It has been far too long since I've posted, and to any "regular" readers who may have given up on me, I apologize. Fear not. The Wandering Jew is still wandering, if not physically, than certainly mentally (as evidenced by the fact that I'm writing this post instead of the paper I have due in less than 72 hours, but then again, perfecting the art of procrastination is a requirement for budding PhDs).
Much has occurred since my last post, all of it positive, or at least contributing to progressive motion. I've become a homeowner, have quit my full-time job in favor of the life of an honest-to-goodness graduate student (I'm still working part-time to help put Cinnamon Toast Crunch in my bowl), and in just over a month, I will be sharing my new digs--a sprawling, deluxe 500-some-odd square foot urban studio (with a window!)--with the person with whom I hope someday to be sharing meals, bank accounts, and children (She's quite stunning).
Tonight is the first night in the new condo, and I'm posting from the area of the floor where, if all goes according to schedule tomorrow, the bed will be placed. I'll spend tonight on a makeshift mattress of dirty blankets over clean carpet, and I'll spend tomorrow neglecting my school work yet again, choosing instead to haul away the few possessions that remain in my old apartment.
For now, however, I'm left to reflect on what ownership of property represents for me as a young person taking the alternate route in this strange generation of fast money and big ambition.
I fear--nay, know--that I am spiraling unavoidably into the phenomenon that some of my colleagues have cleverly and accurately termed the "quarter-life crisis." I may have mentioned this in different terms previously, but as it represents a large chunk of my thought process lately, I'm devoting yet another post to the insecurities and uncertainties that are common when one pursues knowledge instead of cash.
But in all seriousness, I look at my two best friends from college, and I look at myself, and while I have much of which to be proud, I wonder if I haven't tricked myself into believing that I am better off taking this intellectual "high road," pursuing the life of the mind and eschewing greed and materialism and blah blah blah, when in reality, I'm simply doing myself a disservice. The two friends from college with whom I am in the closest contact are a soon-to-be-lawyer, and a computer programmer. The soon-to-be-lawyer celebrated his 25th birthday two months ago, and in two months will be an associate with a New York law firm making $160,000 base salary with an additional $50,000-$80,000 annual bonus (depending on the firm's revenue). The computer programmer makes somewhere in the range of $100,000-120,000 per year, drives a Jaguar, is about to buy his second home (while keeping the first as an investment property), and will be engaged to his girlfriend in less than a month.
I, by contrast, have never broken the $50,000 income barrier, am on no particular career track, don't own a car, and own my home only by virtue of the fact that I have ample savings from a "previous life" that I am loathe to spend on anything but the occasional investment. It's for my future children, not for me.
Life would be perfect if I were happily pursuing this doctorate, taking perverse joy in grad student poverty and knowing that some sort of lucrative career (see: college friends #1 and 2) or trust fund (see: college friend #3, who gave up a career with a Big 8 consulting firm to enter the restaurant business) waiting for me on the other end. But this is not the case. The primary option for somebody with a PhD in my discipline is academia, and in the academic job market, nothing is guaranteed. If you're lucky, you have tenure (and a livable salary) by the time you're 36 or 37. Most people aren't that lucky. The unlucky ones languish in adjunct, lecturer, or visiting assistant professor positions for years until finally giving in and entering industry or retiring and living on social security (the reality is probably not quite this gloomy, but it's close).
Add this to the equation: as painful as this is to admit, and I have tried to deny myself this admission ever since I embarked on this educational path, I like nice things. I like traveling abroad. I would love to buy a nice car. I would love to take my girlfriend to London for the weekend, or to Tokyo, or at the very least, to a high-end restaurant from time to time. I would love to buy a bigger home. I would love to wear nicer clothes, drink more expensive liquor, fly first class once in awhile. It's horrible. I feel like a glutton admitting this, but it's true. I like to think that I'm unmotivated by money--that with occupational passion will come financial security--but the truth is that I want to be a provider to my family, and I want to be able to offer them and myself more than an ordinary middle-class lifestyle.
So where does this leave me? The PhD has always been an ambition of mine. It's something that I've always wanted to do for self-fulfillment, and if I were to back out now (or sometime before actually earning the degree), I know that I would feel more than a twinge of regret. I'm not a quitter, and quitting this, of all endeavors, would fly in the face of the very core of my identity.
That being said, I am tired of counting my pennies. I'm tired of wondering if I'll be able to afford a family by age 30 (how horrible does that sound? "Afford" a family. Like it's the extra-large tub of Cheetos at Costco). I'm tired of having to choose between paying my mortgage or taking a vacation. I'm tired of the sympathetic looks and false encouragement of my peers when I tell them that, no, I'm not in finance, nor law, nor consulting. No, I'm a Grad Student! I might as well be saying, "I'm poor. I'll always be poor. I couldn't hack it in your world, so I'm being defiant and living, instead, in my own."
And yet, there is still that essential part of me that loves the pursuit of knowledge--loves the competition of it--loves wondering whether or not my paper will be accepted at the big conference. Loves knowing that failure is on the table, that it's an option. That's the part of me that thrives on uncertainty, on constant change, on doing things unconventionally.
But is that really fair to the people I love, who love me, and for whom I will someday be responsible as a provider? Is it fair to force this insecurity, this uncertainty, on myself, simply because I'm too stubborn to admit that maybe--just maybe--there's no room in this generation for empty-pocketed ponderers?
Stay tuned, quarter-lifers.
Friday, April 4, 2008
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
Passages
This post is dedicated to two college acquaintances, neither of whom I counted among my closest friends, but both of whom nonetheless left an indelible impression on me. Over the course of the past few weeks, they faced triumph and tragedy, respectively. Here are their stories:
Barry Cofield was a defensive lineman on our university's football team and, my junior year (his sophomore), he was assigned as my partner in our mandatory "Analysis of Performance" (drama) course. Barry was kind but soft-spoken and of very few words, and as most Big Ten defensive linemen tend to be, he was of quite intimidating stature (I ran into him at a bar a year after I graduated, and while it seemed impossible, his bulk had increased significantly since those heady days in AnalPerf. Despite his size and status on the team, he still took a few moments to chat and make sure that I'd graduated on time and that all was well). Barry and I were required to rate each other's classroom performances of works such as Poe's "Cask of Amontillado" and Frost's "The Road Not Taken."
The lasting image that I took from that class was Barry's unexpectedly poignant rendition of Frost's classic. It was certainly out of character for him, and yet, he trod gently through the piece. He portrayed a homeless man, sleeping on newspapers, slowly rising, defiance welling, struggling mightily with the fact that there were yet still "miles to go before I sleep."
Two days ago--years after that performance viewed by only 15 college students, fewer of whom probably remember it--I watched on TV as my old Analysis of Performance partner turned in yet another unforgettable performance...collecting a Super Bowl championship as starting nose tackle for the New York Giants, whose defensive unit shocked the sporting world by utterly dominating Tom Brady and the previously undefeated, heavily favored New England Patriots.
__________________________________________________________________
Eric Gold was a fraternity brother of mine, and like me, he quickly tired of the dogma and pressure that are characteristic of fraternity life. He was a year older than I but, like me, spent little time at the house and was not particularly close with most of the brothers. In turn, some of the brothers viewed us with suspicion and perhaps some disdain. Eric was sickly, always coughing, and claimed that his chronic respiratory ailments prevented him from most fraternity activities. I, on the other hand, was beginning to find my own way, and after the first few confusing months of fraternity life, began to drift away. Like Eric, I only ventured to the house for our weekly chapter meetings, and because we were both on the fringes of the organization, we would sit next to each other, marveling at the absurdity of it all--the false pomp and circumstance and the hypocrisy of the false brotherhood exhibited by some (few seemed to believe that Eric was actually sick, instead buying into the rumor that he feigned illness to shirk his responsibilities to the fraternity).
Ultimately, we both parted ways with the house, pursuing other goals, friendships, and endeavors. Over the course of the next few years, I would occasionally run into Eric, who went on for a master's degree at our school's speech pathology department. Our conversations, while few and far between, were always a pleasure, always genuine, and we were always sincerely interested in each other's progress toward our respective goals.
Not long before I graduated, I read an article in our university's daily newspaper about Eric, who, unbeknownst to myself or to our other mutual acquaintances, had received a double lung transplant after struggling with a rare form of fibrosis that, as many had observed, had left him unable to struggle through even the least strenuous of physical exertion.
The simple fact that he had undergone and survived such a procedure was impressive enough, but this paled in comparison to the punchline of the article. Eric, after life-threatening surgery and debilitating disease, had successfully run a half-marathon and had completed the "Hustle up the Hancock," a stairway race to the top of Chicago's third-tallest building.
Remarkable!
Soon after reading that article, Eric and I both walked across the stage at our university's graduation--Eric with his master's degree and me with my bachelor's. After the ceremony, outside in one of the school's many courtyards, the sun beamed down on a sea of new graduates, degrees in hand, the world waiting for them to conquer, and Eric and I chatted about the fraternity, about leaving our school, and about his perseverance. We left each other that day with warm wishes for the future and promises to keep in touch.
Eric and I never saw each other again.
Occasionally, I would read about him in local papers, and when I moved to New York, I would hear about his successes through mutual friends. The Hustle up the Hancock became an annual tradition, and through his heroism, bravery, and perseverance, he raised thousands of dollars for the American Lung Association.
Last November, I received a startling e-mail from a friend of ours. Eric had been diagnosed with terminal cancer and was given no more than six months to live.
Immediately, I e-mailed him to see if the rumors were true, and sure enough, the message he wrote back confirmed the terrifying news: "You heard correctly," he said. "I was diagnosed with lymphoma that has mestastasized to my lungs. They tell me that I have six months to live."
I didn't know exactly how to respond, but wrote something about somebody who was hustling up the Hancock after a double lung transplant could surely win this battle too.
In the end, those new lungs that had served as his wings were ultimately his Achilles heel. Eric lost his battle in January, just six days after his 26th birthday.
According to his obituary in the Orlando Sentinel (his hometown paper), he had pledged that he would crawl up the steps of the Hancock this year if he had to. Later this month, his father will climb in his stead, no doubt with a heavy heart--a tribute to a young man who, although he lost this battle, will always be a role model, an inspiration, and indeed a survivor.
Barry Cofield was a defensive lineman on our university's football team and, my junior year (his sophomore), he was assigned as my partner in our mandatory "Analysis of Performance" (drama) course. Barry was kind but soft-spoken and of very few words, and as most Big Ten defensive linemen tend to be, he was of quite intimidating stature (I ran into him at a bar a year after I graduated, and while it seemed impossible, his bulk had increased significantly since those heady days in AnalPerf. Despite his size and status on the team, he still took a few moments to chat and make sure that I'd graduated on time and that all was well). Barry and I were required to rate each other's classroom performances of works such as Poe's "Cask of Amontillado" and Frost's "The Road Not Taken."
The lasting image that I took from that class was Barry's unexpectedly poignant rendition of Frost's classic. It was certainly out of character for him, and yet, he trod gently through the piece. He portrayed a homeless man, sleeping on newspapers, slowly rising, defiance welling, struggling mightily with the fact that there were yet still "miles to go before I sleep."
Two days ago--years after that performance viewed by only 15 college students, fewer of whom probably remember it--I watched on TV as my old Analysis of Performance partner turned in yet another unforgettable performance...collecting a Super Bowl championship as starting nose tackle for the New York Giants, whose defensive unit shocked the sporting world by utterly dominating Tom Brady and the previously undefeated, heavily favored New England Patriots.
__________________________________________________________________
Eric Gold was a fraternity brother of mine, and like me, he quickly tired of the dogma and pressure that are characteristic of fraternity life. He was a year older than I but, like me, spent little time at the house and was not particularly close with most of the brothers. In turn, some of the brothers viewed us with suspicion and perhaps some disdain. Eric was sickly, always coughing, and claimed that his chronic respiratory ailments prevented him from most fraternity activities. I, on the other hand, was beginning to find my own way, and after the first few confusing months of fraternity life, began to drift away. Like Eric, I only ventured to the house for our weekly chapter meetings, and because we were both on the fringes of the organization, we would sit next to each other, marveling at the absurdity of it all--the false pomp and circumstance and the hypocrisy of the false brotherhood exhibited by some (few seemed to believe that Eric was actually sick, instead buying into the rumor that he feigned illness to shirk his responsibilities to the fraternity).
Ultimately, we both parted ways with the house, pursuing other goals, friendships, and endeavors. Over the course of the next few years, I would occasionally run into Eric, who went on for a master's degree at our school's speech pathology department. Our conversations, while few and far between, were always a pleasure, always genuine, and we were always sincerely interested in each other's progress toward our respective goals.
Not long before I graduated, I read an article in our university's daily newspaper about Eric, who, unbeknownst to myself or to our other mutual acquaintances, had received a double lung transplant after struggling with a rare form of fibrosis that, as many had observed, had left him unable to struggle through even the least strenuous of physical exertion.
The simple fact that he had undergone and survived such a procedure was impressive enough, but this paled in comparison to the punchline of the article. Eric, after life-threatening surgery and debilitating disease, had successfully run a half-marathon and had completed the "Hustle up the Hancock," a stairway race to the top of Chicago's third-tallest building.
Remarkable!
Soon after reading that article, Eric and I both walked across the stage at our university's graduation--Eric with his master's degree and me with my bachelor's. After the ceremony, outside in one of the school's many courtyards, the sun beamed down on a sea of new graduates, degrees in hand, the world waiting for them to conquer, and Eric and I chatted about the fraternity, about leaving our school, and about his perseverance. We left each other that day with warm wishes for the future and promises to keep in touch.
Eric and I never saw each other again.
Occasionally, I would read about him in local papers, and when I moved to New York, I would hear about his successes through mutual friends. The Hustle up the Hancock became an annual tradition, and through his heroism, bravery, and perseverance, he raised thousands of dollars for the American Lung Association.
Last November, I received a startling e-mail from a friend of ours. Eric had been diagnosed with terminal cancer and was given no more than six months to live.
Immediately, I e-mailed him to see if the rumors were true, and sure enough, the message he wrote back confirmed the terrifying news: "You heard correctly," he said. "I was diagnosed with lymphoma that has mestastasized to my lungs. They tell me that I have six months to live."
I didn't know exactly how to respond, but wrote something about somebody who was hustling up the Hancock after a double lung transplant could surely win this battle too.
In the end, those new lungs that had served as his wings were ultimately his Achilles heel. Eric lost his battle in January, just six days after his 26th birthday.
According to his obituary in the Orlando Sentinel (his hometown paper), he had pledged that he would crawl up the steps of the Hancock this year if he had to. Later this month, his father will climb in his stead, no doubt with a heavy heart--a tribute to a young man who, although he lost this battle, will always be a role model, an inspiration, and indeed a survivor.
Monday, January 21, 2008
Illuminations
I realize that it's been nearly a month since my last post, and to anybody out there who frequents this little corner of cyberspace, I apologize for my absence. Now that I'm back in the States, back at work, and back into the routine of school and teaching, I can begin to write regularly again here, as well.
I last left you just prior to my departure for Israel, my second trip to that country and a journey that I assumed would consist largely of treading on fairly familiar territory. While the purpose of the trip last time was largely for pleasure and perhaps also as a means to connect with the culture to which I belong, the goals of this adventure revolved more around determining the role that Judaism would play in my adult life than they did around sightseeing and shopping. I assumed that, in the span of my 10 days in Israel, I might feel some sort of reconnection with my heritage as well as an appreciation for the dense concentration of historical sites within Israel itself. What I did not expect, however, was the depth of the connection that I would feel and some of the feelings of both regret and determination that the journey aroused.
The film "Everything is Illuminated," which is adapted from the novel of the same name, ends with the quote, "Everything is illuminated by the light of the past...from the inside out." This film happens to be about a young Jewish man who travels to the village in Eastern Europe from which his grandfather fled Nazi oppression during World War II. There, he not only learns his identity as a descendant of the village's long-dead youth, but he also witnesses several other transformations that, it seems, are only possible once you are forced to view yourself not as someone living in the present, but as a link in an unfinished chain of humanity. As such, your job is primarily to ensure the strong construction of the next link--to ensure that it is sturdy and of the same material as the previous. It should be resistant to corrosion, durable, of the same makeup as the links that have allowed for its creation, and cognizant of its importance in ensuring that the next link can evolve and sustain itself.
Personal goals are important, to be sure, and anybody that knows me knows that I am somebody who is a goal setter and a person of significant ambition and competitive spirit. There is, however, a greater purpose, and it is one that this journey helped to illuminate for me--to make our chain stronger despite my residence in a society that, while great and proud, is also potentially corrosive to it.
This post will not be a blow-by-blow rehash of my trip to Israel. I've provided my favorite video from the adventure, and that will have to suffice for now as the extent of my description of the events on the ground. There is far too much ideology and self-discovery to sift through, and it will likely take more than one post to do so.
As a member of an ethnic group in America (and I use the term ethnic group--not religion--deliberately), I have always struggled with questions of identity. Who am I first and foremost? Am I an American? Am I a Jew? Am I a Jewish American? An American Jew? To most of my non-Jewish peers and countrypeople, I am an American who happens to be Jewish. To view myself otherwise would, to many of them, be an overstatement of the importance of my family's past. "Why do you refuse to assimilate?" is a question of Jewish people that I have heard uttered over and over again by the secular or Gentile majority. As an American citizen, educated in American schools, paying American taxes, I indeed identify on a daily and hourly basis as an American, and I believe that there is still no place of greater opportunity than the U.S.
America has been described as a land without a culture--a melting pot or a mixed salad and a nation-state that borrows its culture from the heritage of the people that comprise its population. Still, with Jews consisting of just over 2% of that population, my personal heritage is one that, if I am not proactive, I can conceivably eliminate completely from my identity, and the vast majority of people with whom I come into contact would have no clue, nor much of an opinion, on my choice.
Indeed, were it not for my parents and my very small handful of Jewish friends, I might never knowingly come in contact with people who share this culture, heritage, and any whisper of a sense of responsibility to shape the next link in the Jewish cultural chain.
Prior to my recent journey, I had come to a point where, except with a few people with whom I am especially close, I did not discuss my "Jewishness." If quizzed about my religious or cultural background, I would not hesitate to identify myself as a Jew, but I would also quickly qualify it with a terse, "but I'm not really observant," or a chorus of, "but I still love pork chops."
It seems to me that this rush to claim assimilation is something that is decidedly American, and after my experience, it is my discomfort with this attitude that has led me to discover that--for better or for worse, and regardless of how it might strike my fellow Americans--I am a Jew who happens also to be an American.
This is a difficult realization at which to arrive, given my love for this country and the fact that such anti-assimilationist attitudes are often ill-received by those who do not share them.
I like to keep on my door a small piece of artwork known as a Mezuzah. It is a small container that holds inside of it a scroll on which is inscribed some of the holiest blessings of the Jewish religion. One of those blessings dictates that we keep these words on the gates of our houses, and as a result, a Jewish household has always been identifiable by the presence of a Mezuzah on the right doorpost.
An example of how I have adjusted my attitude: One morning a few months ago, I woke up and realized that, sometime during the night, someone had ripped the Mezuzah off of my door. Slightly perturbed that somebody had messed with my personal property, I thought little of it after the initial frustration and have yet to replace it. In reality, however, this was not a simple invasion of personal space. It was an attack--minor though it may be--on the right of Jewish people to practice our culture in a society that claims to pride itself on the freedom of its citizens to do just that. It was a denial of 3,000 years of heritage that have survived to this day and are carried on by only roughly 25 million people worldwide (compared to over a billion practitioners of each of Catholicism and Islam).
After spending 10 days in a place that represents the very struggle of those 25 million individuals to continue to exist as a people, I am at once ashamed of my nonchalant reaction to the theft of my Mezuzah and am also determined not only to replace it, but also to make sure than neither I nor my children ever again take lightly the responsibility to maintain this dying culture and chain of heritage and to build in that chain links that remain Jews first who are loyal to the nation-state in which they happen to reside, as long as that nation-state recognizes their right to exist within its borders.
And in the event that the home countries of "disapora"--or non-Israeli--Jews become hostile to their right to practice their culture, then Jews retain yet another right--the right to a homeland where they can go to be safe from persecution, welcomed as citizens, and free to flourish. While Jews have found extraordinary success in America and other parts of the West, there are still places where they struggle for the right to exist culturally as well as for their literal survival. These places include Poland and other countries of Eastern Europe, parts of Africa, and much of the Middle East.
I realize that this post seems fiercely ethnocentric, and while that is not the goal, I also believe that members of any culture group have the right to identify strongly with that culture, to practice it, and to defend its maintenance across generations. Perhaps if we all view ourselves not as creatures of the present, but instead as contemporary vessels illuminated always by the spirit of our ancestors, we will develop a greater sense of value for life and culture in the here and now.
I last left you just prior to my departure for Israel, my second trip to that country and a journey that I assumed would consist largely of treading on fairly familiar territory. While the purpose of the trip last time was largely for pleasure and perhaps also as a means to connect with the culture to which I belong, the goals of this adventure revolved more around determining the role that Judaism would play in my adult life than they did around sightseeing and shopping. I assumed that, in the span of my 10 days in Israel, I might feel some sort of reconnection with my heritage as well as an appreciation for the dense concentration of historical sites within Israel itself. What I did not expect, however, was the depth of the connection that I would feel and some of the feelings of both regret and determination that the journey aroused.
The film "Everything is Illuminated," which is adapted from the novel of the same name, ends with the quote, "Everything is illuminated by the light of the past...from the inside out." This film happens to be about a young Jewish man who travels to the village in Eastern Europe from which his grandfather fled Nazi oppression during World War II. There, he not only learns his identity as a descendant of the village's long-dead youth, but he also witnesses several other transformations that, it seems, are only possible once you are forced to view yourself not as someone living in the present, but as a link in an unfinished chain of humanity. As such, your job is primarily to ensure the strong construction of the next link--to ensure that it is sturdy and of the same material as the previous. It should be resistant to corrosion, durable, of the same makeup as the links that have allowed for its creation, and cognizant of its importance in ensuring that the next link can evolve and sustain itself.
Personal goals are important, to be sure, and anybody that knows me knows that I am somebody who is a goal setter and a person of significant ambition and competitive spirit. There is, however, a greater purpose, and it is one that this journey helped to illuminate for me--to make our chain stronger despite my residence in a society that, while great and proud, is also potentially corrosive to it.
This post will not be a blow-by-blow rehash of my trip to Israel. I've provided my favorite video from the adventure, and that will have to suffice for now as the extent of my description of the events on the ground. There is far too much ideology and self-discovery to sift through, and it will likely take more than one post to do so.
As a member of an ethnic group in America (and I use the term ethnic group--not religion--deliberately), I have always struggled with questions of identity. Who am I first and foremost? Am I an American? Am I a Jew? Am I a Jewish American? An American Jew? To most of my non-Jewish peers and countrypeople, I am an American who happens to be Jewish. To view myself otherwise would, to many of them, be an overstatement of the importance of my family's past. "Why do you refuse to assimilate?" is a question of Jewish people that I have heard uttered over and over again by the secular or Gentile majority. As an American citizen, educated in American schools, paying American taxes, I indeed identify on a daily and hourly basis as an American, and I believe that there is still no place of greater opportunity than the U.S.
America has been described as a land without a culture--a melting pot or a mixed salad and a nation-state that borrows its culture from the heritage of the people that comprise its population. Still, with Jews consisting of just over 2% of that population, my personal heritage is one that, if I am not proactive, I can conceivably eliminate completely from my identity, and the vast majority of people with whom I come into contact would have no clue, nor much of an opinion, on my choice.
Indeed, were it not for my parents and my very small handful of Jewish friends, I might never knowingly come in contact with people who share this culture, heritage, and any whisper of a sense of responsibility to shape the next link in the Jewish cultural chain.
Prior to my recent journey, I had come to a point where, except with a few people with whom I am especially close, I did not discuss my "Jewishness." If quizzed about my religious or cultural background, I would not hesitate to identify myself as a Jew, but I would also quickly qualify it with a terse, "but I'm not really observant," or a chorus of, "but I still love pork chops."
It seems to me that this rush to claim assimilation is something that is decidedly American, and after my experience, it is my discomfort with this attitude that has led me to discover that--for better or for worse, and regardless of how it might strike my fellow Americans--I am a Jew who happens also to be an American.
This is a difficult realization at which to arrive, given my love for this country and the fact that such anti-assimilationist attitudes are often ill-received by those who do not share them.
I like to keep on my door a small piece of artwork known as a Mezuzah. It is a small container that holds inside of it a scroll on which is inscribed some of the holiest blessings of the Jewish religion. One of those blessings dictates that we keep these words on the gates of our houses, and as a result, a Jewish household has always been identifiable by the presence of a Mezuzah on the right doorpost.
An example of how I have adjusted my attitude: One morning a few months ago, I woke up and realized that, sometime during the night, someone had ripped the Mezuzah off of my door. Slightly perturbed that somebody had messed with my personal property, I thought little of it after the initial frustration and have yet to replace it. In reality, however, this was not a simple invasion of personal space. It was an attack--minor though it may be--on the right of Jewish people to practice our culture in a society that claims to pride itself on the freedom of its citizens to do just that. It was a denial of 3,000 years of heritage that have survived to this day and are carried on by only roughly 25 million people worldwide (compared to over a billion practitioners of each of Catholicism and Islam).
After spending 10 days in a place that represents the very struggle of those 25 million individuals to continue to exist as a people, I am at once ashamed of my nonchalant reaction to the theft of my Mezuzah and am also determined not only to replace it, but also to make sure than neither I nor my children ever again take lightly the responsibility to maintain this dying culture and chain of heritage and to build in that chain links that remain Jews first who are loyal to the nation-state in which they happen to reside, as long as that nation-state recognizes their right to exist within its borders.
And in the event that the home countries of "disapora"--or non-Israeli--Jews become hostile to their right to practice their culture, then Jews retain yet another right--the right to a homeland where they can go to be safe from persecution, welcomed as citizens, and free to flourish. While Jews have found extraordinary success in America and other parts of the West, there are still places where they struggle for the right to exist culturally as well as for their literal survival. These places include Poland and other countries of Eastern Europe, parts of Africa, and much of the Middle East.
I realize that this post seems fiercely ethnocentric, and while that is not the goal, I also believe that members of any culture group have the right to identify strongly with that culture, to practice it, and to defend its maintenance across generations. Perhaps if we all view ourselves not as creatures of the present, but instead as contemporary vessels illuminated always by the spirit of our ancestors, we will develop a greater sense of value for life and culture in the here and now.
Monday, December 24, 2007
The Wandering Jew Goes to the Land of the Jews
I am now just over a week into my three-and-a-half-week vacation, and although insomnia and sleep apnea seem to be setting in as nasty biproducts of my schedule during the semester (the latter is an issue for which I really should seek medical attention), it is a pleasure to be able to roll over, see that it's 9:30 a.m., and not have to panic for fear that I have overslept my alarm by two hours. Instead, I can settle back into my covers, roll back to the other side of the bed, and enjoy another hour or 90 minutes of blissful slumber.
One fact that I have learned about myself this semester and in the ensuing time off is that, as much as I long for a moment's rest when I'm shuttling between the university's campus and my office for the third time in a given day, knowing that I'm facing three more hours of forced concentration before I can let my mind spool down for a few minutes, I ultimately feel better about myself when I am occupied and directed. Vacation time makes me happy and rested (if not fat and drunk, since it's the holidays and I tend to do far more eating and drinking this time of year than I should), but life's adventure makes me even happier--whether it's shuttling between work and school or between continents--and so, I try to occupy even my precious days off with some form of directed activity, my favorite of which is travel.
Therefore, in three days (it is now Monday, and I am taking off on Thursday), I'll be leaving on a 10-day youth tour of Israel, a land that is dear to me both as a Jew and as a lover of history, and I will be traveling with 34 other restless young souls, none of whom I've met before, and each of whom is presumably making this journey for different reasons and searching for different truths (or perhaps just looking to get away for awhile).
This will not be my first trip to the "Holy Land," but it is nonetheless somewhat by design that I decided to make the return journey at this particular time and under these particular circumstances. The tour that I am taking is an educational trip that is subsidized by an endowment that funds an organization called "Birthright Israel." This organization--and the endowment that fuels it--exists for the sole purpose of allowing Jewish youth between the ages of 18 and 26 the the opportunity to experience Israel in an organized, educational setting. The more zealous of the faith probably see this as a means to lure Jewish youth to Israel to stay. I see it as a gift of culture--one that so many of this generation either take for granted or of which they do not realize that they are a part. This is not meant as criticism of my generation, as I have always taken great pride in the peer group to which I belong. It is simply an observation that Jewish youth seem to be moving further from Judaism, which from a purely religious standpoint (ie., belief in God), is understandable, but from a cultural one, is a shame.
I do not consider myself religious. I do not know whether or not I believe in God as God is described in our religious texts. I do not follow the dietary laws of Judaism, nor do I keep the sabbath, nor was I confirmed (although I was Bar Mitzvah'd), nor do I date Jewish women, nor will I likely marry one. Most observant Jews would call me a "bad Jew," although I prefer to see myself as merely secular.
That being said--and perhaps this is hypocritical--I consider myself deeply committed to maintaining Judaism as a culture and as a value system, to raising my children as Jews (and to their becoming Bar or Bat Mitzvahs), and, when the time comes to begin building a family, to making sure that the Jewish traditions in which I was raised are an integral part that family's identity. While I am still unsure as to whether or not I believe in God, I am still Jewish to the core and identify strongly with the deep history and complex culture that comprise this distinction.
There are 20 million Jews alive today (the vast majority of whom live in the U.S.). There are a billion Catholics, almost a billion Muslims, hundreds of millions of Hindus, and hundreds of millions of Christians of other denominations. Of the so-called "major religions," Judaism is the closest to extinction, and as a result, I feel a very personal responsibility not to be a part of that march to oblivion that I fear we are taking as a people.
As a result--and because I am getting older and closer to the necessary determination of the exact nature of the role that Judaism will play in my life and that of my children--I believe that this is the time to go back to Israel, to spend this time with other young secular Jews, and to reconnect with the culture and the history that I feel so committed to helping maintain.
The trip itself should be a blast--35 college kids and young professionals trekking through Jerusalem, the Golan Heights, the Negev Desert, swimming the Dead Sea and the Jordan River, and spending New Year's Eve in Tel Aviv. We will be spending time with Israeli soldiers and near the Palestinian territories discussing the region's volatile political situation with members of the Israeli Arab community. Some fellow travelers will be significantly younger than I am, which I hope does not diminish their appreciation for the opportunity that we have to bond as Jews, but also as young people on an adventure.
As I've traveled and met people around the world, I have come to realize that the success of any journey depends on the companions with whom we share it. Cultural and personal searching aside, it is my hope that the sense of companionship is strong among this group and that each of us finds at least a bit of what we are looking for.
Stay tuned...
One fact that I have learned about myself this semester and in the ensuing time off is that, as much as I long for a moment's rest when I'm shuttling between the university's campus and my office for the third time in a given day, knowing that I'm facing three more hours of forced concentration before I can let my mind spool down for a few minutes, I ultimately feel better about myself when I am occupied and directed. Vacation time makes me happy and rested (if not fat and drunk, since it's the holidays and I tend to do far more eating and drinking this time of year than I should), but life's adventure makes me even happier--whether it's shuttling between work and school or between continents--and so, I try to occupy even my precious days off with some form of directed activity, my favorite of which is travel.
Therefore, in three days (it is now Monday, and I am taking off on Thursday), I'll be leaving on a 10-day youth tour of Israel, a land that is dear to me both as a Jew and as a lover of history, and I will be traveling with 34 other restless young souls, none of whom I've met before, and each of whom is presumably making this journey for different reasons and searching for different truths (or perhaps just looking to get away for awhile).
This will not be my first trip to the "Holy Land," but it is nonetheless somewhat by design that I decided to make the return journey at this particular time and under these particular circumstances. The tour that I am taking is an educational trip that is subsidized by an endowment that funds an organization called "Birthright Israel." This organization--and the endowment that fuels it--exists for the sole purpose of allowing Jewish youth between the ages of 18 and 26 the the opportunity to experience Israel in an organized, educational setting. The more zealous of the faith probably see this as a means to lure Jewish youth to Israel to stay. I see it as a gift of culture--one that so many of this generation either take for granted or of which they do not realize that they are a part. This is not meant as criticism of my generation, as I have always taken great pride in the peer group to which I belong. It is simply an observation that Jewish youth seem to be moving further from Judaism, which from a purely religious standpoint (ie., belief in God), is understandable, but from a cultural one, is a shame.
I do not consider myself religious. I do not know whether or not I believe in God as God is described in our religious texts. I do not follow the dietary laws of Judaism, nor do I keep the sabbath, nor was I confirmed (although I was Bar Mitzvah'd), nor do I date Jewish women, nor will I likely marry one. Most observant Jews would call me a "bad Jew," although I prefer to see myself as merely secular.
That being said--and perhaps this is hypocritical--I consider myself deeply committed to maintaining Judaism as a culture and as a value system, to raising my children as Jews (and to their becoming Bar or Bat Mitzvahs), and, when the time comes to begin building a family, to making sure that the Jewish traditions in which I was raised are an integral part that family's identity. While I am still unsure as to whether or not I believe in God, I am still Jewish to the core and identify strongly with the deep history and complex culture that comprise this distinction.
There are 20 million Jews alive today (the vast majority of whom live in the U.S.). There are a billion Catholics, almost a billion Muslims, hundreds of millions of Hindus, and hundreds of millions of Christians of other denominations. Of the so-called "major religions," Judaism is the closest to extinction, and as a result, I feel a very personal responsibility not to be a part of that march to oblivion that I fear we are taking as a people.
As a result--and because I am getting older and closer to the necessary determination of the exact nature of the role that Judaism will play in my life and that of my children--I believe that this is the time to go back to Israel, to spend this time with other young secular Jews, and to reconnect with the culture and the history that I feel so committed to helping maintain.
The trip itself should be a blast--35 college kids and young professionals trekking through Jerusalem, the Golan Heights, the Negev Desert, swimming the Dead Sea and the Jordan River, and spending New Year's Eve in Tel Aviv. We will be spending time with Israeli soldiers and near the Palestinian territories discussing the region's volatile political situation with members of the Israeli Arab community. Some fellow travelers will be significantly younger than I am, which I hope does not diminish their appreciation for the opportunity that we have to bond as Jews, but also as young people on an adventure.
As I've traveled and met people around the world, I have come to realize that the success of any journey depends on the companions with whom we share it. Cultural and personal searching aside, it is my hope that the sense of companionship is strong among this group and that each of us finds at least a bit of what we are looking for.
Stay tuned...
Monday, December 17, 2007
A Quarter Century, Division Champions, and Other Minutiae
I wish I had more to report and more interesting anecdotes to share, but my mind is still recovering from the recently completed semester, and I am bereft of bright ideas for blog postings. I'm going to wait another week to post about my plans for my upcoming three-week vacation (!), and so, I will use this opportunity to catch up with reports of recent developments and debauchery over the past weekend.
Football Interlude
I am proud, however, to start with the Buccaneers NFC South Division Title Edition of the weekly Football Interlude. The joy of victory was tempered only by the fact that it was won against an Atlanta Falcons team that has not only lost its Pro Bowl quarterback to a two-year prison sentence for animal cruelty, but one that also saw its head coach unceremoniously bolt literally in the middle of the night for a job as head coach at the University of Arkansas, leaving the Falcons literally headless and leaderless for the final three games of the season.
Now, there has always been a measure of bad blood between the Falcons and Buccaneers, perhaps because they were almost certainly the worst teams in the league between the years 1984 and 1998 (when Atlanta made its first and only Super Bowl appearance, a lopsided defeat at the hands of John Elway's Denver Broncos). In 2002, the divisions were re-aligned, and the Bucs and Falcons were now slated to play two annual editions of the "Battle of I-75". There is no love lost between these teams or their fans, and although the Bucs have dominated the series, there is enough animosity to make even the most meaningless of meetings between the two somewhat interesting (you never know who will be ejected for throwing punches, who will spit in the face of an official, who will try to tackle the opposing coach, etc.).
This time around, however, it was difficult to feel much more than sympathy for fans of a team that has essentially abandoned them this year. My good friend in New York jokingly suggested that the Atlanta Falcons organization issue refunds to season ticket holders, and while this is as likely as the last-place squad making the playoffs, Atlanta's fans deserve far better than that with which their team has disrespected them this year. As a result, I will say that I feel for you, Falcons fans. You deserve more, and I have no doubt that, if your ownership demonstrates even an ounce of professionalism this off-season, you will be back on track after a good draft and a fresh start.
That being said, it was an absolute pleasure to watch the Bucs unceremoniously dismantle the Falcons 37-3, a score which included the Bucs' first-ever kickoff return for a touchdown (courtesy of Michael Spurlock), and cruise to their third Division Championship since 2002. Jon Gruden has patched together a ragtag group of has-beens, never-weres, old men, and unproven youngsters and has likely saved his job by quietly guiding them to the playoffs the year after a dismal 4-12 finish.
The Big 2-5
Tomorrow is my 25th birthday, which I'm told is the last "big" birthday before 30. As a result, I decided to have a "big" birthday party this past weekend, and despite the first real blizzard of the season and the fact that everybody else was holding their holiday parties that same evening, the turnout was great, and I'm humbled that those who took the time to slog through the driving snow just to spend some time celebrating with my friends and I.
The evening began with dinner at my PhD cohort's favorite hangout, after which the more intrepid among us trekked to an upscale lounge, where we had reserved our own booth, complete with our own liter of Jack Daniel's and caraffs of the appropriate mixers. There, we proceded to drink, drink, dance, and be merry (and drink some more). I saw some old faces and some new, and after a time, all began to run together in a whiskey-induced haze. The evening's end, sadly, is only an alcoholic blur to me now. Perhaps my liver is beginning to raise the white flag, or my body is simply telling me that it is time to mature a bit. Whichever it is, I do know that I spent some time worshipping at the porcelain alter before collapsing into bed and waking up--lightheaded and dehydrated--just in time to watch the football game.
Tonight, despite the events of the weekend, one of my close friends and I are going out on the town again, although the evening will be decidedly more tame (with the quantities imbibed a bit more measured than they were on Saturday). I am taking tomorrow--my actual birthday--off of work, and I am determined to have a pleasant, productive, clear-headed day.
All of this leads me to wonder why I continue to follow a tradition that, while nice for a child, seems almost unnecessary now. Granted, I am beyond grateful for my wonderful family and terriffic friends, all of whom have always gone above and beyond the call of duty in making my birthdays special.
When I was a kid, there was nothing I anticipated more than my birthday. It was like Christmas, Hanukkah, New Year's, and summer vacation combined into one magnificent, joy-filled 24 hours. My parents always made a production of it, and I always felt like a little king. This is one of the many aspects of my childhood that I cherish--the fact that, be it on the occasion of a birthday, the last day of a school year successfully completed, or simply a moment when my world needed brightening, I always and without exception felt loved.
Sometimes, I feel as though I am loved by those I care about more than I deserve to be, but that is likely an insecurity of my own construction.
Now, the whole birthday thing seems a bit silly to me. After all, I'm just a working stiff like everyone else. Where kids need love and nurturing and reinforcement of the notion that they are great and sweet and have the world at their fingertips, adulthood, by contrast, carries with it a certain innate resignation to the fact that we must all pull our weight, that we are not as unique as our parents told us we were, and that the next generation always holds more promise than our own (this last one, I actually do not personally believe, but I will include it as a general rule, to which I guess I am an exception).
This is probably digging too deeply into the issue. I will continue to celebrate my birthday, to accept gifts, and to feel awkward when this one seemingly arbitrary square on the calendar rolls around. I love celebrating other people's birthdays, but as I've gotten older, I feel increasingly strange when other people celebrate mine. Perhaps, like a falling tolerance for alcohol and a rising need for stability, this is simply one of the many side effects of growing up.
Football Interlude
I am proud, however, to start with the Buccaneers NFC South Division Title Edition of the weekly Football Interlude. The joy of victory was tempered only by the fact that it was won against an Atlanta Falcons team that has not only lost its Pro Bowl quarterback to a two-year prison sentence for animal cruelty, but one that also saw its head coach unceremoniously bolt literally in the middle of the night for a job as head coach at the University of Arkansas, leaving the Falcons literally headless and leaderless for the final three games of the season.
Now, there has always been a measure of bad blood between the Falcons and Buccaneers, perhaps because they were almost certainly the worst teams in the league between the years 1984 and 1998 (when Atlanta made its first and only Super Bowl appearance, a lopsided defeat at the hands of John Elway's Denver Broncos). In 2002, the divisions were re-aligned, and the Bucs and Falcons were now slated to play two annual editions of the "Battle of I-75". There is no love lost between these teams or their fans, and although the Bucs have dominated the series, there is enough animosity to make even the most meaningless of meetings between the two somewhat interesting (you never know who will be ejected for throwing punches, who will spit in the face of an official, who will try to tackle the opposing coach, etc.).
This time around, however, it was difficult to feel much more than sympathy for fans of a team that has essentially abandoned them this year. My good friend in New York jokingly suggested that the Atlanta Falcons organization issue refunds to season ticket holders, and while this is as likely as the last-place squad making the playoffs, Atlanta's fans deserve far better than that with which their team has disrespected them this year. As a result, I will say that I feel for you, Falcons fans. You deserve more, and I have no doubt that, if your ownership demonstrates even an ounce of professionalism this off-season, you will be back on track after a good draft and a fresh start.
That being said, it was an absolute pleasure to watch the Bucs unceremoniously dismantle the Falcons 37-3, a score which included the Bucs' first-ever kickoff return for a touchdown (courtesy of Michael Spurlock), and cruise to their third Division Championship since 2002. Jon Gruden has patched together a ragtag group of has-beens, never-weres, old men, and unproven youngsters and has likely saved his job by quietly guiding them to the playoffs the year after a dismal 4-12 finish.
The Big 2-5
Tomorrow is my 25th birthday, which I'm told is the last "big" birthday before 30. As a result, I decided to have a "big" birthday party this past weekend, and despite the first real blizzard of the season and the fact that everybody else was holding their holiday parties that same evening, the turnout was great, and I'm humbled that those who took the time to slog through the driving snow just to spend some time celebrating with my friends and I.
The evening began with dinner at my PhD cohort's favorite hangout, after which the more intrepid among us trekked to an upscale lounge, where we had reserved our own booth, complete with our own liter of Jack Daniel's and caraffs of the appropriate mixers. There, we proceded to drink, drink, dance, and be merry (and drink some more). I saw some old faces and some new, and after a time, all began to run together in a whiskey-induced haze. The evening's end, sadly, is only an alcoholic blur to me now. Perhaps my liver is beginning to raise the white flag, or my body is simply telling me that it is time to mature a bit. Whichever it is, I do know that I spent some time worshipping at the porcelain alter before collapsing into bed and waking up--lightheaded and dehydrated--just in time to watch the football game.
Tonight, despite the events of the weekend, one of my close friends and I are going out on the town again, although the evening will be decidedly more tame (with the quantities imbibed a bit more measured than they were on Saturday). I am taking tomorrow--my actual birthday--off of work, and I am determined to have a pleasant, productive, clear-headed day.
All of this leads me to wonder why I continue to follow a tradition that, while nice for a child, seems almost unnecessary now. Granted, I am beyond grateful for my wonderful family and terriffic friends, all of whom have always gone above and beyond the call of duty in making my birthdays special.
When I was a kid, there was nothing I anticipated more than my birthday. It was like Christmas, Hanukkah, New Year's, and summer vacation combined into one magnificent, joy-filled 24 hours. My parents always made a production of it, and I always felt like a little king. This is one of the many aspects of my childhood that I cherish--the fact that, be it on the occasion of a birthday, the last day of a school year successfully completed, or simply a moment when my world needed brightening, I always and without exception felt loved.
Sometimes, I feel as though I am loved by those I care about more than I deserve to be, but that is likely an insecurity of my own construction.
Now, the whole birthday thing seems a bit silly to me. After all, I'm just a working stiff like everyone else. Where kids need love and nurturing and reinforcement of the notion that they are great and sweet and have the world at their fingertips, adulthood, by contrast, carries with it a certain innate resignation to the fact that we must all pull our weight, that we are not as unique as our parents told us we were, and that the next generation always holds more promise than our own (this last one, I actually do not personally believe, but I will include it as a general rule, to which I guess I am an exception).
This is probably digging too deeply into the issue. I will continue to celebrate my birthday, to accept gifts, and to feel awkward when this one seemingly arbitrary square on the calendar rolls around. I love celebrating other people's birthdays, but as I've gotten older, I feel increasingly strange when other people celebrate mine. Perhaps, like a falling tolerance for alcohol and a rising need for stability, this is simply one of the many side effects of growing up.
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
Football Interlude: Houston, We Have a Problem
The Buccaneers' "division title express" experienced a minor derailment on Sunday with Tampa Bay's unexpected loss in convincing fashion to what had appeared on paper to be a significantly inferior Houston Texans squad. While backup QB Luke McCown had looked scrappy and durable against New Orleans, he looked scared in Houston--uncomfortable in the pocket and unable to get rid of the ball.
The Carolina Panthers did their part by dutifully losing to Jacksonville, but the division title celebration in Tampa was delayed--hopefully temporarily--by the Saints' victimization of the hapless, headless Atlanta Falcons on Monday Night Football.
This would have been a fairly inconsequential (though disappointing) defeat for the Bucs if it weren't for the fact that, with a win, they would have moved ahead of the Seattle Seahawks for the third seed in the NFC and closer to a first-round date with the toothless Vikings or Cardinals, instead of the now-likely meeting with the dangerous New York Giants.
Ultimately, the team brought this upon themselves. The defense seemed blase at best, the offense could not find its rhythm, and special teams might as well have stayed on the team bus. All phases broke down in what amounted to a puzzling loss to a mediocre (at best) foe, and aside from seeding implications, this debacle will surely create much fodder for criticism from the sports journalism community--a group which tends to overlook and underrate the Bucs, even on good weeks.
Mercifully, Jeff Garcia will be back under center this Sunday when the team takes on Atlanta and, hopefully, celebrates an NFC South Division Championship.
The Carolina Panthers did their part by dutifully losing to Jacksonville, but the division title celebration in Tampa was delayed--hopefully temporarily--by the Saints' victimization of the hapless, headless Atlanta Falcons on Monday Night Football.
This would have been a fairly inconsequential (though disappointing) defeat for the Bucs if it weren't for the fact that, with a win, they would have moved ahead of the Seattle Seahawks for the third seed in the NFC and closer to a first-round date with the toothless Vikings or Cardinals, instead of the now-likely meeting with the dangerous New York Giants.
Ultimately, the team brought this upon themselves. The defense seemed blase at best, the offense could not find its rhythm, and special teams might as well have stayed on the team bus. All phases broke down in what amounted to a puzzling loss to a mediocre (at best) foe, and aside from seeding implications, this debacle will surely create much fodder for criticism from the sports journalism community--a group which tends to overlook and underrate the Bucs, even on good weeks.
Mercifully, Jeff Garcia will be back under center this Sunday when the team takes on Atlanta and, hopefully, celebrates an NFC South Division Championship.
Saturday, December 8, 2007
In the Bag
It's a seasonably cold Saturday night in my Midwestern hometown. I've got ELO's "Mr. Blue Sky" blasting from my computer's speakers, and it's an appropriate theme for this particular evening, as I have finished all of my obligations and papers--two 18-pagers--and, aside for one final class meeting on Monday night, can consider the first semester of my PhD program complete--in the bag. I still have 26 exams to grade by midweek, but teaching is a pleasure, not a chore, and I am feeling little pressure nor concern about my ability to complete this small task.
While I will detail my plans for the winter holidays in my next post (or perhaps in the one after that), I just finished watching a program that has me thinking about that which we can accomplish during our ride on this merry-go-round.
It seems inconsequential, given the seriousness of events occurring in world affairs, but I believe that there is nothing frivolous about setting lofty goals and working to the very best of your ability to achieve them. Tim Tebow, the quarterback of the University of Florida Gators, just won the Heisman Trophy, and with his parents, coaches, and mentors on hand for the occasion, likely lived a moment that had played across his mind's stage since he first threw a football in his backyard, or on the Pop Warner field, or at the playground. Here is a young man standing before the Gods of his occupation--past Heisman winners, Super Bowl champions, collegiate superstars, and fellow student athletes--who at age 20, his personal journey just beginning, has nonetheless reached the pinnacle of his craft, or at least the highest possible point reachable by somebody of his limited experience.
These are the reasons why we toil, fail, pick ourselves out of the dirt, grin in the face of impossibility, and soldier on into uncertainty--these moments when, for an instant, we can collect ourselves, gaze around us, and admire the path we've trodden. Greater obstacles may lie ahead, but it is in these instances when we can let down our guard for just a heartbeat and revel in the warmth of accomplishment.
As I have previously asserted, education is important to me, yet I was never somebody for whom academic achievement came naturally. While some are gifted with natural ability, I have needed to claw my way toward my personal goals, many of which are academic in nature, and difficult though the path has been, it has been rewarding and sweet and a route that I would never eschew for any amount of natural talent.
When I was 15 years old, a sophomore in high school, and just beginning to dream of college, I was required to meet with my guidance counselor to discuss plans for after graduation. One of my required tasks was to compile a list of around ten colleges that I could use as targets and as motivation for success over the course of my final two years. My list included a wide range of fairly distinguished schools--academic stretches, to be sure, but in my mind not impossible to obtain with a bit of finesse and drive.
So there I sat, in the library, with my parents and my guidance counselor, and she furrowed her brow as she silently read through my list of target institutions. When she was finished, she paused for a moment, as if collecting her thoughts, and then looked at me with a pity that has etched itself permanently into my mind's photo album.
"I admire your motivation," she began sympathetically, "but..."
Wait for it...
"You're just not the type of student who is usually competitive for these types of schools."
I don't remember exactly what my reaction was to her assertion, other than to feel a fire begin to burn so hot under my rump that, once I left that chair in that library, I don't recall glancing back once over the course of the next two years.
While I must leave the details of the quest for another post (I'm already beyond fashionably late for my cousin's holiday party), my final list of college applications--despite the early skepticism of my guidance counselor--looked strikingly like that first list of target schools, with a few "safeties" thrown in for the sake of prudence.
In the end, I didn't need them.
When I knocked on my counselor's door in the spring of my senior year, I had in hand acceptance letters from several of the schools to which I had been discouraged from applying. Four years--and another set of lessons learned and challenges accepted--later, I was admitted for my master's degree to one of the schools that had denied me as an undergrad.
Two years after that, I've completed my first semester of a PhD program, and as I was discussing with a similarly perseverant friend yesterday, it is gratifying to know that, despite the fact that more challenges lie ahead than behind, that fire still burns as white-hot as it did the day I was told that this path would not be possible.
It seems a cliche, but there is no truer notion than that which states that failure is simply the concrete that builds the foundation for success. Tim Tebow threw his share of interceptions, was passed by his share of college recruiters, waited patiently in the shadows of older, more experienced quarterbacks who may not have been as hungry or as patient as he. Now, he stands at the pinnacle of his chosen calling, celebrated today by those who questioned him yesterday.
We can all stand in that place--every single one of us. We all have wings, and even if some of us have more humble, tattered wings than others, they are functional nonetheless; they are ours, and they will serve us well if we allow ourselves to use them.
Until next time, smooth gliding...
While I will detail my plans for the winter holidays in my next post (or perhaps in the one after that), I just finished watching a program that has me thinking about that which we can accomplish during our ride on this merry-go-round.
It seems inconsequential, given the seriousness of events occurring in world affairs, but I believe that there is nothing frivolous about setting lofty goals and working to the very best of your ability to achieve them. Tim Tebow, the quarterback of the University of Florida Gators, just won the Heisman Trophy, and with his parents, coaches, and mentors on hand for the occasion, likely lived a moment that had played across his mind's stage since he first threw a football in his backyard, or on the Pop Warner field, or at the playground. Here is a young man standing before the Gods of his occupation--past Heisman winners, Super Bowl champions, collegiate superstars, and fellow student athletes--who at age 20, his personal journey just beginning, has nonetheless reached the pinnacle of his craft, or at least the highest possible point reachable by somebody of his limited experience.
These are the reasons why we toil, fail, pick ourselves out of the dirt, grin in the face of impossibility, and soldier on into uncertainty--these moments when, for an instant, we can collect ourselves, gaze around us, and admire the path we've trodden. Greater obstacles may lie ahead, but it is in these instances when we can let down our guard for just a heartbeat and revel in the warmth of accomplishment.
As I have previously asserted, education is important to me, yet I was never somebody for whom academic achievement came naturally. While some are gifted with natural ability, I have needed to claw my way toward my personal goals, many of which are academic in nature, and difficult though the path has been, it has been rewarding and sweet and a route that I would never eschew for any amount of natural talent.
When I was 15 years old, a sophomore in high school, and just beginning to dream of college, I was required to meet with my guidance counselor to discuss plans for after graduation. One of my required tasks was to compile a list of around ten colleges that I could use as targets and as motivation for success over the course of my final two years. My list included a wide range of fairly distinguished schools--academic stretches, to be sure, but in my mind not impossible to obtain with a bit of finesse and drive.
So there I sat, in the library, with my parents and my guidance counselor, and she furrowed her brow as she silently read through my list of target institutions. When she was finished, she paused for a moment, as if collecting her thoughts, and then looked at me with a pity that has etched itself permanently into my mind's photo album.
"I admire your motivation," she began sympathetically, "but..."
Wait for it...
"You're just not the type of student who is usually competitive for these types of schools."
I don't remember exactly what my reaction was to her assertion, other than to feel a fire begin to burn so hot under my rump that, once I left that chair in that library, I don't recall glancing back once over the course of the next two years.
While I must leave the details of the quest for another post (I'm already beyond fashionably late for my cousin's holiday party), my final list of college applications--despite the early skepticism of my guidance counselor--looked strikingly like that first list of target schools, with a few "safeties" thrown in for the sake of prudence.
In the end, I didn't need them.
When I knocked on my counselor's door in the spring of my senior year, I had in hand acceptance letters from several of the schools to which I had been discouraged from applying. Four years--and another set of lessons learned and challenges accepted--later, I was admitted for my master's degree to one of the schools that had denied me as an undergrad.
Two years after that, I've completed my first semester of a PhD program, and as I was discussing with a similarly perseverant friend yesterday, it is gratifying to know that, despite the fact that more challenges lie ahead than behind, that fire still burns as white-hot as it did the day I was told that this path would not be possible.
It seems a cliche, but there is no truer notion than that which states that failure is simply the concrete that builds the foundation for success. Tim Tebow threw his share of interceptions, was passed by his share of college recruiters, waited patiently in the shadows of older, more experienced quarterbacks who may not have been as hungry or as patient as he. Now, he stands at the pinnacle of his chosen calling, celebrated today by those who questioned him yesterday.
We can all stand in that place--every single one of us. We all have wings, and even if some of us have more humble, tattered wings than others, they are functional nonetheless; they are ours, and they will serve us well if we allow ourselves to use them.
Until next time, smooth gliding...
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