Slumdog Millionaire

 Imagine you were an expensive French cheese enthusiast. Just bear with me.  Imagine that the one thing that took you away from your worries was expensive French cheese, and each chance you had to order some, read about some, taste some, even attempt to age your own, you took it.  As an expensive French cheese enthusiast, you may have tried once or twice to share your passion with your friends, but it made you seem uppity, and maybe a little weird, which was often disappointing to you, since sharing your passion was the one thing that you wanted to do.  And then -- one day -- one bright, shiny day, it happened:  an American company stumbled on an affordable fantastic French cheese that brought your hobby to the masses in the USA, and everyone loved it, and everyone suddenly wanted to talk fromage with you, and the sun came out, and you were deliriously happy. 

This is what happened to me in the theater this weekend. Well, so to speak.  Slumdog Millionaire brought India/Bollywood to America and I sat next to people who loved it as much as I did and I could have squeezed everyone as I exited the theatre (but I did not).  I could barely contain myself from sounding like Hermione Granger.  "Do you see that interviewer?" I wanted to yell; "That's  Anil Kapoor! He's in Tashan, which is awesome, and Welcome, which is hilarious, but he's always the bad guy. And the police inspector? That's Irrfan Khan. He's amazing -- watch the Namesake! You should see Aaja Nachle! Do you hear that song? That's my favorite song from Don -- you should SEE Don! It's 3 1/2 hours long but worth every second."  Again, by some miracle, I was able to avoid such an outburst.

What was amazing about the movie was that it was not a typical Oscar-worthy film. It didn't make me want to tear my own eyes out from sorrow. It didn't make me turn away from sticky, overdone gore.  It was a suspenseful, clever, poignant, brilliant love story. It's the story of a young guy from the slums -- which makes him a Slumdog -- who, when the film opens, is winning India's version of Who Wants to be a Millionaire.  But the hero isn't interested in money; he wants to find a girl.  He and Latika were separated when they were children, and he's spent his life trying to find her again. He's hoping the sensation he creates on the show will draw her to him. 

The movie is about family, colonialism, caste, poverty, prejudice, and perseverance.  Well, WHAT are you doing still reading this blog? You should be seeing it right now, for heaven's sake. And be sure to stay for the credits. You wouldn't want to miss the dancing. 

That Was Instinct

So I forgot to tell you the story of what happened when I was coming home on the plane from my campus visit. 

It was very late -- later than it should have been, in fact, because of cross winds that delayed my flight. I squeezed into a seat next to a woman who had been chattering on the cell phone, ignoring my pleas to let me sit down until I poked her in the shoulder.  Rolling her eyes and sighing, she got up to let me attempt to fold myself into a sitting position.  She continued to chew on the person on the other end of the phone until the plane was well underway.  The flight attendant practically had to make her swallow the contraption to get her to turn it off. 

Being off of the phone seemed to have a negative effect on my flying companion.  We had to idle on the runway for an hour because of the weather, and the longer we sat there, the more fidgety this woman became.  She began chewing off her fake nails, one by one by one.  She achieved this by gnawing the glue close to the quick and then prying the nail off with her front teeth, giving it a quick feral yank at the end for good measure.  Once she'd done that to all ten digits, it was time for the plane to take off. Unfortunately for me (and for her, in all fairness), this did little to ease her.

As the plane began to ascend, she rustled anxiously in her bulging bag and pulled out a white crocheted toboggan.  This she pulled down tightly over her ears, keeping hold of the sides of the hat until the plane leveled off.  Had she not been behaving this way, I would not have known she was upset. Her face was completely serene.  Only her fierce clutch on the hat suggested flying was not her favorite activity.

She finally let go of the toboggan and began ordering drinks when we reached altitude.  Since she reeked of bourbon, I assumed these were just a few in a long line of beverages she'd begun drinking way before our boarding time.  This might explain what she did two hours later when we finally descended. 

I missed whatever other odd behavior this woman exhibited while we flew because I gave over to my exhaustion and fitfully slept.  I might have had a few more minutes of rest had this strange person sitting next to me not done what she did.  Right before the plane's wheels touched asphalt -- which, to me, is the worst part of flying (next to the screaming, germs, body odor, and security searches) -- this mentally deranged person fully extended her arm and whacked me in the face with the backside of her elbow.  I snapped open my eyes to gape at her.  I guess my face demanded an explanation before I could form any words.  "Did you see that?" she asked me in her East Tennessee drawl;  "That was instinct." 

On Possibilities

It is a rare day that someone can say "today, I have stood at the threshold of the rest of my life."  But during the job process, there are days (or early mornings, or late nights) when one can actually pause a moment and think those thoughts.  The feeling is quite strange. You could very well be sitting next to the person who could be your best friend and colleague for the remainder of your life.  There is this possibility that you have walked by your own office.  It is not altogether unlikely that your town tour has taken you by your future home.  And while these thoughts might be exciting -- while these possibilities may be absolutely thrilling in a way nothing ever has been before -- in the job process, it is equally likely that everything you have seen could be offered to someone else.  What a strange, wonderful, hopeful, anxiety-ridden experience this is. 

On MLA

So, I have returned from the the MLA convention. 

I read more blogs than I should've about what to expect. Some emphasized the smell of failed deodorant; others discussed strange and unusual interviews that involved people going to sleep or attempting to conduct an interview drunk.  These were not my experiences. At least, not exactly. 

I accidentally (but fortuitously) booked us in the Fairmont, a convention hotel but not the main one.  Initially, I was confused -- where was the mania? The evidence that everyone was going through his/her worst fear? This was a golden lobby. The only people in it were shaking it to the Tonga Room or enjoying a bellini at the hotel restaurant.  Maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all. We met up with people we'd missed a long, long time. We shared excellent meals and watched the ice skaters on the square. 

But that was all until we were summoned to the Hilton.  The Hilton was the hub of all activity -- where most interviews were, where all sessions were being held.  I walked through the double doors and finally realized why everyone shudders when they say the word "MLA."  The first breath I took felt hot and sour; I actually breathed in everyone else's panic like it was cigarette smoke.   There must have been 200 suited, strange people in the hotel lobby. Those who weren't fidgeting or sweating were ecstatically embracing people they'd missed. What I tasted in the air was one part terror and one part impatient joy.  Everyone was scanning everyone else's nametag.  They wanted to know, "Are you somebody?"  I tucked mine away to save them the trouble.

Then I found "the phones."  In case you didn't know, MLA interviews are held in hotel rooms.  And you have to call the room where your interview will be held 5 minutes before it's scheduled to begin. There was a line of phones in the hallway with young professionals and graduate students hovering around them. Everyone was glancing at their watches, glancing at the phones, glancing at their watches, and breathing heavily.  Most looked like this was their first time in a suit. Everyone was shifty. The energy made the air hard to take in.  It was horrible. Everyone was thinking the same thing. Call now? Call NOW? 

But that wasn't as weird as the elevator ride. The elevator ride to the interview room took 1,000 years. While taking it to the designated interview room, time stopped.  I died about 10 times, came back to life, and somehow by a miracle made my way out of the elevator. This enjoyable experience was comparable only to the moment outside the door of the interview room.  For one second, I wondered if it wouldn't be a better idea to crawl down the stairs, slink out of San Francisco, and hide out in my closet the rest of my life. But I didn't do that. I felt fairly proud of myself each time I avoided this alternate plan of action.  I breathed. I avoided hyperventilating. And then I knocked. 

What happened in that room is fodder for 1,000 stories but all of them could jeopardize my chances of getting a job. So we'll skip over that part.

Perhaps we'll fast-forward to the time we saw a cat strapped to a dog walking down the street outside of where we were dining.  Or perhaps I'll just stop there.

1001 Reasons to Smile

   Andrew has a gigantic book of reasons to smile that I have always appreciated.  My favorite is: the tilt of your head as you eat a taco.  And while the holidays may be a winter-wonderland, cookie-smorgasbord time of enjoyment for some people, I find it inordinately stressful -- all the more reason to consider reasons to stop grinding my teeth and smile at someone. So I thought I'd make a list of things that make me smile. I had to cut it short because I thought I'd lose you, so feel free to add any that inspire the same reaction in you.

1.  Someone's face when he/she is genuinely happy to see you.

2.  Wormwood hiding in the Christmas tree, waiting to ambush the other cats/dogs. 

3.  Bing Crosby's serialized radio show.

4.  Thumbprint cookies.

5.  The word "zither." 

6.  Candles that smell like you could eat them.

7.  Newspaper cartoons.

8.  Unexpected snow days.

9.  The sled my grandfather built for me on the only unexpected snow day I've ever had.

10.  Acceptance letters.

11.  Naps in front of the Christmas tree when it's cold out.

12.  A dinner with friends that runs late.

13.  A student that has an epiphany

14.  Sangria

15.  Seeing two movies at a theatre in one day

16.  The smell of a book you loved as a kid

17.  Seals

18.  Puffins

19.  Cookbooks

20.  Poorly made Sunday-afternoon 80s movies

Second-Guessing

This blog is inspired by a phone interview I recently had with a university. It just ended and my fingers itch to pick up the cell and say, "You know, I said this, when I really should've said this."  That's right. I'm second-guessing myself. 

This is a particularly irksome thing to be doing for me because I do not second-guess myself. Most decisions I make undergo grave consideration before any action is taken. I rarely regret break-ups, or moves, or job changes for this reason.  I also believe that I am shaped by the mistakes I make. So while I don't think every decision I've made has been the right one, I still rarely second guess a decision since I know it probably happened for some unknown reason.  I'm not a Calvinist.  But you might think of me as someone who has walked by the pool of predestination and caught a bit of condensation on her cheek. I have been lightly sprinkled with its possibilities.

But these interviews do not fall in line with my faithful life pattern of little regret.  As soon as I shut off the phone, I think, of COURSE I can define transnationalism! It's the study of cross-border communities! It's the deconstruction of thinking us versus them and the recognition of the complex relationships involved between the colonizer and the colonized! It's not whatever garbage I just gave five minutes ago.  The answer I gave five minutes ago sounds now like "Words! Verbage! Transatlantic! Literature between colonies! Vomit!" Not only that but I begin to worry: can Julia Sterne be considered a theorist? Is Erving Goffman too archaic to bring up as an influence? Is Judith Butler overdone even if there is no better substitution? 

But I can take none of it back.  I've got a monkey on my back I can't shake, and I've got to learn to do that and much faster than I have because at MLA I only have 1 hour to recover from anything stupid I might have said. My momentary bouts of idiocy cannot affect each interview I undergo.  The only thing getting me through? I keep hearing over and over from gainfully employed academics that the interviews they thought were the worst resulted in the campus visits. Maybe that won't be true for me, but maybe it will help me temporarily pry this chimp from my shoulders. 

I don't have a poker face; may I borrow yours?

I'm not blogging right now because everything that's happening to me has to do with job interviews, and since blogs are public, I don't want any of the schools reading something that might jeopardize my chances of getting to work for them. But I think I finally found a neutral topic.

Sometimes, and on very very rare occasions at that, I allow myself to daydream about what happens next.  I pull up maps of the places I applied to and squeeze my eyes shut and try to picture myself walking Sierra on a beach or throwing snowballs at Andrew.  I imagine carrying reusable grocery bags on the subway or buying a convertible to cruise sunny highways with the top down.  But besides the ugliest of my ugly characteristics -- self-doubt -- there's one thing that always bursts that bubble: my lack of a poker face.

You see, all of the candidates who ever made it to a campus visit at Baylor or Ole Miss had great poker faces. I ate with them, drove them several hours to the airport and back, and none of them let me know if they would pick BU or UM if they were invited to do so.  Nor did anyone show unbridled enthusiasm or obvious disdain for the campus they were visiting. They masterfully held their cards close to their chests, undoubtedly because they didn't want to seem too eager so they could make negotiations later.  

But I'm not like that.  If I'm lucky enough to get a campus visit, while I might have the intention to act like a normal, intelligent, reserved human being, my true self always comes out with adrenaline.  If we pull up to a campus next to the loveliest ocean I've ever seen, my tongue will surely develop a mind of its own as it blurts out, "My GOD you must wake up every day and be ecstatic to be alive, living in a place like this!!"  Or if we walk through some classic, austere New England town and pass 4 museums, 8 art galleries, and 32 specialty food stores, even though my brain might be saying "don't do it Kacy!" my arms will detach themselves from my body and grab my guide in a feverish clutch as I babble:  "THINK of the different kinds of PEPPERS I'll bet you can buy here!"  And then, of course, it's all over.  

While other people play coy, I'm completely incapable of doing that.  Take, for example, Dr. Prickett's grad class on early British literature.  While I liked Prickett, a severe Brit who belonged at Oxford and not Baylor, sometimes reading all of Darwin's Origin of Species made my mind wander a little.  We sat at a small table trying to discuss beetles and turtles and Darwin one day and no one was talking.  No one had anything to add.  It'd been 2 hours and I felt like my brain was going to explode.  I looked down at one of the pages and saw the name "Cicero."  I leaned over to my good friend and whispered, "Do you know that Cicero in Latin means chickpea? Can you imagine? All Hail the Chickpea!"  While my friend possesses that thing called the poker face, I, as I have mentioned, do not.  While Prickett did not hear my whisper, he did see my suddenly animated face in a sea of dead ones.  "Kacy! Finally, someone has something to say about Darwin. What are you thinking?"  "No, sir," I said, turning scarlet and blotching like always.  "Don't be shy Kacy. Be confident! What you have to say is most likely insightful."  "No, sir, I am ashamed to say it isn't," I said, trying to find a way to surreptitiously start a fire or crawl under my friend's chair.  Long pause.  "Oh, come on," Prickett urged. I'd been a teacher. I knew what he was going through. 2 hours of silence were brutal.  I swallowed:  "Cicero in Latin means chickpea, Dr. Prickett."  I wasn't giggling. I'm not a class clown.  It was mortifying.  He wasn't angry; he looked utterly disappointed.

You might wonder why I didn't bluff him. I'd read the book. (I always do, as a nerd.)  I should've been able to come up with something about bird beaks or barnacles.  But I don't have a poker face and I'm LOUSY at lying.  So I just -- couldn't. Not because I'm a good person but because I don't have the knack. My face always screams the truth even as my words try to cover it up. 

So if I'm ever lucky enough to get a campus interview, the school will probably know everything it wants to and most of what it doesn't after 15 minutes of talking to me.  And if I'm wholeheartedly in love with the place I've visited, even though I don't want to do it at all, I'm most likely going to tell every person I meet.  Just think Honey when she meets Anna Scott in Notting Hill:  "Oh God this is one of those key moments in life, when it's possible you can be really, genuinely cool -- and I'm going to fail a hundred percent. I absolutely and totally and utterly adore you . . . and more importantly I genuinely believe and have believed for some time now that we can be best friends.  What do you think?"