My Thesis the Beastis

I imagined what it would feel like to finish my thesis. Surely it would be liberating; I wrote “FREEDOM” on my calendar, emblazoned across my due date and the days following. But instead, I felt…numb. It was surreal. I didn’t notice, caught up in a torrent of things I had put off until that mysterious time—post-thesis. Originally I had imagined myself thinking, “Oh, I need to write this section tonight…” before realizing I had already finished my thesis. But I didn’t slip into thinking about physiognomy in Charlotte Bronte’s novels (my thesis topic) unexpectedly. It was an off-switch—turned in, forgotten, a distant dream that I only vaguely recalled.

But it’s been a huge part of my year. A series of deadlines. A challenge to write more and better and deeper than I ever had before. I had envisioned, as an underclassman, what it meant to research independently, to delve into a topic and claim ownership over a specialized field. Of course, I had anticipated an adventurous hunt through dusty files at the Library of Congress and stumbling across never-before-seen important documents and a succession of ah-ha! moments.

Mostly it was perseverance. It was like entering into a committed relationship with my research topic, through highs and lows. I stuck with it even when frustrated and was surprised by its nuanced character and tried to learn more, ever more, about it. We had fall-outs, angsty separations, glorious reunions fueled by inspiration. I would discover new depths in Bronte’s novels, new ways to approach a rich passage, a sudden connection between sources, a fresh tactic that occurred to me while I brushed my teeth. As the year progressed, and the pages mounted, I occasionally lost sight of my original passion for my thesis, but it would usually resurface, drawing me back to my love of English literature, of writing, of engaging with critics.

It felt like I carved something out, created something worthwhile. My thesis was the culmination of a year’s work and furthermore, of my gradually maturing voice. I had this revelatory moment when I read the paper I wrote sophomore year that had sparked my whole thesis. Originally I considered my long paper about Villette to be the best paper I had ever written and anticipated being able to carry pages of that writing into my thesis with minimal editing. I was shocked when I pulled out that paper to read it over again. My writing from even just a year and a half ago seemed unfinished, young, rudimentary. I felt an immediate sense of panic—I had to start from scratch rather than with half of my chapter already written—but also a sense of accomplishment. Reading my own writing and knowing that I have come so far and matured as a critical writer emphasized my success in fulfilling one of my goals—having my thesis be the culmination of my whole undergraduate career.

Before I knew it the chapters were done. Then the Introduction I had dreaded. After a late night, the Conclusion—the Conclusion!—was written too. Around 80 pages of my writing—my writing. I thumbed through the pages, each one a small hallmark, a tiny accomplishment. I recalled the initial horror I felt at confronting my blank Word document, with its flashing, demanding cursor, which seemed to say, “Do you really think you can do this? FLASH. Write an entire thesis? FLASH. Write something if you can. FLASH. I don’t think you can. FLASH. I’m still waiting. FLASH.” Slowly but surely, page by page, chapter by chapter, novel by novel, I constructed, built my thesis, from the flashing cursor down and down, pages full of writing, from empty hands upwards into a pile of pages.

The Table of Contents cemented my realization that it was really coming together: I had written enough that people would need a map to navigate through my writing. A cover page. My acknowledgements. Each official, standard introductory page confirmed, “You’re done. You did it.” I printed off the copies, in shock, exhausted, in denial. Four clean, thick, beautiful copies. I hurried home to drop my things off before heading to Kinkos to have my copies bound. As I carefully descended the stairs, my foot caught on a piece of wood, and nearly four hundred pages flew from my hands and scattered, horrifyingly, around my feet. I stood there muttering curses before someone approached and helped me collect all my pages.

I slammed the door as I entered my apartment, cursing my clumsiness and reflecting on the idea that this was my "child," this thesis of mine. I had nurtured the project for months, given birth by paying for the painfully expensive copies, and suffered from a sense of separation anxiety—would my newborn suffer, released from the safety of my laptop into the world, open to criticism? And then on the way home from the maternity ward, I had dropped my newborn on the ground, battering it, dirtying it. Perfect. I sorted through the pages, reconstructing my chapters, smoothing the creased corners, scraping away a little dirt. My thesis was so imperfect, glaringly so after the fall, but it was done. Done. Finished. Completed. Accomplished. I had accomplished something. Perhaps not significant but real.

I know a great deal about an obscure and ridiculously specific topic that will not casually come in conversation—people don’t really discuss physiognomy randomly—and will probably fade slowly from my life. It’s discouraging to think that less than a handful of people will ever read my thesis. But I also know that this is the quintessential thesis process. Slaving away, dedicating oneself to a task, and then looking—not for external validation, because there is little to be had or found—for internal peace and self-found pride.

I survived my thesis. Somehow. And now I’m simply busy confronting all those comments I made over the last few months: “Well, after I finish my thesis…”

A String of Joys

I read in a book recently that a character spoke with a priest during reconciliation about hopelessness and anger. The priest recommended that he simply think of one thing that made him happy; before he knew it, a chain, a flood of happy things would come forth, as our joys are often interconnected.

I decided to try this exercise and hopefully integrate it into my life. Where better to begin than with my spring break? I’ve been incredibly happy this week with my feeling of being connected to and surrounded by people who love and support me: I had a wonderful time visiting some of my best friends in Connecticut; I miss my beloved roommates; and I have been catching up with my family, miles and miles from home.

As I’ve talked with my friends and family, I’ve been overwhelmed by their recent joys and achievements, including several acceptances to amazing schools and programs, weddings, and similar feelings of belonging to supportive communities.

I feel so blessed by the way in which God has enabled me to travel during college. This week, I visited Connecticut and New York City, ate amazing food, experienced awesome cultural sights, and had my return home to anticipate. It was so refreshing to look forward to my return to DC; the drive from Union Station to my apartment allowed me to soak up the calming energy of DC, which has become home to me. There’s something so powerful about claiming one’s city as one’s own, even without realizing it.

I was shopping today and indulging in some treats. The weather has been beautiful, and I felt strong, young, and capable as I walked around town, blessed with a disposable income to treat myself.

Even as I jumped back into my thesis work today, I looked down at my computer and remembered how wonderful it is to own technology that connects me to the people I love, to be able to afford an education that allows me to explore topics that interest me.

Graduation looms in the near future, and my days have been disappearing before I even recognize and appreciate them. Yet, this year has been so wonderful and beautiful; that is why it has gone by in a flash, a dizzying blend of events and friends and experiences and joys. I still have a few precious months left, and I hope to enjoy them to the fullest.

Spring is around the corner and how much quicker time will pass when it arrives. I love Georgetown in the spring: picnics outside, naps on the lawn, frozen yogurt and iced tea, sunglasses and sundresses and sandals.

I’m even grateful for my future, uncertain and far away as it seems. My solace and comfort in the face of overwhelming change is that God holds me in His hand, constantly, unfailingly. Today I feel so young and like there are a million experiences ahead of me.

Okay, so clearly, the priest was right. And perhaps this is a more difficult (though even more fulfilling) exercise when one is distraught. But help me nonetheless, Lord, to realize the beauty of my life whether I be happy or upset. You bless me, time and time and time again.

To a Younger Me

Dear younger self,

A friend of mine told me that there is a trend lately to write a letter to one's younger self. It's supposed to help people love themselves and embrace the ways in which they have matured. I decided to sit down and write to you, younger self. Who knows if I will actually experience any revelations or if I even have wisdom to offer you. I feel like I am almost writing to a stranger; it’s so difficult to return to who I was, even just four years ago, as a senior in high school. Yet, I also so vividly remember what it felt like to wait for college acceptances and rejections, to prioritize getting into Georgetown in my daily prayers, to feel like I was about to leave a school that was everything I had ever known but perhaps somewhere I had never fully belonged.

Recently I re-read some of my old journals, and it is was oddly disconcerting. As I read, I felt a powerful sense of déjà vu, as though I was writing and reading my own words simultaneously. It felt as though I had just experienced those things, had felt the emotions only moments ago. The words felt like my own, and yet, they belonged to a stranger; my voice has grown and matured, but I feel an affinity with my younger voice too.

It made me wistful to read my insecurities, fears, and excitement for the future. If I could tell my younger self a few things I’ve finally learned, I would emphasize the joy of loving oneself, accepting oneself, and enjoying oneself in the moment. I needed the experiences I have had in college to finally become more self-confident, self-assured, knowledgeable, and experienced.

I remember that sense of being vulnerable and trying to overcome the numbness of my nervous shock before leaving for Georgetown for the first time. Other people seemed more emotional, more cognizant of the importance of the occasion; I felt as though I were going to some unknown land, worried that getting into Georgetown had been a fluke, and felt utterly in limbo. There’s something about a senior year that makes one feel simultaneously the most invested in a place one has ever been and abruptly nudged out of the nest. “You are an integral part of our community. See ya!”

A challenge I have faced in both my high school and college career is becoming comfortable with starting anew. So looking back at my senior high school self, I can clearly advise you to just jump in, think positively, anticipate places you want to visit, things you want to do, activities you want to join, imagine the people you will meet and grow to love. Even as I give this advice, it’s impossible to separate the then from the now, as this is a challenge I am on the verge of facing once more.

I have never loved Georgetown more than I do now. Of course, I experienced a variety of phases of love, each intense in its unique way: I faced newly-wed love as a freshman, in awe of the beautiful campus and the diverse people and new experiences; I underwent the “7 year itch” with my sophomore slump, when I was overloaded on stress; and I endured the heartache of a year’s separation from my beloved Georgetown when I went abroad. Now it’s all coalescing, and I’m overdosing on poignant moments and delightfully comfortable friendships, fixating on how wonderful it feels to belong, to be home.

So I’m trying, younger self, to give you wisdom and to learn from your wisdom, too. Perhaps it is time to think about how I’ve done it before, leaving to begin my college career at a campus I had never even stepped foot on. Twice. My pre-Georgetown self and my pre-Oxford self, and in a sense, even my pre-returning-to-Georgetown self each overcame fears and reservations and insecurities to fall in love with my new homes.

I want to tell you, don’t feel scared to tell people you’ll miss them terribly and express how much they mean to you. Don’t think that leaving home for the first real time means you will never return. Confront the worst-case scenario: if you can’t succeed at Georgetown, you’ll find somewhere you will. Start researching DC while simultaneously savoring your lasts at home. Revel in the lack of Kansas jokes. Enjoy being 18-on-the-verge-of-something-huge; you’ll never be that person again.

You didn’t appreciate yourself enough. You put yourself down, you wondered if you would ever be good enough, you questioned if you were shooting too high, you questioned if you could start over in a completely new place. I know now how wonderful you are. I know that you should have given yourself more credit. I know that you will achieve a great deal.

Please help me, younger self, to close the gap between the kind of insecurity you experienced and affirmation of self I can now provide you with. I want to feel that way about me, now, in this moment. And to a large extent, I do, certainly more than I ever have before. I’ll never be a 21-year-old-senior-at-Georgetown ever again. While I am too aware of this at times, the transience of this year, I truly am living up this year as much as I can.

I love it here. I love myself here. And I’m gradually confronting my nerves about what’s to come, my next new home. You have helped me to do so, younger self. Thank you.

Love,

Me

Hello, San Francisco

The feeling when the sunlight flickers across your face, your eyes closed, the heat and warmth of the sun’s rays permeating your being. That is San Francisco to me.

It was a short and beautiful trip, giving me a taste of a land I had never before visited. My mom and I flew in, over the mountains, the houses suddenly appearing on the face of the mountain sides, the city of San Francisco carved out of the landscape. Carved into the landscape. It felt so liberating to hug the coastline, to smell the water, to sense the possibilities latent in the land.

We arrived at our hotel, a cute old building that exuded old world charm. Our room was on the smaller side, as city hotel rooms often are, and we had to take a little old fashioned elevator up to reach it. We looked out over Union Square, lit up with palm trees bedecked in festive twinkle lights. As we settled in with snacks and diet coke, relaxing after a long day’s journey, the sound of jazz music and cable cars poured in the window, infusing our own little room, our own little world, with the sounds of San Francisco.

After I completed my teaching certification test, and experienced an edifying journey back to my hotel on an inner-city bus, we headed to Fisherman’s Wharf. I was glad my mom had overridden my request to stay at the Wharf; it was cheesey and noisy and touristy. But oh, the water. And seagulls. The taste of fried calamari, shrimp, fish. The sounds of barking seals at Pier 39. The Golden Gate Bridge beckoning from the horizon. Alcatraz Island looming a few miles out. And then sunset arrived on the scene, transforming the already beautiful water into a reflection of the warm and cool colors of twilight.

We headed back via cable car to Chinatown. I hanged off the side of the cable car, my feet perched on the edge, hands firmly gripping the metal bar. It was wonderfully cheesey. Chinatown was, as I had expected, disappointing. It’s dirty and crowded and if you wander into one shop, you’ve wandered into all of them.

My mom and I ventured into the largest Macy’s I have ever seen to find me a pair of boots and then got take-out from the Cheesecake Factory and picnicked in our room like queens. After only a day and a half, the hotel room had become home. It’s funny how that works.

The following day, my cousins who live in San Jose came and picked us up. We drove across the Golden Gate Bridge and ate lunch in Sausolito. Then we drove around the coast, venturing over to Ocean Beach. It was sunny, sunny, sunny. So clear and crisp and beautiful. The sun reflected on the damp sand, revealing tiny jellyfish across the beach. We dipped our feet in the freezing cold water, instantly numbed. It was surreal and dazzling and made me hunger for a San Franciscan summer (even though they’re still supposed to be cold).

Next we headed to Ghiradelli Sqaure, where I had milk chocolate truffles and hot chocolate that brought me straight back to Paris (where I had the best hot chocolate of my life). We drove down Lombard Street, slowly and carefully navigating the zig zags. And then we bid farewell to our cousins and headed back to the hotel to pack for our departure the following morning.

It’s funny how as soon as you get used to a place, it feels like it is time to leave. It’s a cruel twist of life really. I still can’t picture myself there, on the West Coast, in California, in San Francisco. Maybe, though, it will become another of my homes. A place of my own. Maybe it, too, will belong to me.

I suppose I’ll just have to give it a year or so and then we’ll know.

The Beginning of the End

So here I am again. Leaving for the airport in 6.5 hours with little sleep expected. It has been a bustling day, defined—as too often I think my life is—by to-do lists. I’ve done far too good a job of ignoring those to-do lists this break, however; now is the hectic time that accounts for that leniency (aka laziness).

Today I gloried in being able to drive. Windows down in the 60 degree weather (is it really January?!?). Reading with my dog curled up next to me. Being hugged by my mom. Running errands with my little brother. Glorying in the vast land of convenient good deals that is Walmart. Looking up at a non-empty night sky for once, reacquainting myself with my beloved big dipper.

I feel sometimes that this lifestyle of commuting between states and homes requires too much stocking up, too many goodbyes, a lot of time in-between rather than in time. Looking back at my first year of college and how exciting my flights to school were, I feel so jaded and old now. Somehow I’ve changed and grown between then and now. Somehow, despite myself, I take how blessed I am for granted.

Tomorrow—er, today—I go to California, to the land that may soon be my home. I’m very stressed about the test that required this trip in the first place; I have to take teacher certification tests in California before moving there this summer.

I’m struggling to process anything and everything, probably because I am so tired. Still, I realize this is big. California. It sounds like the name of some foreign country, an exotic land, a place that wouldn’t be my home.

But in all likelihood it will be in just six months. Here I am on the verge of something big: in less than one week I will have commenced my very last semester of college. I will be “an adult” by one of its various definitions and hallmarks.

I want to go. I don’t want to leave. I want to draw a little triangle between Kansas, DC, and California and plop myself in the middle. I want everyone I know and care about to be accessible, for no home to be an ending or a final farewell.

Just help me, I pray, to appreciate this last semester for what it is. I have some stressful things ahead of me (i.e. writing and finishing my thesis), but this is it.

This is it.

It All Began with a Movie...

I went to see We Bought a Zoo tonight, which was surprisingly well-done and moving for all of its cheesiness and clichés. There was a quote that I absolutely love, made by Matt Damon’s character, Benjamin Mee:

“You know, sometimes all you need is twenty seconds of insane courage. Just literally twenty seconds of just embarrassing bravery. And I promise you, something great will come of it.”

This philosophy helped Benjamin muster up the courage to introduce himself to his wife. I hope to live that way, to be able to get over myself and my insecurities to be bold and take action when the occasion calls for it. I also hope to find love like Benjamin did.

He mourns his wife’s death so beautifully and in such a moving manner. Sometimes I rather morbidly fantasize about how my loved ones would respond to my death. I know it sounds absurd, but imagine the opposite of Gatsby’s funeral, and it does somehow become soothing. I think of all the people who have touched my life, all the people who mean or have meant something to me, and it always serves to make me feel better. In the similar way that a teacher can almost always find at least one positive thing to say about his/her students, I think of the collisions I have had with beautiful, wonderful people: my rather romantic soul thinks that they could probably think something generous of me. That my life had purpose in that people would mourn my loss, because that would mean that I had touched them, however fleetingly.

And my romantic nature does not end there. I watched this movie, observed Benjamin’s sorrow, and thought of the ways in which his mourning proved his love. I asked myself, will I ever develop the kind of intimacy with a person, with my hypothetical husband, that it will feel as though my loss is the cutting off of an essential part of him? Will this man, somewhere out there, avoid the junk food aisle because the sea salt and vinegar potato chips will make him think of me? Will he smell his old sweatshirts that I appropriated, looking for a semblance of me? Will he regularly scroll through photos of me, of us, to bring memories of our life together back to life?

It’s silly right? and perhaps a tad too personal, to be sharing this with you. My wacky thoughts and fantasies. The ways in which I have carried a movie’s story to my life and questioned how my future husband would miss me if I died. But there was just something about this story, an embedded romantic comedy in a family-friendly-tragedy, that made the romcom-fantasy-version-of-love more believable.

Sometimes the smallest things spark our interest; sometimes a beautiful story is too beautiful to remain outside of one’s own personal experiences and dreams. So I claim that story. And fantasize about my potential marital bliss who knows how many years down the road.

A Little Painting of Me.

I spend too much time looking at myself in the mirror. Indeed, I think we all do. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to live back in a time when water was the only reflective surface I could see myself in, naturally and beautifully. When I look in the mirror too often, it isn’t even vanity really, I think. Oftentimes, it’s me being too self-critical.

For my painting class this semester, I had to paint a self-portrait, and instead of using a photograph we used the more legitimate method of gazing in a mirror and painting. I struggled to look serious and expressionless—my professor said that a natural facial expression that captured all moods was the goal.

We began with a charcoal sketch, just a simple study. The technique is to connect something across one’s face; by that, I mean connect the darks across the planes of one’s face rather than drawing the line of the nose, the ovals of the eyes, etc. I became immersed in the close study of the shadows under my eyebrows, eyes, along the side of my nose, on my upper lip. The features of my face took shape on the paper before my eyes. Soon, my professor broke my reverie to ask me to stand back and look at my drawing. I set it on the easel, stepped back, and was shocked to discover a witch gazing back at me. “I” had a large nose that easily could have sported a wart, a pointy chin, a large forehead.

Each of my insecurities sat on the paper before me, confronting me with the skewed perceptions I have of my own appearance. I think I have a large nose and that clearly came across in my drawing. The study spurred me to step back with my painting and try to distance myself from the subject—me. I needed to think of the portrait as a painting of a figure. As my professor noted, portraiture is a difficult genre because too often portraits are boring. To be a phenomenal piece of art, a self-portrait doesn’t need to achieve likeness; it needs to achieve a creative and skilled execution of artistic principles and an understanding of the human figure.

For weeks, I gazed at myself in the mirror and watched a figure come to life on my canvas. First, I had a bob, as I decided the hair should come last. My eyes were too large. My whole head was too big. I changed the angle of my face. I played with the background color. The shirt I wore finally stayed blue.

The light played across my features and threaded through my hair. My eyes settled into their right size and color. Gradually I molded my cheekbones and temples, chose the right darkness of shadow on my neck, and brought my lips to life. We watched videos of artists sketching and mapping out the face on top of a study of the skull; understanding the planes of the face is crucial to creating a strong portrait.

I had anticipated painting my own portrait and imagined that each stroke of the brush on canvas would be felt on my flesh itself. In reality I did touch my face at times to understand my features, but overall I forgot I was painting myself. Sometimes I think that painting is like that moment you arrive at a destination and realize you don’t remember the drive over. I lose myself and yet I find myself. Never has this been so true than when I painted my own face.

It felt like rediscovering who I am. It felt like appropriating my insignificant facial features for a higher purpose—art. My professor told us that he has painted over twenty self-portraits. One hangs in his office and a student once commented on the fact that he kept a portrait of himself there. My professor started and told the student that to him, it was just a painting of a figure, done to the best of his ability; he overlooked the fact that it was of himself.

I wonder if I’ll ever reach that stage. I hope I’ll paint another self-portrait. Or twelve. It isn’t vanity: it is one of the greatest challenges I’ve experienced. And I think it can lead to profound self-growth. Who knows? Maybe one day I’ll even gain the self-confidence to pose as a nude model for a drawing class. Hmmm…I’d better not get ahead of myself.