“Adeline knocked lightly on the bedroom door and pushed it open. Rose was sitting in the window seat, attention focused on the ground below. Her arms were so frail, her profile so gaunt. The room had grown listless in sympathy to its owner, cushions flat, curtains sagging in despondence. Even the air seemed to have staled within the streams of weak light.”
--from The Forgotten Garden by Kate Morton
At some point during my first year in Chicago, I suffered a terrible heartbreak of the romantic kind. The details are not important. Just suffice it to say that I lost both a friend and a hope for the future, and I took it hard. It was several weeks before I felt like life started to look up again.
I lived with roommates at the time. Many months (maybe even years) later, one of my roommates told me that my heartbreak had an effect on her, too. “You could just feel the sadness as soon as you walked into the house,” she said. I never sensed this at the time, perhaps because my own sadness just kind of followed me around. But I’ve thought a lot about that comment since then.
Physical spaces have a way of reflecting the nature and moods of the people that inhabit them. For example, every time I walk into my parents’ house, it seems the same and yet somehow different. Eventually, I’ll spot a new wall decoration, or a new paint color, or a new rug. My parents’ house gives off a feeling of familiarity while still changing enough to always feel well put together and new. This is the same way I would describe my mother. On the other hand, the basement of my parents’ house, which mostly functions as my dad’s workshop, is clean, efficient, and cleverly organized, but unadorned. This is just how I would describe my father.
It seems like this effect might simply be due to the fact that the dwellers in a space choose the layout, colors, and furnishings. But is it more than that? Can a space adopt a person’s mood without the person intending it to do so? After all, my house got sad when I was sad. And I can still remember the feeling of my grandfather’s apartment after he passed away. The only word that could describe it was “lifeless.”
Being a mathematician at my core, I can’t help but look for a pattern here. It seems to me that the positive vibes like newness and efficiency are the result of intentional changes made by the dweller, while negative vibes like sadness are adopted without any specific action. I’m really not one to say arty, hippie things like “Rooms are alive!” so I think there must be some other explanation for the negative half. Inanimate objects don’t just change on their own, so what’s the real deal?
I think perhaps it is that negativity is self-perpetuating. When someone enters a period of sadness, things initially get a little drab because people don’t tend to clean or spruce up their living spaces while they are unhappy. Then, because the space around them starts to look shabby, they just stay sad. Eventually the surroundings seem to have changed to match the mood. But really, it’s the space influencing the mood, not the other way around.
Over the past few years, I’ve felt a little stuck. I love my job and I love Chicago, and yet I can’t help feeling sometimes that not much has changed for me over the last five years. I still don’t really feel like I’ve been out of college a long time. I certainly don’t think of myself as an adult. I’m just still in that awkward transition phase between the formative college years and the time when I really feel like my life has a direction. I’m just… stuck. And I want to be unstuck.
Oddly enough, getting a new set of bathroom towels gave me an idea of how I might start to get unstuck. For my birthday last month, my mother bought me a new shower curtain and towels for my bathroom. I put the new things up, and the small room looks completely transformed. It looks grown up and put together. It looks how I want to feel.
After realizing this, I looked around at the rest of my apartment. The blankets on my bed are made of t-shirts from high school and college. The couch in my living room is a loveseat that was in my parents’ house for several years while I was in college. The dishes in my kitchen are the same ones that my grandparents used at a cottage that was sold years ago. No wonder I feel like I haven’t moved on. Much of my apartment is still stuck in the past. It’s another case of the space perpetuating a negative vibe.
So, now I’m on a mission to set aside some money each month and buy my own things to replace the ones that have me stuck in the past. A bedspread first, maybe. Then dishes and perhaps eventually a full-length couch. I’ll choose things that reflect the positive, grown-up vibes I want to feel. Hopefully then, I feel like I’m able to get unstuck.
Monday, February 28, 2011
Monday, February 21, 2011
Smarten Up
“’She loathes me. I was plastered one night and I let slip my pet name for her, Medusa. She was quite flattered for a while. I suppose the poor girl had Medusa mixed up with Minerva or possibly Mnemosyne. It was just my bad luck to have her proudly repeat what I’d called her to someone who knew a smattering of mythology.’ He sighed and finished his drink. ‘She was most upset.’”
--from Ocean’s 11 by George Clayton Johnson and Jack Golden Russell
A year or so ago, I started to believe that I was not very well read. Although I do a good amount of reading, I really have not read many books that are considered classics. Too often, I would come across some reference to a classic novel and have absolutely no idea what it meant.
Heathcliff? Isn’t that a cat? I would think to myself. Eventually I picked up that Heathcliff was actually a famous character from Emily Brontë's Wuthering Heights, and then I was at least able to smile and nod at references to him. But I still didn’t really understand what was being said. I can also remember wondering where the country of Gatsbia was, because there were a few times when people referred to situations as Gatsbian. Later, of course, I realized that they were referring to F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby, though learning that fact didn’t tell me any more about what it meant to be Gatsbian.
I tried to remedy this situation on my own, for a while. I read Wuthering Heights. Although I understand references to Heathcliff now, I would almost like to go back and not understand them, as I think Wuthering Heights earns a place on the “Worst Books Ever Written” list. I read The Great Gatsby with better results. I actually enjoyed that one, and am eagerly waiting for an opportunity to use the word “Gatsbian.”
Interest renewed, I tried to think of other classic books I had heard referenced in the past. For some reason, my mind settled on Atlas Shrugged, because there was some association in my brain between that book and feminism. I’m interested in women’s issues, so I thought I would give it a try.
Lucky for me, I mentioned this quest to my sister, Laurie, as we drove home from Thanksgiving last year. Being infinitely well read herself, she informed me that Atlas Shrugged was actually the opposite of feminist. She predicted that I would hate it. I believed her.
While I still wanted to get more classic novels into my repertoire, I was not interested in reading books I would hate. Since I was batting one for three for choosing classics I would enjoy, I decided I needed some help. I asked Laurie if she would, for my Christmas gift last year, gather some classic books that she thought I would like.
Boy, did she ever deliver. While I have not actually counted them, I think it’s safe to say that she got me over a dozen books. I’ve been working my way through them since just after the holidays. Most of the quotes I’ve been using for this blog since Christmas have come from those books. When I read the quote above from Ocean’s 11, I was reminded of why I wanted to do this in the first place. I thought I’d take this chance to assess how the project is going.
My first pull from the box of books was Kingsley Amis’s Lucky Jim. Kudos to Laurie in the sense that I really loved this book. It was hysterical. The main character is a reluctant academian, and I think he is exactly what I would be like if I were to enter academia. He sees all the pomp and self-importance of the other lecturers as absurd. He thinks all the things that I think, but would never say out loud. So, home run on the enjoyment. However, I don’t know that I’ve ever heard a reference to this book or its author, so it hasn’t made me feel much more cultured. That could change any day, though. For all I know, I’ve heard lots of references to this book and promptly forgotten them because I didn’t understand their significance.
Next up was The Case Book of Sherlock Holmes. This is where I had my first, “Oh man, thank goodness for my sister because I’ve been so stupid up until now” moment. I tried to watch the recent Sherlock Holmes movie a couple of times and it simply did not hold my interest. I tried to figure out why, and eventually realized that I felt like the characters had been done before; I felt like I had already seen the movie before on dozens of episodes of House. I wrote the movie off as ripping off the characters and relationships from a popular TV show as a way to give an old story a new spin.
Then I read this book of Sherlock Holmes stories, and realized that the movie was actually an accurate depiction of how Sir Arthur Conan Doyle wrote his characters. I started to think harder about it. Hmm, I thought. Holmes, House… Watson, Wilson. Oh crap, I’m an idiot. Holmes and Watson came first! The movie was not a rip-off of the TV show. The TV show was a reinterpretation of the book characters. I’m so glad I read this book. I have a new appreciation for both Holmes and House, now.
Third out of the box was a book of short stories by Henry James. The bulk of the book was taken up by a story called “The Turn of the Screw,” but there were three other lesser-known stories included, too. None of the stories completely blew me away, but I did enjoy how they all dealt with difficult issues – defying over-controlling parents, jealousy in relationships, parents leaving their children to be raised by nannies – while staying solidly in the realm of creepy ghost stories. I don’t know how many times I’ll hear or make references to the specific stories. However, I have a solid sense of Henry James’s writing style now, which is a good thing since before this I would not have known Henry James from O. Henry.
The last book I’ve been able to make my way through is Ocean’s 11. The book’s cover proclaims it to be “a novelization of the hilarious film.” When I read the book, I had seen the modern, George Clooney / Brad Pitt version of the film, but not the Frank Sinatra / Dean Martin version on which the book was based. Still, I expected to find a familiar story. I was shocked to find the book to be a dark and brooding exploration of the relationships among the eleven men involved in the casino heist. Danny Ocean’s inner dialogue reveals him to be a self-absorbed, cowardly jerk who you have to hate. The other men agree to his plan out of misguided loyalty. And in the end, (spoiler alert!) nine of the eleven men are dead.
This was definitely not what I expected. Curious, I watched the Sinatra/Martin version of the movie to see how the book matched up. Plot-wise, the book and the original movie are almost an exact match. But the movie lacks all the brooding and complicated relationships. The story, as the movie tells it, is hilarious. Who knew the novelization would be so different?
I can’t honestly say that I expect the three versions of the story to come up in casual conversation. But if it does, I will have a leg up on all you poor fools who have only experienced one version!
All in all, I’m pleased with my forays into these literary classics. Thanks, Laurie, for smartening up your not-so-book-smart sister.
--from Ocean’s 11 by George Clayton Johnson and Jack Golden Russell
A year or so ago, I started to believe that I was not very well read. Although I do a good amount of reading, I really have not read many books that are considered classics. Too often, I would come across some reference to a classic novel and have absolutely no idea what it meant.
Heathcliff? Isn’t that a cat? I would think to myself. Eventually I picked up that Heathcliff was actually a famous character from Emily Brontë's Wuthering Heights, and then I was at least able to smile and nod at references to him. But I still didn’t really understand what was being said. I can also remember wondering where the country of Gatsbia was, because there were a few times when people referred to situations as Gatsbian. Later, of course, I realized that they were referring to F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby, though learning that fact didn’t tell me any more about what it meant to be Gatsbian.
I tried to remedy this situation on my own, for a while. I read Wuthering Heights. Although I understand references to Heathcliff now, I would almost like to go back and not understand them, as I think Wuthering Heights earns a place on the “Worst Books Ever Written” list. I read The Great Gatsby with better results. I actually enjoyed that one, and am eagerly waiting for an opportunity to use the word “Gatsbian.”
Interest renewed, I tried to think of other classic books I had heard referenced in the past. For some reason, my mind settled on Atlas Shrugged, because there was some association in my brain between that book and feminism. I’m interested in women’s issues, so I thought I would give it a try.
Lucky for me, I mentioned this quest to my sister, Laurie, as we drove home from Thanksgiving last year. Being infinitely well read herself, she informed me that Atlas Shrugged was actually the opposite of feminist. She predicted that I would hate it. I believed her.
While I still wanted to get more classic novels into my repertoire, I was not interested in reading books I would hate. Since I was batting one for three for choosing classics I would enjoy, I decided I needed some help. I asked Laurie if she would, for my Christmas gift last year, gather some classic books that she thought I would like.
Boy, did she ever deliver. While I have not actually counted them, I think it’s safe to say that she got me over a dozen books. I’ve been working my way through them since just after the holidays. Most of the quotes I’ve been using for this blog since Christmas have come from those books. When I read the quote above from Ocean’s 11, I was reminded of why I wanted to do this in the first place. I thought I’d take this chance to assess how the project is going.
My first pull from the box of books was Kingsley Amis’s Lucky Jim. Kudos to Laurie in the sense that I really loved this book. It was hysterical. The main character is a reluctant academian, and I think he is exactly what I would be like if I were to enter academia. He sees all the pomp and self-importance of the other lecturers as absurd. He thinks all the things that I think, but would never say out loud. So, home run on the enjoyment. However, I don’t know that I’ve ever heard a reference to this book or its author, so it hasn’t made me feel much more cultured. That could change any day, though. For all I know, I’ve heard lots of references to this book and promptly forgotten them because I didn’t understand their significance.
Next up was The Case Book of Sherlock Holmes. This is where I had my first, “Oh man, thank goodness for my sister because I’ve been so stupid up until now” moment. I tried to watch the recent Sherlock Holmes movie a couple of times and it simply did not hold my interest. I tried to figure out why, and eventually realized that I felt like the characters had been done before; I felt like I had already seen the movie before on dozens of episodes of House. I wrote the movie off as ripping off the characters and relationships from a popular TV show as a way to give an old story a new spin.
Then I read this book of Sherlock Holmes stories, and realized that the movie was actually an accurate depiction of how Sir Arthur Conan Doyle wrote his characters. I started to think harder about it. Hmm, I thought. Holmes, House… Watson, Wilson. Oh crap, I’m an idiot. Holmes and Watson came first! The movie was not a rip-off of the TV show. The TV show was a reinterpretation of the book characters. I’m so glad I read this book. I have a new appreciation for both Holmes and House, now.
Third out of the box was a book of short stories by Henry James. The bulk of the book was taken up by a story called “The Turn of the Screw,” but there were three other lesser-known stories included, too. None of the stories completely blew me away, but I did enjoy how they all dealt with difficult issues – defying over-controlling parents, jealousy in relationships, parents leaving their children to be raised by nannies – while staying solidly in the realm of creepy ghost stories. I don’t know how many times I’ll hear or make references to the specific stories. However, I have a solid sense of Henry James’s writing style now, which is a good thing since before this I would not have known Henry James from O. Henry.
The last book I’ve been able to make my way through is Ocean’s 11. The book’s cover proclaims it to be “a novelization of the hilarious film.” When I read the book, I had seen the modern, George Clooney / Brad Pitt version of the film, but not the Frank Sinatra / Dean Martin version on which the book was based. Still, I expected to find a familiar story. I was shocked to find the book to be a dark and brooding exploration of the relationships among the eleven men involved in the casino heist. Danny Ocean’s inner dialogue reveals him to be a self-absorbed, cowardly jerk who you have to hate. The other men agree to his plan out of misguided loyalty. And in the end, (spoiler alert!) nine of the eleven men are dead.
This was definitely not what I expected. Curious, I watched the Sinatra/Martin version of the movie to see how the book matched up. Plot-wise, the book and the original movie are almost an exact match. But the movie lacks all the brooding and complicated relationships. The story, as the movie tells it, is hilarious. Who knew the novelization would be so different?
I can’t honestly say that I expect the three versions of the story to come up in casual conversation. But if it does, I will have a leg up on all you poor fools who have only experienced one version!
All in all, I’m pleased with my forays into these literary classics. Thanks, Laurie, for smartening up your not-so-book-smart sister.
Monday, February 14, 2011
Valentine
“It was a cramped, steamy little place where everything seemed to have been decorated with frills or bows. Harry was reminded unpleasantly of Umbridge’s office.
‘Cute, isn’t it?’ said Cho happily.
‘Er… yeah,’ said Harry untruthfully.
‘Look, she’s decorated it for Valentine’s Day!’ said Cho, indicating a number of golden cherubs that were hovering over each of the small, circular tables, occasionally throwing pink confetti over the occupants.”
--from Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix by J. K. Rowling
I had a different quote and a different topic picked out for today’s post. I was not going to write about Valentine’s Day. It wasn’t that I was stubbornly refusing to acknowledge it. I just kind of forgot about it. It happens almost every year with me.
I can’t help but be aware that it’s the Valentine’s Day season, what with the giant displays of candy in the stores and plethora of annoying jewelry commercials on TV. (Seriously, is there a self-respecting woman on this planet that does not hate that jewelry commercial where the woman cringes into her boyfriend’s/husband’s arms to hide from a thunderstorm? Ugh.) But when the actual day comes around, I often miss it entirely. It just doesn’t have any meaning for me. After all, I’ve never had a valentine on Valentine’s Day.
So, I was just going to ignore Valentine’s Day. But then, this morning, I was inspired by my friend Shannon to give it a second thought. Shannon has a husband and a therefore has a valentine, but in her post today, she admits that she’s always loved Valentine’s Day for the color and the candy, even back when she was not in a relationship.
I like her attitude. I don’t like the way that this day makes some single people feel depressed and inadequate. I don’t like the thought that I can’t celebrate a holiday equally well out of a relationship as in one. I think I could learn to appreciate Valentine’s Day for my own reasons, like Shannon did. Here are some things to love about Valentine’s Day, regardless of your relationship status:
Valentine’s Day is a reason to eat candy, or cake, or cookies. I kind of stole this one from Shannon, but it can’t be ignored. On Valentine’s Day, there is chocolate everywhere! And cookies and cupcakes with pretty pink frosting! Those things have the potential to make anyone happy. Who doesn’t love a cupcake?
It’s a reason to wear cute, kitschy accessories that would otherwise be obnoxious. I’m not one to wear ugly Christmas sweaters or flag t-shirts on the 4th of July, but I will admit that today I wished that I had a pair of dangly red earrings or a scarf with hearts on it. I like reasons to dress just a little bit silly. It makes me smile. I might have to buy some Valentine’s Day accessories when they go on sale tomorrow, just so I have them for next year.
It inspires people to do something nice. Occasionally, this takes the form of admission of romantic feelings, but I think Valentine’s Day prompts people to do other little nice things, too. Several of my coworkers added a “Happy Valentine’s Day” message at the end of their emails today, sometimes in pretty red font. The running store is giving away free entries to a race based on the best answers to the question, “Why do you love running?” Not everything that happens on V-day has to do with romantic love.
Most of all, it makes me remember nice things that people did for me in the past. Even when I do think about the romantic aspects of Valentine’s Day, it’s not all bitter memories. I think of the time that my high school love interest gave me a paper flower that he made out of the program for the honors assembly we were sitting through. I remember the time that a friend from college found a perfect article for me for an assignment I was struggling with, for no particular reason except to be helpful. I remember the time that a fellow grad student complimented my necklace and sweater on a day that I felt like no one noticed anything about me but my paper grades. None of these guys had any interest in me romantically, but they still gave me valentines in their own ways. Maybe not on Valentine’s Day, but some time when it meant more.
I think about the time that Shannon told me I looked thin right after I ranted through some frustrations about work and roommates. I think of the time that my college roommate sent me an email that said, “It’s never too late to begin” while I was studying abroad and feeling like I had blown it. I think about the time just two days ago when my sister gave me half a bag of pretzel m&ms because I had been crying out of frustration, grief, and exhaustion. Those were all valentines of a sort, too.
I’ve never thought Valentine’s Day was the root of all evil, but I do admit to feeling like it was not worthy of note. I don’t feel that way any more, thanks to Shannon, and thanks to the half a bag of pretzel m&ms that this day gave me a reason to eat.
Today, I thought of the people that I love. I thought of all the ways that people show that they love me. I got emails from two of my closest friends. I got a bonus Starbucks postcard in the mail. I got to cuddle with my kitty. Granted, most of those things had nothing to do with Valentine’s Day. But I had a happy Valentine’s Day, anyway.
I hope you did, too.
‘Cute, isn’t it?’ said Cho happily.
‘Er… yeah,’ said Harry untruthfully.
‘Look, she’s decorated it for Valentine’s Day!’ said Cho, indicating a number of golden cherubs that were hovering over each of the small, circular tables, occasionally throwing pink confetti over the occupants.”
--from Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix by J. K. Rowling
I had a different quote and a different topic picked out for today’s post. I was not going to write about Valentine’s Day. It wasn’t that I was stubbornly refusing to acknowledge it. I just kind of forgot about it. It happens almost every year with me.
I can’t help but be aware that it’s the Valentine’s Day season, what with the giant displays of candy in the stores and plethora of annoying jewelry commercials on TV. (Seriously, is there a self-respecting woman on this planet that does not hate that jewelry commercial where the woman cringes into her boyfriend’s/husband’s arms to hide from a thunderstorm? Ugh.) But when the actual day comes around, I often miss it entirely. It just doesn’t have any meaning for me. After all, I’ve never had a valentine on Valentine’s Day.
So, I was just going to ignore Valentine’s Day. But then, this morning, I was inspired by my friend Shannon to give it a second thought. Shannon has a husband and a therefore has a valentine, but in her post today, she admits that she’s always loved Valentine’s Day for the color and the candy, even back when she was not in a relationship.
I like her attitude. I don’t like the way that this day makes some single people feel depressed and inadequate. I don’t like the thought that I can’t celebrate a holiday equally well out of a relationship as in one. I think I could learn to appreciate Valentine’s Day for my own reasons, like Shannon did. Here are some things to love about Valentine’s Day, regardless of your relationship status:
Valentine’s Day is a reason to eat candy, or cake, or cookies. I kind of stole this one from Shannon, but it can’t be ignored. On Valentine’s Day, there is chocolate everywhere! And cookies and cupcakes with pretty pink frosting! Those things have the potential to make anyone happy. Who doesn’t love a cupcake?
It’s a reason to wear cute, kitschy accessories that would otherwise be obnoxious. I’m not one to wear ugly Christmas sweaters or flag t-shirts on the 4th of July, but I will admit that today I wished that I had a pair of dangly red earrings or a scarf with hearts on it. I like reasons to dress just a little bit silly. It makes me smile. I might have to buy some Valentine’s Day accessories when they go on sale tomorrow, just so I have them for next year.
It inspires people to do something nice. Occasionally, this takes the form of admission of romantic feelings, but I think Valentine’s Day prompts people to do other little nice things, too. Several of my coworkers added a “Happy Valentine’s Day” message at the end of their emails today, sometimes in pretty red font. The running store is giving away free entries to a race based on the best answers to the question, “Why do you love running?” Not everything that happens on V-day has to do with romantic love.
Most of all, it makes me remember nice things that people did for me in the past. Even when I do think about the romantic aspects of Valentine’s Day, it’s not all bitter memories. I think of the time that my high school love interest gave me a paper flower that he made out of the program for the honors assembly we were sitting through. I remember the time that a friend from college found a perfect article for me for an assignment I was struggling with, for no particular reason except to be helpful. I remember the time that a fellow grad student complimented my necklace and sweater on a day that I felt like no one noticed anything about me but my paper grades. None of these guys had any interest in me romantically, but they still gave me valentines in their own ways. Maybe not on Valentine’s Day, but some time when it meant more.
I think about the time that Shannon told me I looked thin right after I ranted through some frustrations about work and roommates. I think of the time that my college roommate sent me an email that said, “It’s never too late to begin” while I was studying abroad and feeling like I had blown it. I think about the time just two days ago when my sister gave me half a bag of pretzel m&ms because I had been crying out of frustration, grief, and exhaustion. Those were all valentines of a sort, too.
I’ve never thought Valentine’s Day was the root of all evil, but I do admit to feeling like it was not worthy of note. I don’t feel that way any more, thanks to Shannon, and thanks to the half a bag of pretzel m&ms that this day gave me a reason to eat.
Today, I thought of the people that I love. I thought of all the ways that people show that they love me. I got emails from two of my closest friends. I got a bonus Starbucks postcard in the mail. I got to cuddle with my kitty. Granted, most of those things had nothing to do with Valentine’s Day. But I had a happy Valentine’s Day, anyway.
I hope you did, too.
Monday, February 07, 2011
Power
“Isn’t what you want (if you are so good as to think well of my character) to see me exert most power, in whatever direction? Well, this is the way I exert most.”
--from “Owen Wingrave” in The Turn of the Screw and Other Stories by Henry James
Not long after moving to Chicago, I sent out a long email to pretty much my entire address book. In it, I gave everyone my new contact information, reflected on my initial impressions of life in the city, and described my new job. At the time, I was working as an editor for a commercial publisher on a series of K-6 mathematics textbooks. It was the beginning of a career that I have come to really love.
I was surprised at how many people wrote back to me. I’m guessing that the number of was over twenty, yet I only remember one of the replies clearly. It was from the pastor of the church that I grew up attending – someone I considered a personal friend and whom I really respected. I’m sure that most of the email was very complimentary and warm, but I only really remember one piece of it. I can’t claim that this is an exact quote, but the note included something to this effect: “It was interesting to read about your job. Somehow, I think you’re called to something bigger.”
This was only one of at least five occasions—though admittedly the most hurtful—when people I trusted either insinuated or told me directly that my job was somehow beneath me. That I could do better. That I was not living up to my potential. That I had power to help people that I was throwing away. Most often, people suggested that I should consider entering religious life. Other times, they insisted that I should become a teacher. But, the point in all cases seemed to be that what I was doing was simply not good enough.
I struggled with this issue for a lot of years. Through my last two years of college, I wondered constantly if I was really meant to be a nun and I was just denying it. Six months after starting my job at the commercial publisher, I somewhat haphazardly applied to graduate schools because I felt it was what was expected of me. During graduate school, I started an application to the Peace Corps, because to do anything less felt like I was failing myself, failing God, and failing everyone who ever supported me through school.
The problem was that all of those choices made me extremely unhappy. I went to events for people considering religious life—and I cried through them. I went to graduate school—and in my second quarter, I entered what I am sure was a clinical depression. I was accepted to the Peace Corps—and knew immediately (though I couldn’t admit it to myself or anyone else right away) that to accept my assignment would be the worst mistake of my life.
Other people saw me in ways that I did not see myself. They saw me as a nun. They saw me as an academic. They saw me as a selfless volunteer in a third-world country. But I did not see myself that way. I did not see myself as anything. In an effort to please the people around me, I took their labels and tried to apply them. But it didn’t work.
In the aftermath of the latest of these debacles (that is, after declining my Peace Corps assignment when I started to apply for jobs), I found a posting on a university website for an editor of mathematics textbooks. Figuring I was qualified, I tried to apply, only to find out that teaching experience was a requirement. Because I did not have any teaching experience, the system locked me out, and no human being would ever even look at my resume. Irritated by this, I wrote an email to someone at the university whom I worked with while at the commercial publisher. He ended up writing me a letter of recommendation that, in the end, got me the job.
He sent me a copy of the letter. I will never forget reading one particular passage in it, which said the following: “She’s equal to best of your editors and superior to the rest.”
Many, many things went through my mind after I read that letter, but the one pertinent to this post is this: Wow. He sees me as an editor. And a good one. A superior one. Maybe this is an appropriate thing for me to be, after all.
I took the job a couple of weeks later, and I’ve been working as an editor on various math programs there ever since. And at the risk of sounding conceited, let me also say that over the years, I have become more and more aware that I am very good at my job. Among the best in my field. My background, my interests, and my disposition are perfectly suited to it. And I truly believe that the work that I do makes the programs better. I believe that in small ways, I make mathematics more accessible and enjoyable for kids. I believe that I make a difference.
I still think back on all the other things I could have become, sometimes. Had I chosen to enter religious life, I probably could have found a niche where I made a difference. If I had stayed in graduate school and gotten my PhD, I probably could have done some useful research. If I had used my master’s degree to get a teaching certification, I might have been able to run a moderately successful classroom. If I had gone to Kenya, I likely would have found some ways to change the lives of the people there.
But I would have been unhappy. Unsatisfied. Constantly stressed and terrified. And so there is no way I would have been at my most effective.
As an editor, I’m able to use many of my strengths to their greatest potential. And I’m left with enough time (and enough calm) on the side to engage in other activities that help other people. I could do other things that might seem to other people to be more powerful. But this is the way I best exert my powers.
I can think of two people in my life that are struggling with this issue. One just recently quit a job that made up a huge part of her identity. The other constantly feels that she should be doing more or doing better as a parent and generally as a person. To those two ladies, I just want to say this:
You’ve both made incredibly brave choices and done what was right for you. Other people may not always agree that they were the right choices, but only you know the ways in which you can best exert your power.
Now go use those powers for good. I’ll be cheering.
--from “Owen Wingrave” in The Turn of the Screw and Other Stories by Henry James
Not long after moving to Chicago, I sent out a long email to pretty much my entire address book. In it, I gave everyone my new contact information, reflected on my initial impressions of life in the city, and described my new job. At the time, I was working as an editor for a commercial publisher on a series of K-6 mathematics textbooks. It was the beginning of a career that I have come to really love.
I was surprised at how many people wrote back to me. I’m guessing that the number of was over twenty, yet I only remember one of the replies clearly. It was from the pastor of the church that I grew up attending – someone I considered a personal friend and whom I really respected. I’m sure that most of the email was very complimentary and warm, but I only really remember one piece of it. I can’t claim that this is an exact quote, but the note included something to this effect: “It was interesting to read about your job. Somehow, I think you’re called to something bigger.”
This was only one of at least five occasions—though admittedly the most hurtful—when people I trusted either insinuated or told me directly that my job was somehow beneath me. That I could do better. That I was not living up to my potential. That I had power to help people that I was throwing away. Most often, people suggested that I should consider entering religious life. Other times, they insisted that I should become a teacher. But, the point in all cases seemed to be that what I was doing was simply not good enough.
I struggled with this issue for a lot of years. Through my last two years of college, I wondered constantly if I was really meant to be a nun and I was just denying it. Six months after starting my job at the commercial publisher, I somewhat haphazardly applied to graduate schools because I felt it was what was expected of me. During graduate school, I started an application to the Peace Corps, because to do anything less felt like I was failing myself, failing God, and failing everyone who ever supported me through school.
The problem was that all of those choices made me extremely unhappy. I went to events for people considering religious life—and I cried through them. I went to graduate school—and in my second quarter, I entered what I am sure was a clinical depression. I was accepted to the Peace Corps—and knew immediately (though I couldn’t admit it to myself or anyone else right away) that to accept my assignment would be the worst mistake of my life.
Other people saw me in ways that I did not see myself. They saw me as a nun. They saw me as an academic. They saw me as a selfless volunteer in a third-world country. But I did not see myself that way. I did not see myself as anything. In an effort to please the people around me, I took their labels and tried to apply them. But it didn’t work.
In the aftermath of the latest of these debacles (that is, after declining my Peace Corps assignment when I started to apply for jobs), I found a posting on a university website for an editor of mathematics textbooks. Figuring I was qualified, I tried to apply, only to find out that teaching experience was a requirement. Because I did not have any teaching experience, the system locked me out, and no human being would ever even look at my resume. Irritated by this, I wrote an email to someone at the university whom I worked with while at the commercial publisher. He ended up writing me a letter of recommendation that, in the end, got me the job.
He sent me a copy of the letter. I will never forget reading one particular passage in it, which said the following: “She’s equal to best of your editors and superior to the rest.”
Many, many things went through my mind after I read that letter, but the one pertinent to this post is this: Wow. He sees me as an editor. And a good one. A superior one. Maybe this is an appropriate thing for me to be, after all.
I took the job a couple of weeks later, and I’ve been working as an editor on various math programs there ever since. And at the risk of sounding conceited, let me also say that over the years, I have become more and more aware that I am very good at my job. Among the best in my field. My background, my interests, and my disposition are perfectly suited to it. And I truly believe that the work that I do makes the programs better. I believe that in small ways, I make mathematics more accessible and enjoyable for kids. I believe that I make a difference.
I still think back on all the other things I could have become, sometimes. Had I chosen to enter religious life, I probably could have found a niche where I made a difference. If I had stayed in graduate school and gotten my PhD, I probably could have done some useful research. If I had used my master’s degree to get a teaching certification, I might have been able to run a moderately successful classroom. If I had gone to Kenya, I likely would have found some ways to change the lives of the people there.
But I would have been unhappy. Unsatisfied. Constantly stressed and terrified. And so there is no way I would have been at my most effective.
As an editor, I’m able to use many of my strengths to their greatest potential. And I’m left with enough time (and enough calm) on the side to engage in other activities that help other people. I could do other things that might seem to other people to be more powerful. But this is the way I best exert my powers.
I can think of two people in my life that are struggling with this issue. One just recently quit a job that made up a huge part of her identity. The other constantly feels that she should be doing more or doing better as a parent and generally as a person. To those two ladies, I just want to say this:
You’ve both made incredibly brave choices and done what was right for you. Other people may not always agree that they were the right choices, but only you know the ways in which you can best exert your power.
Now go use those powers for good. I’ll be cheering.
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