Discovered in my documents folder.

[I still feel this way.]

Olin Memorial Library, 19-06-07.

This is the image of me attempting to craft, from nothing, a future. The image of a girl-woman seated in the great expanse of air and windows in a library reading room.

Her hair knotted ingeniously, sitting on her heels in the too-low chair, squinting and pulling faces as she peruses lists of requirements, demands, standards. She cannot hold herself against these lists, cannot compare with cold scrutiny some image of herself with the abstract of desirability.

She has sent off, already, one cry for help, one request for rescue, whose destinataire has either not received it or been unwilling to respond.

She turns to examine the summery cascade of freckles that spill down from her shoulders, the six bracelets of wooden beads on one wrist, the Touareg device in silver on her right index finger. She stands and stretches and walks away down to the ladies’ to examine her prototypical self in the mirror.

“What is this?” she would wonder aloud if not for the librarianess standing next to her. “What is this fleeting thing in this mirror, here?”

That figure has learned herself, over the years, she realizes. The woman in the mirror has learned to say “I”.

But what now? Now with this “I” tucked cleverly in her pocket, where will she go? And how will she get there?

She can no longer contemplate these long lists of demands, can no longer face the prospect of opening some line of communication for the sake of marketing a self she is not sure of. That it is there, this self, she is certain. At least there is that.

But what can it do? When push comes to shove or when the shit hits the fan or when simply it comes down to it, of what is this self capable?

There is, of course, no way to know. That is what she cannot face, today, as the wind outside the window fades and the trees on the hill grow still and silent. What she cannot face, today, in this library that has cradled her through all her mind’s misadventures and furious yearnings, is the possibility that it ends here. That the next step is too brazen and broad for her small form to manage, that the path may be not only meandering and twilight-obscure, but may also be simply not there.

In which mouse sighs, content.

The application road has just come to an end, reader. And you may delight in never getting another of these posts, ever again.

Remember my huge enormous like totally embarrassing crush on the coolest kid in school?*

Well, reader, the coolest kid in school just asked me out on a date.

Scratch that. The coolest kid in school just asked me to fucking marry hir. I think ze’s the one, reader. I really think ze’s the one.









*Umm, I hereby rescind any tasteless jokes I may or may not have made comparing graduate education to sexual assault. However, coming from an anti-marriage queer, engagement is really only half a step up. Shall we think of it as a civil union, then? Perhaps a PACS? A friendly accord? Let’s go with friendly accord.

Relief.

Cue the Gloria of Bach’s B-minor, babies.

Your mouse has just got her first offer. From her second-and-very-nearly-first choice.

No more worrying. No more fretting. No more distraction from my beautiful current world.

Acceptance. Validation. And a fuckton of sweet sweet fellowship money.

(I think this anxiety is what’s been causing the blog hiatus — which we may now consider over.)

Well, that was nice.

Yes, reader, it’s New Year’s Evening and I am at home writing a blog post. And yes, I will be spending the rest of my evening with Thomas More. (I wonder if he’ll kiss me at midnight?)

I just submitted my application to the University of Stillanotherstate. Some thoughtful consideration has led me to feel better and better about this program, and moved it up to rival the number one slot. Clicking the “submit” button actually made me feel good.

Two seconds later, the confirmation e-mail appeared in my inbox. These tend to say, abruptly, “Yes, got it, now please go away until we deign to contact you again. Pffft.”

This one, however.

Dear [Mouse],

The Graduate School at the University of [Stillanotherstate] has received your application. We are so excited that you have applied! [...] You have our best wishes as you pursue admission to the University of [Stillanotherstate].

Sincerely,
Graduate School
University of [Stillanotherstate]

They are so excited!

I can has Best Wishes!

I was a little blindsided by this burst of enthusiasm. Then it dawned on me: Oh. The Midwest. They are Like That out there. I love them.

… Sigh.

Open letters

Dear NYPL,

You are not closing at all over the holidays. In this and in all other ways, you bless me by your very existence. I can’t wait to see you again — it has been far too long, my love. I know you’ve been seeing other readers. It’s okay. We said we’d take a break. I haven’t been the most faithful gal in the world, either. But the BL and I? We’re over*. I promise. I’m coming home, love.

Kisses,

Mouse

———————

Dear University of Otherstate,

You want to know who I am. You seem actually to care who I am. For this demonstration of your fundamental humanity, I thank you. For setting an example for how to make graduate admissions a mutually respectful process, I commend you. I sincerely hope we have an opportunity to work together soon. I look forward to hearing from you.

All best,

Mouse.

———————

Dear Zoë Wanamaker,

Marry me.

All my everything and more,

Mouse

———————

*For now.

In which mouse has some splainin to do.

“Have you ever been dismissed or suspended from any academic institution? If so, please explain in the space provided.”

Sigh. Here we go. Again.

A combination of unfortunate events, bad decision-making, immaturity, mental health issues, disordered eating, and a certain unbloggable habit, led me to fail two classes at the Petri Dish in the second term of my first year, lose all hope of good standing, and to be “required to resign” from the Dish for one year. I was told to get my act together, scrape together some credits, and reapply in the spring.

I lived at home, assistant-taught French at my public high school, and took classes at the local campus of my state’s public university system — a little institution we’ll call the Fishbowl. I failed a class there, too — in 17th century European history, no less. I was still reeling from the deadly cocktail sketched above, and furthermore, reader, you cannot even begin to imagine what torture that class was. Somehow, the professor (a stammering grey non-eminence whose specialization was in early modern Scandinavian tax systems — no, I’m not kidding) managed to make a century full of war, religious anxiety, great art, misbegotten colonial schemes, and all manner of wacky goings-on hideously boring.

But I digress. The point is, that segment of my life is not the stuff of pretty pictures. But in my spring term at the Fishbowl, something finally clicked. I got my shit together, with the help of kind and generous faculty, made perfect marks across the board, was re-admitted to the Petri Dish, was re-instated in good standing after a semester’s probation, and continued to make perfect marks and generally distinguish myself for the rest of my undergraduate career. Anyone who looks at my transcripts can see that something weird happened five years ago, but that I resolved the problem and executed myself in fine style from there on out.

So why do I still need to explain this? My mental health history is something I regard as deeply private. The issues are not ongoing, in fact were more than put to bed years ago. I should not have to keep pulling out my tired narrative of that time, five years later, what with excellent performance at two excellent institutions and the testimonies of three excellent scholars to vouch for my status as a stable human being. I also see no reason that I should be asked to submit transcripts from the Fishbowl to my Ph.D. programs — the credits were accepted by the Petri Dish, and that is all anyone should need to know.

This information is humiliating to me. The Fishbowl “F,” the stupidity of the immature girl who failed herself miserably in every way — these are not things I want on public display. (So why am I blogging about them? Because you love me and you will forgive me. Because you are not a graduate admissions committee.) The rest of my record is virtually spotless. The first twelve of those eighteen months are a hideous stain.

On the other hand, my recovery speaks volumes. And having to do this explaining reminds me of the debt I owe to four generous, kind, brilliant teachers at the Fishbowl, who gave me the tools I needed to get my academic self back on track. Two of them in particular opened my eyes for the first time to the real possibility of spending a lifetime in academia. I tend to forget this period because of its humiliating aspects, but I need to remember how valuable the experience was.

And so, with head held haughtily high, I copy and paste the old explanatory paragraph, and haughtily click the “save” button, with a “Ha!” and a “So there!” But the haughtiness masks a wound — that question, “Have you ever been dismissed…” feels like an intrusion at best, at worst a serious blow in the fencing-match that is this application process. I sincerely hope that this is the last time I will ever have to do this particular bit of explaining.

Academic courtship patterns; trepidation.

I am busily at work refitting my SoP for my top-choice program. By “busily,” I mostly mean “frantically.” Typing into a paragraph on my current project the names of the two people whose work most inspires me, who just happen to work at the same institution, nearly gave me a heart attack. I have followed that sentence with a placeholder, and moved on to another section. The placeholder reads: PLEASE I AM IN LOVE WITH YOU PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE.

I want! Reader, I want! And, I am fairly sure, I am not going to get.

This place is a distant, distant first. The others all huddle together happily, places I chose because I think I could be happy there, because I think I could fit in there, because I like them. I’d be delighted to join any of those programs. But this one, reader. This one. It’s what I said a while ago about having an enormous crush on the coolest kid in school. I have such a crush. I want this so badly.

Then again, every time I stop to think about it, I realize that this place might not actually make me as happy as I think it will. There are any number of unknowable factors that might make life there hideous. I might be better off at one of the places that makes my heart thump just a little less vigorously. One of my other favorite programs is perhaps an unlikely one — in the world of high school dating, it’d be the drama geek. (Most of the others are jocks, sad to say — with one exception, the rare and treasured dyke nerd — you know, the one with the glasses who’s always sitting in unpredictable places reading Emily Dickinson and Wittgenstein, sneering at the preps and smoking cigarettes.)

The misfit’s consolation is, of course, that the drama geek usually makes a better girlfriend than the cool kid, anyway. The drama geek is there for you always, sticks up for you in a fight, forges your mom’s signature to get you out of gym. The drama geek makes you laugh and makes you feel at home. She’s passionate about peculiar things, and she shares her passions freely. She’s needy and a little rough around the edges, sure, and she definitely can’t buy you diamonds. But she cares about you. You can trust the drama geek.

The cool kid just wants you as an accessory. And he will probably put a roofie in your drink.

It’s not that I think Fancy U, let alone Professors Hot and McPants, are academic date-rapists. But you never know, reader. You never know.

It’s gone. It’s gone. It’s gone.

The first application went out today.

I fretted; I flitted; I twitched.

I prevaricated.

I school-marmed two stoned hippies whose misfortune it was to demonstrate poor library etiquette in my presence.

I edited – and edited – and edited – a single sentence.

I reconstructed the sentence in its original form.

I alarmed the lad sitting next to me with my repeated sharp-intakes-of-breath.

I formatted.

I title-paged.

Alarmed, heart-racing, I printed.

I paper-clipped and document-sleeved.

I addressed.

I glanced over.

…I glanced again.

At my application to the “Univeristy of Pseudostate.”

AGH.

I re-title-paged.

I panicked.

I read every goddamned word of both sample and statement.

Aloud.

I felt very badly for my future readers.

I enveloped.

I whimpered.

I… I… I… sealed.

I posted.

….. I drank.

In which mouse makes peace with her selves

I’ve devoted this week to the last major stage of my application process, the one I expected to provoke the most angst, despair, and gnashing of teeth: the revision of a chapter of my undergraduate thesis to submit as a writing sample.

I’ve not yet finished — I still need to rewrite the introduction to give a sense of the chapter’s relevance to the whole project, tweak a few sentences, make sure the cuts I’ve made haven’t disrupted the argument, and run it by Professor Wry (who, I’m sure, will be as glad as I to see the very last of this bit of juvenilia). But, reader, so unexpectedly, this process has been a joy.

It has been a joy to find that, somehow, over the course of the past eighteen months, I’ve become a better writer, a better critic, a stronger thinker. I have revelled in this opportunity revisit this piece from a distance, and with it to revisit the self who wrote it, to reconcile my current self to that former one, gently to correct her peculiar syntax, to smooth her ragged sentences, and to cure her of her overfondness for the word “discourse.”

Once I accepted the impracticality of giving the thing the genuine overhaul it really needs — of revamping the argument, changing the basic language through which I conveyed its central concepts, revisiting the source-texts and updating the research — I settled into the simple pleasure of becoming my own co-author. That pleasure derives simply from the fact of this distance, this remove from that former self: I wouldn’t argue now what I argued then. That in itself seems a minor miracle.

Miraculous, too, that I have made peace with the breathless undergrad who first gathered and dived ecstatically into this material. Much as I would like to present a more mature writing sample, that girl is what I’ve got, and I am proud of her. I have no desire, as I had thought I might, to redact her or to revise her out of existence. Instead I’ve simply dressed her up, and next week I will send her out to be my ambassador. She’s a little green, it’s true, but she’s beautiful, and I trust her.

And while she goes out into the world, I can retreat and set my current self to work, in the present tense, where she will learn by fits and starts until she, too, will cede her place to a newer, stronger self.

Examined.

Reader, tomorrow your mouse wakes up early indeed to engage in the most trivial and yet most excruciating activity the American statistical-educational complex has to offer an aspiring doctoral student in English: from the deepest, darkest, most aliterary lairs of the Educational Testing Service, the Graduate Record Examination Subject Test in English Literature.

Say it with me, reader: what a load of flaming crap.

To those of you who possess immense erudition, knollidge, smarts, book-learnin’, mental archives of the entire canon of Anglophone literature, etc.: if you could see your way ’round to sending some of that my way through whatever means you may have at your disposal, I sure would appreciate it.

To the spirits of excellent luck, bending chance, augury, test-writer-mind-reading, and sheer dumb right-place-right-timeness: o ye! guide my number two pencil that she not err nor lead me into false belief concerning early Victorian verse forms!

To everyone who has ever taken part in any decision to require these test scores or in any part of the process of producing the tests themselves: I hope you die slowly of a combination of carpal tunnel, ritual standardized humiliation, and repeated broadsword strokes to the head, you bunch of sadistic, miserable, no-account sons of syphilitic goats. Honestly. You should be ashamed of yourselves.