First Day

The first day of school is terrifying.  At least, it always was for me.  All first days are scary, if you think about it- first day at a new job, first day of grad school, first day at a new pilates class- they all give me the same pit-of-the-stomach ache, the same shortness of breath, the same intense feeling of apprehension.  Where should I sit? Who can I talk to? Am I doing this right?  I know it is the desire to fit in and be comfortable that is not yet established when you walk into a new situation that brings about these worries, and that soon the feeling will fade and the new will eventually become known. But those first few days? Pretty tough.

In just over a week my baby, my first born, will go to her first day of school.  Being four years old she has the luxury of not yet feeling self-conscious.  Her only worry about school is that Mommy won’t be with her all day.  But once it was explained to her that at school she will do projects, make friends, listen to music and have snacks, she was totally on board.  This is not to say that a melt-down may not occur the first time I try to leave her there, but so far so good.  Eventually (sadly) she will learn that apprehension and worry about the first day.  She will learn that not everyone will be her friend, that she won’t like all of the snacks or books or songs, and that someday school will be hard work.  For now, thankfully, we are focused on the positive. 

I am so excited to picture her there, taking turns, listening to the teacher, raising her hand, and learning about the world outside of the one her family has created for her so far.  Someone was recently telling me that having kids is like building a ship.  You have hopefully chosen the right materials, given it the strength and solidity to withstand hardship, stocked it with enough provisions and given it the proper anchor for when standing still is necessary.  But eventually all ships must leave the dock and test their seaworthiness.  While this may be a bit of a dramatic example when thinking about sending a girl to preschool for three hours a day, it still feels right in a lot of ways.  This is my daughter’s first real experience in the world where I or another family member are not either directly involved or are waiting on the other side of the door.  I know, even if I worry or feel that first-day fear for her, that she will take the wind, and sail. 

October

I dreamed of the smell of October,

reaching out in heavy sleep

to touch the red leaves on the grass,

feeling them drift against my skin,

breathing in the places that are usually

so distant.

I dreamed of an ash covered lawn

I must cross to,

past long buried shoeboxes

and smoldering fallen branches,

taped up windows

and un-growable grass.

I dreamed of the static shoreline.

Rock meets water,

water lifts the sky,

stretches of sand push back

against three hundred years of

insistent crossings,

only a façade of yielding,

freckled with crushed,

unspent sand dollars and

hopelessly tangled seaweed.

I dreamed of a dim gallery,

white-tiled floor shifting,

black curtained portraits hung,

jaded art un-transfixed,

shaded amber lights burning

in compact caged air,

domed doorway far ahead.

A redesigned reverie,

leading to a most beautiful place.

A Reflection on Seven Years

Last night, after seven long years, I went to my final grad school class.  Now, I know seven years is both a long time, in terms of trying to get a degree, but also a short time when considering the bigger picture.  When I think about my life when I sat down in the first class- scared out of my mind, convinced that I wasn’t smart enough to be there, unsure just what I expected to get out of it- the differences compared to now are shocking.  I was 25, selling bras and underwear for a living, with loads of free time on my hands, very few responsibilities to get in the way and an awareness that I needed more in my life.  Now, eleven classes later, I have two kids, two cats, a house to clean and never enough time to get anything done, it often seems.  School, in fact, has been one of the most consistent things in those seven years, apart from the larger chunks of time I took off to have the kids. 

            I was glad to walk out of class last night, knowing that I would never again have to sit in the alternating sauna and igloo of the English graduate classroom at Fitchburg State, never again have to run through the poorly lit parking lot, ever aware of the likihood of impending crime in the area.  But I was also exceedingly sad.  I (shocker!) really like school and will miss it more than I am probably even admitting to myself.  I laughed in that room- at really nerdy literary jokes, at bad puns and ridiculous stories completely unrelated to what we were supposed to be talking about.  I learned in that room- about how people learn, about the differences people can find in the same written words, about history and life and shared experiences and about how powerful literature is.  I struggled in that room- with finding the motivation to pay attention on the bad days, with trying to learn from people whose opinions I strongly disagreed with, with trying not to be totally overwhelmed by the pile of work that was soon due and with trying to believe in myself.  I found things in that room- incredible people who moved me, books I never otherwise would have read, insights into many many things that I value to this day, and an open-mindedness I didn’t think I had.  But I also found something there that I know I didn’t have before- my voice.

I’m pretty sure I didn’t say one word in that first grad class.  I was so quiet that the professor eventually asked me after class one day, towards the end of the semester, why I never spoke.  She probably figured I wasn’t reading the material and so wasn’t prepared to participate in the conversation.  She was wrong, of course.  I read every word (and she was a tough professor- there were LOTS of words to read).  I absorbed those words, felt them, stored them up and loved them.  I was just too afraid to open my mouth, sure that people would think that what I had to say was not worth listening to. 

Over the next few classes I started, slowly, to speak.  I would think and think and think about the comment I wanted to make.  And don’t get me wrong, I wanted to make those comments. I had things to say, opinions to give and ideas to share.  There was room for them in those classes.  When I did find the courage to raise my hand and say whatever it was that I had just practiced saying fifty times in my head, my face would turn beet red and I would blurt it out as fast as possible so people would stop looking at me.  But I am certain, looking back, that each time I spoke, I learned a little more about the value of my voice.

Skipping ahead to the last few classes, my voice was a presence for sure.  I would speak as much as anyone in class, especially if it was a topic I was passionate about.  In the class in which we were discussing A Streetcar Named Desire, which I had just written a long research paper on, no one could shut me up.  And don’t even get me started on Pride and Prejudice- we would be here all day. 

The point is, I learned more in grad school than the curriculum planned and more than all of those professors (life-changingly amazing or horridly inadequate as they respectively were) were attempting to teach.  My voice, my work, my words, my life, my goals- all grew out of those classes into something new and something so exhilarating.  I may not know the exact destination I am headed for, but I’m going there now with tools that will enable me to find the way.  And the even better part? I know how to use ‘em.