It has been one month and ten days since I graduated. I feel disappointed. As I think every naive graduate has done, I came out of college swinging--thinking I was going to take the world by storm. Here is a list of the things I have done since I have been out of school:
1.) Spied on the neighbor throwing his dog's poop in my trash can.
2.) Finished 0 new essays.
3.) Drank lots of coffee.
4.) Sent a proposal to Bust Magazine.
5.) Eaten a lot of Lamb Grinders from Bar Gernika and drank a lot of Red Seal to go along with them.
6.) Made a list of goals on how to become a popular writer and make money writing.
7.) Worked
8.) Watched almost two seasons of Intervention (though I don't watch the full episodes, just the messed up parts.)
9.) Finished a couple of books.
10.) Read the book Your Stupid, Stupid Decision to Go to Grad School and laughed and gave myself an ulcer from worry.
11.) Made a list of three ideas of essays I should write.
12.) Moped and cried because I am not taking the world by storm.
13.) While moping and feeling worthless, I decided I should revamp my cafe on Zynga's CafeWorld on Facebook. I am humiliated each day because while I know I should be writing, I am busy cooking White Radish Cake and serving Triple Berry Cheesecake, all the while wishing the cheesecake was real so I could do some emotional eating and wondering how much I would be made fun of by friends who knew I had started to play the game again.
Someone gave me a peptalk the other day about how most people think they will take the world by storm when they get out of college--I'm not an exception--and most don't. I responded by crying and saying "But I WAAAAAANNNTTT tooooooo."
The problem is, in order to make it as a writer, you must write. And in order to write, you must sit down, ass in chair (as that Ballenger voice says in my head) and WRITE! But how do you write when you don't feel motivated and you feel like your life is in limbo while waiting to see if you're accepted to graduate school? And how do you write when you wake up one day and realize you've become a sniveling, entitled, whining sad-sack about it all. And then you see something so discouraging to your psyche that you think antidepressants may be in order.
Today, I woke to find that one of my classmates is writing for a local paper. And while I am happy one of us is doing something, I am also disheartened because this girl is also the one that in class when someone told her she had a lot of run-on sentences (this was an upper-division English class), she said she had no idea what that meant. And she also said she had no idea what a complete sentence was. If she knew what a complete sentence was, then I would be happier. And if I knew she really wanted to be a writer, I would be happier. But in class, she said something about how she didn't think the English degree was for her, and she had decided to go into nursing. But somehow, even though writing isn't her "thing," she still got a job writing. It makes me sound like a bitch, and I am, and I don't care. But it also baffles me. Maybe she got it because she tried, but I feel sort of defeated that someone like that, who can't write a complete sentence, made it in a small way. I don't want to write hard news; I want to be funny and be a bitch and gross people out and make them laugh until they piss themselves. And maybe she put in the hard work, and in the month since we graduated, learned what a complete sentence is, so I should be happy for her. And maybe I should stick my neck out there more because no one knows I exist behind this computer, sporting unwashed hair, going braless, wearing grubby pajamas and drinking coffee while stroking my cat. If I take a shower, maybe then I can take a little bit of the world by storm.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Saturday, January 15, 2011
Flea Market
My sister sets up a booth at the flea market every once in a while, and today, she convinced me to come visit. As soon as I walked through the gates of the Expo Building of the fairgrounds, I was reminded why I hate the flea market and love it all at the same time. The people always trip me out at flea markets. Usually the flea market is paired with a gun show, and today there was fishing show, too, so there was a good mix of old people, men in camouflage, smokers, and people with physical ailments--mainly missing legs, missing hands, and missing eyes.
I didn't stay very long, as I had other plans, but I stayed long enough to find this:
It is a black and white print of a portrait of Franklin Roosevelt by Elizabeth Shoumatoff, which originally was unfinished because as Roosevelt sat for the painting on April 12, 1945 at Warm Springs, GA, he suffered a cerebral hemorrhage that killed him. I have yet to figure out if this is an original print--it has an original stamp from the Warm Springs Memorial Commission from The Little White House in Warm Springs, GA, and it looks really old, but I am not an expert. I found one almost exactly like mine in an auction, appraised at 200-300 dollars, which is good for the $5.75 I borrowed from my sister to buy it.
In my adult years, I have developed a penchant for presidential memorabilia, but I am particularly fond of Franklin Roosevelt. He was a good president, and I think in our troubled times, we can learn from him. He had a tumultuous personal life, but he was one of few presidents that people truly respected--he was on his fourth term when he died--and he never claimed to have all the answers; however, he asked for the peoples' patience while he and Congress tried to implement measures to make the country a better place. I found his Fireside Chats available for the Kindle. I'm sure I'll write more about them once I start reading them.
I didn't stay very long, as I had other plans, but I stayed long enough to find this:
It is a black and white print of a portrait of Franklin Roosevelt by Elizabeth Shoumatoff, which originally was unfinished because as Roosevelt sat for the painting on April 12, 1945 at Warm Springs, GA, he suffered a cerebral hemorrhage that killed him. I have yet to figure out if this is an original print--it has an original stamp from the Warm Springs Memorial Commission from The Little White House in Warm Springs, GA, and it looks really old, but I am not an expert. I found one almost exactly like mine in an auction, appraised at 200-300 dollars, which is good for the $5.75 I borrowed from my sister to buy it.
In my adult years, I have developed a penchant for presidential memorabilia, but I am particularly fond of Franklin Roosevelt. He was a good president, and I think in our troubled times, we can learn from him. He had a tumultuous personal life, but he was one of few presidents that people truly respected--he was on his fourth term when he died--and he never claimed to have all the answers; however, he asked for the peoples' patience while he and Congress tried to implement measures to make the country a better place. I found his Fireside Chats available for the Kindle. I'm sure I'll write more about them once I start reading them.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
BSU: the "green" (see cheap) school
I got an email today from BSU about how I wasn't going to receive a Dean's List certificate in the mail, even though I was on the Dean's List. The reason: the college is "going green." I call bullshit. And while it might not be a big deal to most, I have been giving the certificates to my mom or my grandma, and seeing my name makes them excited and keeps them living (well at least in my grandma's case--well not really). So, it's not like the paper ends up in the trash, and it's not like the paper they print them on wasn't already made. They aren't cutting down a special tree to make the certificates--yes, I know, faulty logic; if we keep thinking this way then the Earth will be an even bigger fiery inferno, but you know what? This stupid piece of paper is important to me. I don't need it to stroke my ego, but I like the feeling I get when it comes in the mail and I like the smile on my mom's face when she sees it--a look of a job well done in raising me. At any rate, I think the college is cheap, and wanting my damned piece of paper isn't whiny or snotty; after that last semester, I deserve it. So, as I am wont to do, I wrote a complaint. Not attending class has given me time to do stuff like this. I think it is what idle minds do sometimes. The following is the correspondence I received and the correspondence I sent: the names have been taken out to protect the people involved--except for me.
On Thu, Jan 13, 2011 at 2:42 PM, XXX wrote
Dear College of Arts and Sciences student:
Congratulations on your Fall 2010 academic record at Boise State University. I am pleased to recognize your achievement by including you on the College of Arts and Sciences Dean’s List of Students. Boise State University provides the opportunity for individuals to achieve their academic goals, but it is up to you to take advantage of the opportunity. You have done this in an exceptional manner.
We would like to recognize your accomplishments on COAS’s website (http://artsci.boisestate.edu/index.html). Unless we hear otherwise from you, we will post your name and honor distinction on the website. Please note that the semester’s Dean’s list will be posted for the duration of the following semester at such conclusion the following semester’s honors will then be listed.
In the past, the College of Arts and Sciences Dean’s Office has issued certificates to those on the Dean’s List. In part due to the university-wide “go green” program and in part our fellow College’s progressive change, we are no longer mailing paper certificates. Your academic accomplishment of being on the Dean’s list will be noted on your transcripts. Again, congratulations on your achievements and please feel free to contact our office if we can be of further service to you.
Sincerely,
XXX's boss
Here is my letter back.
Dear XXX,
Let me first start by saying that I appreciate your correspondence. Secondly, I would like to recognize that you are only the messenger; however, I have some complaints regarding your correspondence.
While working on my undergraduate degree, I was on the Dean's List six times. This semester I graduated, and therefore this is my last chance to get a Dean's List certificate. While I am sure you wouldn't have known this, I send the certificate to either my mom or my grandma every time I get one. My grandma is almost ninety, and she is not in good health. This was probably the last time I was going to be able to send her a certificate. In return, she usually sends me fifty dollars in the mail--which to be honest, would be nice right about now because the economy isn't the best and finding a job is hard. So not only do I not get my fifty dollars, my grandma will die broken hearted--don't worry, though; I won't blame you.
I understand that BSU is "going green," and that our college is finally following suit. The "green movement" in our department at this juncture is a little curious since it comes right after Butch Otter's State of the State address in which he proposed numerous budget cuts. But come on, College of Arts and Sciences Dean's Office. Does it really cost that much money to send out some pieces of paper to recognize people that busted their humps--some of whom who are like me that worked nearly full-time and still managed to get a 4.0 while taking 14 credits in their final semesters? The paper the certificate is printed on isn't that great. The last time I got a certificate in the mail, the corner was torn; it's not like they are made out of gold. Postage could be a concern, and I understand that, except I remember the certificates being mailed in non-profit envelopes at a discount.
While I appreciate your offer to post my name on the website, and the consolation that the Dean's list accomplishment will be noted on my transcript (it is no matter what--no matter the "green" state of our university or not), I offer a better suggestion: why doesn't the College of Arts and Sciences Dean's Office provide a PDF version to each student that is on the Dean's List? Your computers are on anyway, and it is a "green" solution. This way, no blood will be on your hands for killing those trees (not even my grandma's because she'll still get a certificate), and instead I will print a certificate myself and kill the tree and use my own energy and ink and resources; thus, you stay green, and I get the one thing I was looking forward to for working so hard this semester.
Sincerely,
Andrea Oyarzabal
On Thu, Jan 13, 2011 at 2:42 PM, XXX wrote
Dear College of Arts and Sciences student:
Congratulations on your Fall 2010 academic record at Boise State University. I am pleased to recognize your achievement by including you on the College of Arts and Sciences Dean’s List of Students. Boise State University provides the opportunity for individuals to achieve their academic goals, but it is up to you to take advantage of the opportunity. You have done this in an exceptional manner.
We would like to recognize your accomplishments on COAS’s website (http://artsci.boisestate.edu/index.html). Unless we hear otherwise from you, we will post your name and honor distinction on the website. Please note that the semester’s Dean’s list will be posted for the duration of the following semester at such conclusion the following semester’s honors will then be listed.
In the past, the College of Arts and Sciences Dean’s Office has issued certificates to those on the Dean’s List. In part due to the university-wide “go green” program and in part our fellow College’s progressive change, we are no longer mailing paper certificates. Your academic accomplishment of being on the Dean’s list will be noted on your transcripts. Again, congratulations on your achievements and please feel free to contact our office if we can be of further service to you.
Sincerely,
XXX's boss
Here is my letter back.
Dear XXX,
Let me first start by saying that I appreciate your correspondence. Secondly, I would like to recognize that you are only the messenger; however, I have some complaints regarding your correspondence.
While working on my undergraduate degree, I was on the Dean's List six times. This semester I graduated, and therefore this is my last chance to get a Dean's List certificate. While I am sure you wouldn't have known this, I send the certificate to either my mom or my grandma every time I get one. My grandma is almost ninety, and she is not in good health. This was probably the last time I was going to be able to send her a certificate. In return, she usually sends me fifty dollars in the mail--which to be honest, would be nice right about now because the economy isn't the best and finding a job is hard. So not only do I not get my fifty dollars, my grandma will die broken hearted--don't worry, though; I won't blame you.
I understand that BSU is "going green," and that our college is finally following suit. The "green movement" in our department at this juncture is a little curious since it comes right after Butch Otter's State of the State address in which he proposed numerous budget cuts. But come on, College of Arts and Sciences Dean's Office. Does it really cost that much money to send out some pieces of paper to recognize people that busted their humps--some of whom who are like me that worked nearly full-time and still managed to get a 4.0 while taking 14 credits in their final semesters? The paper the certificate is printed on isn't that great. The last time I got a certificate in the mail, the corner was torn; it's not like they are made out of gold. Postage could be a concern, and I understand that, except I remember the certificates being mailed in non-profit envelopes at a discount.
While I appreciate your offer to post my name on the website, and the consolation that the Dean's list accomplishment will be noted on my transcript (it is no matter what--no matter the "green" state of our university or not), I offer a better suggestion: why doesn't the College of Arts and Sciences Dean's Office provide a PDF version to each student that is on the Dean's List? Your computers are on anyway, and it is a "green" solution. This way, no blood will be on your hands for killing those trees (not even my grandma's because she'll still get a certificate), and instead I will print a certificate myself and kill the tree and use my own energy and ink and resources; thus, you stay green, and I get the one thing I was looking forward to for working so hard this semester.
Sincerely,
Andrea Oyarzabal
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
A Trashcan Story
I told this story to my coworkers the other day, and they think I am an obsessive weirdo.
The other day, I was watching my cat in the window, and I noticed my neighbor walk by with his enormously huge Doberman. I mean I could ride this dog and not hurt it, and I am a fat girl. The neighbor and dog were coming from the park, which is across from my house, after a jaunty game of fetch and a pleasant walk, and as the man walked near my alley, I noticed a small, blue bag filed with dog crap, and I mean PACKED with dog crap. And he stopped at our trashcan in the alley, and dropped his sack of crap in our trash can.
There are a few reasons this troubles me: 1.) There are plentiful trashcans at the park where the man could drop off his crap. 2.) The man lives like two houses down, and it wouldn't be hard for him to carry his crap all the way to his OWN trashcan. 3.) Our trashcan smells like shit in the summer--bad. A few times in the summer I usually hose it out and dump Mr. Clean or Lysol or some combo of chemicals that won't kill me when used together into that can, let it fester in the hot sun, and rinse the can out, just to get the crap smell out--which only works for about three days, and then it's back to square one. And the whole time I thought it was just my own cat's litterbox turds that I bundle up really well, usually double bagged.
Today, I am talking to my cat as he sits in the window. Man and huge doberman pass by. I cautiously peer out the back window, and damn that man, he puts his crap in my trashcan! I know a trashcan smells like shit because it is filled with shit. I know that! And I shouldn't be upset, but the trashcan smells like my shit--well not MY shit exactly, but the shit I throw away.
I am tempted to make a sign that has a picture of a pile of turds with a red ring around it and a slash through it indicating "THIS TRASHCAN IS NOT FOR YOUR TURDS, SIR!" I am also tempted to make a sign that says "Please quit putting your dog's poop in our trashcan; it stinks!" But I can't bring myself to do it because maybe I am crazy. Also, the man seems a little unstable to begin with.
Saturday, January 8, 2011
Uno, the one-eyed Siamese
When my beloved cat Mr. Smokey died in June of 2008, I got Uno from Simply Cats, a local no-kill, cageless shelter in August of 2008. My other cat, Satan, who has since passed away was lonely, and though I didn't feel ready for another companion, I knew she needed one. The decision was one based on a few things: 1.) I didn't think that anyone else would adopt Uno after I saw his picture because he has only one eye, and people can be cruel and creeped out by things like that. 2.) Smokey had died due to complications from a tumor in his eyeball/brain, and Uno was missing the same eye that Smokey had a tumor in, so I took it as some sort of sign.
At first Satan took an interest in Uno, but her interest quickly turned into a death wish. After reading up on cat homicidal tendencies, I put coins in an empty soda can, taped the hole shut, and each time Satan went in for the kill, I shook the can and gave a firm "No!" The website I had visited indicated something like "The cat must be made to understand when its homicidal tendencies are inappropriate. Do not yell at the cat, but be firm and direct." I felt like a nutcase each time I shook that ginger ale can, but it worked.
Shortly after Uno moved in, things started to go missing. First a sweater of mine disappeared. I thought it had fallen behind the washer and dryer, the dresser, and I even checked my roommate's laundry pile thinking she had accidentally or purposefully absconded with it. I found the sweater under the couch. And after I drug the sweater out and laundered it, it disappeared again. And again, and again, and again. Until, finally, I realized that Uno was stealing it and hiding it under the couch.
I have never written about Uno or his capacity for bringing presents to me in bed because another blogger at http://simonthecatburglar.blogspot.com did a much better job of telling cat stories. Simon from simonthecatburglar was an outdoor cat, so his finds were much more interesting, but he has since passed away. He seemed like a great animal, and as a tribute, and to carry on his memory and share memories of my own cat, here is a short list of things I have found in my bed courtesy of Uno or that he has brought me during inappropriate moments.
-Orange handled garden clippers
-paint roller
-laundry soap measuring cup
-yellow dust rag
-sunflower seed spores in a plastic baggy that my roommate has meant to plant for like 17 years
-pencils
-square pencil eraser my roommate uses while doing the crossword
-my pink slippers
-the dish towel from the sink (this happens on almost a daily basis)
-bic razor my roommate uses to shave with
-bathtub plug
-tampons (unused, but embarrassing considering he brought one to me while I was having a conversation with a guest in the living room--they said something like "Your cat is carrying a tampon." And I replied "Yes, I know." conceding to the fact that I have no control over this beast.)
And while Uno loved embarrassing me constantly, and waking me from my sleep to show my presents, he has never loved any found item as much as "Pink Friend." After I got Uno home from the shelter, he fell in love with a pink feather toy that was on an orange, plastic cord. He carried the toy around from room to room, almost as his surrogate, so I began calling the toy Pink Friend. And as Uno would come around the corner with Pink Friend, the orange cord got stuck on corners and doorways in the house, and would finally give Uno a snap in the behind as it dislodged. Eventually, Uno chewed the cord off, so he only had to contend with the pink and fluffy feather piece. And the toy got disgusting. It was gummed up and looked like a long, pink string with some feathers poking out. When Pink Friend started to wear out, I found a feather toy that resembled Pink Friend, but it was green. Uno would have nothing to do with it. Green friend still lies here, untouched, fluffy, and ungummed up. And no matter how beat up, Uno adored his Pink Friend.
Imagine my horror as a cat mother then, when a few weeks ago, I was vacuuming around the cat tree, and "Sloooooop!" Pink Friend goes down the hose. I considered busting open the bag to dig for Pink Friend, but I couldn't imagine the dust mites now covering it. It seemed Pink Friend met his fate. I thought Uno would be okay, but he hasn't been the same since Pink Friend met his demise, and Uno already distrusts that vacuum cleaner--mom gave him another reason to hate it--it took his friend. And after seeing poor Uno carry around a single feather--which he ripped out of another cat toy--from room to room looking as pathetic as ever, I finally went to the story and came home with the best replica I could find. He seems happy, and I wonder how long it will stay on this cord. I am just going to call Pink Friend II, Pink Friend. I hope he doesn't notice.
 |
| Baby Uno |
Shortly after Uno moved in, things started to go missing. First a sweater of mine disappeared. I thought it had fallen behind the washer and dryer, the dresser, and I even checked my roommate's laundry pile thinking she had accidentally or purposefully absconded with it. I found the sweater under the couch. And after I drug the sweater out and laundered it, it disappeared again. And again, and again, and again. Until, finally, I realized that Uno was stealing it and hiding it under the couch.
I have never written about Uno or his capacity for bringing presents to me in bed because another blogger at http://simonthecatburglar.blogspot.com did a much better job of telling cat stories. Simon from simonthecatburglar was an outdoor cat, so his finds were much more interesting, but he has since passed away. He seemed like a great animal, and as a tribute, and to carry on his memory and share memories of my own cat, here is a short list of things I have found in my bed courtesy of Uno or that he has brought me during inappropriate moments.
-Orange handled garden clippers
-paint roller
-laundry soap measuring cup
-yellow dust rag
-sunflower seed spores in a plastic baggy that my roommate has meant to plant for like 17 years
-pencils
-square pencil eraser my roommate uses while doing the crossword
-my pink slippers
-the dish towel from the sink (this happens on almost a daily basis)
-bic razor my roommate uses to shave with
-bathtub plug
-tampons (unused, but embarrassing considering he brought one to me while I was having a conversation with a guest in the living room--they said something like "Your cat is carrying a tampon." And I replied "Yes, I know." conceding to the fact that I have no control over this beast.)
And while Uno loved embarrassing me constantly, and waking me from my sleep to show my presents, he has never loved any found item as much as "Pink Friend." After I got Uno home from the shelter, he fell in love with a pink feather toy that was on an orange, plastic cord. He carried the toy around from room to room, almost as his surrogate, so I began calling the toy Pink Friend. And as Uno would come around the corner with Pink Friend, the orange cord got stuck on corners and doorways in the house, and would finally give Uno a snap in the behind as it dislodged. Eventually, Uno chewed the cord off, so he only had to contend with the pink and fluffy feather piece. And the toy got disgusting. It was gummed up and looked like a long, pink string with some feathers poking out. When Pink Friend started to wear out, I found a feather toy that resembled Pink Friend, but it was green. Uno would have nothing to do with it. Green friend still lies here, untouched, fluffy, and ungummed up. And no matter how beat up, Uno adored his Pink Friend.
Imagine my horror as a cat mother then, when a few weeks ago, I was vacuuming around the cat tree, and "Sloooooop!" Pink Friend goes down the hose. I considered busting open the bag to dig for Pink Friend, but I couldn't imagine the dust mites now covering it. It seemed Pink Friend met his fate. I thought Uno would be okay, but he hasn't been the same since Pink Friend met his demise, and Uno already distrusts that vacuum cleaner--mom gave him another reason to hate it--it took his friend. And after seeing poor Uno carry around a single feather--which he ripped out of another cat toy--from room to room looking as pathetic as ever, I finally went to the story and came home with the best replica I could find. He seems happy, and I wonder how long it will stay on this cord. I am just going to call Pink Friend II, Pink Friend. I hope he doesn't notice.
 |
| Uno and Pink Friend II |
Friday, January 7, 2011
Name in Print
Today, for the first time, I saw my name in print. Well, it's not the first time because I have written for various school newspapers, but it is the first time I have seen my name in a book--like with a binding and pages and numbers on the pages. I worked with Dr. Bruce Ballenger, my professor and mentor, this summer on his book Crafting Truth: Short Studies in Creative Nonfiction. I contributed an essay-in-progress (that started out in blog form here) called "Math, Metamorphosis, and Monarchs" about my time as a child in math class, how I was horrible at it and deemed smart at everything else, what it means to be categorized in the extremes of society, and the exploration of my loathing for my third grade teacher that has lived 20+ years in my gut. To balance the extreme, I talk about a woman, my fourth grade teacher, Mrs. Sutherland who was a kind, eccentric woman that was loved by many. It feels weird to be in print--unreal almost--and it feels incredibly great to see my name on those pages.
And while to some it may not seem super important to be included in someone else's book and not my own, it is an honor to be included in someone's book that you greatly admire who sees potential in you, and that is why Bruce became my mentor, though I didn't ask for his permission to call him that (are you supposed to ask?).
My sister made fun of me when I was calling someone my mentor--that's what she does--and she asked me what it even means to be someone's mentor and how you go about getting one. So, I will share how I ended up with a mentor, whether he likes it or not (the mentoring, not the explaining).
After a really horrible start at college at 18 years old--there were numerous family and person issues that were making committing to college impossible for me because I was an emotional wreck--I returned to Boise State at 24 years old, almost 25. After jumping through 3,666 fiery hoops to get back in after flunking out my first semester six almost seven years prior. I was assigned an advisor who was unhelpful and rude and self-important. I took one writing class that I hated--I swore the woman that taught us was going to make us explore our own genitals with hand mirrors in class--and asked my advisor if I could get permission to take a class from Bruce (I had taken the class he taught once already, but in our department we were allowed to take certain writing classes twice for credit), and my advisor told me I needed to start working on my lit classes, which made no sense to me because I was an English major with a writing emphasis.
So, as I am wont to do, I took matters into my own hands. I emailed Bruce and asked if I could meet him to discuss having him sign me into the class. I went to his office, lined with bookshelves, and books, and a weird bodyless leg which I have never asked about, and sat at the round table in his office, across from his desk, while he took the other seat at the table. I then talked incessantly. I mean nonstop. I am assuming I overshared (which for me usually entails giving too much embarrassing info) because that is what I do when I am nervous. And in the next moment, he changed my college career. He didn't offer me a spot in his class; he offered me an independent study, an opportunity to work more closely with him on an individual basis. It was the end of April or beginning of May, and he decided to give me a summer reading list to prepare, and as he suggested books, we had a problem: I had already read them all. So, he sent me a list later, and I devoured the books over the summer.
Before I met him that spring day, I had thought about quitting BSU again. The professors weren't particularly helpful, and I didn't feel like I was actually gaining anything from being there. I thought that college just wasn't the place for me and that I had been fooling myself my whole life. But after being offered the independent study, I felt like my academic career took on a new life, and I finally felt confident with my choice to pursue writing. I still don't know why he offered the independent study; I was a complete stranger to him, and for all he knew, it could have turned out to be a horrible experience for us both.
So that is how I came to graduate, be published in a book, and seek graduate school. While I have had a lot of support along the way, Bruce was my champion, though he is way too humble to take the praise.
And seeing myself in print this week wasn't the only great feeling of accomplishment I have had. The essay that appears in the book has been revised extensively, and I recently gave a copy to my boss and his wife, Dick and Deana, to read. It turns out that Mrs. Sutherland's daughter still visits their office, and she came in this week. Deana gave her a copy of the essay, and Mrs. Sutherland's daughter asked for an extra to send to her brother. If the piece never gets published in it's finished form anywhere, I will always be happy knowing that Mrs. Sutherland's family received a sort of tribute to her.
And while to some it may not seem super important to be included in someone else's book and not my own, it is an honor to be included in someone's book that you greatly admire who sees potential in you, and that is why Bruce became my mentor, though I didn't ask for his permission to call him that (are you supposed to ask?).
My sister made fun of me when I was calling someone my mentor--that's what she does--and she asked me what it even means to be someone's mentor and how you go about getting one. So, I will share how I ended up with a mentor, whether he likes it or not (the mentoring, not the explaining).
After a really horrible start at college at 18 years old--there were numerous family and person issues that were making committing to college impossible for me because I was an emotional wreck--I returned to Boise State at 24 years old, almost 25. After jumping through 3,666 fiery hoops to get back in after flunking out my first semester six almost seven years prior. I was assigned an advisor who was unhelpful and rude and self-important. I took one writing class that I hated--I swore the woman that taught us was going to make us explore our own genitals with hand mirrors in class--and asked my advisor if I could get permission to take a class from Bruce (I had taken the class he taught once already, but in our department we were allowed to take certain writing classes twice for credit), and my advisor told me I needed to start working on my lit classes, which made no sense to me because I was an English major with a writing emphasis.
So, as I am wont to do, I took matters into my own hands. I emailed Bruce and asked if I could meet him to discuss having him sign me into the class. I went to his office, lined with bookshelves, and books, and a weird bodyless leg which I have never asked about, and sat at the round table in his office, across from his desk, while he took the other seat at the table. I then talked incessantly. I mean nonstop. I am assuming I overshared (which for me usually entails giving too much embarrassing info) because that is what I do when I am nervous. And in the next moment, he changed my college career. He didn't offer me a spot in his class; he offered me an independent study, an opportunity to work more closely with him on an individual basis. It was the end of April or beginning of May, and he decided to give me a summer reading list to prepare, and as he suggested books, we had a problem: I had already read them all. So, he sent me a list later, and I devoured the books over the summer.
Before I met him that spring day, I had thought about quitting BSU again. The professors weren't particularly helpful, and I didn't feel like I was actually gaining anything from being there. I thought that college just wasn't the place for me and that I had been fooling myself my whole life. But after being offered the independent study, I felt like my academic career took on a new life, and I finally felt confident with my choice to pursue writing. I still don't know why he offered the independent study; I was a complete stranger to him, and for all he knew, it could have turned out to be a horrible experience for us both.
So that is how I came to graduate, be published in a book, and seek graduate school. While I have had a lot of support along the way, Bruce was my champion, though he is way too humble to take the praise.
And seeing myself in print this week wasn't the only great feeling of accomplishment I have had. The essay that appears in the book has been revised extensively, and I recently gave a copy to my boss and his wife, Dick and Deana, to read. It turns out that Mrs. Sutherland's daughter still visits their office, and she came in this week. Deana gave her a copy of the essay, and Mrs. Sutherland's daughter asked for an extra to send to her brother. If the piece never gets published in it's finished form anywhere, I will always be happy knowing that Mrs. Sutherland's family received a sort of tribute to her.
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