Dishonesty or Dress-Up? Faking Certainty in Grad School

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Image credit: kidspot.com.au

I always feel a little anxious before the start of a new semester, and part of those back-to-school butterflies come from knowing that I’m going to have to talk about my research.  It’s not the discussion of my ideas, which is actually a lot of fun; it’s the way that discussion is framed that makes me nervous.  Most classes start with, “Let’s go around the room and tell us your name and your area of research.”  As in, “describe the corner of the field in which you’ve set up your intellectual camp, and let us judge how good you are at talking about something that you claim to be an expert in.”  You’re also expected to write little bios of yourself for newsletters and websites, and the prompt is the same: tell us what kind of research you do, you who claim the title of Researcher.  Prove yourself.

Everyone gives these polished, eloquent elevator speeches with words like “liminal” and “internalized” and “contingent.”  When it’s your turn, you take a deep breath and hope that everybody doesn’t see right through to what a gigantic fraud you are.  Halfway through your little speech, you start to wonder if you have the word “imposter” emblazoned on your forehead.  (Spoiler alert: pretty much everyone feels the same way.)

Part of me gets frustrated with this rigamarole.  We’re still doing coursework: why are being forced to act like we know what the heck we’re doing?  Why can’t we be more okay with saying, “I’m Emily, and I don’t know what my research focus is yet”?  Even if you’re one of those people who goes into a PhD program completely confident that you know what you want to research, your focus will probably change at least a little bit.  And that’s a good thing.  It means that you’re learning and growing.  It means the program in which you’re investing a huge chunk of your life, energy, and sanity is shaping you, which is what it’s supposed to do.  I have a topic that I’ve written one long paper about, and it interests me, but I’m nowhere near certain that I’m going to carry it with me for the next four years, clear into dissertation-land.  Truthfully, I don’t really want that certainty.  I prefer to be completely open to what my readings, papers, and class discussions have to teach me.

So why is it that I am constantly being asked to fake that certainty, especially during the first week of school?  It feels heavily performative and vaguely dishonest.

But this week, I’ve been thinking that maybe I’ve been looking at it the wrong way.  Instead of seeing those introductions as dishonest, I’m trying to think of them as dress-up.  Kids love playing dress-up, because it gives them the opportunity to try on different identities and see how they feel.  Dressing up goads the imagination into considering what it would be like to actually become a doctor or teacher or cowboy or superhero or fairy princess.  The clothes become a synecdoche for a possible future life.  Dressing up is not dishonest; it is a low stakes game of exploration we play as we figure out what path will suit us best.

So I’m going to use my bios and introductions this fall to play dress-up.  I want to see how it sounds to say out loud, “My name is Emily Wilson, and I’m interested in how a literacy based approach might be an effective intervention for trauma in the lives of military-connected students.”  My area of research is going to be my calling card when I go on the job market.  Just as dress-up clothes instantly identify the imaginary role, the dissertation topic instantly signals who I am to the academic world, what conversations I’m a part of, what population I want to go to bat for.  It’s not something to choose flippantly.  And while the trunk stuffed with outfits is available to me, why not make the most of it?  Why not take a turn trying on what appears to be a wildly unsuitable role (of the superhero or fairy princess variety) and see what it’s like?

It’s too early to be pigeon-holed and I don’t want to fake a certainty I don’t yet feel.  But I do want the chance to try a few ideas on for size and see where the next couple of years take me.  This journey is as much about the process as it is about the final product.

How The Devil Wears Prada Helped Me Write My Best Paper Ever

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Image credit: slashfilm.com

A few weeks ago, Tim and I went downtown for drinks late after dinner one night.  I was feeling beyond discouraged about my first year exam and complained that the copious amounts of feedback I’d been getting on the last two drafts had been overwhelmingly negative…as in, hardly any positive comments at all.  There I was, staring down a third draft that was shaping up to be a total rewrite (again), and the highest praise I was getting was “This is a good start.”  (Good start?  I just re-wrote a 45 page paper!  Aren’t we past the starting line yet?)

Over a fizzy, Chartreuse-based cocktail, I unloaded my frustration on Tim.  “How do they expect me to keep going when everything I do gets pulled to pieces?” I complained.  “I know I’m not the best writer in the world, but I’m not that bad.  I have no idea what I’m doing well, but I sure know everything I’m doing poorly.”

He listened sympathetically, commiserated with me, but also gently pointed out, “Michigan is a tough school.  You knew going in that this process wasn’t going to be easy.”

Suddenly, I remembered the scene from The Devil Wears Prada where Andy complains to Nigel about how Miranda is treating her and Nigel gives her a wake-up call.  When we got home that night, I re-watched the clip (watch it here if you’ve never seen it or don’t remember it; the whole film is outstanding, and this scene is a particularly compelling moment of self-revelation for the protagonist).  Let me tell you, it resonated.

I was Andy: “If I do something right, it’s unacknowledged.  But if I do something wrong?  They are VICIOUS!  I would just like a little credit for the fact that I am killing myself trying!”

I wasn’t intentionally half-hearted about the process of writing my first year exam, but I was overconfident.  I did a lot of work, spending many hours reading, taking notes, outlining, drafting, revising, and editing.  I plodded through every step of the writing process, checked every box.  When I got a large volume of negative feedback on the first draft, I went through the same steps again and produced a wholly re-written draft that was equally excoriated by my three faculty readers.  No pats on the back, no acknowledgement of my hours toiling in the library, no credit for the fact that I was killing myself trying.

Nigel’s reply to Andy gave me the wake-up call I needed.  “Oh, please.  You are not trying.  You…are whining.

I wasn’t really trying.  I was whining. The truth was, I was capable of writing much better stuff.  They knew it, and they were calling my BS, and I was pouting and sulking in response.

“You have no idea the legends that have walked these halls!” exclaims an exasperated Nigel.  Legends have walked my halls too.  John Dewey.  Robert Frost. Gerald Ford.  William Mayo.  Arthur Miller.

“I could get another girl to take your place in five minutes.  One who really wants it.”  I had forgotten what a privilege it is to be here, how many people applied for the slot I accepted, how replaceable and forgettable I was making myself through my mediocre efforts.

“And you wonder why she doesn’t kiss you on the forehead and give you a gold star on your homework at the end of the day.”  I intentionally chose three tough exam readers at one of the toughest universities in the world, and then I wondered why I wasn’t being given gold stars for average work.  I came here to be pushed past the limits of what I could do, not to be given accolades for what I could already do.

I realized it was time to stop whining and start really trying.  When I sat down at my computer to write my third draft, my heart was in my work for the first time that summer.  Previously, I had been holding back out of fear: what if I put my absolute best out there…and they reject it?  But in grad school, that is a fear that you have to get comfortable living with, and you have to acknowledge your fear and put your best out there anyway.

Because here’s the thing: when your best isn’t good enough, it means that you have to figure out how to become even better.  That’s where real growth happens.  That’s the lesson I learned from The Devil Wears Prada.  And that’s how I wrote the best paper I’ve ever written in my life.

I’m just majorly bummed that my lightbulb moment wasn’t accompanied by a fabulous couture makeover.  I’m still not wearing any Chanel.

As a quick coda to my story, I just heard back from one of my readers about my third draft. She wrote, “I think you should be incredibly proud of the work you’ve done in the past few months. Nice work. I am excited about this draft and have just two small comments.”

I think Miranda Priestly may have just half-smiled.

 

 

Seize the Summer!

When I was a high school teacher, my summers involved a lot of indoor reading, curriculum prep, and household projects, punctuated by a vacation or two.  I thought the era of summertime activities–living my freetime life in a way that’s fundamentally different from how I live it in other seasons–was a thing of childhood.  Popsicles, slip-n-slide, sidewalk chalk, all in the past.

And then I moved to Michigan.  Let me tell you, this place knows how to summer.  People here embrace the season with high notes of celebration and deeper tones of urgency, because as fun as this is, it’s all temporary.  Winter is cold and gray, and it feels longer than Gettysburg on half speed.

When June arrived in California, people were like, “Hmm, feels a little warmer than usual.”  When winter finally ended here in Michigan, people were like, “WE CAN STAY OUTSIDE LONGER THAN 5 MINUTES WITHOUT FROSTBITE AND 25,000 UNDERGRADS HAVE LEFT TOWN, LET’S THROW A FOUR-MONTH-LONG PARTY.”  That’s summer in a nutshell: carpe diem.  Road construction and endless revelry.  Everyone’s invited, and prepare for serious FOMO if you stay home.

While I haven’t perhaps seized the summer as fully as most Michiganders (due to my research assistantship and first year exam), I feel like I was able to enjoy a lot of highlights.  I love hearing about what seasons are like in different parts of the country, so I thought I’d share what I scratched off my Michigan summer bucket list this year.

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Ready for movie night to begin!

  1. Movie night.  This was part of the Ann Arbor summer festival, which runs every evening for four weeks straight (told you they know how to party!) and includes a variety of different events.  On a few nights, they show outdoor films on a giant screen, and people bring camp chairs and picnic blankets to watch on the lawn.  I brought along some classic movie candies, like Twizzlers and Sour Patch Kids, and we enjoyed Brooklyn one night and Imitation Game another night.  Super fun, especially when the stars come out.
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A few of the magical items from our farm co-op box.

2. Farmer’s markets.  Last year, I went religiously every Saturday morning and bought all my produce for the week.  This year, I joined a farm co-op, so I get a box of organic, local produce every Friday (which is as magical as it sounds). So the farmer’s market has become an occasional social event for me.  I’ll meet a friend at the Kerrytown market on a Saturday morning for coffee and a cronut and maybe buy some fresh flowers.  Or I’ll meet friends on a Friday afternoon at the Dixboro market, sip a basil limeade, and pick up some smoked goat cheese from The Cheese People (a great business out of Grand Rapids).  The co-op makes life more convenient and the farmer’s market more relaxing.

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My favorite human being.

3. Biking.  One of my favorite things to do on a late summer afternoon is hop on our bikes and head down to a trail lined with trees that runs along the river.  It’s a ride that always makes me happy and relaxed.

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Stacey and I, becoming cocktail experts.

4. Summer cocktail-making class.  The Ann Arbor Distilling Company is a bunch of hipsters seriously committed to making tasty liquors.  Even their vodka has actual flavor, and their gin is the best I’ve ever had (each herb is distilled separately).  On a warm June evening, my friend Stacey and I attended a class where they taught us how to make a variety of delicious shrub-based cocktails.

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Ready to watch Love’s Labour’s Lost with Mike and Jacqui, our delightful Aussie friends.

5. Shakespeare in the Arb.  The players switch locations with each scene, so you get to move to different spots around a beautiful park.  By the end, dusk had settled and fireflies were coming out as the players walked away in long cloaks holding lanterns.  The acting was so-so (these are college kids, after all), but the interaction with the natural environment made the production really special.  Actors climbed trees, hid in the long grass, and pretended to get scared by a passing airplane–very enjoyable.

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A handsome man with a great smile, holding cold beer? YES PLEASE.

6. Outdoor concerts.  This was another delightful part of the summer festival.  A couple of Michigan breweries set up beer tasting in a shady spot while local bands played on the Rackham outdoor stage.  On two occasions, we bought tacos from a food stand to enjoy with the cold beer and good music.

7. Lawn yoga.  This is another uniquely enjoyable part of summer festival.  It’s held on a wide, flat lawn well-shaded by oak trees.  I’m not a huge yoga fan in general, but getting to do it outside, for free, with a bunch of random people is great fun.

8. Tubing down the Huron River.  This was–and is–probably my favorite summertime activity.  We start at Argo Park with a series of cascades (like a bunch of small waterslides) and then connect our inner tubes so we can enjoy a lazy float down a beautiful river.  Cold drinks, warm sunshine, and good company make this a perfect way to spend a mid-July afternoon.

9. Art fair.  This is the largest art fair I’ve ever seen.  For one weekend, blocks and blocks of the city are closed off to make way for rows of white tents where artists from all over the country display their goods.  There’s everything from fine art ($12,000 paintings!) to handmade soap to embroidered purses to glass sculptures.  We went with friends from church and enjoyed Cuban street food at Frita Batidos.

10. Vacation time!  We got to explore more of our state this summer during a weeklong trip north.  In Suttons Bay, we enjoyed pristine lake beaches and a biking tour of wineries in Leelanau County.  From there, we went to the Upper Peninsula, where we camped by the lakeshore, took a kayaking tour of Grand Island, hiked to waterfalls, and saw the Pictured Rocks by catamaran.

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Such. good. ICE CREAM.  And such sweet friends!

11. Outdoor dining and ice cream.  One evening, we took our good friends Anna and Ronnie downtown for burgers at the Ann Arbor Brewing Company and then went to Blank Slate for some seriously amazing ice cream.  Having a meal outside and then walking back to the bus stop with a delicious cone of cinnamon and coffee caramel ice cream is just about the summery-est thing you can do.

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Wonderful friends from church.  All four of these women are in grad school!

12. Sangrias at Dominick’s.  A quirky stop that locals love is Dominick’s, which is famous for their gorgeous back garden and their fruity, floral sangrias.  During the school year, it’s overrun with undergrads, but during the summer, it’s perfect, especially with wonderful friends.

These are the highlights, but of course there are lots of fun things in between: cookouts with friends, church picnics, evening walks, sitting on the back porch while the fireflies come out.  While I’m ready for slightly cooler weather and the end of my (seemingly never-ending) first year exam, part of me just wants summertime to go on forever.

When You Leave the Country, Try Not to Take it With You

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Rodin Museum.  Not crowded, not stressful.  If you’re in Paris and you need a break, I highly recommended going there.

One of my favorite lifestyle bloggers recently took a weeklong trip to Paris.  I felt almost as excited for her trip as if I were the one going.  She has outstanding taste, and her blog is so full of beautiful things and great ideas; it seems like every weekend is full of stylish brunches outside and strolls through picturesque farmer’s markets.  She has a great camera, narrative flair, and the budget of my wildest dreams–I couldn’t wait to vacation vicariously through her posts and pics.

I was so. thoroughly. disappointed.

Her first couple of days were packed with sightseeing–she sort of skimmed over those days, which gave me the impression that she didn’t enjoy the museums and churches too much.  That was when she and her husband decided to ignore their touristy plans and “just chill.”  Her favorite day of the trip consisted of ordering room service, hanging out in the hotel in robes until mid-afternoon, and then going out shopping while her husband watched TV.  They went out for a quick dinner that evening, but made sure to get back to the hotel in time to watch The Bachelorette while eating Haribo gummy bears (apparently, France has a much better Haribo selection than L.A.).

I’m sorry, she flew aaaaaallllllllll the way to Paris….to order room service?  And her favorite day consisted entirely of things she could have easily done–and probably would have enjoyed more–in America?  And she bought a bunch of stuff that she could have ordered off the Internet?  And then she watched bad American TV while eating gummy bears?  There were pastries out there: creamy, decadent, artistic, delicately flavored, life-changing PASTRIES that are as superior to gummy bears as a Monet painting is to dog crap on a sidewalk.  If she needed to relax, there were gardens in full bloom, where every hour is magic hour in the late July sun.  There were hour-long cruises down the Seine.  There was the Rodin museum, where she wouldn’t have needed to elbow tourists for a spot: she could have sat (at an outdoor cafe, even) and looked at the sky and water and the soul-piercing beauty of Rodin’s sculptures.  Instead, she did what too many Americans do when they go overseas for the first time: revert to the familiar, mind-numbing comforts of excess consumerism and vapid entertainment.

I know that everybody has a different idea of what makes a fun vacation.  And I know there’s a need to balance high-octane tourism with low-key moments of reflection (and I recognize that I lean too heavily toward the “high-octane” side).  I’m glad she was able to enjoy her trip, although I’m not convinced that she had as good a time as she tried to make it sound.

But travel is meant to lift you out of life as you know it.  It’s meant to feel dissonant, strange, even uncomfortable.  In that space, you can learn new things about yourself and the world.  There is no point in staying cocoooned in hotel rooms, no matter how pretty, when you’ve traveled halfway around the world.  What frustrates me the most is when I see people who were “so excited” to visit a new place trying to import as much of their home life into their experience as they possibly can.  I used to take high school students on trips overseas, and it baffled me how some of them would stay glued to their phones, whine for McDonald’s (um, you don’t even like McDonald’s at home?), arrogantly observe how everything was “so much better” in America, and talk about how they couldn’t wait to go home.  They really only wanted to shop and go to the beach, which they could have done in Florida, much more cheaply.  I felt sad for them.

What most people don’t know is that fully experiencing the benefits of overseas travel requires physical and mental work.  You have to push through the language barrier and adapt to different cultural customs.  You have to get lost, stand in long lines, and occasionally confront some of the uglier sides of your host culture.  This makes most people want to retreat.

But if you refuse to retreat, if you accept each difficult circumstance as an occasion to learn about a new culture and reflect on your own, if you keep reminding yourself that all too soon you’ll be re-immersed in the comforts of home, if you embrace where you are, you will experience the fullest riches that travel affords.  You’ll come home changed: mind expanded, heart full.  You’ll be so starry-eyed with beautiful memories that you’ll start planning the next trip on the plane ride home.

It really doesn’t matter if you’re a millionaire staying at a five-star hotel or a student staying in a hostel: it’s all about your attitude.  You’ll never really see Paris–or anywhere else for that matter–if you never take off your American glasses.

Work is Depressing, and That’s a Good Thing

depressing workOne episode of The Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt has a hilarious subplot featuring hipsters Bob and Sue Thompsteen (they combined their last names).  When landlady Lillian asks them, “What do you do for work?” they look puzzled.  Bob replies, “Uhhh…”  Lillian corrects herself: “Oh, I’m sorry.  I mean: can you believe that you get paid to follow your bliss?”  They look excited and Bob replies enthusiastically, “Right?”

American achievement ideology (which is, in a nutshell, “Believe in yourself, try hard, and you can do/be anything you want”) has crept into the philosophy and rhetoric of work.  What that means is that the expectations we have for our jobs are sky-high.  Generally, people used to expect their job to pay the bills, feed themselves and their families, and at the end of the day, provide a modicum of satisfaction for tasks completed.

No longer.  Jobs are supposed to provide you with Ultimate Fulfillment of Life Dreams.  If you’re not leaping out of bed Monday morning and skipping to the office, you’re in the wrong career.  Work is supposed to be enlightening, empowering, fulfilling, and it’s definitely not supposed to feel like work.  If your job is too challenging or not quite challenging enough, then start sending out resumes.  Of course, I’m using slight hyperbole, but most of us can probably recognize aspects of this mentality in ourselves.

I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately, because I really am getting paid to “follow my bliss.”  I have an unprecedented ability, at the moment, to go down any avenue of research in two fields.  I’ve been given the financial and physical resources–huge library, free time, stipend, health care, multiple offices/study spaces, tuition waiver, graduate housing, mentors, colleagues–to pursue any research questions that strike me as 1) worth asking, 2) interesting, and 3) relevant to the field.  That means I’m completely content in my work, happily burrowing through library books and merrily skittering over my laptop keys, right?

Um, no.  Not how human nature works.  And actually, not how “work” works either.  Because no matter how much we love what we do, it can’t save us.  The problem with work is the impermanence of all things.  If you wash dirty dishes at home, it will benefit you and your family temporarily, but soon the same dishes will need washing again.  All trace of your hard work in a soapy sink will be erased.  If you write a great book that solves a significant global problem, your work will last longer and benefit more people than dishwashing.  But it will follow the same path as the dishes: it will at some point be forgotten, and the people it helped will some day all disappear without a trace.

The big picture of work is fundamentally depressing.  Ecclesiastes 2 gives us the brutal truth, straight-no-chaser: “So I hated life, because the work that is done under the sun was grievous to me.  All of it is meaningless, a chasing after the wind.”  All of it.  Meaningless.  Because no matter what you do, no matter who you help, no matter what you accomplish, one day you die and the people you helped or educated or influenced will die and even if you write something down for posterity, as Julian Barnes says, there will be a Last Person Who Reads The Things You Write. (Hi, last person!  Hope you’re doing well. Thanks for being my last reader.)  And your work will be passed along to someone else who probably won’t understand it, will misinterpret it, and will do something weird with it.  Like maybe start a cult or something.

This is incredibly depressing.  It is not, however, the final word.  The reason God told us about the ultimate meaninglessness of work is that we’re drowning in an ocean and we’re constantly trying to turn work into a life preserver.  Work can’t ultimately fulfill us, can’t love us back, can’t redeem us, can’t forgive us, and it definitely can’t save us.  Adam and Eve were supposed to work and obey God and pass the test and then through their work they would win eternal bliss.  They failed, which means that now none of us is able to earn divine favor.  But here’s the thing: we are wired just like they were.  Deep down, we still believe that our work can win us immortal life.  “You will remember me for centuries,” croons the band Fall Out Boy.  Yeah, maybe (not likely).  But then what?

But we must not ask work to do something for us that it’s not designed to do.  Work is work.  Bad things happen when we try to make it into Ultimate Dream Fulfillment.

The reason God pointed out the ultimate meaninglessness of our toils is that he doesn’t want us holding on to life preserver that won’t preserve our lives.  We work as though we’ll win immortality.  We won’t, God says.  He won it for us.  Because what we couldn’t do, Jesus did–in abundance.  His righteousness becomes ours, and His death paid our debt.

And now, we rest in the finished work of Christ.  And then, incredibly, miraculously, that’s what motivates us to do our work.  That’s what gives our work meaning.  We work FROM our rest, not in order to win our rest.  We can push through the aching boredom, the frustration, the anxiety, the pain, the fears of inadequacy, the angst, the conflict, the competition, because of the confidence we have in the work that ended with the words, “It is finished.”

It starts with Sunday.  The Word of God, preached.  The bread and the wine.  Worship.  Do this in remembrance of Me.  The rest of the week follows.  We rest–and then we work.

Work is depressing, and that’s a good thing.  Because it means, as Augustine said, that our hearts stay good and restless until they find rest in God.

 

A Great Idea for Giving Feedback

leslie and annIf you must deliver a high volume of critical feedback, here’s a tip: attach one of Leslie Knope’s terms of endearment for Ann Perkins to the end of each statement.

For example:

“Be careful not to make claims that are not based in research…you beautiful rule-breaking moth.”
“Your statements are too broad here…you talented, brilliant, powerful musk-ox.”
“You are demonstrating bias in this section…you poetic, noble land-mermaid.”
“Where is your evidence…you rainbow-infused space unicorn?”
“I don’t understand your main point…you opalescent tree shark.”
This may be the best idea I have ever had in my entire life.

I Miss Teaching

classroom2I miss it a lot.  I mostly miss the kids and how funny they were and how much I enjoyed being around them.  I miss how curious and interested they were in things I’d long since taken for granted, and I miss how they drew me into being more curious too.  I miss their subtle expressions of gratitude and affection.  It’s not cool to flat-out tell the teacher that you enjoy her lesson plans and appreciate the effort she puts into her job.  But they found roundabout ways of telling me those things.

The other day, I missed Hamlet–like, as in the fictional and emotionally unstable prince of Denmark.  I missed him like he was a favorite weird cousin I used to see for two and half weeks every year and don’t see anymore.

I miss having a clearly defined job to do: teach *this* content to *that* group of kids.  Here are your books; have a nice year.  At the end of the day, for better or for worse, I could say I had done my job.

I miss knowing that my work mattered.  I rarely got into bed wondering, “did I actually contribute anything to the world today?”  Of course I contributed.  I showed kindness and love to a group of vulnerable humans, gave them important knowledge and skills, and helped guide them into being solid adults.  Even on bad days, I did these things.

It’s tougher when the answer to the question, “did I contribute anything to the world today?” is, “Well, I contributed about four and a half pages of fairly lousy prose that will never see the light of day, except for my exam committee.  Also, I entered some data on some spreadsheets.”

I miss who I was as a teacher.  I was more confident and capable.  I was more positive and upbeat, because I had to be head cheerleader, getting teenagers excited about old books and long papers.  Even on days when I felt down, teaching would bring me up.

To be a student is to be in a place of near-constant uncertainty and vulnerability.  You’re never sure of where you stand with your profs and committee, whether your work is good enough.  Every day, you’re learning how much you don’t know, and you’re surrounded by people eager to further prove your ignorance.  Student-hood is temporal by design.  It’s not an end unto itself, but a means of getting Somewhere Else.  That unsettled, temporal, transitory feeling rests over every endeavor, as I sit quietly reading or recording notes at a meeting or quietly hunched over my laptop.  Also, I miss my good posture and my clear voice.

In some ways, I feel like this summer is a short sprint of lonely writing before the marathon that will be my dissertation.  How in the world will I sit and write alone for an entire year or more?  I know that this season of life is temporary, and that one day in the not-so-distant future, I’ll be back in a classroom, my desk piled high with papers, probably longing for the blissful, easy days of being a doctoral student (because that’s just how we “grass-is-always-greener” humans tend to roll).

In the meantime…I miss teaching.

P.S.  Things I don’t miss?  Grading.  Classroom management issues.  Standardized tests.  Some parent-teacher conferences.  The week before final exams.  Faculty meetings.  Okay, so there are a lot of things I don’t miss too.

Is It All Josh Harris’s Fault?

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image credit: amazon.com

If you were raised in conservative Christian circles in the 90s, and especially if you were homeschooled, there is no way that you haven’t heard of the book I Kissed Dating Goodbye, by Joshua Harris.  It defined adolescent relationships for a generation of homeschoolers.  We were going to be different (and by different, we meant WAY, WAY BETTER) than everyone else: we were going to enter marriage not just pure in body, but pure in mind, having never given a “piece of our heart” to any person but our spouse.  Yes, it is as ludicrous and damaging as it sounds.

The book made its way into the hands of thousands of Christian fangirls who swooned over the handsome sepia-toned image on the cover, and who firmly believed its message.  Many fundamentalist parents were also quick to board the no-dating train.  Haunted by their own prodigal pasts in the 60s and 70s, and determined to shut out sin’s influence on their children’s lives, they created from the book a new Law (“Thou Shalt Not Date”) that promised a new salvation in the form of The Perfect, Happily-Ever-After Marriage.  Exactly how we were supposed to get from the perfectly protected bubble in point A to the perfect marriage in point B was unclear.  But that didn’t matter.  God had parted the Red Sea and multiplied the loaves and fishes; He could bring forth spouses for us out of thin air.

I was one of the Harris girls.  My parents weren’t fundies, and they were a little weirded out by the book; probably skeptical of its extremism.  But when your teenage daughter comes to you and says that she doesn’t want to date, what are you going to do?  I turned down every request for a date I received in high school and initially in college.  Sometime around my sophomore year, I started to wonder: how exactly was this going to work?  How was I going to get married to someone with whom I’d spent zero quality time?  How could I keep myself in emotional plated armor and still expect a guy to decide he wanted to marry me?  So, I said hello to dating, and today, I’m happily married.  I was one of the lucky ones.

I know that the turnaround from the I Kissed Dating Goodbye life didn’t go so smoothly for a lot of people.  One of those people is Josh Harris himself.  If you’ve been following his journey, you know that he’s hit a few bumps in the road.  He became pastor of a huge church when he was very young.  His denomination has been rocked by scandal, and now, in an odd reverse order, he’s going back to seminary.

Without knowing all the circumstances, I happen to think that a disproportionate amount of blame has been heaped on his head.  One of the problems of homeschooled kids (at least the 90s version) is that we always seemed more mature than we actually were.  We sometimes spoke and acted and dressed like little 30-year-olds, so it would be tempting to assume that we were ready to assume grown-up responsibilities when we weren’t.  The people who put Harris in charge should have known better.

Right now, Joshua Harris is experiencing a fate that few of us would envy: being haunted by claims he made in a book he wrote when he was just 21 years old.  Do you remember the stupid stuff you said when you were 21?  How grateful are you that you didn’t write that stupidity down, only for it to be catapulted into popularity in Zondervan bookstores across the nation?  For my own part, I’m extremely grateful.

We must take responsibility for our words and actions.  But I also believe that we should we be given extra grace and leeway for the things we said from a place of youthful inexperience.  The previous generation found forgiveness for their hard partying and hard drugs and the casual sex.  In the parable of the prodigal son, our generation is the Older Brother who stayed home and did everything “right.”  The problem is, we were trying to be our own saviors through our own righteousness.  In the end, we needed to repent of our “goodness” as much as the Younger Brother needed to repent of his evil.  None of us can save ourselves.

Apparently, Harris recently apologized on Twitter to someone who blamed him for not getting a prom when she was a teenager.  On the one hand, I think it’s great that he’s willing to own up to past mistakes.  On the other hand, Joshua Harris didn’t tell anyone personally that they couldn’t date or couldn’t go to prom or had to wear denim skirts with white keds. Their parents should have known better.  As rational, mature adults, parents should have read his book and thought, “You know, this kid is 21 years old, has led a sheltered life, and isn’t married.  We should probably hold off on implementing his system until we’ve gathered more wisdom on the topic.”  But Harris was telling them what they wanted to hear, so they listened.  There was a wide-open market for his message.  Right place, right time.  If it hadn’t been I Kissed Dating Goodbye, it would have been something else.  If it hadn’t been Harris, it would’ve been someone else.

I bought into the no-dating vision because it fit with a worldview and salvational system that I’d already decided on, which was life by the law.  Harris and others presented a romantic twist on the seductive lie I already believed: that my rulebooks could save me.  It didn’t work for the Pharisees, it didn’t work in 90s Christian sub-culture, and it won’t work today.  Because the only way to salvation is Christ.  We can never do enough or be enough to win heaven.  We need a righteousness that is not our own.  We need Jesus.

There’s a lot of hard work that needs to be done to mentally and emotionally heal people from the damaged perspectives, and in some cases, from the outright abuse inflicted by fundamentalism.

But I’m pretty sure that the healing process isn’t much helped by labeling Josh Harris as The Grinch Who Stole Prom.

Life on the Move, and the Buffer of a Bad Memory

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image credit: tophdimgs.com

The other day, I realized what a terrible memory I have.

I made that realization because I remembered something very clearly that happened a few years ago, and it surprised me how well I could remember it.  Because I am usually forgetful.

What makes and keeps memory sharp, I wondered?  Nature?  Nurture?  Sudoku puzzles?

It’s not like bad memory runs in my family.  My youngest sister Jenna has a scarily perfect memory.  You could ask her what happened on June 21, 2002, and she would probably be able to give you a fairly accurate sketch of events off the top of her head.  (Maybe exaggerating, but only slightly.)  Did the memory genes just skip me?

Is it a symptom of getting old(er)?  I don’t think so.  My mental sharpness doesn’t seem to have declined in other areas.

As I verbally processed each of these possibilities to my oh-so-patient-husband in the driver’s seat beside me, I finally landed on the conclusion that I think I built a bad memory on purpose.

Not consciously on purpose–subconsciously on purpose, if there is such a thing.  I think I built a bad memory because I’ve moved a lot.  As in, like 19 times (some of those were inter-state moves).  I was a military kid, but I can’t blame the military alone for my displacement and bad memory, because I have chosen to move myself as many times as the military moved me.

Moving involves various forms of physical and psychological distress.  The acts of being uprooted from a community of support, of saying goodbye after goodbye after goodbye, of promising to keep in close touch (and fully intending to do so) and knowing you probably won’t, of leaving familiar physical surroundings, of shedding possessions and knowing that some will end up lost or broken, of living far from family–those are cumulative layers of pain and grief.

Then, if you’re like me, and you do it over a dozen times…well, you figure out ways to cope.  I think the way I have learned to cope is by forgetting.

I don’t sit down and burn or delete photos and I don’t exactly try to forget things.  But when something in New Place suggests something to me about Old Place, I decline its invitation to connect with the past.  It’s kind of like when your friendship with someone grows a little cold, and you see them at a party and have to spend the evening strategically avoiding them.  I won’t look my memories in the eye.  I cross the street to walk on the other side.

The way my mind has found to deal with the grief of displacement is to immerse myself fully in the present and try to keep the past, and its regrets or nostalgia, from pushing their way in.  It’s how I keep good memories from making me sad and bad memories from making me bitter.  After a while, I don’t have to avoid memories.  I simply, literally, physically cannot remember.

One of the problems that’s come up is that, when you’re in a place long enough, the negative experiences pile up (along with the positive experiences, of course).  My reaction to that accumulation is wanting to move.  It’s a fight-or-flight response.  I grow weary of fighting, and by that I don’t mean arguing (necessarily); it’s just that all relationships take lots of hard work and are sometimes characterized by misplaced expectations and miscommunication.  Instead of continuing to push through, communicate, love, show grace, ask for forgiveness, I want to just run away and start over.   Because I know that in a short while, I’ll forget.

There is one notable exception.  In one strand of my life from the past 14 years, my memories are very sound, detailed, and complete.  That’s my life with Tim.  I remember minute details of our relationship–meeting him when I was 17, our dating relationship a few years later,  our engagement, the almost-12 years we’ve spent married.  I haven’t had to build any coping mechanisms around him, because our relationship is permanent.  And the memories are really, really good.

When I’m finished with my PhD, we’ll move next to wherever Tim wants to go for his PhD.  But hopefully we’ll get jobs one day at a university.  If we want established careers with tenure, we’ll need to stay put, and I’ll need to find a way to be at peace with no more moves.  I want to enjoy the depth of long-term friendships.  I want to put down roots.  I want to communicate, love, show grace, and ask for forgiveness.

I want to love people–without an exit strategy.  In a broken world, where you have to deal with the good, the bad, and the ugly if you want to be connected to your community, that’s not necessarily an easy thing to do, but it’s what Christ did, and it’s also what God has called his people to do.

Oscars Fashion Review, 2016

I’m super excited for this post, because it is my very first time hosting a GUEST BLOGGER!  This blogger happens to be none other than my sister, Amy Ackerman, a fabulous fashionista and a wordsmith with a razor-sharp wit.  It’s been a crazy-busy semester for me, so when Amy requested an Oscars fashion recap, I asked if she would be willing to help me, and she agreed!  We’re co-authoring this post, and each of us chose five outfits: four we disliked (to varying degrees) and one we liked.  And may I just say?  I think this is my blog’s finest fashion post ever.

So without further ado, celebrities, step up and prepare to be judged!

(Well, prepare to have your overpaid stylists’ choices judged, anyway.)

EMILY:

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image credit: billboard.com

Jared Leto: D-.  Look, on one level, I get it.  You want to stand out in a sea of clean-cut, tux-wearing male movie stars.  On another level, you look like an out-of-work ballroom dancer who is going to dinner at the Golden Corral.  Red piping and a giant carnation on your Adam’s Apple makes you look like an octogenarian in the buffet line.  And for the love of all that is organic and gluten free, please stop grooming yourself like flannelgraph Jesus.  It’s making us all uncomfortable.  The only reason you don’t get an F is that your suit fits to perfection.  Oh yeah, and the double thumbs up? NEVER DO THAT.  The only person who looks cute giving thumbs up is Malia Obama when her sister is meeting Ryan Reynolds.

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See, now that’s cute. (image credit: elitedaily.com)

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Alicia Vikander: D.  Oh, Alicia.  Where to start?  First of all, you are wearing the sartorial equivalent of a banana cream puff covered with sparkly bike tire tracks.  Second, bubble hem.  If your stylist ever comes to you exclaiming, “Oh, I found you the best dress for the Oscars, it has a BUBBLE HEM!!” you do the same thing you do when you accidentally set yourself on fire: STOP, DROP, and ROLL.  If your stylist doesn’t get the point you’re making, dismiss them immediately.

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image credit: nytimes.com

Jennifer Lawrence: B-.  Lots of people thought this was a really chic look.  And it isn’t

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terrible…until you think, “Oh look, black Big Bird is molting from the top down,” and then it’s kind of bad.  I know that for many starlets, there’s something deeply appealing about feathery
embellishments that float and whisper as you strut down the red carpet, but there is the off-chance that your look will devolve into vulture-from-The-Jungle-Book territory.

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image credit: eonline.com

Cate Blanchett: C.  Look, again, it’s not bad.  It makes a rather nice first impression, even if it does venture slightly into the “craft project” realm.  BUT SHE’S WEARING A DRESS THAT IS THE COLOR OF TOOTHPASTE.  Fake flowers stuck on a toothpaste-green dress does not say “Armani” to me (which this dress is, by the way).  It says “mom bedazzled Grandma’s dressing gown so I could go to the 8th grade dance.”  Also, we all know Cate can do much, much better.  Just look at this dress from earlier in the awards season:

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image credit: Ian Gaven, Getty images

Now that is a DRESS that you bring home a TROPHY in.  Check out that fabulous, flowery, feminine, embroidered, Amazonian body armor.  You can’t feel like a winner in the toothpaste dress.

Here’s one I liked…

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image credit: laineygossip.com

Olivia Munn: A+.  She gets extra points for ‘high degree of difficulty.’  I know the shape is simple, but the color is extremely complicated.  When you’re wearing a Big Orange Dress, not only can it turn you into a six-foot Oompa Loompa, but it can also clash painfully with the red carpet.  She found a shade of orange that makes her olive skin glow and also doesn’t look atrocious on the RC.  The clean lines, minimalist jewelry, and elegant one-shoulder style are all just right.  Nicely done.

AMY:

88th Annual Academy Awards - Arrivals

image credit: justjared.com

Brie Larson: C-

Un-brie-lievable. I did want to like this attempt by Brie Larson. The exaggerated V neck does work well with her figure, and the flowy train adds a touch of elegance. However, the details that should have elevated this dress to ballroom-ready instead take it to prom-ready (or perhaps the Price is Right-ready.) The skirt is apparently being seized by a many-tentacled sea creature; I’m not sure how he mistook this blue monstrosity to be part of his marine homeland, as this shade of blue is not found in nature. To complete the look, Brie adds a belt that would make John Cena envious; perhaps she even had to wrestle him for it. Hey, you never when some one is going to ask you to an Oscars after-party in space, and you need to add some additional weight to hold you down in low-gravity.

Do I even dare say, the dress that Brie is wearing is just too cheesy?

rooney fashiononrogue

image credit: fashionrogue.com

Rooney Mara: F

A day may come where Oscars fashion does not invite comparisons to tablecloths and armchair doilies. When we don’t accuse starlets of swiping their grandmothers’ curtains and piecing an outfit together 20 minutes before red carpet, Scarlet O’Hara style. But that day is not this day. This day we have Rooney Mara.

Of course there are hazards to having your grandmother make your dress. You may run out of vintage coverlet part way through and have to awkwardly shorten the sleeves until your wrists dangle out, like a caveman. You might accidentally tear the front and have to cover it with a frill made from leftover piñata pieces. Your aunt who used to do synchronized swimming for the Ukraine may insist on doing your hair. You may miss a button, leaving an an award diamond cutout at the front; but hey, at least it is perfect for storing snacks!

heidi eonline

image credit: eonline.com

Heidi Klum: F

Being Heidi Klum is hard. You never know when you could be lounging by the pool, sipping a mojito and planning a Chihuahua wedding, and suddenly you get a last-minute invitation to the Oscars. How unexpected; you haven’t been in any movies this year! however, as Heidi Klum, you are also resourceful. No dress? Take the tulle leftover from your quinceañera and make a skirt. No tailor? Ask a preschooler to make you some tissue paper flowers! No left sleeve? Eh, who will notice?

As the old saying goes, when you invited to a huge award party for an industry you are not a part of, ask yourself, “What would a one-handed, Civil-War-bandaged Barbie tooth fairy princess wear?”

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image credit: blogpeopleschoice.com

Tina Fey: B-

While this may not be the look you remember a year from now, Tina Fey pulls off a simple column dress with a flattering wrap. True, both the unnatural purple color and blocky updo are a bit of a throwback to a ‘90’s Kool-Aid Man, but a stunning coordinating necklace draws sparkly attention to Tina’s glossy smile.

It is all set to be a Tina-rrific night, until…

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image credit: justjared.com

Reese Witherspoon: F for plagiarism

Oh snap.

Keep smiling, Reese. Nothing can hide the fact that you stole Tina Fey’s dress… And apparently forgot to size it down. Like a left-handed oven mitt or Barack Obama’s earrings, some things are just not one-size-fits-all. I guess after you’ve won an Oscar, you needn’t bother coming up with original looks anymore, or even covering up your bra.

SOMEone’s going to have to go home and change.

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image credit: surgebeauty.com

Mindy Kaling: A+

Mindy Kaling know how to go to the Oscars; she owns this look. The black sheath flatters her curves instead of trying to conceal them; the deep blue train commands attention, and a matching sapphire cocktail ring adds a perfect hint of sparkle. This is no wild avant garde look that Mindy will regret as soon as she checks Instagram the next morning. This is the timeless, sophisticated glamor that women dream of wearing to the Oscar’s.

I’d like to believe that Mindy fulfilled all women’s other Oscar party fantasies, as well. Perhaps she hit up a gourmet buffet shunned by other rail-thin stars? Perhaps she hugged Leonardo DiCaprio after his big win, lingering for an awkward moment too long? Perhaps she even unfolded her glamorous clutch into a small tote just big enough to smuggle a neglected statuette home.

Keep livin’ the dream for the rest of us, Mindy.