To Admire

I emailed my admissions counselor person at WKU last night, inquiring about scholarships for transfer students.

Hey guess what? There are none, unless you are transferring from the state’s technical college system! Silly me!

Oh, but no worries, I can apply for departmental scholarships. Which is great, because the degree I wish to pursue there is self-designed and interdepartmental! Whoa. Too much.

So… hm. Geez. This throws a wrench in my plans a bit for now. I better get on the calling/emailing train fast. Because it would blow for attending WKU to cost as much as COA. Poops. A thousand splendid poops.

**P.S. My baby sister, who is a freshman at WKU, is riding high on a full scholarship plus bonusessss, and our high school stats are remarkably comparable. Fuck and shiiiit.**

I crashed my head into the keyboard and apparently in the meantime I applied to WKU

(meaning, like applying to UK, I was like, WAIT. This is it? Whoa… really? Umm. Okay, now I pay you 40$ and this isn’t a scam, right?” Surreal.)

What I am hoping is no more debt, having my own apartment, and self-designing a degree in human ecology a la COA, with an emphasis in sustainable design.

And then, maybe, I’d have money for graduate school! Or maybe I can even… travel! Or go to Yestermorrow Design Build School yes?!

I feel so very odd and awkward asking professors and acquiantances to pen me letters of reference and recommendation—which may explain why I haven’t yet.

In high school, I took for granted that virtually every teacher I ever had would write me a glowing review. Now, when I think back to my college professors, I feel like I can barely guarantee their remembrance of me, nevermind, you know, an actual, cogent, positive recommendation. Lord, I know this is my own fault, and college was scary, and I was/am dealing with a lot of terrifying and paralyzing personal issues… And so, still, I am not sure who I should bother to write a recommendation for me. I feel I’ve let everyone down. I’ve certainly let myself down.

And so, here are my thoughts. I am thinking Eva Cadavid, a philosophy professor who taught my January term class sophomore year, Feminism and Philosophy. She has that sort of warm, visionary personality that makes me feel fairly confident she’ll have something nice to say. I feel I participated well in that class, and I did have a sort of mental breakdown in her office one day, babbling and careers and motherhood and my mother and the future and bills and Self and how scared and directionless I was. And she seemed concerned and helpful. I am kind of embarrassed to bring this up again, though…

I am also thinking Mykol Hamilton, a psychology professor, might also write me a recommendation. But—I am well aware that she has not had the best couple of years with stressed-out situations in her family, and upon that she seems naturally scatterbrained. I had her for the Psychology of Women, which I enjoyed. I felt that I surged with confidence in leading discussions in that class, and made a solid A of it. She also was the official sponsor of the swing dance club—and I took a dance class she offered at the community arts center—but I do wonder if she would remember my involvement in either of these things. Hum.

I also suppose I’ll have my counselor and/or psychiatrist write a note for me. It certainly couldn’t hurt. Ufh.

What are your suggestions? How do you approach asking for letters of recommendation?

I am, in fact, afraid of returning to college courses.

I am afraid—to a ridiculous point—of writing papers.

Academics played into a large part of my identity prior to beginning college: I was voted “Most Intellectual” of my graduating class, for whatever that is worth. Now I feel a whole lot like a phony.

- - -

Today, I was home. I went to the grocery store to pick up cream, chocolate, and tea. I came home, made ganache, sorted tea, added to my beer cheese, painted, made a cloth air freshener for my car, sorted pyrite chunks into pairs for making earrings (maybe), cleaned up, watched The Squid and The Whale (which has put me into a funk.)

Save for the movie, which has kind of unsettled me, I’ve felt really good today. Really content.

I feel as if I should feel more of a burn to go back to school. Some days (or nights, more like), I do. I’ve compiled a list, by some mad method, of 15 schools I want to do more research on. I feel up for moving anywhere. Realistically, though—school itself is, um, terrifying for me. Being a creative homebody is really enjoyable, I find. Agh.

It’s mind-boggling to me that I was supposed to graduate this year.

I’m a helpless child! I’ve not followed my passions. I’ve not spent my time as I imagined I would have, both through faults of my own and faults much, much greater than my realm of influence projects.

I am feeling a bit bittersweet about my time as a traditional college student. But I feel more overwhelmed and hopeless about the future, and I cannot imagine the umbilical cord of my college growing-up experience being cut abruptly by, heaven forbid, graduating! This is a terribly illogical argument. I get kicked out, and so, now I am in limbo. That chapter of my life has not yet reached its finale, so in the meantime, I can dawdle, I can daydream, I can analyze myself and my goals and passions and look again at the various adventures I can pursue until, yes, I deem this chapter of my life complete. It’s very scary, and I will not have that very expensive, impressive piece of paper framed above my desk come this May. But, yes, I got myself into this mess. And my friends? Graduating—the cord is cut. They’ve worked incredibly hard, and indeed, many are ready to get the hell out of Dodge, already.

I must be projecting. Do you feel ready? How do you feel, on the cusp of your bachelor’s degree?

there is no place for you.

you are not valuable.

always, always I feel—there is no place for me.

hello, loan letter. thank you very much for bringing me to break down now on perhaps my longest-held insecure personal narrative. thank you. 

i have no porch and no rain to cry in or in at seven, appealing to some sense of the divine because i only felt sure of that love (no more!)

i believe my father when he said i deserve no education, no talk of affording it, at seventeen with so many dreams and the highest grade point average of my graduating class; my precursors went to MIT, williams, harvard. endless shame.

Oh tumblr, really, I have missed you. Writing is cathartic, even if I may not write about items much other than the quotidian.

So, here are the things.

1. I have not yet submitted my St. Johns application. This is a problem. I keep saying this, but—BUT!—I really, really need to just sit down and knock it out. Everything has already been brainstormed. It’s really only time that is of the essence. I must do it.

But also, yes—my federal loan grace period is shortly to be over, unless I resume school soon, and then the payback period will be lifted again. You know, as I accrue more debt. I don’t know how I feel about this.

a. I want to experience the St. John’s program. Either it will fit, or I will rule it out. That’s life, and losing money on a learning experience is life too. I guess. Right?

b. Did I say “I want” up there? It’s more of a need. It is existential therapy. It is important life work.

c. I am frustrated that my parents’ honesty messes with my FAFSA Expected Family Contribution. We have a small amount of property and a decrepit home in rural Kentucky, remnants of my father’s past and our collective familial imagination. On some of the land we do make some money annually (from farming); this profit has rarely broken $1k. in actuality, this property is a burden to us. The house is shot up and broken into many times. We pay a neighbor to mow occasionally. It is emotionally draining for everyone and a cause of a lot of tension and soreness in my family. Yet, not wanting to make a fuss, on FAFSA, my mother lists this property as if it is an asset, as if it is a second home or something. Let me repeat: IT IS NOT. If ever the property were to change hands, it would have to be after my father’s death. Let’s not get into this further, okay?

d. But what. Let’s admit to this, okay.

I do feel freaking entitled to a great education. I do. I do. I feel entitled.

I am smart. I am passionate. I care so deeply about learning and growing as an individual, and fostering care within my community. I have strong ideals and the visionary streak to drive them. I am creative and ambitious. My Protestant/pull-yourself-up-by-your-own-bootstraps upbringing makes me cringe to say that,

I believe I am entitled to an excellent education, no matter what my parents can and cannot afford. Don’t you see? I want this learning from my very core. And I want my society to trust that, and trust that a person with my attributes will indeed better the world all the more once vested in a fine education.

Like I said. I’ve done nothing wrong.

And the age is a funny thing, too. You ask a 17 or 18 year old kid with little concept of (or rather, little practical experience of) making and managing money— or even making decisions for themselves—to weigh the value of an education and future debt. It’s so ludicrous.

Hold on.

My boyfriend is calling me. Maybe I will rant more later.

I am reminded by this from my #CentreGirlProbs reblog.

Many students at Centre have an obnoxious pride in their college culture that I do not quite understand, that is difficult to define. Let us try, dear reader, with metaphors!

It’s the same twinge I get when my—

WAIT WAIT I know what the word is! It is SO DAMN SMUG.

Ahem. Like when my pampered cousin-in-law describes every ittle bittle thing about her 1-yr-old (you know, constipation and food allergies and such), and takes really unflattering, unskilled pictures of the child and posts them EVERYWHERE. There’s always this pseudo-aura of modesty, of genuine joy, of feigned constant enthusiasm of trivialities (or are they feigned? god, I hope so) that accompanies such posts, as in a way of proving oneself to to others, as a way of patting oneself on the back, or just plain old bragging.

Or, during sorority recruitment, and every young lady in a letter shirt suddenly is flushed with sweet adoration for her sisters, smugging up all of facebook for their selfish pleasure.

Or the dude you meet down the hall who is emphatic when stating, “my GIRLFRIEND… blah blah… [is super involved in this mundane—but good!—but is it really even impressive or interesting?—thing, etc. etc.] and lord, you just KNOW he’s boasting, even though he attempts to play it off as no big deal.

A subtle, smug, life-one-up-manship.

Friends, do not think I condone taking the luxuries of our small, quite good liberal arts college experience for granted. Do not suppose I do not appreciate a thankful heart, or even pride. But the view is often so privileged, so smug, so—even—juvenile. It trivializes the truly extraordinary, transformative experiences we have at the school, as well as any real complaints that beg for change within the institution. It is very happy to perpetually exist in the Centre bubble.

I am annoyed by students groaning about Centre final exams as if they deserve special pity because, you know, Centre is a HARD SCHOOL, and you just wouldn’t understand! I am annoyed by general complaints about homework and reading assignments.

Hello, special snowflake, you are in college, and your job is to learn now. And guess what? You, student, get to decide what that means for you. It’s not your syllabus. You are relatively free.

Sarah Scott Hall, director of residence life, has an excellent bit of advice: You get to freely complain one time about something—that’s it; once! After that, you’ve got to DO something about it.

So, student, if you decide that by reading your class assignment, you will learn, then, by all means, do it without complaining. If instead you find you learn better while pursuing a creative hobby or researching a personal intellectual interest, why, do that, and contemplate how you can make more of your “official” B.A.-approved learning by integrating these passions. Forge a path elsewhere if you must. Actually, please, forge another path.

I need to find a way to travel to Santa Fe to visit said school. Either I need a particularly cheap method of transportation, or I need to raise the funds for typical transportation.

When I read about the school, I giggle, it seems so right, ideal. But my romantic imagining of the school is one thing, and I really must visit and attend class—and meet the students. It is too much of a monetary investment (and time!). I need to be sure.

… advice?