I humored my professor. It's in my interest.
"No. Why?"
"One to hold a book, and one to do everything else. Hope you can cook with one hand, Emily."
And this is the real reason I am a starving grad student. I can't even feed myself with two hands.
Turns out, it also takes me a really long time to type with one hand.
But after six weeks, plus 10 minutes spent trapped in a public restroom (note to self: always bring phone everywhere. You are never safe, even in the bathroom. Especially when you double as a test case for Murphy's Law), I bring you a new post.
| https://i.chzbgr.com/maxW500/3202607360/h6C999FAA/ |
~
"So, what exactly will you be able to do after this 6 years of studying?" a friend asked.
"When Emily gets her degree, she'll be able to speak fluent English."
For anyone who is curious on what exactly I am doing in grad school, I am studying Celtic and Southern literature, particularly the influence of the former on the latter (let's be honest, all the best people have been under that Celtic influence at one point or another...bound or bottled. Joyce, Jameson...I find them equally compelling in my research)*
[*This beautiful Civil War era song, "Johnny Has Gone for a Soldier," illustrates another area of influence]
I explained my focus to a teaching fellow in the International school.
"Southern....hemisphere?" he asked in his thick accent.
"No, no...American South," I explained.
This didn't seem to lessen his confusion. "I don't think I am familiar with such a branch of literature?"
A Theology grad student chimed in (and this is where the trouble began):
"You know. Robert Penn Warren. He's a poet."
"I am not familiar."
I added, "He is probably better known for writing 'All the King's Men.'"
My international friend was still in the dark, but now the Theology grad stepped in it. "Yeah, it's a pretty stupid book."
"That's a very decided opinion (in my head "decided" was
replaced by another, not so polite, adjective). I'm interested to hear
why you think that."
"Well, I haven't read it."
??
??
I didn't want to disgrace myself in the first
days by causing any unpleasantness, I swallowed my Irish and turned back to my foreign friend, who asked me what the novel was about. Before I
could answer, Mr. Theology, the one who had just admitted to having never read the book, says,
"It's about a bunch of ignorant hicks. Like all Southern writing. They don't even have a Walmart to make things interesting."
Those ignorant southern hicks have so many choice expressions to apply to this situation, all of which boiled into my consciousness, and none of which are appropriate for print.
Let's just say I was tempted to make things so interesting for this toolshed that when I was finished with him he wouldn't even be able to get a job at Walmart - but fortunately
for my future reputation we were called into the assembly room just at
that minute.
Still, I think I'll stay away from the Theology cohort for awhile.~
"You remember Emily, Matt? She's staying with us while she goes to grad school. She's majoring in depression."
So maybe I am not among the majority, but there must be other people who find the idea of a fake Bible salesman seducing an ugly girl to steal her prosthetic leg hilarious...
After reading Robert Penn Warren's "History Among the Rocks," which begins, "There are many ways to die, here among the rocks," my professor glanced around the table and asked, "So, what are the ways of dying among the rocks?"
"You mean, any way to die among the rocks, or just the ways listed in the poem?"
"Miss McBryan, do you always have to take it there? Please try to rein in your macabre. Stick to the poem."
...Ok, maybe it's a pretty slim number.
~
I needed to find a less labor intensive course to fill up my credits for the semester, so I decided to take a class on the history of the English language. Now, I don't want to brag, but I consider myself an expert in this field. I mean, I've been speaking it for 25 years (yes, I began speaking full sentences in the womb)...I'm kind of a prodigy in the field of talking.
This attitude lasted into the first five minutes of the class, when my professor handed out a paper that looked like a paleolithic word search, but without the clues.
If you've never seen Old English, let me give you an example of what it looks like. Take out your phone, open your texts, and then sit on the keyboard.
Congratulations...you probably just wrote the first line of Beowulf.
I started to tell my cousins about this class:
"One of my classmates is from Taiwan...
"Where's Taiwan?"
"It's...uh...in Asia. In the Asian ocean (Asian ocean? What?)...I think it's an island. Geography is not exactly my thing," I ended lamely.
C. (4) came up to me with a chart of the periodic table. "How many of these are there?"
"I would have to count them," I said as I tried to focus on the squares she was waving in front of me.
"Not really strong on the elements. Science isn't really my thing."
N.(8) lifted an eyebrow. "Emily, how did they let you into graduate school?"
Sometimes I wonder...
But then I look at some of the other people they let in and I don't feel so bad.
A single walk from class to the parking lot was a crash course in everything that is horrible about current fashion. And the poor decisions of seemingly educated people.
Tall, blond, salmon pants and Sperrys walks past with a tee-shirt that features the face of Martin Luther King, Jr. The words "Understand Our Struggle" span the front. Yes please, do help me understand your struggle. I'm having some difficulty.
High-waisted shorts. Should not be a thing. Ever.
A girl's graphic tee reads "Welcome to the Jungle," with two pairs of open lion jaws positioned across the chest. Going for subtlety, I see.
Dear ladies: there is no ratio that takes away the need for pants as the length of your tee shirt increases. I know when you were 4 wearing an oversized tee shirt counted as being fully dressed, but recall that a diaper was an equally acceptable outfit at that age.
(Note: Leggings are not a solution to this problem. Stop trying to make leggings be pants. They are not pants).
~
Every so often, I get homesick for teaching.
N. wheeled out a roller suitcase of Hardy Boys to show off to me last week.
"This book was copyrighted in 1934! If the boy who bought this when it was published was eight just like you, how old would he be?"
"Dead."
...On second thought, I like being a student.
