision for the wrong reasons, I still fear this most of all.

The waiting for letters and answers was worrisome. It sucks having someone judge you, your work, your past, and your future on a few letters, some numbers and a pompous essay.

But the worst critic is myself. I can thumb my nose at the others. I can say they aren’t fair. But only I can be the biggest disappointment.

It is hard, I suppose, to realize that this is not an end but a beginning. However I may choose.

Time goes by from year to year
And no one asks why I am standing here
But I have my answer as I look to the sky
This is the time of no reply.

The time of no reply is calling me to stay
There`s no hello and no goodbye
To leave there is no way.

Listening To: Aimee Mann. If you don’t know who she is, listening to the “Magnolia” soundtrack and that’s her. Homegirl is from Midlothian, VA.

Reading: Um, let me pull out my list. I’m reading a lot. Just nothing for fun. For school, I am reading Gloria Steinem and Camille Paglia (shoot me), which led me to Betty Friedan for pseudo-leisure. For book club, I’m reading “The Senator’s Wife” by Sue Miller, which is as painful as they come. How these books get published, I do not know. I am really looking forward to my science-thriller about bioterrorism to commemorate no required reading for 90 days.

Something Good and New: Shhh. I can’t tell. But I can’t wait.

Something Old and Bad: Consumerism. I realized today that I still have an abundance of shit, despite my annual purging. Even so, I still am on the prowl for some cute summer items. Why is it that nobody makes classic and affordable summer shoes that aren’t utterly tawdry? I do not need patent leather, beads and platform cork heels. And seriously, if we at the Gap or Ann Taylor Loft are going to charge $40 for a shirt, let’s make it a good one. I was a little heartbroken, however, to find the most perfect white dress in the world with a price tag that said $W.TF. I tried it on, twirled around in the mirror, and put it back. Maybe one day. (Don’t get me started about trying to find the perfect toothbrush.)