Whew. I have survived my first week of graduate school.
I have gone to three orientations, eight classes, and introduced myself a million times. Toward the end, I got bolder. My name is Alicia, this is my first week of graduate school, and I’m completely overwhelmed.
I feel both privileged and out of place. I realize what a gift this is, this learning, this time, these spaces to talk about books and writing. The mental space to dwell on art.
It’s an adjustment though. After having quit my job in May, I’m not used to rising at 7 a.m. and straggling in past 9 p.m. And on a broader level, I’m used to the work force where I provided a service to a company and they paid me for it. Now, as a student, I’m paying them and I’m still the one who has to prove myself. No longer do I get the twice-monthly perk of a paycheck for my efforts, that balm against disillusionment.
Now I have to wait for grades to come out once a semester. I’ll also have to undergo the solitary (and I imagine, sanity-searching) process of writing a book, which will be my thesis in three years time. The department advisor says we have to keep our eye on the prize. Food. Shelter. Write the book. Seriously. It may be the only thing I’ll have to show for all this study when I’m pushed back into the world I embraced, the “real” one, that is.
So don’t be under any illusion that I’m schlepping out here in the sunshine. But I digress.
My schedule is whacky. I’m in school four days a week, and on Wednesdays from 9 a.m. to 9:40 p.m. I had forgotten (for good reason) what it’s like to be on a populated college campus. My undergraduate campus had more than 20,000 students and we called it the Zoo. We’ve got 33,000 students here, so you can imagine how long the Starbucks queue is. Likewise, parking might inspire thoughts of harikiri.
On a brighter note, the students, so far, are great. The ones in my classes seem open and smart and unpretentious. The ones I teach (freshman) are wide-eyed, prone to humor, and ask a lot of questions. I just hope they do their work.
All in all, I’m beat. I needed a nap after my last orientation and Buggah has promised me a pot of his pollo en fricassee this evening. We’re nearly settled into our new haunts and our newest acquisition is Buggah’s 6-foot wide florescent pink painting (so cool next to our Queen Anne-style couch). The rest will come. I was talking about furniture, but I like the phrase besides: The rest will come. In Alicia-speak: Stop being a control freak. Take care of yourself. Life will take care of you. Maybe it’ll be my new mantra. I like it better than: Food. Shelter. Write the Book.
Here’s to moving forward.
