I spent most of last year hoping I'd get an opportunity to speak at the new graduate student orientation this year. My first year of graduate school was an important one for me, and though I am still figuring things out, I wanted to help. This is partly due to the fact that I wasted a huge amount of time last year being unnecessarily scared. I was convinced that I'd been accepted as some sort of fluke - maybe the DGS put my application in the wrong pile? - and I tried my damnedest to fly under radar. In case that was the case, I didn't want anyone to notice.
Well, it wasn't the case. Though grad school does at times seem a breeding ground for rampant insecurity, by the time August came around and I found myself staring into a sea of new and curious grad student faces, I felt good. I felt good about the program and myself in it, and that is almost entirely due to the fact that after a year I have found my people. There are amazing scholars here who not only know my name and my work, but also know me. They are happy when I darken the doorstep of their offices. My colleagues are passionate people, and after a year (and a fortuitous freshmen focus pairing) I have a mentor so amazing it's almost miraculous. Grad school is hard. Everyone knows that. But it doesn't have to be impossible. The people make it better.
So that it what I said, when I spoke at orientation. In fact, that's what the entire panel said. And sure, perhaps we made it seem a bit "puppies and rainbows." Maybe I was overcome with happiness to be back from summer and amongst these people I admire so much. Maybe I was feeling too lovingful of the entire graduate process. But I don't think there's a way to be too into graduate school and the people around you. I think that's what makes for good colleagues, interesting scholars, and passionate teachers. Academia is about the people. It has to be, otherwise we wouldn't have this cult of celebrity around the top minds, the very best teachers, or the most compelling speakers. In this business, our thoughts control our destiny. And where do we get these thoughts, Clarice? We find out what we love. Or, as one of my colleagues said, "You find what lights you up." This is the humanities. You can't stop being human. And even if you can stop being human and still get away with it, I choose not to take that particular route.
The funny thing about adversity, or so about a million quotable people have said, is that it often shows you the truth about something. I am not saying that petty people show you the true nature of the world, but rather that with the bad ones come the really good people as well, just to restore balance to the force. I am disappointed in the actions of some of my colleagues, particularly because I have invested a near-absurd amount of energy believing these people to be...better. But mostly I am disappointed in myself, for getting so worked up about it in the past few days. I have the right to be angry, and I am. I have the right to be hurt, and I definitely am hurt. But I am letting the boogie men win when I avoid them because I'm afraid I'll cry, hurl, or explode. I am letting them win when I feel so overwhelmed with their toxicity that I want to leave altogether. Particularly when 95 percent of the people around me are wonderful, brilliant, professional people.
Well, my parents would say, that kind of behavior just makes me a silly bitch. So in the spirit of school starting tomorrow, and in the spirit of the thesis, coursework, testing, and PhD applications to come, I think it is a good time to stop being a silly bitch.
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Saturday, August 16, 2008
Michael Phelps and I have a mutual friend on facebook
Impressive, no? I mean, it makes sense, since I have a friend who is also an athlete at Michigan, but I was nevertheless surprised when fbook delivered that little tidbit.
Ok, that is obviously not the point of this post.
Before the Olympics started, Laur and I had a serious roommate bonding moment over our mutual apathy for the Olympics. In fact, I was kind of even excited to NOT watch them. Which is weird, because everyone knows the summer sports are way better than the winter ones. (With the notable exception of figure skating.) But, I couldn't muster that much enthusiasm this year because Ian Thorpe is out. (He was my fave.)
Anyway, when I arrived home on Sunday, my mother was her usual adorable blend of terrifying efficiency and overwhelming cuteness. She'd just completed tearing a huge hole in our kitchen, thereby merging the kitchen and our garage. But she was also SUPER into the Olympics. Mostly she just likes it when the P.O.M.Es do any better than 4th. The Brits are ALWAYS coming in 4th. It's a source of huge entertainment for my father, but is generally less amusing to Mum. So we've been watching a lot of Olympics. Mostly on the Canadian channel, because they actually show the events live (unlike NBC, who has the weirdest definition of live ever). I love the Canadians because they will mention the Canadian athletes even when they are hysterically behind. ("The Canadian athlete is now in 57th place!") A while ago, they did that with Simon Whitfield (in the triathlon) and he somehow went from like, 73rd to 1st! It was so cool. But enough about the Canadians.
I am kind of in love with Michael Phelps now. Not in luuuuuuurrrrrvvvvve, but I mean, wow. Of course, it is easy to support someone when they're ridiculously talented. Although, it is more than slightly depressing that we're the same age. He's insane! Mostly though, I think his mum is so precious. She is such a midge. I am not sure how she birthed that orca, but props to you, Mrs. Phelps.
I'm really only paying attention to the swimming, since the gymnasts creep me out (they all look pre-pubescent) but I should say that I am kind of loving the racing. I am loving the hugging across lane dividers, I am loving the teeny Japanese man who beat all the super tall guys at the beginning of the week, and I am LOVING all the relay teams (even though I get flashbacks from relay practices from interminable erging winters). I really like it when America wins, even though I think the Yanks sometimes say really stupid things. Example: one of the relay team members saying that Phelps winning 8 medals is bigger/more impressive than anything else in sports, including the Tour de France. Um, what? False. Has this guy never seen the Tour de France?
Mostly I just like it when someone adorable wins. Which reminds me! I was so excited that Jamaica won something.
I will say though, I am not into NBC. First, they lie about things being live. Secondly, they have been MEAN to Ian Thorpe. As someone who teaches other people how to use sources, I feel someone should point out that what the Thor-pedo said about Michael Phelps was NOT as bitchy as everyone is claiming. Thorpe even said "I'd love to see [Phelps] do it [you know, win everything]" and THEN he hugged Mrs. Phelps when Michael whomped every single record Thorpe ever set. So let's not sass the poor man. Instead, let's calm the deuce down.
Ok, that is obviously not the point of this post.
Before the Olympics started, Laur and I had a serious roommate bonding moment over our mutual apathy for the Olympics. In fact, I was kind of even excited to NOT watch them. Which is weird, because everyone knows the summer sports are way better than the winter ones. (With the notable exception of figure skating.) But, I couldn't muster that much enthusiasm this year because Ian Thorpe is out. (He was my fave.)
Anyway, when I arrived home on Sunday, my mother was her usual adorable blend of terrifying efficiency and overwhelming cuteness. She'd just completed tearing a huge hole in our kitchen, thereby merging the kitchen and our garage. But she was also SUPER into the Olympics. Mostly she just likes it when the P.O.M.Es do any better than 4th. The Brits are ALWAYS coming in 4th. It's a source of huge entertainment for my father, but is generally less amusing to Mum. So we've been watching a lot of Olympics. Mostly on the Canadian channel, because they actually show the events live (unlike NBC, who has the weirdest definition of live ever). I love the Canadians because they will mention the Canadian athletes even when they are hysterically behind. ("The Canadian athlete is now in 57th place!") A while ago, they did that with Simon Whitfield (in the triathlon) and he somehow went from like, 73rd to 1st! It was so cool. But enough about the Canadians.
I am kind of in love with Michael Phelps now. Not in luuuuuuurrrrrvvvvve, but I mean, wow. Of course, it is easy to support someone when they're ridiculously talented. Although, it is more than slightly depressing that we're the same age. He's insane! Mostly though, I think his mum is so precious. She is such a midge. I am not sure how she birthed that orca, but props to you, Mrs. Phelps.
I'm really only paying attention to the swimming, since the gymnasts creep me out (they all look pre-pubescent) but I should say that I am kind of loving the racing. I am loving the hugging across lane dividers, I am loving the teeny Japanese man who beat all the super tall guys at the beginning of the week, and I am LOVING all the relay teams (even though I get flashbacks from relay practices from interminable erging winters). I really like it when America wins, even though I think the Yanks sometimes say really stupid things. Example: one of the relay team members saying that Phelps winning 8 medals is bigger/more impressive than anything else in sports, including the Tour de France. Um, what? False. Has this guy never seen the Tour de France?
Mostly I just like it when someone adorable wins. Which reminds me! I was so excited that Jamaica won something.
I will say though, I am not into NBC. First, they lie about things being live. Secondly, they have been MEAN to Ian Thorpe. As someone who teaches other people how to use sources, I feel someone should point out that what the Thor-pedo said about Michael Phelps was NOT as bitchy as everyone is claiming. Thorpe even said "I'd love to see [Phelps] do it [you know, win everything]" and THEN he hugged Mrs. Phelps when Michael whomped every single record Thorpe ever set. So let's not sass the poor man. Instead, let's calm the deuce down.
An Open Letter to Endnotes
Dear Endnotes:
Listen, I can appreciate wanting to be the center of attention as much as the next girl. I can even appreciate the value of interrupting someone for the sole purpose of providing largely useless information. All I'm saying is, I feel your timing could use a little work.
Take, for example, your taller, smarter, better-looking sibling, the footnote. The footnote provides the same information, but saves the average graduate student the trouble of flipping back and forth. I understand that Renaissance English requires a little clarification, from time to time, but seriously man, you are ruining my flow! Or rather, you are ruining Webster's flow. So cut it out, punkface. There is a distinct difference between being fashionably late (at the bottom of the page) and not showing up until people are passed out on the couch.
Sincerely,
Toria
Listen, I can appreciate wanting to be the center of attention as much as the next girl. I can even appreciate the value of interrupting someone for the sole purpose of providing largely useless information. All I'm saying is, I feel your timing could use a little work.
Take, for example, your taller, smarter, better-looking sibling, the footnote. The footnote provides the same information, but saves the average graduate student the trouble of flipping back and forth. I understand that Renaissance English requires a little clarification, from time to time, but seriously man, you are ruining my flow! Or rather, you are ruining Webster's flow. So cut it out, punkface. There is a distinct difference between being fashionably late (at the bottom of the page) and not showing up until people are passed out on the couch.
Sincerely,
Toria
Thursday, August 7, 2008
Tardy Party
Wow. I am very late in posting for this one. Anyway, before I jump right into my turtle post, I would like to point out that PAUL has not responded to his own prompt. That's right Paulo, I am calling you out.
Anyway, turtles. I actually have quite a few turtley things. Not the real live ones, you understand, but keychains, desk accessories, stationary. My family keeps purchasing them for me, and it's all because of my big mouth.
In my family, people either get married pretty young, or they go totally nuts (in a charming way, of course) and become spinsters. Not joking. I thought spinsters only really existed in the 19th Century. (Ok, practically speaking I knew this wasn't true. But don't you just always imagine spinsters dressed up like Queen Victoria? I do.) Anyway, we Dalstons have our very own spinster. Auntie May. I never met this woman, because she was older than God when my mum was a little girl. I have been told that I am essentially a clone of May, personality-wise. Kindred spirits, if you will. Or maybe I'm the reincarnation of Auntie May. Either way, this does not bode particularly well for me. Plus, I seemed to have inherited every crappy gene from both sides of my family. The allergies, the boobs, and MAYBE, the spinster gene. And, because my family is just like this, they think it's totally hysterical to make fun of me for it. As if my spinster concerns weren't legitimate! It's science, people.
Well, the way I figure it, anything worth doing is worth doing right. I don't want anything to sneak up on me! How embarrassing would it be to be a sub-par spinster? So I figure I need a big house, lots of weird art projects, and a bunch of cats. EXCEPT, I am deathly allergic to cats. So you can imagine I was pretty disconcerted when I remembered that. I immediately called my mother.
Me, in my most dramatic voice: MUM! I am doomed to fail at spinsterhood!
My mother: Toria, you silly bitch, you are 21 years old.
Me: Yeahbut!
My mother pauses, as if she's waiting for me to make an actual point. She has a tendency to do this.
Me: Yeahbut, shouldn't I be prepared for this? What am I going to do? I can't have cats! Which means I'll have to have a turtle, or something. A turtle? How naf!
My mother: A turtle? (I can't really explain it in writing, but she said "A turtle?" in a voice that could only mean "How did I, the most rational person in the world, birth this crazy mofo?")
Me: Yes. It can only be a turtle. And I shall call him Habib. (Um, Toria, wtf?)
The conversation pretty much withered from there, what with my mother being exasperated with me, and calling me a silly bitch a few more times. And that year for Christmas, I received no fewer than four turtles. My mother the joker. At this point, I'm not sure if the turtles represent my future, or my blatant detour from the patented family rationality. If they redid Bridget Jones, I do feel little Habib would figure in prominently. At least he would in the first half of the movie, before Bridget sorts things out with Mark Darcy (rar!). But until Renee Zellwegger starts packing the pounds on again, I will be more than happy to be the Pullman-area supplier of turtle-themed goods.
Anyway, turtles. I actually have quite a few turtley things. Not the real live ones, you understand, but keychains, desk accessories, stationary. My family keeps purchasing them for me, and it's all because of my big mouth.
In my family, people either get married pretty young, or they go totally nuts (in a charming way, of course) and become spinsters. Not joking. I thought spinsters only really existed in the 19th Century. (Ok, practically speaking I knew this wasn't true. But don't you just always imagine spinsters dressed up like Queen Victoria? I do.) Anyway, we Dalstons have our very own spinster. Auntie May. I never met this woman, because she was older than God when my mum was a little girl. I have been told that I am essentially a clone of May, personality-wise. Kindred spirits, if you will. Or maybe I'm the reincarnation of Auntie May. Either way, this does not bode particularly well for me. Plus, I seemed to have inherited every crappy gene from both sides of my family. The allergies, the boobs, and MAYBE, the spinster gene. And, because my family is just like this, they think it's totally hysterical to make fun of me for it. As if my spinster concerns weren't legitimate! It's science, people.
Well, the way I figure it, anything worth doing is worth doing right. I don't want anything to sneak up on me! How embarrassing would it be to be a sub-par spinster? So I figure I need a big house, lots of weird art projects, and a bunch of cats. EXCEPT, I am deathly allergic to cats. So you can imagine I was pretty disconcerted when I remembered that. I immediately called my mother.
Me, in my most dramatic voice: MUM! I am doomed to fail at spinsterhood!
My mother: Toria, you silly bitch, you are 21 years old.
Me: Yeahbut!
My mother pauses, as if she's waiting for me to make an actual point. She has a tendency to do this.
Me: Yeahbut, shouldn't I be prepared for this? What am I going to do? I can't have cats! Which means I'll have to have a turtle, or something. A turtle? How naf!
My mother: A turtle? (I can't really explain it in writing, but she said "A turtle?" in a voice that could only mean "How did I, the most rational person in the world, birth this crazy mofo?")
Me: Yes. It can only be a turtle. And I shall call him Habib. (Um, Toria, wtf?)
The conversation pretty much withered from there, what with my mother being exasperated with me, and calling me a silly bitch a few more times. And that year for Christmas, I received no fewer than four turtles. My mother the joker. At this point, I'm not sure if the turtles represent my future, or my blatant detour from the patented family rationality. If they redid Bridget Jones, I do feel little Habib would figure in prominently. At least he would in the first half of the movie, before Bridget sorts things out with Mark Darcy (rar!). But until Renee Zellwegger starts packing the pounds on again, I will be more than happy to be the Pullman-area supplier of turtle-themed goods.
Saturday, August 2, 2008
Sea Monkeys, Milk Money, and James McAvoy, oh my!
Yesterday, Julie proposed that we go to Lewiston to see Wanted at the Orchard (for a dollar, no less!). Obviously, I said yes, because I am currently pursuing a TOE (theory of everything) specifically geared to James McAvoy, which basically states that everything he's in is amazing. Seriously. There was The Last King of Scotland, Becoming Jane, Penelope, and Atonement. They were all good. So when I saw the trailers for Wanted, I was both excited and anxious. Because let's be honest, it didn't look that good. But I refused to believe that James would let me down. Anyway, I can happily report that Wanted was exceptionally enjoyable. Guilty pleasure...maybe. But, rar! Something for everyone. Hopefully something for our 104 students as well, because we're showing it for class. Before anyone gets all nervous, we found no fewer than eight philosophical problems in the film. So it's totally legit!
We also went to the casino. I will admit that in previous years, slots held little to no fascination for me. Mostly because my only experience with them was one failed effort in the Vegas airport. But the baby casino in Lewiston is pretty rad. I probably only feel so positive about this because I made fourteen dollars. The "Milk Money" machine was particularly awesome, mostly for the bonus rounds. If you get a bonus, you pick a cow (Hefina or Bovina) and they go into a little barrel, wherein they swivel their hips around (which is, I guess, how you milk a cow in slot-machine land). Then, depending on what kind of milk comes out (triple points for chocolate, double for strawberry, and extra prizes for egg nog) you get money! Equally charming is the fact that both cows speak with a Jamaican accent (I didn't even know they had cows in Jamaica!) I could give or take the actual slot machine part, but the bonuses are amazing. Julie got a bonus round on the sea monkey machine, and she made 18 bucks! ON A PENNY SLOT!
I am pretty sure, when I have to go into Gambler's Anonymous, this blog post will be integral in one of the steps.
Sidenote: "Betti the Yetti" sucks, even though it's a funny name for a slot machine. I didn't win ONCE. I lost five bucks in approximately 2.5 minutes. Were it not for a second pass at "Milk Money" this whole post would have been a lot more negative.
We also went to the casino. I will admit that in previous years, slots held little to no fascination for me. Mostly because my only experience with them was one failed effort in the Vegas airport. But the baby casino in Lewiston is pretty rad. I probably only feel so positive about this because I made fourteen dollars. The "Milk Money" machine was particularly awesome, mostly for the bonus rounds. If you get a bonus, you pick a cow (Hefina or Bovina) and they go into a little barrel, wherein they swivel their hips around (which is, I guess, how you milk a cow in slot-machine land). Then, depending on what kind of milk comes out (triple points for chocolate, double for strawberry, and extra prizes for egg nog) you get money! Equally charming is the fact that both cows speak with a Jamaican accent (I didn't even know they had cows in Jamaica!) I could give or take the actual slot machine part, but the bonuses are amazing. Julie got a bonus round on the sea monkey machine, and she made 18 bucks! ON A PENNY SLOT!
I am pretty sure, when I have to go into Gambler's Anonymous, this blog post will be integral in one of the steps.
Sidenote: "Betti the Yetti" sucks, even though it's a funny name for a slot machine. I didn't win ONCE. I lost five bucks in approximately 2.5 minutes. Were it not for a second pass at "Milk Money" this whole post would have been a lot more negative.
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