Wedlocked

Leave it blank

Standardized tests are a bitch. Even at a higher level of education, they're a menial task meant to streamline the way schools look at students. But there's not an answer option for "uhhhhh, wha?"

In the last few weeks (in addition to keeping up with my six classes) I took the Literature in English GRE subject test and the general GRE test.

Essentially, the subject test is a nearly three hour exam with 230 mind-blowing questions that range from Old English (the words include the number three!) to Middle English, to contemporary literature and tons of literary theory. Basically, it's a test to see how much you've read over the years and how much of that you've been able to retain. It also forces you to dissect excerpts of texts in a matter of moments. About 40 questions into it, I realized I wasn't going to finish on time.

It's one of those split-second moments where you realize you're probably way over your head. The incessant ticking of the clock, the fidgeting of the girl next to me, that irritating proctor who acted like we were high school students (she double-checked all our bubbles on the scantron), only added fuel to the nervousness.

A strange thing is happening, as the talk of grad school is everywhere and I'm inevitably spending a few minutes a day rattling off my list of schools. I feel out of my element, unable to compete in a sea of students who have all dreamt for this moment. In a way, I've dreamt about it, too. But my entrance into this idea of going to graduate school is recent. Aside from the times in elementary school I told my mother I was going to be a doctor, I wonder if I ever really believed I would graduate from college. I have a hard time believing it now.

My first graduate school application is due in just two days. Meanwhile, I'm having to write a "statement of purpose." Can we all have a collective moment of silence? And a collective growl? As much time as I spend spilling my guts here (not enough time lately) and writing other people's stories over the last several years as a journalist, I don't know where to begin. What I do not have a difficult time doing is being honest. That, I can do. Hell, perfect strangers know I come from a single parent family, don't know who my father is, that I grew up in poverty, the name of my two dogs, and the fact that my husband makes dirty grammar jokes even though he refuses to read a book.

I've written this supposed 'statement of purpose' in my head several times. In the last few weeks I've been unable to get a good night's sleep because of it. I think about how to talk about my past. I think about how to admit to my failing out of school. I think of how to make these strangers see that I redeemed myself. I think of how to incorporate the lessons I learned in my job and how that relates to my academic world. I think of how to not sound like I'm playing the violin and whining to get in. I think of how to tell them, honestly, that I DO feel out of place writing this 'statement of purpose' and that I never really thought of myself as a grad school type, if there is such a thing.

Statements of purpose are designed to sum up your background, your academic research and what you want to study (while simultaneously revealing which professors you'd like to work with and why) and why you're right for their program. It's like a job interview, only perhaps a little more revealing. But it really just makes me want to pull out my eyebrows. I lack the confidence that should have set in by now. It's in there somewhere, it happens when I turn in a paper that I feel really good about. The rest of the time it's a vivacious puppy that slips just out of my hands when I try to get it to hold still to love on it for a little while. When I need it most, it's out the door, abandoning me in the hopes of smelling the corner of the lawn or disappearing underneath the bed. (See? Even my metaphors have suffered!)

The thing is, I don't want to fail again. I know that I won't get into some schools. I know it's possible I might not get into any of the six schools I'm applying to. Then it'll be back to the real world or working full time and paying off student loans. What's worse, what if I get in, and (gasp) fail after I get in? It's enough to make anyone go mad. Did I mention I also have homework to do while this little troll rots in my brain?

One of my professors said to be honest and be myself. I'm halfway tempted to confess to these highly educated committee members that I don't consider myself to be a wordsmith and I have dubbed myself any number of things including the "everyman scholar" and "white trash literati." For those who don't know me, it may come off as nothing but schtick.

This task has put me into a situation I've never had to deal with before. I have the ability to talk professionally at interviews, curse like a sailor at a bar, and somehow speak publicly on a whim while sounding half-way eloquent at times. I'm not quite sure how it all fits into academia. Maybe it's best summed up when I tell the University of California San Diego and the other schools I'm applying to that I'll absorb information from all sides while secretly disagreeing, shed a tear with them when they tell me their life story, can condense aforementioned life story to 25 moving column inches in the newspaper, share a pint with them after class, and argue about social class and status in Joyce and Hemingway with a decidedly common vocabulary that does not rival the recent GRE subject test but is equally as important. With all due modesty and candor, of course. Thank you very much.

On second thought, perhaps I should start devising a plan for the destruction of the reject letters that most certainly would follow. I mean, I'm going to get accepted somewhere, I'm sure. If I have a hard time convincing myself, how could I possibly convince another of my worthiness to become a PhD candidate?

I guess I'll just have to give myself a shot. But in the case of my approach to the GRE subject test, you're not penalized for answers left blank. I'll keep it relevant, explain what's necessary, confidence (faked of course) minus self-aggrandizing. As for the rest, the stories I could tell, the points I could make, the reasons I could list, the accomplishments I could inflate, I'll save it.

It'll give me something to talk about at my grad school's orientation or on stage when I pursue my unfounded career as a local standup comedian if it all falls through.

Travelogue

I'll never forget that one summer.

There wasn't anything special about it. My sister and I spent our summers like most poor kids. We scrounged the couch for change or took that roll of pennies we'd saved for a few weeks to the neighborhood pool where an afternoon of sunshine and splashing that left our stomachs rumbling on the way home and dizzy with the heat.

Our days were not filled with ski trips to Aspen, luaus in Hawaii, or cross-country drives to heralded state parks. I think two summers we drove for five hours to stay with our aunt and one very special day was spent at Six Flags over Texas. You would think it was Disneyland, the way our eyes lit up at the very thought of SIX FLAGS. For us, it was Disneyland.

So going back to that one summer. I was still in elementary school, my sister, I think, was about junior high age. The neighborhood pool was closed, the one that was located at the high school just a few blocks away from our one-bedroom apartment. Naturally we did what any other young kids would do faced with the possibility of spending another boring day at home. We hitched a ride with a friend's mom to the pool on the other side of town. WAY on the other side of town. It was the "good" pool. The Mayberry pool. The pool that was on the older side of town but where Goldie and Gus (does California even know who these mascots are?) taught swimming lessons. Goldie and Gus were two "fish" looking mascots who had a catchy tune on their commercials "The water's fine, just come on in!" then the group of kids would chime in: "We'd like to but we cannot swim! What do you mean, you can't swim? Quit your fussing, get down to the pool and start your lesson. No need to worry, no need to fuss, we're swimming like Goldie and Gus...YEAH!" AND now I know why I can't retain bits of IMPORTANT information.

Anywho, we passed the day at the good pool, the clear pool, then it was close to closing time. Nevermind that our friend, the one with the mom? had left a couple of hours earlier. It was getting late and if it weren't for the delayed summer sunsets, we would've already been in the dark. We set off on foot to try and get home before mom did.

The problem with walking home is our adolescent-sized legs did not measure the fact that our home was a good four to five miles away. Ruddy from the afternoon light, we trudged home, worried as it became darker and more evident that we weren't going to make it before mom did. Out of nowhere, our rumbling car, came out of the dark, shining its headlights on us. Relief! Mom! But her look said it all.

"Get. in. the. car."

Nothing else. No, hey, how's it going? Damn, you're sunburned. Did you have fun?

"Get. in. the. car. NOW."

Oh it was bad. My mom drove to the police station. Maybe it was her job as a waitress or her job at the grocery store, I don't remember which, but she apparently had someone she called to ask a favor. You have to remember this is way before police stations were just about booking people and were probably a lot more lax on what went on. So I was met with the tallest man I thought I'd ever seen in my entire life (this was before Conan O'Brien) and he started to walk to me to a jail cell. He asked, "Did you know how afraid your mom was?" I burst into tears. My sister burst into tears. Huge rolling rocks came down those sun-kissed cheeks, snot was bubbling, bottom lips were quivering helplessly.

It never occurred to me why my mom started laughing. Laughing. Out loud. Uncontrollably. The police man in the uniform giggled and tried to console us.

"Are you ever going to do that again?"

Sniffle. Gasp. Sniffle. Head shake.

"Noooooooo."

I suppose I can't condone what my mom did that day, but it's always remained a joke in our family. Remember that summer?

I guess the whole point of this story is to talk about the fact that my most memorable summer growing up was our adventures at the local pool. We didn't take vacations. It wasn't until I was with Jaime that I knew what it meant to take a week somewhere or even just a couple of days to stay at an inexpensive hotel and get lost in a city or try something new. My family made the best with our situation.

About a month ago I went to a study abroad fair on our SDSU campus. I asked about a program that I was interested in May but the deadline approached too quickly and I didn't have the money for the $500 deposit. Strangely enough, serendipitous, whatever you want to call it, the woman from the San Diego campus encouraged me to e-mail the professor heading the program. I did. I got a reply.

A day later, I plunked down a little bit of my student loan as a deposit on my trip. I am going to study abroad in India with a Women's Studies program for three weeks this winter. I still can't believe it, to be honest with you.

I took a chance that I would have to pay for it myself, which I am completely willing to do, but I'm still a college student who uses student loans to pay tuition and I only have a part-time job. In addition, I'm applying for scholarships and seeking sponsorships from the community. I'll give more details on that awkwardness later. (How do you ask for money and try to relay that their donation, however small, would be accepted with the joy that a kid would have for the 50 cents it takes to get into the pool?- but on a much larger scale.)

This women's studies class is already exposing, through our course readings, to the complex cultural differences that I will become more obvious when I land in Delhi. For three weeks from Dec. 28 to Jan. 17, I'll be traveling in Delhi, Jaipur, and Agra. I can't even begin to wrap my head around this. Part of me can't believe it's actually going to happen and the other part of me can't wait to get the semester over with to get on that plane.

I'll post more soon on the details of the trip and some of the things I've already learned about studying abroad. Meanwhile, I have to work on writing a humble, yet honest, letter explaining to someone in not so many words that no matter what happens, even if I foot the bill (which is inexpensive by study abroad terms but is still a sizable chunk of money in my- and most people's- worlds), this trip will be like the ultimate summer- unforgettable.

India? Are you crazy? Give me your tips for traveling abroad or securing sponsorships here or e-mail me at briannarangel@mac.com.