and maybe, to tale

as of this week, i’ve been out of grad school for 2 years and 3 months. i’ve been working professionally as an editor (and sometimes copy writer, ad writer, brand strategist, researcher, etc. ) for more years than i can easily say. (summing up all paid writing/editing experiences–particularly the 7 years of early motherhood spent on my boyfriend’s mother’s couch, working as her editorial assistant–is no easy feat.) and today, at the university where i work, i received my 6-month performance review…just 2 months and 1 day after my 6-month probationary period ended. the exchange between my good friend and i follows:

so, i had my review today. i effectively lead the director in a circular conversation about nothing as he noticeably hemmed and hawed about the apparent university-wide salary freeze that i knew nothing about… this, after making it clear that i was doing an excellent job, and that i’d even under-rated myself on a few tasks outlined in my written review.

so, that’s that. recommended for raise. next july.

until then, resolve… do more. accomplish more. earn more money elsewhere. leave. this ain’t for me anyway.

she replied:

dammit — really??? you totally need to start looking for new work – p/t and f/t.

a fucking pat on the back with an attagirl…please. a whole year until you get a raise? puhleeze. i bet they can only give you 3 to 5 % increase anyway. you could spend the next year looking for work and come out with more money by next july. talk about anticlimactic.

i snorted back:

try “2, 2 1/2, to 3%” increases. i’m so over it.

and so, here i plot, and document, and begin my escape plan. why does it feel like more of an escape than an exit? well, because i could conceivably begin to feel trapped real soon… during the review, i spoke fondly of the perks of the position…the proximity to certain places, the relaxed culture (which i didn’t divulge just how much i enjoy), the professional development opportunities, and so on. but i’m editing math books, for god’s sake. and sure, i have lots of gratitude for the position (which i feel is important), absolutely, in all ways–the economy is shit, and i could be doing much worse. but i’m trying to carve out a life here. and staying in this position making beans for the next 5 years just won’t cut it.

so i sat down here/tonight to bitch about the failure, or, at best, my experience with graduate school, as an impetus to figuring out wtf to do next. but this is what i came up with:

i have enough student loan debt to sell for my first property and there’s no way i’m ever coming out of deferment, or is it forbearance?, until i figure out something better to do than sit behind a desk with a red pen at a university. (in the basement of an abandoned physics building at that). so sure. the wheels are turning and my stomach is churning. one foot in front of the other. this. is. what. i. do.

on grad school(?)
i attended the prestigious (and fucking expensive) school of the art institute of chicago for three years, earning a post-baccalaureate certificate and a master of fine arts degree, both in “Writing.” pbcw. mfa. by now, according to my sallie mae statements and public opinion, i should be a MuthaFuckin(g) Author. and yet. i am a mother. a girlfriend. a tenant. an aunt, daughter, sister. and an editor. an assistant editor, if you want to get technical about it. these titles are important to note because in graduate school, i considered myself a literary artist, seeking to bind my past experiences as a painter (whose work became dominated by words) with my current and longstanding interest in parlaying typed and written words and sentences into art forms. i am a nonfiction woman writer. in that order. most days. but i digress. because its also important to note that i actually have a story to sell. to tell, i mean. and maybe, to tale. which is why i tend to purge (here) post-grad. in times like these, i cling to my acronymic identities. my dreadlocks don’t mean a thing. my height, my stature, my looks–nothing matters like acronyms on a resume. and yet, this black skin of mine, and this tendency to underachieve, yet overstate have me in this primarily undesirable position at 31 while feeling that perpetual swell of beginning something. but when on earth will i arrive somewhere? my accomplishments pale in comparison to my dreams. i post these truths into digital blackness, extending my short adulthood fetish of display for unarticulated, completely ambigious reasons. but about grad school… without bringing race into it, because there are certain class issues that i’ve always been semi-conscious of, things that became crystal the older i got and the better i realized that i was possibly doomed to perpetually exist between two worlds, never fully belonging to either. bourgeoisie and ghetto, snobby and poor, educated and ignorant. smart enough to know that i don’t know shit.

what is this modern fascination with public journaling anyway? completely rhetorical. it’s all so rhetorical.

the beauty of my life must lie in the loose ends. so i say. today. i reserve the right to let them dangle while i self-construct. and so here i pause. come up for air. try not to delete. i need these records for my tomorrows.