On Humility

An extraordinary thing happened to me today. 

The day began with lots and lots of pain. I have some respiratory disease I can't shake that makes me cough until I feel like all of those little bronchial tubes in my chest are on fire. As a teacher, I haven't been able to rest my voice, which only irritated this feeling, so I finally decided I couldn't take the burning anymore and called the doctor.

"Sorry, we're booked," said the woman on the phone, who really didn't sound sorry.  "I can transfer you to Dr. Smith's office." So she did.

"Sorry, we're booked," said the woman at Dr. Smith's office.  If possible, she sounded less contrite than the first. "You can try Dr. Jones's office." And so I did. 

"We might be able to work you in," she said doubtfully. "Just come down here and sign in."  

I trudge to the doctor's office with my books and my laptop, prepared to wait and work, this being my only day to plan lectures besides the weekend. I feel like sludge.  They take $115 dollars from me, and I remember that I now have state insurance with no copay, and I feel even sludgier.  They send me to Dr. Jones's office with my chart. Thirty minutes of my life have passed during this process. 

I hand my chart to the receptionist and she glares at me. "Who are you?" she asks. I cannot understand the hostility. I should be angry at her for stealing $115 out of my paycheck, which isn't even hours old today.  I tell her my name, which is clearly printed on the front of my chart, and it makes her more angry. "I JUST talked to you on the phone and said we had NO ROOM."  I open and close my mouth. I have nothing to say. She's lying. And she's making me feel like dirt in front of a hallway full of people.  She rolls her eyes at me and huffs a big breath, blowing at the papers clipped on the clipboard.  "I guess you'll just have to wait for two hours and see if you get lucky."  

I return to where she gestured -- a large germ-infested waiting room -- and then decide I'm wasting my time. I tell the attendant at the front I must've misunderstood, that this doctor couldn't work me in after all, and I ask for my money back, which they grant to me.  I am quite distressed at this point, feeling, as I do, on fire, now aware that I will continue to feel on fire for some time, untreated. I am not indignant or angry. I just want to disappear into the floor, where maybe I won't feel sick or exhausted or upset for being yelled at for no reason at all.

I leave.

I go home and pity myself for a while.  I get a phone call, unexpectedly. 

"Is this Kacy?"

It is.

"I think I was rude to you today, and I wanted to say I was sorry."

No one ever tells me they are sorry.  I stumble around for a response.

"I was short with you and I realize that now, and I think I'm why you left, and, knowing that, I couldn't even eat my lunch. So I just wanted to tell you I apologize, and that if you come at 2, I'll make sure you see a doctor."

This was a remarkable thing for her to do.  That room was full of patients; that business did not need my money.  She doesn't know me at all.  She had no reason to track me down and apologize, and she did it anyway, even though dialing my phone number must have been uncomfortable.  So today I'm thankful for her humility, which restores a bit of my faith in humanity.  

Mandatory Maternity

So here's what happened. I have an old friend who doesn't like to hear news second-hand, so I called her to tell her I was moving to Florida. She said, "Oh," rather deflated.  "What's wrong? You and I haven't lived near each other in years, " I asked, misinterpreting the disappointment in her voice.  "Oh, it's nothing," she said sheepishly; "I just thought you were calling to tell me you were having a baby."  

I actually don't blame her for this reaction. This post isn't about her, at all; if I've heard this once, I've heard it 1,000 times. Many of my friends are on child #2. To many people, I am "behind."  

Recently, at my father's 60th birthday, I saw several former teachers who guided me through elementary, junior high, and high school. My mother told them (and everyone) that I'd gotten my PhD, and these teachers said, "We're so glad for you. Do you have any children yet?"  

This has been an unusual reaction for me. I'm not sure what I expected -- I've been too busy to wonder what other people would think -- but I find it odd that my identity, while for me has been defined as academic, scholar, teacher, wife, friend, and daughter, is not complete to other people unless I adopt the persona of mother.  People are often quickly apologetic after they point out what they see as an omission in my life.  They say, "Oh, I know I never liked it when people asked me."  "It's none of my business of course." "You don't have to tell me."  

Isn't it odd that, while I've finally achieved self-sufficiency, while I've gone to college for 10 years, searched for the right job for almost as long,  own my own house, have a successful marriage, and am involved in my community,  because I'm a woman, it isn't enough? 

The End

Well it's not the end, not really; it's the beginning -- but I've gotten a job, finally, and that signifies the end of a lot of things. For one, my insides are no longer tied in a knot. I can listen to people when they talk to me, and I don't feel tired from worry anymore. I don't have to wonder if I'm going to stay here in the fall or not, and I have at least a decent idea of what life will be like in the 2nd part of 2009.  I can focus on my teaching instead of seeing my students in a blur since I stayed up all night packing, grading, scrambling to teach someone else's class at an unfamiliar university, acquiring books I haven't read or don't own.  

I have a lot of people to thank. Since I've told friends and family the news, they've said things like, "We're proud of your accomplishments" and "You worked hard for that" but the truth is that there were so many people and so many factors that helped me get the job that I can hardly take credit. Maybe I got the PhD, and maybe I tried my best to be an appealing candidate, but that's not enough to get a job. 

First of all, I had friends who stayed friends with me even though I have been glassy-eyed with anxiety for about 6 months (ok probably a year).  My husband didn't leave me, even though I brought up these anxieties to him day in and day out for what has seemed like an eternity.  The people I worked with got me a temporary job so I didn't starve during all of this, which would've pushed me over the edge most likely.  My writing group kept telling me to keep my head up; my religious friends continued to pray for me; my mom and dad remained positive even though all of my options took me far from them.  And Tampa gave me a chance, even though I probably wasn't the smartest person they could've hired.  I'm really still not clear on why I've been smiled upon in this way.  I certainly haven't served in enough soup kitchens or stayed up with enough sick friends to earn the karma for it.  I feel indebted.  To everyone.  

I also owe the people who rejected me.  That sounds weird, so let me explain. I applied for 55 positions.  I interviewed with 8 schools (which I can now name):  Longwood, Corpus Christi, Wofford, Simpson, Kutztown, Edgewood, Ball State, and Tampa.  I received offers for campus visits from Longwood, Wofford, Simpson, Kutztown, Edgewood, and Tampa. I accepted 5 of those invitations but only ended up making it to 3 campuses.  I got offers from two schools, and accepted one.  I am indebted to Wofford, particularly, who rejected me. 

What I mean by that is that Wofford called me the day after I returned from San Francisco and asked me to visit on 1/5.  I loved everyone there -- still do, really -- and loved South Carolina and decided if they offered me the position, I'd take it without visiting the others. This would have been stupid, but I didn't know that at the time.  They chose someone else. I yelled at God.  I was pretty angry with him; why show me a great place and give it to another person? Everyone told me things work out for a reason but you couldn't tell me that. I was angry and, naturally, insulted. I'm human.  

But their rejection made me visit Edgewood and Tampa, where I met remarkable people.  And I ended up taking a job where it's always warm, where the department is a great size, where there are more people near my age and with my interests, where there is more travel money, a larger salary, time off for writing my book, and something they call "relocation assistance." They're helping me move.  I'll be working in a building that was a former hotel -- a magnificent building called Plant Hall where all of the offices have giant windows and a fireplace  -- and I'll most likely buy a house on or near Davis Island, where, if you take your dog for a walk in the afternoon, you're likely to see dolphins. It's less than an hour from Disney, Andrew's favorite place in the world, which is also the home to a dear childhood friend who has been homesick for her friends for quite some time.  And if I'd been offered the SC position, I would've worked every Christmas as part of a wintersession program -- which means when Andrew and I have children, we wouldn't have been able to let them visit their grandparents several states away. 

Needless to say, I apologized to God for all the yelling. But really, I think he's used to it.  

People are quick to point out the hard parts are just beginning. I have to sell my house in a market where no one has money, and I have to buy a house from far away. Andrew has to find a job, and we have to make all new friends and learn a new city.  These things used to frighten me, but not anymore. If we can make it through the job process, we can make it through anything.  And anyway, I'm slowly becoming resigned to the fact that someone's looking out for me.  Maybe it won't be easy, but it'll be OK.  

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.