The Waters of Babylon
An update two days in a row. I must be bored.
Let's see how arrogant this comes out sounding.
I'm still waiting, have been waiting for years and years, for the moment when finally I have to do something, and the strategy of pretty much leaving myself alone, trusting in my instincts, trusting that whatever I pull together at the last minute will be good enough -- no, will be better than good enough -- finally doesn't work. I feel as though I have never, never pushed myself to accomplish something that didn't already come naturally to me. In high school I studied less than any of my friends and was first or second in the class in GPA every year. For gods sake, the one thing I indulged in that I felt a bit in over my head with was advanced art classes; I enjoyed doing art but never considered myself a real artist, not like the other girls in my class who worked so hard and wanted to go to art schools. And they gave me the freakin' art prize senior year. Miss Corrigan wanted to send my short stories -- Yugioh fanfiction, might I add, that I had thrown together without any editing in the middle of various nights in between posts on the forum -- to young author competitions. It was supposed to be different in college. In the middle of fall semester we had to write a midterm paper for my Japan and Globalization class. I remember starting mine at ten PM the night before it was due. I remember writing quickly, no outline, minimal editing once I was done. It was fine, I decided, good enough to hand in. A few days later the teacher emailed me and asked if she could make copies for the class as an example of an excellent essay. I won some sort of math prize freshman year without having done anything to deserve it. My senior thesis I wrote, really, in four or five intense bursts over the course of the semester, timed just before drafts were due. I read two books and skimmed a few articles. I tape-recorded people speaking Japanese and wrote about how it was impossible to learn anything important from my data. I summarized the theories from the two books. My professors told me that if they were giving my grade, it would be an A+, the one A+ they give out each year. They gave me one of the senior linguistics prizes. I mean, sheesh.
This week when I was freaking out about elementary school, that was all I did -- freak out. I didn't know how to get past the panic and actually force myself to come up with a solid plan. Instead I relied on the subconscious voice that knew all along that it would go fine, that I had an okay plan and I could improvise. And I did, and it did. But I hadn't accomplished anything, hadn't proven anything to myself except that I got away with something again.
My writing is like this. I have no idea how to write. Sometimes, for some reason, I hit the right zone. And then I write. I don't have the energy, the willpower, the discipline, to force myself into that zone, or to consciously craft a piece of writing when it's not coming to me easily. And that's a skill I long for.
We read in adolescence class about the syndrome of people feeling like frauds; kids who are praised as brilliant and talented and live in fear that someone will find out the truth, that they're just lucky, or something. I don't feel like a fraud. I am smart. There are things I'm good at. Like scraping together linguistics theses in a few last-minute all-night writing bursts that sound eloquent and well-researched. Or remembering math well enough to do well on a test without spending more than a few hours studying. Or even standing in front of a bunch of kids and smiling at them and gauging which activity would be best and how to best introduce it on the spot. Even, occasionally, when the right spirit happens to strike me, writing out a scene that's in my head, or mushing some paint around on a huge canvas. But I am still waiting for someone to ask something of me that will be seriously, intensely hard. Where I'll have to stop relying on whatever innate intelligence I happen to have been born and raised with, and really push myself. Teach myself some new skills. Discipline myself instead of just fretting and waiting for last-minute inspiration.
I am reminded of the only time I ever cried after getting back a test. It was the first test I seriously studied for, and probably the test I've studied hardest for in my life. For two days before my Ancient Civilizations midterm in ninth grade I remember barricading myself in my room. I copied over all my notes from the term, synthesizing them into timelines and summaries of the important points from each civilization. I re-read all the primary source texts. I re-read all my tests and essays systematically. I made more timelines. I read over the copies of the notes. Every few hours I took a break and did ten minutes on the treadmill to clear my head. I suppose I ate and slept, but not more than I had to. Going into the test I was desperately nervous. Coming out of the test I don't remember what I felt. An adrenaline crash, presumably.
Mr. Gajendragadkar, a year or two older than I am right now, told us at the very beginning that he was going to push us. That he was going to make us write essays and short answers about the significance of terms and people and events. That just knowing the dates and names would not cut it. Just understanding the connections wouldn't cut it either, if you didn't know how to express yourself well. Just knowing how to express yourself well wouldn't cut it if you didn't have anything to say. The first quarter I got a B+. He told us he gave B's for good, solid work, and only gave A's for exceptional work that went beyond expectations. Expectations, he said, would go up with time, so if your work didn't actively improve, your grade would go down. After our first essay he picked two to read to the class. Mine and Andrew Husby's. His was better than mine, I thought as I heard them read, with intense embarrassment. Being picked didn't make me feel complacent. History is not one of the things that comes most naturally to me. For the rest of high school I would get through history class by knowing how to write and knowing how to remember things. But I didn't feel like I could get away with that with Mr. Gajendragadkar. I desperately wanted him to know how hard I'd studied, how much I wanted to do well.
We sat in a circle of desks as he handed the midterms back. There had been ten points of extra credit. I remember feeling terrified, my heart racing. He put a blue book face down on my desk, and I peered at it. 106, it said, scrawled in red marker. I wanted to burst into tears right then.
(Andrew Husby got 108, I happened to notice, but I honestly didn't care.)
I remember that moment so vividly because it was really a unique experience. I don't think I've ever felt as proud of any accomplishment. Studying in that way for a test was not something I'd ever had to do before, not something I really knew how to do, but I made myself, I forced myself because I just cared that much about earning Mr. Gajendragadkar's respect.
But that was just some midterm in ninth grade. And apparently, I don't know how to push myself the way he pushed me, and no one around me has been stepping in. Will it be grad school? Or will the bar there be set in such a way that I can slip through it somehow? When will I learn to push myself to do something I'm proud of?
********
I don't want it to sound from these posts like I'm feeling down right now. In fact I've been feeling deeply and serenely happy, as long as I don't really think about Andrew anyway. (When I do my stomach tightens up as if to remind me in warning about the two days when it pretty much refused to welcome any food into itself, and, duly warned, I managed to plunge myself back into whatever denial I'm in...but the truth about Andrew is that there's nothing to do until April and then we'll figure out the best thing to do and we'll do it. No point in already being depressed about something that only might happen...) It's cold, but I bounce between my kotatsu and my bedroom with the heater and electric blanket, so it's not unbearable. I'm listening to incredibly satisfying music right now. Yesterday I spent half an hour greeting, tickling, and twirling a gaggle of elementary school kids, smashed rice paste with a huge mallet, and then got to try a bit of taiko with the kids. Valerie and I finally got to eat at the little okonomiyaki place here, and while I wasn't thrilled with mine (tofu and vegetables), Valerie pronounced it leagues better than the one in Toyooka, which made me feel good. Today in the convenience store I saw Mita-kun, my class clown from the third-year class that I hardly ever get to teach, and a few of his friends, and they kept catching my eye and grinning and laughing in a way that could have been with or could have been at, but with Mita-kun one doesn't really care because his smile is so bright and infectious that even if he's laughing at you, you feel it's worth it to have made him laugh. This weekend Stix is reopening, and the following weekend I'll be in Osaka where I can have real (uh, sorry Stix...) Mexican food. When I complained to Adam that I wished I'd had a chance to look through the writing on his site again before he transferred only a selection of it to the new site, he promptly sent me a link to all the old stuff and asked me to point out any I missed, and when I did, he put one of the ones I suggested on the new site. Remember last spring when I complained to people that even though Adam seemed to enjoy doing math and Japanese stuff with me, I was frustrated because I knew I'd never really be able to talk to him about anything else, such as the writing on his site that I found so powerful? I remember that. Ashley wrote on my facebook wall yesterday just to say hi, and the other day I talked to Liz on IM for the first time in months and months. And back in ninth grade Mr. Gajendragadkar wrote in my yearbook something very much like "You possess an intellectual capacity unlike any I have seen. Yet it is your genuine kindness and care for others that is most beautiful and inspiring to watch." Yikes. Now there's something to try to live up to...
And it's 8:37 and I intend to head straight for my lovely warm blankets, in the hope of dragging myself out of bed tomorrow early enough to shower and actually be on time to school.
The song I'm currently listening (and singing along loudly) to:
強く手を振って あの日の背中に
サヨナラを
告げる現在地、動き出すコンパス
さぁ、行こうか。。。
間違った 旅路の果てに、
正しさを 祈りながら。。。
Let's see how arrogant this comes out sounding.
I'm still waiting, have been waiting for years and years, for the moment when finally I have to do something, and the strategy of pretty much leaving myself alone, trusting in my instincts, trusting that whatever I pull together at the last minute will be good enough -- no, will be better than good enough -- finally doesn't work. I feel as though I have never, never pushed myself to accomplish something that didn't already come naturally to me. In high school I studied less than any of my friends and was first or second in the class in GPA every year. For gods sake, the one thing I indulged in that I felt a bit in over my head with was advanced art classes; I enjoyed doing art but never considered myself a real artist, not like the other girls in my class who worked so hard and wanted to go to art schools. And they gave me the freakin' art prize senior year. Miss Corrigan wanted to send my short stories -- Yugioh fanfiction, might I add, that I had thrown together without any editing in the middle of various nights in between posts on the forum -- to young author competitions. It was supposed to be different in college. In the middle of fall semester we had to write a midterm paper for my Japan and Globalization class. I remember starting mine at ten PM the night before it was due. I remember writing quickly, no outline, minimal editing once I was done. It was fine, I decided, good enough to hand in. A few days later the teacher emailed me and asked if she could make copies for the class as an example of an excellent essay. I won some sort of math prize freshman year without having done anything to deserve it. My senior thesis I wrote, really, in four or five intense bursts over the course of the semester, timed just before drafts were due. I read two books and skimmed a few articles. I tape-recorded people speaking Japanese and wrote about how it was impossible to learn anything important from my data. I summarized the theories from the two books. My professors told me that if they were giving my grade, it would be an A+, the one A+ they give out each year. They gave me one of the senior linguistics prizes. I mean, sheesh.
This week when I was freaking out about elementary school, that was all I did -- freak out. I didn't know how to get past the panic and actually force myself to come up with a solid plan. Instead I relied on the subconscious voice that knew all along that it would go fine, that I had an okay plan and I could improvise. And I did, and it did. But I hadn't accomplished anything, hadn't proven anything to myself except that I got away with something again.
My writing is like this. I have no idea how to write. Sometimes, for some reason, I hit the right zone. And then I write. I don't have the energy, the willpower, the discipline, to force myself into that zone, or to consciously craft a piece of writing when it's not coming to me easily. And that's a skill I long for.
We read in adolescence class about the syndrome of people feeling like frauds; kids who are praised as brilliant and talented and live in fear that someone will find out the truth, that they're just lucky, or something. I don't feel like a fraud. I am smart. There are things I'm good at. Like scraping together linguistics theses in a few last-minute all-night writing bursts that sound eloquent and well-researched. Or remembering math well enough to do well on a test without spending more than a few hours studying. Or even standing in front of a bunch of kids and smiling at them and gauging which activity would be best and how to best introduce it on the spot. Even, occasionally, when the right spirit happens to strike me, writing out a scene that's in my head, or mushing some paint around on a huge canvas. But I am still waiting for someone to ask something of me that will be seriously, intensely hard. Where I'll have to stop relying on whatever innate intelligence I happen to have been born and raised with, and really push myself. Teach myself some new skills. Discipline myself instead of just fretting and waiting for last-minute inspiration.
I am reminded of the only time I ever cried after getting back a test. It was the first test I seriously studied for, and probably the test I've studied hardest for in my life. For two days before my Ancient Civilizations midterm in ninth grade I remember barricading myself in my room. I copied over all my notes from the term, synthesizing them into timelines and summaries of the important points from each civilization. I re-read all the primary source texts. I re-read all my tests and essays systematically. I made more timelines. I read over the copies of the notes. Every few hours I took a break and did ten minutes on the treadmill to clear my head. I suppose I ate and slept, but not more than I had to. Going into the test I was desperately nervous. Coming out of the test I don't remember what I felt. An adrenaline crash, presumably.
Mr. Gajendragadkar, a year or two older than I am right now, told us at the very beginning that he was going to push us. That he was going to make us write essays and short answers about the significance of terms and people and events. That just knowing the dates and names would not cut it. Just understanding the connections wouldn't cut it either, if you didn't know how to express yourself well. Just knowing how to express yourself well wouldn't cut it if you didn't have anything to say. The first quarter I got a B+. He told us he gave B's for good, solid work, and only gave A's for exceptional work that went beyond expectations. Expectations, he said, would go up with time, so if your work didn't actively improve, your grade would go down. After our first essay he picked two to read to the class. Mine and Andrew Husby's. His was better than mine, I thought as I heard them read, with intense embarrassment. Being picked didn't make me feel complacent. History is not one of the things that comes most naturally to me. For the rest of high school I would get through history class by knowing how to write and knowing how to remember things. But I didn't feel like I could get away with that with Mr. Gajendragadkar. I desperately wanted him to know how hard I'd studied, how much I wanted to do well.
We sat in a circle of desks as he handed the midterms back. There had been ten points of extra credit. I remember feeling terrified, my heart racing. He put a blue book face down on my desk, and I peered at it. 106, it said, scrawled in red marker. I wanted to burst into tears right then.
(Andrew Husby got 108, I happened to notice, but I honestly didn't care.)
I remember that moment so vividly because it was really a unique experience. I don't think I've ever felt as proud of any accomplishment. Studying in that way for a test was not something I'd ever had to do before, not something I really knew how to do, but I made myself, I forced myself because I just cared that much about earning Mr. Gajendragadkar's respect.
But that was just some midterm in ninth grade. And apparently, I don't know how to push myself the way he pushed me, and no one around me has been stepping in. Will it be grad school? Or will the bar there be set in such a way that I can slip through it somehow? When will I learn to push myself to do something I'm proud of?
I don't want it to sound from these posts like I'm feeling down right now. In fact I've been feeling deeply and serenely happy, as long as I don't really think about Andrew anyway. (When I do my stomach tightens up as if to remind me in warning about the two days when it pretty much refused to welcome any food into itself, and, duly warned, I managed to plunge myself back into whatever denial I'm in...but the truth about Andrew is that there's nothing to do until April and then we'll figure out the best thing to do and we'll do it. No point in already being depressed about something that only might happen...) It's cold, but I bounce between my kotatsu and my bedroom with the heater and electric blanket, so it's not unbearable. I'm listening to incredibly satisfying music right now. Yesterday I spent half an hour greeting, tickling, and twirling a gaggle of elementary school kids, smashed rice paste with a huge mallet, and then got to try a bit of taiko with the kids. Valerie and I finally got to eat at the little okonomiyaki place here, and while I wasn't thrilled with mine (tofu and vegetables), Valerie pronounced it leagues better than the one in Toyooka, which made me feel good. Today in the convenience store I saw Mita-kun, my class clown from the third-year class that I hardly ever get to teach, and a few of his friends, and they kept catching my eye and grinning and laughing in a way that could have been with or could have been at, but with Mita-kun one doesn't really care because his smile is so bright and infectious that even if he's laughing at you, you feel it's worth it to have made him laugh. This weekend Stix is reopening, and the following weekend I'll be in Osaka where I can have real (uh, sorry Stix...) Mexican food. When I complained to Adam that I wished I'd had a chance to look through the writing on his site again before he transferred only a selection of it to the new site, he promptly sent me a link to all the old stuff and asked me to point out any I missed, and when I did, he put one of the ones I suggested on the new site. Remember last spring when I complained to people that even though Adam seemed to enjoy doing math and Japanese stuff with me, I was frustrated because I knew I'd never really be able to talk to him about anything else, such as the writing on his site that I found so powerful? I remember that. Ashley wrote on my facebook wall yesterday just to say hi, and the other day I talked to Liz on IM for the first time in months and months. And back in ninth grade Mr. Gajendragadkar wrote in my yearbook something very much like "You possess an intellectual capacity unlike any I have seen. Yet it is your genuine kindness and care for others that is most beautiful and inspiring to watch." Yikes. Now there's something to try to live up to...
And it's 8:37 and I intend to head straight for my lovely warm blankets, in the hope of dragging myself out of bed tomorrow early enough to shower and actually be on time to school.
The song I'm currently listening (and singing along loudly) to:
サヨナラを
告げる現在地、動き出すコンパス
さぁ、行こうか。。。
間違った 旅路の果てに、
正しさを 祈りながら。。。
posted by Ashila at 5:18 AM
1 Comments:
Man, I kinda see myself in what you wrote. I wouldn't say I breezed through university... there were definitely rough patches here and there, but seriously, for the amount of work I put into some of those essays... let's say that I really REALLY do not know how I managed to land onto the Dean's Honor List. Hell... maybe I am smart.
But yeah, I also sometimes long for something... challenging. Because, I don't know why, but getting an outstanding grade for something you worked hard on feels so much more satisfactory than getting an outstanding grade for something you pulled outta your ass. And yet... sometimes, when I DID make the effort and prepared something I was PROUD to hand in... for some reason it never seemed to please my teachers. Not nearly half as much as the copy/mix in brain/paste that most of my other work was. And so, I ended up seeing "efforts" as a waste of time, sort of... What's the point of beating myself over the head with something, when ignoring it until the last minute and taking care of it all in under12 hours will yield nearly the same result (sometimes even a better result)? I think I might just be made to work under pressure.
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