The Woes of Grad School

I used to say at a certain point of the evening I was done with school- no more- I shut down and couldn't produce anything worth it. Now it is different. Now I count the hours of non-sleeping and strategically try to pack it with alternating subjects- writing, reading, teaching, grading, planning.

Grad school is the most time consuming thing I have ever done. Not only is it eating all my time, but here are some other things I have developed along with school 24/7:

- I have acne worse than ever in my life- completely stress related- and there is no product that will make it go away.

- I got my first gray hair (how is it fair to have gray hair and acne at the same time?!?)

- I now drink almost daily. Alcohol. It calms my stress levels

- I don't have time for much of anything- I use my "free" time to write.

The good thing about grad school is that I am completely happy. I have never written so much in my life. This is such a good thing. I'm writing on average twelve pages a week. This is huge. I used to write twelve pages in a month, at the most. Writing makes me feel good and I realize there is no other time in my life I will be able to have this time and money to just write.

Teaching is going ok. I am more confident every time I teach and I realize I am pretty good at thinking on my toes when standing in front of the classroom. It is crazy to look at my students and realize most of them were not even alive in the 1980s. I guess grad school makes you feel older.

Even though I make sacrifices- I still try to have some down time where I can relax. This weekend I had to give up going to SLO to visit Palina, because of grading and a faculty reading where I had to introduce. Yep. I stood in front of a whole lot of people, including the chair of the english dept. and spoke into a microphone. I think I am getting better at it, because today I received an email saying I did such a good job they want me to introduce an author at the Tomales Bay Writers Conference next week. I'm going to get nervous all over again, but the more I do it, the better? Right?

Well I took care of my responsibilities and then was able to watch one of Philippe's water polo games. I was so happy to go. I feel guilty that I have never seen one of his games until now and we went to the same college. They are very fun to watch and I can't wait to see more.

Here is a little of some other story I have been writing. The last one I posted...well the last I wrote about the kid that runaway, he made it to Costa Rica thanks to a ride from Junior and he robbed a family. That was that story. Here is the new one (it takes place in Lebanon) and is just a teaser.

Human Tradition

Nim pulled her head scarf snug against her face, opened the door of her family’s single bedroom flat, and walked out into the market to fall in love.
She expected her mother to call her back into the flat from the window with rusty bars, she thought her father would rush outside and walk sternly by her side. Instead Nim was swept into the market’s crowd of forbidden Lebanese customers who were shopping for weekly vegetables, kibbeh, figs, and tobacco. Leaving her home was not acceptable but Nim was tired of watching the market and wanted to breath in the kicked up dust, smell the heat of the people walking closely to each other, and feel the sense of power that came along with walking on her own.
“Ahalan was sahalan” welcome and welcome vendors would call out to her as she slipped past familiar stalls her family often purchased oranges, lemons, or minced lamb from. She didn’t realize it would be this easy and couldn’t imagine when she would return. After turning two street corners and down an alley she spotted the small table arranged under the crooked sunflower printed umbrella. Bashir stood under the umbrella dunking a ladle into the clear bowl filled with purple liquid, pouring it into paper cups, and handing it to thirsty shoppers.
“Out on your own?” he asked Nim who slid behind the table next to Bashir. His breath smelled like milk and cloves. It was unbearably hot. Nim felt like the market stalls and narrow streets were closing in on her.
“Can I have some jallab?” Nim nodded her head towards the bowl containing the cold liquid. Bashir always made more money than his father selling jallab. Nim’s parents were convinced it was because he still looked like a boy and all the fathers with young daughters were interested in introducing themselves. Even though he was nineteen he still did not have a speck of dark hair on his chin and his face was pale and smooth like a shell found on the shores of the Mediterranean. His slanted blue eyes were a contrast to Nim’s deep jade colored ones. Nim was two years younger and had a face that was dark olive and rough. It wasn’t a secret that Nim and Bashir would be married once Nim became a woman. Nim was thin, petite, and half of her mother’s friends were convinced she was cursed because she hadn’t started yet. Nim didn’t tell her mother that each night, nervous to discover her fate was near; she peeled away the layers of her silk garments and praised Allah to find clean white panties. Bashir was like a brother to her and the thought of marrying him made her nauseous. She would try today though. She would try to look at him differently, with excitement, and forget that they were once children together.
Bashir grunted and pushed a cup filled with the purple liquid towards Nim without even looking at her. Sticky liquid rushed over the side of the cup. Leaning against the stone building that the table backed-up into, Nim gulped the grape molasses and rose water in three sips. “Are you going to drink like that when we’re married?” Bashir crossed his arms and lifted a nostril.
“Are you going to let me walk the market on my own?” Nim crumpled the paper cup in her hand and threw it at Bashir’s chest. Laughing she ran from behind the table and back into the welcoming throb of the market-goers where she crashed into someone’s back.
A cloud of dust rose as Nim hit the ground, chin first. Her crooked bottom row of teeth hit her top row as her stomach lay still against the dirt alley floor. After a pause, the crowd continued to walk around Nim. Husbands hurrying their wives, wives wiping the snot of their children’s faces, teenagers walking loyally behind their families, barley hitting the top of Nim’s head with a basket full of oranges. She could hear Bashir laugh with a grunt and then the fast constant pour of liquid into cups. Jolted, Nim lifted her head, meeting two unfamiliar rows of perfectly white manicured toes that stood before her.