I have several misgivings about creating a blog. I’m of the opinion that blogs resemble nothing more than high-tech public diaries. Thanks to the invasive snooping of my older brothers when I was little, I learned long ago the perils of keeping a diary. Voicing one’s innermost thoughts into semi-tangible form on paper can have dire consequences. I’d like to think, however, that because I have control over who see this blog and also command the writing aptitude and self-censorship of a well-educated almost-thirtysomethingyearold that I might actually enjoy sharing my thoughts with an appreciative – and, more importantly, silent – audience.
I don’t have time for a blog. I am a full-time, overworked, overachieving, and grossly underpaid sixth-year PhD student. I work four jobs to pay the bills. I am in the trenches with my professor’s research team, busy writing grants, submitting papers for publication, arguing with journal editors over manuscript changes and deadlines, writing the front end of my dissertation, teaching an average of two colleges classes each semester, trying to study for the oral/qualifying exam, and finding myself wondering, vaguely, if I will ever remember what life “on the outside” is like once my sentence is up. Also on my mind, with increasing interruption these days, is The Perfect Postdoctoral Fellowship. I’ve learned I have an excellent chance at landing this thing and, no, I’m not going to tell you anything else about it. It’s a secret I’m clutching very close to my chest in the (probably irrational) hope that the fewer people who know about it means a better chance for me to get it. If, through some horrid and cruel twist of fate, The Perfect Postdoc is denied to me, I have a contingency plan (and, no, you don’t get to hear about that one either – it involves international travel and a very coveted award and that’s all I’m going to say. Let’s call it The Travel Postdoc).
This brings me to my next point. As I progress through my PhD program, I’ve noticed my Teaching Persona, my alter ego, is slowly taking over. I sometimes talk to my friends like I talk to my students. I can wrangle a classroom of unruly students into a respectful and attentive audience and I use this new skill to get the attention of just about anyone in a room at, say, a psychology conference, that I want to talk to. Through my students, I’ve also learned I’m actually quite funny. In addition, I’ve developed an intolerance for liars and cheaters after encountering so many in my classes. Teaching changes a person. I’m more confident in myself, and I find myself strutting across the college campuses where I teach with an unfamiliar (though not entirely unpleasant) swagger in my step. I suppose there’s something about having 100+ people staring up at you in a Psychology 100 class and knowing you can easily answer or deflect 99.9% of whatever intellectual bullshit they attempt to throw down at you. My graduate school training has prepared me accordingly. I remember my first day of teaching at Crafton College like I was having an out of body experience. Watching myself reading the course syllabus, all I could think was, “How am I doing so far?” and “What do they think of me?” or “Am I really getting paid to do something so easy?!” Despite my initial insecurities, I pushed onward until that first class and I had developed a nice instructor-attendee relationship. That first semester, I earned the highest teaching evaluation on campus. Ever. I was the No.1 “most-liked” instructor the college had ever had. I stuck that feather firmly into my cap, oh, yes I did. For a week or so, I felt invincible. I was just warming up, after all. I was only cutting my teeth at this college in preparation for future teaching at (insert big university name here).
Rambling steadily onward….
Somehow, during this time, I also managed to claw my way into the higher ranks of Dr. Crano’s research team. Today, I realize I’m one of the more advanced students on his payroll. I remember first coming on board Dr. Crano’s team in complete awe of my more seasoned peers who had already done serious time. They had papers, teaching experience, publications, awards, and enjoyed a close camaraderie with Dr. Crano. They were smarter than me, wiser, tougher, and carried an undeniable authority on their shoulders with the unfettered ease of wearing a favorite sweater. Who was I? I was invisible, a nobody, a newcomer with no research ideas, contributing nothing. I listened to their stories and laughed at their jokes, trying desperately to learn all that I could from them about school, life, relationships, politics, geography, weather, everything. Suddenly, as if overnight, I realized one day that they had vanished. One by one they had left. Graduated. Suddenly, it was me Dr. Crano was pulling aside at his housewarming party to talk research agendas with. It’s the paper I wrote the introduction for that he’s presenting in Rome, Atlanta, Washington DC, Portland, London, and Auckland. It’s me he put in charge to design the new inhalant grant, and it’s me winning awards and teaching and moving steadily forward just like my comrades once did. It’s so odd to be on the other side of that fence now, but even here in this new place I’m gazing longingly into the distance where my former colleagues have sailed. They are working for the Center for Disease Control, or teaching, or making waves with their research all over the U.S. and abroad. Even as I become a more seasoned student and incoming cohorts begin turn to me for advice, I am only half-listening. My attention is fixated on some vague, distant point on the horizon. I’ve seen this faraway look before on the faces of my peers who are on the brink of graduating, and now I see it in the mirror. I, like they once were, am planning for life outside of graduate school to the extent that it’s increasingly difficult to stay focused on the present. These days, all I can think about is The Perfect Postdoc. I want out.
Sadly, for now, I’m still chained to my desk in the lab.
To be continued…