Momentary Freak-Out
It’s just a piece of writing. Why get so attached? Words pop into my head, neurons fire, keys get pushed, and voila, sentences appear on the screen. There is no miracle here, folks. It’s just a piece of writing. (This from the girl who routinely reads favourite books dozens, perhaps hundreds of times, who still turns to treasured texts at the least sign of stress, and in celebration, and ...)
I don’t know what, at 32 years of age, makes me think I can be a PhD. Honestly at this point, it all seems like much more trouble than it’s worth. I haven’t even finished one paper yet (and trust me, with the presentation date only 8 days away, the pressure is on). It’s not like I don’t have a job that I like already. And hobbies. It’s not like I don’t have plenty of stories to tell, without an expensive piece of paper to hang on my wall. Seriously, is being able to check the ‘dr’ salutation box on form letters really worth all of this?
I finally met my elusive second advisor yesterday. For the first time. She wasn’t particularly interested in what I had to say in my draft. I believe her exact words were ‘well duh, this is basic ... stuff.’ Seriously, she said ‘duh’. After my primary advisor read it, to my half panicked ‘you’re not thinking ‘what the hell is she doing here’?’ a qualified, ‘well...’. It took me a couple of hours of hyperventilating to figure out that he probably thought I was asking about the paper itself (which, I admit, may indeed lack focus) and not about my future in academia. That realization only helped a little. This is a man who practically does contortions to phrase things in a helpful and encouraging way. His were the nicest sounding criticisms I have ever had the pleasure of receiving. ‘Well...’ from him at that moment sounded like the last nail going into the coffin of my short-lived doctoral career. I think I may be in danger of hyperventilating again here...
The platitude in anthropology, apparently, is ‘you are the expert in your material – no one knows your project better than you.’ I don’t know if they say that to insecure students in every field or only mine, but let me tell you, if I hear it one more time! Perhaps it has a different effect on other people, but on me...I do not feel miraculously soothed. I am not magically transformed into a master of my material. What I feel is even more acutely aware of how little I know, but less able to express that constructively. Hence the e-mail venting (like Jay told me long, long ago...there’s no therapy like broadcast therapy). It makes me dread that moment when the mask will come off and they’ll all have to admit that I’m just not cut out for this. When everyone will get that I am NO expert.
Oh shit. There’s an earthquake.
I don’t know what, at 32 years of age, makes me think I can be a PhD. Honestly at this point, it all seems like much more trouble than it’s worth. I haven’t even finished one paper yet (and trust me, with the presentation date only 8 days away, the pressure is on). It’s not like I don’t have a job that I like already. And hobbies. It’s not like I don’t have plenty of stories to tell, without an expensive piece of paper to hang on my wall. Seriously, is being able to check the ‘dr’ salutation box on form letters really worth all of this?
I finally met my elusive second advisor yesterday. For the first time. She wasn’t particularly interested in what I had to say in my draft. I believe her exact words were ‘well duh, this is basic ... stuff.’ Seriously, she said ‘duh’. After my primary advisor read it, to my half panicked ‘you’re not thinking ‘what the hell is she doing here’?’ a qualified, ‘well...’. It took me a couple of hours of hyperventilating to figure out that he probably thought I was asking about the paper itself (which, I admit, may indeed lack focus) and not about my future in academia. That realization only helped a little. This is a man who practically does contortions to phrase things in a helpful and encouraging way. His were the nicest sounding criticisms I have ever had the pleasure of receiving. ‘Well...’ from him at that moment sounded like the last nail going into the coffin of my short-lived doctoral career. I think I may be in danger of hyperventilating again here...
The platitude in anthropology, apparently, is ‘you are the expert in your material – no one knows your project better than you.’ I don’t know if they say that to insecure students in every field or only mine, but let me tell you, if I hear it one more time! Perhaps it has a different effect on other people, but on me...I do not feel miraculously soothed. I am not magically transformed into a master of my material. What I feel is even more acutely aware of how little I know, but less able to express that constructively. Hence the e-mail venting (like Jay told me long, long ago...there’s no therapy like broadcast therapy). It makes me dread that moment when the mask will come off and they’ll all have to admit that I’m just not cut out for this. When everyone will get that I am NO expert.
Oh shit. There’s an earthquake.
posted by Roberta | 1:21 PM
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