This one post a month thing has been working for me. As I've learned French and lost my finesse in English, it's just about all I can manage. Mais, c'est pas grave. On y va!
So I'm not saying goodbye to France just yet, but I do officially have an exit strategy, and I thought that news was worth sharing and dissecting. Returning to the roots of this blog, a quarter life crisis blog, I think that major life choices and changes are always on the menu. So I'd like to explain mine, mostly to me, but since you happen to be here, feel free to tag along for the ride.
Maria always said that the beginning was a very good place to start, so I want to rewind to last March. I have been rejected from 8 PhD programs. I have no prospects. I have little money saved and no idea what to do...keep pursuing this goal? Quit while I'm behind? Tutor full time? Quiet all of my reservations and just join corporate America for the paycheck? I mostly went with "drink wine" and "visit professor giving talk at Columbia," listed on your multiple choice exam as "e: none of the above."
After more internal turmoil than was probably necessary and definitely less contact with the outside world than would be advised, I landed on France. My instincts, my rejections, and my professors guided me toward the realization that my project, one of layered identities in literature, was not an English project but a comparative literature project. And to study comparative literature I needed languages. Like French. And almost as simply as that (if you call two months of wallowing misery simple) I got my financial backers on board and planned to head for France circa Summer 2014.
And then I did. After many many visa struggles and tough packing choices and indefinite good-byes, I got on a plane with my one way ticket and headed to France. This is roughly where our France narratives begin: finding an apartment, being American, making friends, etc. And they've been interesting and thrilling and terrifying all at once. But the most unsettling part of the whole thing has undoubtedly been not knowing how, when, or why I would leave. I came with the intention of applying to a master's program in Europe and then hopefully picking up another language and then making my way back to the U.S. for my PhD. But this year of language acquisition from the most over qualified teachers I'll probably ever have was...eye opening. I've always known the risks of going into academia: an indefinite education, terrible locations, long lonely hours, and a fruitless pursuit of the jobs you really want all to teach intro to British lit for the billionth time. Less than ideal. And my responses to my professors' warnings were always two fold:
1. For the love of literature.
2. (In a quiet voice, overfed by American exceptionalism) maybe I can beat the odds!
And I think it was only in living the pursuit of these goals that I could begin to unravel those attempts at logic. First off, you can love and pursue and enjoy things that are not a part of your job. And you can love your job without it including all of your favorite things. Second there was the realization that I didn't actually love literature. (GASP!) I mean, I do, but that's not what gripped me about all of my favorite classes and concepts. That's not what got me excited. It was always this issue of identity. Of layering all the parts of ourselves and watching them all fit together, in whatever illogical or messy way they could. And yes, perhaps I could succeed in studying this in an academic office on [insert mediocre college campus here], but the reality is that kind of work would be literally, metaphorically, and ideologically isolated. And maybe one day those are the experiences I'll want, but right now, what I really want is to talk to people, and to support them in loving and appreciating themselves.
Enter Charlie Hebdo. I think I gave this tragedy a few lines, as there are much more educated people than I with much more meaningful commentary on the events, but here I want to give you my very personal reaction, which was to ask, "didn't their teachers ever teach them to recognize and interpret satire?" It struck me as such an obvious failing of their education. If their parents wouldn't teach them, why wouldn't their public school educations prepare them to encounter the world in a responsible and meaningful way? There were a few other moments in the weeks before and the weeks after that tightened this focus on the societal role of education, but by the end of January I had applied to Teach for America, ready to move back to my country and learn to be a part of the solution.
It took us a while to arrive at this punchline, but c'est ca. I want to be a teacher. I thought I wanted to be a researcher too, but as it turns out I'm not sure that I need to be compiling data and reviewing books to feel that I've discovered something new and meaningful in my life. And I'm excited to take some time off as the representative of all things American and support some youngins in their exploration of their own identities. It's going to be good.
So after several rounds of interviews I was accepted to TFA Arkansas, teaching (probably English) in upper elementary or junior high, and in a few days I'll know exactly where I'm moving in just a few weeks. Definitely one of those life changes that I didn't know I was looking for until I found it. A question I didn't know I had until I found the answer. And while I will miss these international conversations and chance encounters and art and café life and used books...it feels really wonderful to be moving towards something that I want, with all of these incredible experiences from the past year to make the journey that much more pleasant.
Wish me luck! (Ou merde a le treisieme pouvoir)
Either way, I hope that every step you're taking towards your goals brings you that much closer to a future where you're excited about tomorrow, whatever that tomorrow brings. Because can I just say, it feels great.
No comments:
Post a Comment