Humility
Last weekend was a crazy, whirlwind weekend. My first cousin/aunt C, whom S considers her “yiayia” or grandma (because she raised me and was a mother figure to me) was visiting. The weather shifted from 40s and rainy to 70s and sunny, and graduation was outside, as it ought to be, and included a good old-fashioned protest against the graduation speaker (our university system’s president, who after three years of lobbying has yet to ensure that clothes with our college’s logo are made somewhere other than sweat shops). It was a beautiful day in every way.
Afterwards, S’s college buddy K, her fiancé, and their families came over, and we drank homemade rhubarb wine (made by K’s parents) and awkwardly tried to find a way to say goodbye. Then other graduates and students descended on our house, and the party went on. Finally, late at night, after everyone was gone, K returned after cleaning out her horse’s stall, weeping, and we sobbed together and talked about how much we’d miss her. Poor C was stuck in the middle of it all, and as usual, was incredibly helpful. It was good, though, I think, for her to see what our lives are like. At the end of it all, I felt so blessed, as I often do at this time of year.
Then on Sunday, S had her dance recital, which, unbeknownst to anyone else, was also mine. I meet with S’s dance teacher once a week, and we stretch and mess around on the bar and the floor, and also share town and college gossip, and it is always a beautiful reprieve for me—but the idea of performing for others was never part of the deal. But as I struggled with my own feelings about S’s dancing—how awkward and clumsy she is, how she has no sense of how other people see her body, how she’ll never be able to do anything useful if she can’t see herself as others see her, etc.—I realized that these problems/feelings/thoughts were mine, and not hers. Yes, someday she’ll realize she’ll never be a famous ballerina. Someday she’ll realize she is not following along in her dance classes, despite the kind and patient direction and one-on-one attention of her teachers, and that her lack of grace (and some damage done by her abuse) is probably going to prevent her from having a career that is focused on her physical self.
I share many of her traits. While I like to believe I have a more realistic picture of my own skills and abilities—if anything, I tend to underestimate rather than overestimate them--I’m totally clumsy and inflexible. I’m overweight. I hated gym as a kid, and was, as clichéd as this sounds, always the last to be chosen in gym class. And until about five years ago, I hated the idea of working out. I loved to swim and bike and hike, but would never push myself to go beyond what was comfortable, and certainly would never have considered doing either for anything other than fun. Luckily I discovered yoga, and then eventually came to enjoy time at the gym, seeing these physical outlets (including my weekly ballet lessons) as part of a larger spiritual practice, a way of connecting mind, body, and soul. (Though admittedly, my visits to the gym since January have been rare to nonexistent). But anyway, my point is that despite all my growth in this area, I have never been totally comfortable in my body, especially not when I feel eyes on me (beyond those of an intimate partner, that is), and I know that I project some of this onto S.
So, I decided to try an experiment. What if I agreed to be in the adult dance at the recital? What if I proved to S and to everyone else that it doesn’t matter how good you are, or how well you do, but that you take risks, do your best? It became especially clear that I had to do this when S said to me, on one of the rare days when she felt discouraged about her recital dance and her weight, “If you really think it’s just about having fun and celebrating the end of the year, then why aren’t you going to be in it?”
So I started to practice, both with my teacher and, when I could, with the adult class that meets at another, less convenient time. And then, on recital day, I just did my best. And my best was terrible. I didn’t remember many of the steps, the steps I did remember felt awkward, and I even started laughing on stage at one point. In short, I made a complete fool of myself. And strangely, I loved every minute of it, I really did.
I realized I’m finally too old to keep holding onto my teenage self-consciousness or to not love my body—not just privately, which I actually do and have since I came out (though not before that), but also when it is front of center, on stage. I realized that I also have to let go of all of the pressure I’ve felt all my life to prove myself—to prove I can do just as well as the straight person, the kid with rich, blond, American-born parents who went to college, etc., etc. I didn’t even realize how much I felt this sense of needing to be good at everything I do, and this pervasive shame for not ever being as good as I’d hoped or wanted to be, was affecting me. Somehow, being on stage, messing up, and being able to work through the embarrassment changed me, totally. It opened up some old pain, but it also made me realize how much stronger and happier I am now than at any other time in my life.
Last night a good friend who just graduated and is leaving this year came over. S adores him, and he's one of the few people besides her college buddies who is really attentive to her. He had dinner with us, and later we had some drinks and went on talking. We talked about why he didn’t want to go to graduate school—he’s truly the smartest person who has ever come through our college in the time I’ve been there, and I’m not the only one who thinks so. He said that graduate school would be the safest road for him, and that he needed to take a risk at this time in his life, and not get stuck in a life he doesn’t want. When I asked him what he didn’t want about it, he said he couldn’t imagine feeling the stress and the burden of always having more that needed to be done--he'd had enough of that in college. It was a strange answer in a way—he is choosing a life of activism that will surely drain him at times—but he said he feels that such a life, with others equally committed to creating change, would make any hectic or overwhelmed feeling worth it for him.
Even before this conversation, I was having a crisis about my job and what I really wanted to be doing professionally. Actually, I've had this crisis most of my life. I hate academia in so many ways. I hate its hierarchical nature, how tenure is based so much on seeking approval from outside sources and proving oneself--there is a constant and very real competition among my colleagues over who is busiest, and those who seem to have a lot of extra time to be with friends or family are considered suspect. I won't pretend I haven't participated in this at all, by the way--I have made a conscious effort since leaving my partner of six years not to live that kind of life, but I still fall into it at times.
When I first came here, I believed I would stay for one year, maybe two, then move on. Strangely, I had two different plans, the one I wanted, and the one I thought I should prove to others I could do. The plan I wanted: I would make a little money, pay off my debts, then create a life that was centered on activism and find the right place and the write people for this work, and live simply and happily ever after. The plan I felt I should pursue to prove to others that I could: I would build my CV, send out my poems, get some more publications, try to get a tenure-track job.
I never aggressively pursued either goal. Partly this was because I fell in love with someone who was very much committed to the institution, but that's not the whole story. I never worked hard at paying off my debts--my generosity toward others and/or other decisions always got in the way. I also never tried to network until my books were published; I have three book projects in close-to-final drafts that I have only halfheartedly sent out for publication. I am just now beginning to realize, ten years later, that maybe neither of these routes are really what I want.
There were a few different phases in my process. During college, I realized for the first time that I was smart and talented, that not only would I finish college, but I could go to graduate school. After so many years of struggling in honors classes in high school—being one of the kids smart enough to be in those classes but never one of the ones who got straight A’s or whom the teachers remembered--I felt honored when my mentors in college thought graduate school was the right path for me.
But, I wasn't totally convinced, and this was partly because my last two years of college had been such a period of change for me--I came out, I discovered feminism and activism, I lost some friends and gained others. I knew I needed to find a community, ground myself, do activism, but also earn some money and pay off some debts--and I did all of this for three years in Cincinnati. But I missed writing, and I had lost the spiritual center that came with it. And so, I went to graduate school for creative writing.
And then, in graduate school, I became incredibly discouraged. To me, writing had been a spiritual practice, and reading a way into empowerment and a deeper understanding of myself as an activist and change agent. But graduate school was not about these things. It was about technique, and ultimately, about getting published in literary journals no one but other writers ever read. I struggled and felt very alone for most of my time in graduate school—but I’m also grateful that I went, that I wrote the manuscript that I wrote, and even that I had a dramatic and abusive relationship during that time, because all of these experiences shaped me in important ways. Graduate school made me miss activism and community building, and I knew my future had to involve both--but it also introduced me to teaching, and to doing social justice work in the context of a class.
As I left graduate school, essential questions like “what social change can poetry publications foster in the publishing world that exists now?” and “What happened to the radical impulse that had once marked what it meant to be a poet, that had drawn me to writing in the first place?” continued to plague me. I concluded that academia had ruined poetry, and as I was leaving graduate school, I decided I wanted no part of an academic life. But, I needed a job--I had debt and had to work toward paying it off--and I needed to leave Phoenix because I wasn’t happy there for various reasons—that was clear. Somehow, I ended up getting a job in academia, though I applied to many different kinds of jobs. The job I chose felt “safe” because I would be focused on teaching struggling first-year students to write, which was noble. If I couldn’t change things by publishing my writing, perhaps I could help students to find a way to create change in themselves, and ultimately in others, through their process of putting things on the page.
Let’s face it, the biggest risk I’ve ever taken professionally was to move to a tiny town in the middle of nowhere, to leave a place where I wasn’t happy, but where I could have probably worked for the rest of my life—or lived a life with fewer connections or obligations and more time to write and pursue a career with a capital C. But now, I have stayed at an academic job for 10 years, and it doesn’t look like I’m leaving anytime soon, so I can’t pretend not to be a part of academia, albeit a slightly outside-the-center part. When I finally fully realized this—that I was staying, that I wasn’t ever going to have a published book, at least not one that I’d have to work my ass off to get published--then I went through a phase in which I convinced myself that I had somehow purposely shot myself in the foot, missing grant or submission or job application deadlines, and now, 10 years in, I can’t get those years back.
But after dancing ridiculously on stage and talking with my friend, I came to another realization. I haven’t done those things because they aren’t who I am. I believe in the power of art to make change, but publishing a book of poetry or a novel is not going to be my path, probably (though I suppose I should never say never. As a side note, a visiting writer earlier this semester and inspired me to think of my writing in new ways, and as I rework some old material, I am having visions of a more collaborative and community-based way of doing my writing—but that’s a whole different post).
I write to make sense of my life and the world—or rather, to come to some mysterious and incomplete understanding of their complexities—and writing is what leads me to action, whether that be my decision to S or a my decision yesterday to advocate for a student who needs more help than she’s getting. And I’ve come to realize those small and large actions are the actions that make me who I am—not my title or where my office is or what my job responsibilities are or how many publications I can list on my CV or what I'm "doing" career-wise. And yes, I can inspire and change students’ lives, and doing so is rewarding, but if I imagine myself to be the primary or most important person inspiring them, then I will always be disappointed at how little I can accomplish. I have to see myself as part of an interconnected web, and to know I have the power to play some small role in other people's lives, but that I can't change them totally, not on my own--just as I couldn't change myself without influences from others. In short, I have a little more humility.
I have been feeling so disconnected from so many former friends since adopting S, and I know that this is partly due to how my commitments have changed, but mostly due to the fact that by adopting her, I reclaimed an important part of who I was, and remembered that I was always happiest when my activism was personal and about connection, and when I could work on the same "issue" (in this case, empowering people to be who they are) could be worked on on multiple levels/in multiple ways and not through one specific set of actions. A friend from Cincinnati reminded me of this--that I wasn't happy doing direct action work only, although I see its importance and potential for radical change.
Anyway, my feelings of disconnection are tied up in my confusion about my role in academia—before my dance debut and my conversation yesterday, I felt I was either a part of the academic community here or else a total outsider whose role it was to try to change the institution. I won’t say I don’t think of myself as a change-agent from within anymore, but I am coming to realize that it’s OK when I can’t create the change I imagine, and OK when others don't want to join me in creating that change. Some days, maybe it’s enough to get through an ordinary day and be attentive not only to what I've accomplished but also what I've learned—solve a misunderstanding between a professor and a community partner about a survey her students is doing, talk a depressed student through her decision about whether or not to stay in school, order some books I might consider using next semester, get a student employee started on a project that will be meaningful to many elders in the community, and then go home to my daughter and to dinner and a long conversation with a friend.
That’s a day, and I’m glad I have the time and space for the thoughtful, connected conversation and the connection with S at the end of it. I’m glad I have the time to be around inspiring people—not just “around” them, as on the same campus or in the same home as them, but actually have the time to talk to them and know them and learn from them and contribute to their growth, too. I'm glad I have--and take--the time to write here, to try to make sense of what is happening around and inside me. I'm glad I have the time to rethink the idea that I'm lonely--maybe, if most of those people at this time in my life are a lot younger than me, that’s not the end of the world.
I feel myself letting go of two issues that have plagued me all year: the bitterness toward former friends who don’t take that time to get to the deep and vulnerable places with me (in other words, to be supportive in the ways I need), and the worry over what should come next for me professionally, which has included the unbearable idea that I really, really need to leave as well as the unbearable idea that I really, really need to stay. I am re-learning, slowly, how to be in the moment, to acknowledge my loneliness and keep reaching out, to dream without the anxiety that sometimes is part of the process of dreaming.
One of the other adults who participated in the dance, a woman who has shared with me that she has severe anxiety, said to me right before we got on stage, “Screw it. So what if we make fools of ourselves? Most people in the audience would never, ever get up here in a million years.”
“You’re right,” I said, raising my fist, and we both laughed loudly and hysterically.
And so, I danced awkwardly in front of many of my colleagues and the parents of my daughter’s friends and, well, everyone in town, really, because hardly anybody misses these kinds of events. And yes, some people did sort of avoid me afterwards, or wonder if they should say something kind like “good job” or even “nice try”—I could tell from many people’s body language that they truly did not know how to react to the fact that I’d gotten up there and made an ass of myself. And to say I didn’t care at all would be a lie—but I caught myself feeling that familiar shame about not being good enough, and then, I laughed at myself. That shame and all of the "need to be as good as, need to be better than, need to prove how busy I am" are not me, never has been. I need to keep resisting those feelings, to acknowledge the pain of change and loss while also paying attention to what I do have, what small good things I can do, for awhile.
Today I am feeling blessed and lighter than yesterday. I am leaving the office in the academic building that is the last tie to my identity as an academic, someone who primarily teaches and publishes things, and moving into the Office of Community Engagement full time. (I'll continue to teach a couple classes a year, but they will be mostly interdisciplinary classes, except for one creative writing class that keeps me connected to my identity as a writer). It has been sad because the office was my mentor Gremmels' office before it was mine, and leaving it feels like disconnecting in some more final way from him, but also because I have been in that space for ten years, of course. But it has also been somewhat of a relief. For one thing, the office is a mess, and it's high time to sort and toss and figure out what should be cherished. For another, the move helps me to finally let go of both the expectations or beliefs I imagined that others had of me--either that I would eventually become a real academic (if I didn't want to be a failure) or that I'd never be able to hack it.
At the end of a long day of sorting and moving things, I checked my e-mail. My inbox held two incredible gifts. I got an e-mail response to a request I'd sent to a summer dance camp. In the e-mail, I decided to be honest about S's skill level and mental health issues, and I asked whether they felt the camp would be a good environment for her. I explained what kind of environment and approach she needed and also insisted that the only way she would be able to go is if I could come with her. I said I would pay for accommodations and meals if I had to, but that I would prefer to earn my room and board by volunteering. Admittedly, I fully expected a rejection, or at least to be put off for several days, but instead, I got multiple encouraging e-mails--from the dance instructor, from the camp director, and from the administrative assistant--all letting me know that not only did they need help in the kitchen, but that they had experience with and an interest in helping people like S to grow.
And, in another e-mail, the adoptive father of one of S's brothers said he had decided to visit us this summer. We had been talking for a couple weeks via e-mail about whether the kids were ready, and if so, how the visit should work. I am beyond thrilled that they want to start the in-person connection by coming here, and I can't wait to meet them.
I came home today after a full day of sorting through my old office and moving into my new one and couldn't wait to share the good news with S. She was ecstatic. We registered for the camp, planned our summer, talked about everything that would be wonderful and challenging about her brother's visit. We were full of possibility and joy. Earlier this year, I ignored her requests to go to a dance camp and refused to even consider that maybe there was one that could meet her needs; I'm so glad I've gotten over my own issues with her love of dance and found a way to give her what she wanted. We also talked about missing K, about how we would miss M, the friend who was here yesterday, but how that was OK, because that pain of loss reflects how deeply it is possible for people to affect each other's lives.
It was a good day. I danced through every moment of it, and let myself be who I am, and now that I've written this and made sense of this last week I'm ready to sleep, finally.
Afterwards, S’s college buddy K, her fiancé, and their families came over, and we drank homemade rhubarb wine (made by K’s parents) and awkwardly tried to find a way to say goodbye. Then other graduates and students descended on our house, and the party went on. Finally, late at night, after everyone was gone, K returned after cleaning out her horse’s stall, weeping, and we sobbed together and talked about how much we’d miss her. Poor C was stuck in the middle of it all, and as usual, was incredibly helpful. It was good, though, I think, for her to see what our lives are like. At the end of it all, I felt so blessed, as I often do at this time of year.
Then on Sunday, S had her dance recital, which, unbeknownst to anyone else, was also mine. I meet with S’s dance teacher once a week, and we stretch and mess around on the bar and the floor, and also share town and college gossip, and it is always a beautiful reprieve for me—but the idea of performing for others was never part of the deal. But as I struggled with my own feelings about S’s dancing—how awkward and clumsy she is, how she has no sense of how other people see her body, how she’ll never be able to do anything useful if she can’t see herself as others see her, etc.—I realized that these problems/feelings/thoughts were mine, and not hers. Yes, someday she’ll realize she’ll never be a famous ballerina. Someday she’ll realize she is not following along in her dance classes, despite the kind and patient direction and one-on-one attention of her teachers, and that her lack of grace (and some damage done by her abuse) is probably going to prevent her from having a career that is focused on her physical self.
I share many of her traits. While I like to believe I have a more realistic picture of my own skills and abilities—if anything, I tend to underestimate rather than overestimate them--I’m totally clumsy and inflexible. I’m overweight. I hated gym as a kid, and was, as clichéd as this sounds, always the last to be chosen in gym class. And until about five years ago, I hated the idea of working out. I loved to swim and bike and hike, but would never push myself to go beyond what was comfortable, and certainly would never have considered doing either for anything other than fun. Luckily I discovered yoga, and then eventually came to enjoy time at the gym, seeing these physical outlets (including my weekly ballet lessons) as part of a larger spiritual practice, a way of connecting mind, body, and soul. (Though admittedly, my visits to the gym since January have been rare to nonexistent). But anyway, my point is that despite all my growth in this area, I have never been totally comfortable in my body, especially not when I feel eyes on me (beyond those of an intimate partner, that is), and I know that I project some of this onto S.
So, I decided to try an experiment. What if I agreed to be in the adult dance at the recital? What if I proved to S and to everyone else that it doesn’t matter how good you are, or how well you do, but that you take risks, do your best? It became especially clear that I had to do this when S said to me, on one of the rare days when she felt discouraged about her recital dance and her weight, “If you really think it’s just about having fun and celebrating the end of the year, then why aren’t you going to be in it?”
So I started to practice, both with my teacher and, when I could, with the adult class that meets at another, less convenient time. And then, on recital day, I just did my best. And my best was terrible. I didn’t remember many of the steps, the steps I did remember felt awkward, and I even started laughing on stage at one point. In short, I made a complete fool of myself. And strangely, I loved every minute of it, I really did.
I realized I’m finally too old to keep holding onto my teenage self-consciousness or to not love my body—not just privately, which I actually do and have since I came out (though not before that), but also when it is front of center, on stage. I realized that I also have to let go of all of the pressure I’ve felt all my life to prove myself—to prove I can do just as well as the straight person, the kid with rich, blond, American-born parents who went to college, etc., etc. I didn’t even realize how much I felt this sense of needing to be good at everything I do, and this pervasive shame for not ever being as good as I’d hoped or wanted to be, was affecting me. Somehow, being on stage, messing up, and being able to work through the embarrassment changed me, totally. It opened up some old pain, but it also made me realize how much stronger and happier I am now than at any other time in my life.
Last night a good friend who just graduated and is leaving this year came over. S adores him, and he's one of the few people besides her college buddies who is really attentive to her. He had dinner with us, and later we had some drinks and went on talking. We talked about why he didn’t want to go to graduate school—he’s truly the smartest person who has ever come through our college in the time I’ve been there, and I’m not the only one who thinks so. He said that graduate school would be the safest road for him, and that he needed to take a risk at this time in his life, and not get stuck in a life he doesn’t want. When I asked him what he didn’t want about it, he said he couldn’t imagine feeling the stress and the burden of always having more that needed to be done--he'd had enough of that in college. It was a strange answer in a way—he is choosing a life of activism that will surely drain him at times—but he said he feels that such a life, with others equally committed to creating change, would make any hectic or overwhelmed feeling worth it for him.
Even before this conversation, I was having a crisis about my job and what I really wanted to be doing professionally. Actually, I've had this crisis most of my life. I hate academia in so many ways. I hate its hierarchical nature, how tenure is based so much on seeking approval from outside sources and proving oneself--there is a constant and very real competition among my colleagues over who is busiest, and those who seem to have a lot of extra time to be with friends or family are considered suspect. I won't pretend I haven't participated in this at all, by the way--I have made a conscious effort since leaving my partner of six years not to live that kind of life, but I still fall into it at times.
When I first came here, I believed I would stay for one year, maybe two, then move on. Strangely, I had two different plans, the one I wanted, and the one I thought I should prove to others I could do. The plan I wanted: I would make a little money, pay off my debts, then create a life that was centered on activism and find the right place and the write people for this work, and live simply and happily ever after. The plan I felt I should pursue to prove to others that I could: I would build my CV, send out my poems, get some more publications, try to get a tenure-track job.
I never aggressively pursued either goal. Partly this was because I fell in love with someone who was very much committed to the institution, but that's not the whole story. I never worked hard at paying off my debts--my generosity toward others and/or other decisions always got in the way. I also never tried to network until my books were published; I have three book projects in close-to-final drafts that I have only halfheartedly sent out for publication. I am just now beginning to realize, ten years later, that maybe neither of these routes are really what I want.
There were a few different phases in my process. During college, I realized for the first time that I was smart and talented, that not only would I finish college, but I could go to graduate school. After so many years of struggling in honors classes in high school—being one of the kids smart enough to be in those classes but never one of the ones who got straight A’s or whom the teachers remembered--I felt honored when my mentors in college thought graduate school was the right path for me.
But, I wasn't totally convinced, and this was partly because my last two years of college had been such a period of change for me--I came out, I discovered feminism and activism, I lost some friends and gained others. I knew I needed to find a community, ground myself, do activism, but also earn some money and pay off some debts--and I did all of this for three years in Cincinnati. But I missed writing, and I had lost the spiritual center that came with it. And so, I went to graduate school for creative writing.
And then, in graduate school, I became incredibly discouraged. To me, writing had been a spiritual practice, and reading a way into empowerment and a deeper understanding of myself as an activist and change agent. But graduate school was not about these things. It was about technique, and ultimately, about getting published in literary journals no one but other writers ever read. I struggled and felt very alone for most of my time in graduate school—but I’m also grateful that I went, that I wrote the manuscript that I wrote, and even that I had a dramatic and abusive relationship during that time, because all of these experiences shaped me in important ways. Graduate school made me miss activism and community building, and I knew my future had to involve both--but it also introduced me to teaching, and to doing social justice work in the context of a class.
As I left graduate school, essential questions like “what social change can poetry publications foster in the publishing world that exists now?” and “What happened to the radical impulse that had once marked what it meant to be a poet, that had drawn me to writing in the first place?” continued to plague me. I concluded that academia had ruined poetry, and as I was leaving graduate school, I decided I wanted no part of an academic life. But, I needed a job--I had debt and had to work toward paying it off--and I needed to leave Phoenix because I wasn’t happy there for various reasons—that was clear. Somehow, I ended up getting a job in academia, though I applied to many different kinds of jobs. The job I chose felt “safe” because I would be focused on teaching struggling first-year students to write, which was noble. If I couldn’t change things by publishing my writing, perhaps I could help students to find a way to create change in themselves, and ultimately in others, through their process of putting things on the page.
Let’s face it, the biggest risk I’ve ever taken professionally was to move to a tiny town in the middle of nowhere, to leave a place where I wasn’t happy, but where I could have probably worked for the rest of my life—or lived a life with fewer connections or obligations and more time to write and pursue a career with a capital C. But now, I have stayed at an academic job for 10 years, and it doesn’t look like I’m leaving anytime soon, so I can’t pretend not to be a part of academia, albeit a slightly outside-the-center part. When I finally fully realized this—that I was staying, that I wasn’t ever going to have a published book, at least not one that I’d have to work my ass off to get published--then I went through a phase in which I convinced myself that I had somehow purposely shot myself in the foot, missing grant or submission or job application deadlines, and now, 10 years in, I can’t get those years back.
But after dancing ridiculously on stage and talking with my friend, I came to another realization. I haven’t done those things because they aren’t who I am. I believe in the power of art to make change, but publishing a book of poetry or a novel is not going to be my path, probably (though I suppose I should never say never. As a side note, a visiting writer earlier this semester and inspired me to think of my writing in new ways, and as I rework some old material, I am having visions of a more collaborative and community-based way of doing my writing—but that’s a whole different post).
I write to make sense of my life and the world—or rather, to come to some mysterious and incomplete understanding of their complexities—and writing is what leads me to action, whether that be my decision to S or a my decision yesterday to advocate for a student who needs more help than she’s getting. And I’ve come to realize those small and large actions are the actions that make me who I am—not my title or where my office is or what my job responsibilities are or how many publications I can list on my CV or what I'm "doing" career-wise. And yes, I can inspire and change students’ lives, and doing so is rewarding, but if I imagine myself to be the primary or most important person inspiring them, then I will always be disappointed at how little I can accomplish. I have to see myself as part of an interconnected web, and to know I have the power to play some small role in other people's lives, but that I can't change them totally, not on my own--just as I couldn't change myself without influences from others. In short, I have a little more humility.
I have been feeling so disconnected from so many former friends since adopting S, and I know that this is partly due to how my commitments have changed, but mostly due to the fact that by adopting her, I reclaimed an important part of who I was, and remembered that I was always happiest when my activism was personal and about connection, and when I could work on the same "issue" (in this case, empowering people to be who they are) could be worked on on multiple levels/in multiple ways and not through one specific set of actions. A friend from Cincinnati reminded me of this--that I wasn't happy doing direct action work only, although I see its importance and potential for radical change.
Anyway, my feelings of disconnection are tied up in my confusion about my role in academia—before my dance debut and my conversation yesterday, I felt I was either a part of the academic community here or else a total outsider whose role it was to try to change the institution. I won’t say I don’t think of myself as a change-agent from within anymore, but I am coming to realize that it’s OK when I can’t create the change I imagine, and OK when others don't want to join me in creating that change. Some days, maybe it’s enough to get through an ordinary day and be attentive not only to what I've accomplished but also what I've learned—solve a misunderstanding between a professor and a community partner about a survey her students is doing, talk a depressed student through her decision about whether or not to stay in school, order some books I might consider using next semester, get a student employee started on a project that will be meaningful to many elders in the community, and then go home to my daughter and to dinner and a long conversation with a friend.
That’s a day, and I’m glad I have the time and space for the thoughtful, connected conversation and the connection with S at the end of it. I’m glad I have the time to be around inspiring people—not just “around” them, as on the same campus or in the same home as them, but actually have the time to talk to them and know them and learn from them and contribute to their growth, too. I'm glad I have--and take--the time to write here, to try to make sense of what is happening around and inside me. I'm glad I have the time to rethink the idea that I'm lonely--maybe, if most of those people at this time in my life are a lot younger than me, that’s not the end of the world.
I feel myself letting go of two issues that have plagued me all year: the bitterness toward former friends who don’t take that time to get to the deep and vulnerable places with me (in other words, to be supportive in the ways I need), and the worry over what should come next for me professionally, which has included the unbearable idea that I really, really need to leave as well as the unbearable idea that I really, really need to stay. I am re-learning, slowly, how to be in the moment, to acknowledge my loneliness and keep reaching out, to dream without the anxiety that sometimes is part of the process of dreaming.
One of the other adults who participated in the dance, a woman who has shared with me that she has severe anxiety, said to me right before we got on stage, “Screw it. So what if we make fools of ourselves? Most people in the audience would never, ever get up here in a million years.”
“You’re right,” I said, raising my fist, and we both laughed loudly and hysterically.
And so, I danced awkwardly in front of many of my colleagues and the parents of my daughter’s friends and, well, everyone in town, really, because hardly anybody misses these kinds of events. And yes, some people did sort of avoid me afterwards, or wonder if they should say something kind like “good job” or even “nice try”—I could tell from many people’s body language that they truly did not know how to react to the fact that I’d gotten up there and made an ass of myself. And to say I didn’t care at all would be a lie—but I caught myself feeling that familiar shame about not being good enough, and then, I laughed at myself. That shame and all of the "need to be as good as, need to be better than, need to prove how busy I am" are not me, never has been. I need to keep resisting those feelings, to acknowledge the pain of change and loss while also paying attention to what I do have, what small good things I can do, for awhile.
Today I am feeling blessed and lighter than yesterday. I am leaving the office in the academic building that is the last tie to my identity as an academic, someone who primarily teaches and publishes things, and moving into the Office of Community Engagement full time. (I'll continue to teach a couple classes a year, but they will be mostly interdisciplinary classes, except for one creative writing class that keeps me connected to my identity as a writer). It has been sad because the office was my mentor Gremmels' office before it was mine, and leaving it feels like disconnecting in some more final way from him, but also because I have been in that space for ten years, of course. But it has also been somewhat of a relief. For one thing, the office is a mess, and it's high time to sort and toss and figure out what should be cherished. For another, the move helps me to finally let go of both the expectations or beliefs I imagined that others had of me--either that I would eventually become a real academic (if I didn't want to be a failure) or that I'd never be able to hack it.
At the end of a long day of sorting and moving things, I checked my e-mail. My inbox held two incredible gifts. I got an e-mail response to a request I'd sent to a summer dance camp. In the e-mail, I decided to be honest about S's skill level and mental health issues, and I asked whether they felt the camp would be a good environment for her. I explained what kind of environment and approach she needed and also insisted that the only way she would be able to go is if I could come with her. I said I would pay for accommodations and meals if I had to, but that I would prefer to earn my room and board by volunteering. Admittedly, I fully expected a rejection, or at least to be put off for several days, but instead, I got multiple encouraging e-mails--from the dance instructor, from the camp director, and from the administrative assistant--all letting me know that not only did they need help in the kitchen, but that they had experience with and an interest in helping people like S to grow.
And, in another e-mail, the adoptive father of one of S's brothers said he had decided to visit us this summer. We had been talking for a couple weeks via e-mail about whether the kids were ready, and if so, how the visit should work. I am beyond thrilled that they want to start the in-person connection by coming here, and I can't wait to meet them.
I came home today after a full day of sorting through my old office and moving into my new one and couldn't wait to share the good news with S. She was ecstatic. We registered for the camp, planned our summer, talked about everything that would be wonderful and challenging about her brother's visit. We were full of possibility and joy. Earlier this year, I ignored her requests to go to a dance camp and refused to even consider that maybe there was one that could meet her needs; I'm so glad I've gotten over my own issues with her love of dance and found a way to give her what she wanted. We also talked about missing K, about how we would miss M, the friend who was here yesterday, but how that was OK, because that pain of loss reflects how deeply it is possible for people to affect each other's lives.
It was a good day. I danced through every moment of it, and let myself be who I am, and now that I've written this and made sense of this last week I'm ready to sleep, finally.
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