More Thunder Striking
Beltane has really pushed me into a new space, new resolve -- fomenting ideas. I'll write about it soon, I promise, but before that, I have to make a clearing in what I've made of my living thus far.
So: I fell asleep fairly early last night. Woke up early (for me), around 6:30. The rain was coming down; there was thunder and lightning. I had been dreaming a fairly mundane dream.
I was taking classes at Maryville College, my undergraduate school. I was editing the literary magazine (again) and taking classes part-time. I was thrilled to be a student again. I was tickled to find that the new President of the school was a lesbian -- not stated as such overtly, but there were many references to her "roommate" and they were both in their 50's. There was a picture from their former home, Chicago, posed obviously, with all telltale symbols and language removed, in a Pride parade. I woke up ... tickled ... and excited.
I went straight from high school to college, on scholarship. Since the age of about 13, I saw school as my only path out of a conservative family and town. I worked my ass off to get the scholarships I got, and I thoroughly loved college. I never dreamed I'd do anything other than write poetry and teach college; it was all I wanted. I went from there right on to graduate school, the University of Virginia, whose literature program was then ranked third in the nation, one place above Harvard. I say this not to brag; I distrust rankings and clout of any kind. The political climate of that university was stupid and oppressive, counter to most real learning, even though I did learn substantially from a few teachers. I was disillusioned with academic life, and a few professors actively supported this view of academia being lost culturally.
I went back to my alma mater to teach, to see if I really wanted to teach college anymore. As an adjunct, I had no benefits, no medical insurance, and made $17,000 a year, teaching as heavy a courseload as tenured professors. I also worked 39.5 hours a week at JC Penny's, hocking stonewashed jeans, just to make ends meet. I often supported Beth, since we were living together and she could find no happiness in the jobs she took and so quit. I was 23 and I was very poor, developed regular insomnia, depression, and eventually decided I could never make a way for myself teaching.
Since then, I have worked other sorts of jobs, and in the process, moved further and further away from what I view to be my vocation, maybe even my core spirit: critical thinking, writing, intellectual dialogue, research. This work has less and less value in the corporate world -- very possibly none. As I get older and move away from academia, even the wonderful people I meet have no interest in reading for personal edification, discussing to arrive at new understanding. This part of me has very nearly dried up. And I believe it is central to who I am. As a result, I have become very deeply rootless, directionless -- and (gulp) yes, my stupid self-esteem (a word I hate) has floundered. The simple fact is that I hardly know my value to others, whether it is work or simple personal relationships. This sour little condition is the result of my not finding ways to make the passionate-intellectual part of me pivotal to who I am, how I operate.
(Raspberry!)
Last night was not the first time I dreamed of being a student/teacher. I have these dreams cyclically. Hmmm ... .
I have decided to go back to school, get a PhD. There are practical steps to be taken. I have to find a program I will be happy with. I could go to school here in Memphis, take the program in Textual Studies, as Brian has. Problem is the program is fledgling and has structural weaknesses; I'd have to go in fighting, molding and forcing the program to be what I need. I could also go to U of M in another discipline, one with better offerings -- say philosophy or history. I'd then have to do a lot of catch-up work on the new discipline, probably take remedial courses. (Though it occurs to me that I should probably audit a course this fall, no matter what, just to force me back into the swing of things, generate a more recent writing sample.) Or I could go for the professional "gold" and choose a premier university, and work my ass off, thinking of the job I'd need to get at the end of my time there. Either way, I also need to re-take the GRE. (Vomit.)
I want to stay here in Memphis and grow with the faerie sanctuary here. I also want to be careful and not throw my time away, become jobless, with a useless degree. In the next few months, I am intent on doing pretty thorough research, advice-asking, to see what Memphis has to offer me as far as school goes and make a decision soon. Take the GRE late summer, study for it in the meantime.
It has been a long time since I have seen anything so clearly necessary for me. Time to put on the fake glasses, pretend to professorial, and simulate library work. In my head, I'll be thinking of my future and going over the origins of Victorian utopias in my head.
So: I fell asleep fairly early last night. Woke up early (for me), around 6:30. The rain was coming down; there was thunder and lightning. I had been dreaming a fairly mundane dream.
I was taking classes at Maryville College, my undergraduate school. I was editing the literary magazine (again) and taking classes part-time. I was thrilled to be a student again. I was tickled to find that the new President of the school was a lesbian -- not stated as such overtly, but there were many references to her "roommate" and they were both in their 50's. There was a picture from their former home, Chicago, posed obviously, with all telltale symbols and language removed, in a Pride parade. I woke up ... tickled ... and excited.
I went straight from high school to college, on scholarship. Since the age of about 13, I saw school as my only path out of a conservative family and town. I worked my ass off to get the scholarships I got, and I thoroughly loved college. I never dreamed I'd do anything other than write poetry and teach college; it was all I wanted. I went from there right on to graduate school, the University of Virginia, whose literature program was then ranked third in the nation, one place above Harvard. I say this not to brag; I distrust rankings and clout of any kind. The political climate of that university was stupid and oppressive, counter to most real learning, even though I did learn substantially from a few teachers. I was disillusioned with academic life, and a few professors actively supported this view of academia being lost culturally.
I went back to my alma mater to teach, to see if I really wanted to teach college anymore. As an adjunct, I had no benefits, no medical insurance, and made $17,000 a year, teaching as heavy a courseload as tenured professors. I also worked 39.5 hours a week at JC Penny's, hocking stonewashed jeans, just to make ends meet. I often supported Beth, since we were living together and she could find no happiness in the jobs she took and so quit. I was 23 and I was very poor, developed regular insomnia, depression, and eventually decided I could never make a way for myself teaching.
Since then, I have worked other sorts of jobs, and in the process, moved further and further away from what I view to be my vocation, maybe even my core spirit: critical thinking, writing, intellectual dialogue, research. This work has less and less value in the corporate world -- very possibly none. As I get older and move away from academia, even the wonderful people I meet have no interest in reading for personal edification, discussing to arrive at new understanding. This part of me has very nearly dried up. And I believe it is central to who I am. As a result, I have become very deeply rootless, directionless -- and (gulp) yes, my stupid self-esteem (a word I hate) has floundered. The simple fact is that I hardly know my value to others, whether it is work or simple personal relationships. This sour little condition is the result of my not finding ways to make the passionate-intellectual part of me pivotal to who I am, how I operate.
(Raspberry!)
Last night was not the first time I dreamed of being a student/teacher. I have these dreams cyclically. Hmmm ... .
I have decided to go back to school, get a PhD. There are practical steps to be taken. I have to find a program I will be happy with. I could go to school here in Memphis, take the program in Textual Studies, as Brian has. Problem is the program is fledgling and has structural weaknesses; I'd have to go in fighting, molding and forcing the program to be what I need. I could also go to U of M in another discipline, one with better offerings -- say philosophy or history. I'd then have to do a lot of catch-up work on the new discipline, probably take remedial courses. (Though it occurs to me that I should probably audit a course this fall, no matter what, just to force me back into the swing of things, generate a more recent writing sample.) Or I could go for the professional "gold" and choose a premier university, and work my ass off, thinking of the job I'd need to get at the end of my time there. Either way, I also need to re-take the GRE. (Vomit.)
I want to stay here in Memphis and grow with the faerie sanctuary here. I also want to be careful and not throw my time away, become jobless, with a useless degree. In the next few months, I am intent on doing pretty thorough research, advice-asking, to see what Memphis has to offer me as far as school goes and make a decision soon. Take the GRE late summer, study for it in the meantime.
It has been a long time since I have seen anything so clearly necessary for me. Time to put on the fake glasses, pretend to professorial, and simulate library work. In my head, I'll be thinking of my future and going over the origins of Victorian utopias in my head.