No Longer 'Into the Unknown'

Sometimes, one can be surprised by things that everyone else accepts as a foregone conclusion or a matter of fact. Today one such surprise took place. The director of graduate studies in English at one of the seven universities to which I applied telephoned me to offer a generous funding package for my doctoral studies. I was accepted on the 19th instant, but there were still some outstanding pieces of paperwork to file for a tuition waiver. Now, that paperwork is no longer necessary.

The university (hereafter referred to as University A, because it was the first to reply to me) has offered me a four-year funding package including a teaching assistantship with a seventeen thousand dollar per annum stipend, a full tuition waiver, health care, and an option for a fifth-year dissertation award of twenty thousand dollars, if needed. The assistantship offer may be enlarged to a twenty thousand dollar non-teaching stipend instead, though a few weeks are needed to confirm this. There are other additional awards which are in addition to those aforementioned.

Whether or not I accept the offer presented by University A, they have effectively ensured that I will be in a doctoral programme this autumn. Even if all of my other applications are rejected out-of-hand, I have been accepted with funding somewhere–and not minimal funding, either. Their offer was generous even compared to the standard awards of some of the other, larger universities to which I applied. Moreover, the confidence which they appear to have in me bodes well for how they think I will ‘fit’ within their department.

A Traditional University

Most important for me, in all of this, is the removal of that just-hinted-at possibility: that I might be rejected in all areas; that I might end up teaching rhetoric for a year, or even choosing a different field; that six years of hard work and occasional suffering would have resulted in a busted flush. Now, that dire possibility is dispelled. It is a possibility which, for more than six years, has weighed on my mind every single day, through every project, and in every term. In an afternoon it has been settled. I will go into doctoral studies; I will obtain my PhD.

All along, my friends, family, colleagues, and professors have assured that me this would be the case. Yet until now, I have never allowed myself to believe it, lest disappointment overcome me when it failed to materialise. I have always believed that the esteem in which others hold me is absurdly inflated and out of all proportion with reality, and I still feel this way. Yet this time, I appear to have been wrong in my estimations. Someone, somewhere, thinks that my interests and ideas possess merit and, at the very least, the capacity for scholarship.

Thea is delighted with the circumstance. It removes many of the larger concerns which hung, cloudlike, over our future life together. Now that we are certain of funding and a career, we can rest a little more easily. No longer is next autumn a location of impenetrable mystery. That pervasive fog, like my former doubt, has been dispelled.

A Dark Wood

The past fortnight has been one of the more difficult which I have had to face in the preceding six years. The culmination of a very difficult semester, combined with the finalisation of my doctoral applications, would have been sufficient enough to stress out any student. Indeed, many of my colleagues find themselves weighed down with the coursework alone. My father’s surgery for cancer also took place. As always seems to be the case in my experiences, nothing went right.

The surgery appeared to proceed smoothly, but the doctors gave my father liquid Vicodin when he was in recovery. My sister had advised them not to do this in the strongest possible terms, but they ignored her. My father spent most of the night vomiting; he expelled his food tube, his breathing appartus, and so on. It was a disaster–especially considering the fragile state of his vocal cords, and the need to preserve them from damage or infection.

The doctors saw the error of their ways and corrected the medication. However, it turned out that they missed some of the cancer. Another surgery was deemed necessary–this time, to remove his vocal cords entirely, on the day he had originally been intended for release. Once this was done, they put him on new medication. The new medication caused psychosis. My father was confused; he did not know where he was, and was in a constant state of panic and disorder in his mind. He believed himself still married, and could not sleep. His conversation, carried out in writing, was incomprehensibly muddled.

The medication was changed shortly after my sister and my mother managed to get a doctor to listen to them. For my part, I could not visit my father as I was laid up in bed with a severe flu and dared not come within any distance of him whilst there was the least threat of contagion. Only today did I finally begin to improve to the point where I could sit up and move about. I feel I should be better in another forty-eight hours; and a good thing–my father will be home later today.

An Obstacle to Progress

He remains confused, though somewhat improved. The whole situation is not without its issues–once again, my parents and my sister are using this a vehicle to try and prevent me accomplishing anything. Though my father will only be in recovery for six total weeks, and only in intensive recovery for a fortnight, they are already demanding that I drop out of the Master’s program at Oakland and get a job at Wal*Mart or Meijer–nevermind that I have put six years of work into this, nevermind that I have wagered my entire future on it in incurring six years of student loans, nevermind that I have poured my heart and soul into this one goal: a career as a professor or English. –Nevermind any of it. I am expected to sacrifice it all so that I can ease the burden of my dissolute sister and my alcoholic mother for a mere six weeks They genuinely believe the past six years, and my entire future, should be abandoned for this.

I am not inclined to shout, nor to employ strong language in arguments. I am patient and I prefer to simply get up and walk away when people are being unreasonable. But I have spent my entire life walking away, letting my mother, my father, and my sister grind down upon me like a millstone. They have used every eventuality as an excuse–whether it was a job, or a relationship, or an illness. They have opposed, at every turn, my every effort. They have tried to make it impossible for me to study. They have tried to make it impossible for me to obtain books, or a means of travel, or even freedom of movement. Finally, today, when I saw that they were even willing to use my father’s illness as a tool to achieve their vile ends, I reached my limit.

I told my mother in language clear, direct, and unequivocal, that I would never, ever abandon my goals–that I would sooner live in a gutter and drink water from the sluice; that I would sell my piano, my books, and my clothes, and all of my possessions; that I would go crawling, naked and begging to my friends; that I would endure any privation which man could devise before I would give up this one goal, this one dream, which I have had ever since I can remember. I would rather die than throw it away. For, what I would have if I were to do that would be something less than life, and not at all worth living, I think.

Trees Without End

There may be no chance of me getting into a doctoral program. I am aware of my many limitations and faults. I am far too lazy, lacking the bottomless well of industry which many people I know possess. But I also know my strengths: an indefatigability of spirit, an immeasureable strength of will, and an enthusiasm for my profession which has burned within me, unabated, increasing in magnitude, since the earliest moments of my recollection. “One day, you will be a great scholar,” everyone said. “You seem like a professor already,” they continue to say. It is the only thing I have ever wanted, and I want it with all of my being. I will do whatever it takes. Maybe I will fail–but if I do, it will be in the trying–not because my family has squashed me under their heel once again.

This is the moment of another great hurdle. So far, I have crossed them all intact. This one will be leapt, too.

Once, I sat in a tailback on the way to visit Thea, and thought I would be in it for hours. It seemed to stretch on as far as the eye could see. Soon, I crested the top of a hill and, just beyond the crown, there was a small accident. I passed it at once, and from there the roads were open and clear all the way to my destination. From the other side of the hill, the clearing was out of sight. Similarly, from within this valley, it is hard to see the edge of the forest–but all forests have an end, and this one too. I may come upon it sooner than I expect. I certainly hope so.

Holy Cross

If one is being married in the Catholic church, as Thea and I are, there are unique challenges to address. There are classes that have to be taken–a requirement handed down by well-meaning authorities in an effort to reduce the number of divorces by reducing the marriage rate of couples who are likely to divorce. Of course, the public goal is to give couples the discussion tools they need in order to remain together. However, I posit that in actuality it just serves as a tool to dissuade people who are not serious. After all, who wants to sit through six months of dreary, aphoristic, bureaucratic, excessively religious claptrap if they aren’t absolutely devoted to their intended spouse?

But if planning a wedding is a difficult and tiresome endeavour, planning it whilst simultaneously applying to doctoral programs is inestimably worse. Between the phone calls to caterers, reception halls, chuches, ecclesiastical authorities, well-meaning (and not-so-well-meaning) family members, friends, acquaintences, honoured guests, bridesmaids, groomsmen, dress-makers, habadashers, hatters, and gift registries, one must also find the time to write a statement of academic purpose more detailed than one has ever heretofore done–and by a considerable margin. Whereas in an undergraduate or even a Master’s program a general statement of intent is acceptable for admission, at the doctoral level things are very different indeed. The result of this demanding necessity is that I am quite incapable of addressing the logistics of the wedding at the moment. Thankfully it is being handled by Thea. In December, I will be able to give it more mind; at the moment, I cannot even answer simple things like, “should we have it on a Sunday?”

The Organ at Holy Cross

When I looked over the successful applications of some of my friends who are currently in doctoral programs, I was surprised at the level of specificity which they stated as their doctoral intent. It was not merely an area of focus, but a single, narrow topic and, moreover, the particular avenues of research along that topic. It is the microscopic approach to scholarly intent which the Academy desires, and this is something which my current university has not prepared for me at all. My colleague Colly was as surprised as I was, and more than a little taken aback. He was relieved that he had decided to take a year off in which to read narrowly and formulate such a topic of enquiry. I, on the other hand, have less than a month to do the same.

But there are no tasks set me which I am not otherwise capable of addressing, and so the great read-a-thon began. Every recent article I could lay hands on through the library, Project MUSE, or JSTOR has been rapidly acquired and devoured. I have done my best to immerse myself within, and to try and comprehend, the current discourse in my chosen field. And I feel I have come out of it reasonably well-informed. I now know what I want to do: it will be a matter of employing the previous methods I have formerly employed (of using a philosophical lens to interrogate a piece of literature), but on a particular narrow topic in my focus area of medieval English literature (as opposed to Dante, Shakespeare, or Marvell, as I have previously done).

I have come out of the readings with a solid knowledge of the kinds of arguments that are currently being made–and with a degree of optimism about the direction of the academy. Some of the currently empowered theories are waning in their influence, whereas the approaches I more fully employ (History of Ideas, Philosophy, Religious Studies) are on the rise. The result is that I may be a very attractive PhD candidate for any school which is looking to remain on the cutting edge of scholarship. Conversely, if your particular interests are limited to the study of Derrida, Foucault, Kristeva, Butler, and the like, you have my sympathies. The ship of theoretical study alone has, I think, well and truly sailed. A new, interdisciplinary, cross-theoretical horizon beckons.

Whilst these two matters of great moment are ongoing, there is the tiny matter of my Master’s seminar and my poetry elective still to consider. With a paper to present today and a draft due in five days more, followed by two research papers (one for each class), I can hardly be said to be living easily. To put it simply, the weight of it is all very crushing. Sometimes, a fellow feels like he is being smothered, and it comes out in the ways in which I address things.

Mt. Pelion and Mt. Ossa

My father has been diagnosed with cancer again, and this time it will take surgery to remove it–surgery that will almost entirely certainly cost him his voice and leave him very sick for some time afterwards. Confronted with this amidst the other towering issues I must deal with–whilst running L.com and trying to plan for a future move to Virginia, Massachusetts, or North Carolina–I found myself utterly unable to compose myself properly. I still do not. I am neither sad, nor happy; not shocked, distressed, or particularly sympathetic. I am overwhelmed. There is no room for any other emotion. This autumn has seen me squashed under the weight of too many powerful forces: malice and deceit, two extremely difficulty and demanding graduate courses, a veritable mountain of doctoral application paperwork and scholarly self-examination/reconsideration, my father’s illness, my marriage in June, my job’s increasing demands, and my diminishing time in which to get any of these things done.

And yet, somehow, I have managed to continue on and meet all of the requirements I have been served, if only just. It is here, and only here, that I allow them to mix freely–where the manifold obligations can be seen as they are: a massive, heaving, growing pile, stretching high into the heavens–formidable and dauntless. Is it any wonder that I find it hard to smile? And yet, I continue to do so. I endeavour to remain pleasant, optimistic, and as kind as I can force myself to be. It is just another effort and, amongst so many others, what is one more?

Mt. Everest

This day and the last have been entirely consumed in school work, as will tomorrow, and I have ended each day feeling entirely exhausted from the labours. Yet the exhaustion is not negative; rather, it is accompanied by a sense of satisfaction that I am making progress in my slow and diligent ascent upon the mountain of my future. This is no hyperbole: often, the work is daunting to the point where it seems soul-crushing. There are letters to finish, statements to complete, more schools to research, professors to e-mail, applications to fill out, and tests to study for. And whilst all this is taking place, classes are ongoing–my senior seminar and an elective in my area of focus. Sometimes, I wonder how I can do it. I begin to despair. It takes a great effort of will to recall that worrying about how I can do it will not avail me; instead, I have only to try as best I can.

I have been fortunate enough to have been given many second chances in life–in a state of existence in which too many people do not even receive first chances. What I threw away in high school was given back to me by Fr. John West when he got me into Sacred Heart Major Seminary, from which I transferred to Oakland to ultimately pursue the career as a professor of English which I had spent my entire childhood and adolescence dreaming of; which everyone felt I should attempt. And when I threw it away again, along with the love of a woman for whom I was made as surely as she was made for me, I was given another second chance by virtue of meeting someone else who put me back onto the paths I needed to walk: a focus on literature and English, and a personal crucible which washed away self-centrism to replace it with self-sacrifice.

Meriwether Lewis

These are comforting thoughts. For when I consider that with a firm and steady hand I have ever been guided back to the correct path, I know that, as long as my heart remains true to those purposes, I can trust in that almighty providence which has ordered my affairs with seemingly infinite mercy and patience. This does not mean that I can do as I like without fear of consequences, but rather that I can trust in the future so long as I continue to work diligently towards those ends. When I have stepped aside, I have not been prevented falling into ruin; but when I have sought to return to the paths laid down for me, I have been shown back to them through ineffable ways attributable only to the mercy of God.

In reading, I came across an excerpt from the journals of Meriwether Lewis in which, on his thirty-first birthday, he expressed regret at the amount of time he had spent not engaged in either furthering the happiness of humanity or advancing human knowledge. I hope that in the former case I will succeed through my relationship with Thea, and in the latter case I will succeed through my career as a professor of English. Yet, for me, the reason to climb is not the progress or happiness of humanity, but because it is woven into the fibre of my being. Because if I did not, I would regret it forever; because if I cast it aside or turned from it, I would be overcome with remorse and would spend the rest of my life trying to undo it. Like George Mallory, I climb because it’s there. Hopefully, I will meet with the success which eluded Mallory and deserted Lewis. But, if not, at least I will live without the reproaches of my conscience.

Fyodor Dostoyevsky

This week, I selected the ten schools where I will apply for entrance into doctoral programmes. They range from the ‘probably too ambitious’ to the ‘probably too cautious’, with the hope being that I will be accepted into at least one of the middle options. My great hope is the University of Michigan–it is a solid school, and would mean that I could remain in-state. But, the reality of the market is such that there are other factors to consider in addition to mere geography: the quality of the programme, the personalities of the key scholars, and (inevitably) the money.

This all assumes, of course, that I get in. With the subject GRE in English Literature coming up, I find myself anxious. To say that a comprehensive knowledge of English literature is required would be an understatement. A read-through of the example test shows that one must be intimately familiar with the plots, structures, and writing styles present in a dizzying array of works from all areas of the canon from Beowulf to Tom Wolfe. Curiously, some of the Russian novelists find their way in as well: perhaps someone at GRE-HQ has a thing for Dostoyevsky.

Whilst these issues remain hanging overhead–the grim atmosphere of the moment–the quotidian aspects of academic life continue to roll on like waves upon a beach; and with the same slow, erosive effect. Discussions are had, crackpot theories are advanced, colleagues show themselves brilliant and boobish by turns, and professors are exasperated by the occasional raving of this or that ageing student. In general, the whole is very satisfactory; peculiar events stand out and–retrospectively–are more occasion for humour than actual frustration. I am fortunate in that nearly all of my peers are capable and intelligent, few as they are.

Charles Baudelaire

For the first time since I began college-level studies, I am accomplishing some personal reading in the course of a semester. It is a cheat, of a sort, since it has a direct bearing on the classes I am taking, but Baudelaire is, nevertheless, one of my great joys. I last read his Les Fleurs du Mal in English when I was in high school; now, I am at last able to do so in French (though admittedly with some concentration and the occasional glance to reference works). The work is amazing; I appreciate it far more than I did when I was younger, just as I appreciate Wuthering Heights far more. If academic studies have taught me anything, it is how to examine, interrogate, and appreciate literature. I get far more out of books now than I ever did before.

But what is such an extraction without someone to discuss it with–someone of like mind and a similar literary bent? Luckily, I am just as fortunate in this regard. And so my academic studies provided me with Thea who, like me, loves the great poets and their many works–who enjoys hearing them read, discussing them, and meditating upon their ideas. It is a happy restoration which, as though fated, restores order from chaos. Working against the laws of entropy which seem to govern all else, human relations inclusive, the situation is a compelling argument for destiny (at least).

A few days ago, I observed that my academic pursuits have stopped being ‘tasks to which I must attend’, and have become instead ‘my life’–by which I mean that I no longer view them as hurdles to be jumped, but rather as contingent parts of my experiences. In the same way that I must shower, shave, and make tea, I must also read books and write papers upon them. This is what I meant about the erosive effect of academia: it has taken my rough edges–rebellious here, slothful there–and worn them down into a more agreeable shape. Rounded thus, they accept the waves with less rebuke, even as they lightly impregnate the waters with something of my own granite will.

Night driving is beautiful and enjoyable.

This afternoon, Thea asked me if I would like to come visit her in the evening. I was anxious for this to happen, but also quite nervous. After all, a lot happened two years ago, and I didn’t expect her father and grandfather to be thrilled with the prospect of her and I being reunited. But it turned out that my worries were for naught. Both of them were understanding and, perhaps, have seen some of the results of my hard work in ensuring that everything was squared away with Thea after we came home.

She had incurred debts whilst we were in Chicago–debts ultimately taken on my behalf. So, I made it my goal to repay everything. Thea was forgiving and offered to accept only a fraction of the amount, but I made it clear I would accept nothing less than to repay the full balance. The figure was set near the five thousand dollar mark, and within the year I had repaid her. This may have gone some way to rectifying the impression that was initially formed, and the long-term nature of our friendship over this entire time has probably eased the way for her family, as well.

Masquerade, Paper Faces on Parade

So it was that when I was at Thea’s house, her grandfather was pleasant and affable, and we all talked frankly and openly. How unlike the experiences of the past few years, where I as being endlessly scrutinised, dissected, and evaluated! How unlike this conversation was to those I had in another place; no longer was I being subjected to some sort of interrogation or power-game masquerading as conversation. In seconds, all of my prior concerns were put to rest completely. This is how it is meant to be; how sad that I had been in a situation so amiss that I had completely forgotten the pleasures of genuine and reciprocal friendliness–no masks; no facades; no elaborate disguises; no stratagems or traps. In short, what a relief!

It was therefore decided that I should come out every Wednesday, so that I will be able to see Thea twice per week instead of once. She will visit me on weekends, and I will visit her on Wednesday. The more I see of her, the better, and now she will not have to put off seeing me due to the constraints of her job. (During the week, she is not available until 18:30, and has to be in bed around 22:00. The drive is roughly an hour, which means that she would have to drive two hours to see me for two hours. Thus it is better if I drive, and double the time we have together.)

Reflecting upon this on the way home, I felt myself consumed with a strange mixture of both relief and pity. Relief for the comfort, the expectation, the dependability, and the affection which tonight’s meeting occasioned and promised; pity for those who, as arbiters of the other sort of situation, seem to carry on unaware that there is something greater than an elaborate facade of politic behaviour, behind which lies a naked grasp for power, the manifest exertions of a will which seeks to dominate, not befriend.

Another Day Is Dawning

This will be a new home for my journal entries.

My LiveJournal account is more or less defunct now, having chronicled the search–lasting fourteen years–for the woman who is my true love. I found her, lost her, was prevented recovering her, let her go, and then finally found her again. This time, there won’t be any more separations. The two year interval was filled with pain and suffering, and sufficed to instruct me in those virtues I lacked: self-sacrifice, diplomacy, and moderation. Those agonies were the crucible which made me worthy of my Thea, at long last.

I have begun the process of applying for doctoral programs. This is, initially at least, a terrifying procedure. I have always doubted my capabilities and had a low opinion of what I am capable of, so I view my prospects with pessimism. Yet my friends, colleagues, and instructors have been universal in their praise and reinforcement so that, just a little bit, I feel that I might make something of myself after all. I have been told that a successful career awaits me. I hope that is the case.

My thesis has received a perfect grade, my GRE scores are excellent, and I should do well on the subject test as well. My grades are very good, I have many letters of recommendation at my disposal, and I can call upon professors in two departments to vouch for my capabilities. I should be all right. (I am still nervous, though.)

Thea and I have considered buying a house: there are many options open to us through close family connexions. It is quite affordable, but we are not certain where I will be next autumn. Therefore, we have decided to wait until the spring. Then, I will know where to look, and we will investigate housing opportunities. It will be nice to finally be free of the expectations currently levelled against me.

Catherine and Heathcliff

At the moment I am looking forward to the future with a mixture of trepidation, anxiety, and impatience. I have only just concluded one great effort; rewriting Wuthering Heights so that it has a happy ending; an ending where Catherine and Heathcliff are reunited. Perhaps that was not accomplishment enough: a further task is required. Thus the doctoral program. I will be accepted, of course. It is strange that I should wonder about it. It is almost a foregone conclusion. I found Thea again because it was meant to be so, and the intervening situation existed to get me into graduate school again. Thus I am being pushed back onto the path that I left two years ago: the path where Thea and I had our own place and I was on a path to my Ph.D.

I thought, back then, that it was impossible to find my way back; that it could not possible transpire that I should recover my future. Rather, I had resigned myself to living out a different path from that which had been intended. Yet here I am, and all is restored. Only I am a better person, and everything I have been given anew is better than that which I had before. Truly, God is merciful and wondrous. I, deserving nothing, have been given everything. And this–this is why my motto is and ever shall be ecce magnificentia fidei.