Grad / Dad

Boxes of old stuff

Sometimes seemingly unrelated things overlap and force you to look at the life happening around you in a certain way. These are moments of grace, I believe, and I generally try to pay attention to them (when I notice them). At this particular moment, I find myself at the intersection of sorting through my childhood and raising my own kids—two things that have become deeply bound together.

My parents are preparing to put their house on the market and simplify their life with a much smaller and de–cluttered home. This move entails, among other difficult things, the painful process of throwing out old things and figuring out what the essentials of your life will be moving forward. For me, it has mostly involved going through boxes of old stuff my mom has held onto for years and years and deciding which items will stay and which will go—Transformers, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, school papers, drawings, love notes from middle school girlfriends, etc. It’s a rapid–fire retrospective of my life, or at least some of the highlights of my life, with a “keeper” box on one side of me and a big trashcan on the other. Mostly, it’s an intimate reminder of who I was, what my life has been, and how I got to be who I am.

Simultaneously, I am faced with the terrifying responsibility of my own kids, kids who are growing way too fast and who are coming into their own life and building memories and habits and identities. This seems especially true right now of our oldest, Lucas. He’s truly becoming now, and I’m haunted almost daily by the thought of who he’ll become or won’t become (will he be a “good” person?!), of how I’m directly guiding his process of becoming, and of just how quickly this process moves. It’s unsettling to me that it won’t be long before he’s the same age I was when I was playing with the old toys I’m now either keeping or throwing out. 

That’s how these two things—sorting through my childhood and raising my own kids—are bound together, I’m finding. Standing in my parents’ basement as an adult, holding an old He–Man action figure over the “keeper” box, it strangely feels like it wasn’t that long ago that I was rolling around on the floor playing with this thing. Time has tricked me, slipped past me, and left me almost unable to understand or explain how it all even happened. And I know it’ll be almost no time at all before Lucas is standing over his own “keeper” box, with the sweet little four–year–old boy I just tucked into bed long behind him. It’s one of the most terrifying things about being a parent, really—the incredible speed at which everything happens.

So I’m grateful for these boxes of old stuff. Sorting through my own childhood has reminded me to slow down and enjoy the present, my family, my kids, right now as much as I can. Some days I’m able to do it, some days I let it all slip past me. I pray I have the presence of mind to keep doing it more often than not, and in that way perhaps leave my own kids with boxes of stuff and memories as pleasant to remember as mine have been.   

Opry Mills

Today Diana and I took the kids to the Opry Mills mall for the first time since it reopened.

I’ve been anxious to visit the mall for several weeks now. Not because I’m a shopaholic, or because I enjoy standing on my feet for hours and pushing heavy bags through crowds and crowds of people. For me, visiting the rebuilt mall was going to be a moment of healing, one more step beyond the Flood and toward normalcy.

So we loaded up the van, me anticipating spiritual catharsis, Luke excitedly awaiting the new Legos store. We made the half hour drive and strolled into the mall only to discover (we never got the memo, I guess) the mall closes at 6:00pm on Sundays. It was 6:15pm.

A few restaurants in the food court were still open, so we grabbed some sandwiches from Which Wich and found a table. My sandwich was disgustingly cold because I failed to explicitly instruct them to heat it up (never have that problem at Subway!). Luke launched into a very loud, long crying fit when we broke the news that the Legos store was closed for the day. And the lights in the food court were shut off before we were finished with our meal. 

It wasn’t perfect, to state the obvious, but I was able to catch a few brief moments of remembering, and still found myself feeling glad to see a place I haven’t seen in two years. It’s just a mall, and I’m certainly not a shopaholic, but I’m happy to have it back. 

Catching up

In my last post – two months ago – I announced I was taking a temporary break from the blogosphere to concentrate on finishing my thesis. I am pleased to report that said thesis is in fact finished and was submitted last Friday (the title of my thesis was/is “‘Like Water and Oil’: Religious Threat and Prejudice in the American South,” for those who were wondering).

And so to the blogosphere I return!

It’s hard to know how to pick back up, actually. For one thing, so much has happened over the past two months that I hardly know where to begin. For another, blogging after not blogging for so long is somewhat socially awkward, like trying to pick back up with a friend after you’ve (somewhat intentionally) avoided speaking to them for a very long time.  What do you say? Will things go back to the way they used to be, or will they never quite be the same?

At any rate, here I am, and there you are. And here are some very quick highlights to bring us back up to speed …

I’ve been doing well, thanks – much healthier and more at peace now than I’ve been in a long time. I’m learning how to say “no” more often, and how to make my “yes” more meaningful. (To borrow from Sam Davidson) 

Adam and Ben are almost ten months old. They have more teeth and more hair now, and they’re both attempting to walk and talk. Plus, they’re becoming much more fun (not that they weren’t fun before) – they wrestle with each other now, and laugh hysterically as they do it, and they’re becoming much more expressive and interactive with everyone else in the house.  

Lucas has turned 4 since my last post. He’s as sweet and smart and goofy as he’s ever been, and he’s turned out to be a better big brother than I ever could have imagined. He’s sleeping through the night without needing a diaper (for the most part … there are still the occasional middle–of–the–night pajama and sheet changes), and is working on realizing his dream of being a spy kid.

Diana is still a superhero every single day, somehow amazingly taking care of three little ones and not losing her sanity, which truly boggles my mind. In fact, if I didn’t know any better, I’d even say she’s deeply happy most days to be able to do what she’s doing (I said “most” … not every day with twins is a walk in the park). 

That should have us about caught up, with a few details left out here and there. Things keep spinning and moving along and, thankfully, I am able to return to some degree of regular writing. Until the next big paper hits, at least.

Thesis Kinesis

As the title of this post suggests, I am currently in the process of working on my thesis, and I’m making a lot of progress (I think … I’ll wake up tomorrow morning and realize it’s all terrible and feel the need to start all over again). 

I’ve also been painfully aware the past day or so that I need to update my blog. It’s been a few days and my last post was about breaking wind (seemed like a good idea at the time), so I feel like I need to make up for that somehow. Besides, I enjoy the process of writing on here. It feeds me.

However, despite my self–imposed need to keep the blog posts rolling on at least a somewhat regular basis, my thesis is lurking in the background on my computer screen as I type this, peeking just around the edges of my Safari window. It won’t go away, it follows me everywhere and calls to me day and night, “Write me, Mark, write me!!”

So I’m taking a temporary break on the blog writing - probably two weeks or so - until I fully complete my thesis. I promise to return rejuvenated and with fresh blog posts loaded and ready to go!

Now, off to writing … 

A mighty wind

I enjoy being on the young side of life and feeling (most days, at least) youthful. I like having a spring in my step and a strong, healthy back. And there are certain aspects of growing older that I’m not exactly looking forward to. But there are a few things about old age that I think I’ll enjoy, or that at least intrigue me. Retirement. Discounts just about everywhere. The possession of sagely wisdom molded by experience and the slow passage of time.

And the freedom to break wind in public without feeling embarrassed. Let me explain.

I was sitting in the student center on campus last week typing away on my laptop –probably answering emails or reading an article for one of my classes – when a group of elderly folks passed directly in front of me. One elderly gentleman near the back of the group paused for a moment to wipe something off his glasses, stopping to stand only a few feet away from me (and several other students), and proceeded to very loudly and unashamedly break wind in our presence. Without so much as a word or any visible acknowledgment of what had taken place, he calmly placed his glasses back on his nose and kept strolling along to join the rest of his group.

The more I think about this man the more I marvel at his ability to do this. What is it that has allowed this man, and perhaps many other elderly folks, to embrace public flatulence? Maybe he’s come to realize, with all his sagely wisdom, that life is too short to care about the judgments of other people. Or maybe his advanced maturity has allowed him to view the breaking of wind as nothing more than a natural bodily process, and not at all a cause for embarrassment or shame. Both are admirable qualities, I say!

Grad school (epilogue)

Several posts ago I talked about the grad school tortures of waiting for news on manuscripts and grant applications, and I mentioned a particular grant application some colleagues of mine and I were expecting to hear back on at any moment. Now that we have (finally) received the official decision on said grant application, I have the pleasure of writing about another distinguishing feature of life as a grad student … rejection.

Only two things in grad school are certain – reading and rejection.

The rejection part wouldn’t be so bad if I could somehow manage to maintain realistic expectations about outcomes. My problem is that I become more hopeful and delusional the longer it’s been since I’ve submitted whatever-it-is. Observe.

Stage 1: Within hours or even a few days after submitting. Marked by mostly realistic assessment of effort and expectations. “I feel somewhat decent about the application we put out, given what little time we had.”

Stage 2: Several weeks after submitting. Recollection of quality and effort becomes fuzzy, expectations are more optimistic. “You know, we might actually have a shot at this thing.”

Stage 3: One to two months after submitting. Quality and effort are non–issues, positive outcomes are assumed and bordering on unrealistic. “This grant may be the crowning achievement of my graduate career.” 

Stage 4: Within days of notification deadline. Reality has been completely abandoned. “I wonder what my starting salary at Harvard will be.”

After months of fantasizing and waiting, the email finally comes. I pause for a moment, open the email, and my eyes are quickly drawn to that one word buried somewhere in the middle of a paragraph - “Unfortunately.” And so goes the life of a grad student. Other grant opportunities will come along, followed by more waiting, and (likely) more rejection. There are bright spots of acceptance and affirmation along the way, to be sure. At least, just enough to keep going and waiting.

Interfaith meeting

Tonight I traveled up to Murfreesboro and sat in a room full of women, a bright, electric patchwork of different religious identities – Muslim, Presbyterian, Christian Science, Unitarian Universalist, United Methodist, Pagan – and watched as they talked, laughed, and otherwise simply breathed in the same air together. Several of them were knitting who–knows–what, others were slowly picking their way through an odd assortment of snacks (apple and cheese crackers?). I pretended to enjoy my little styrofoam cup of coffee while I observed and made small talk with the women closest to me. 

Conversations bounced back and forth across the round tables that were pushed together, the ideas and topics loosely dancing around a meeting agenda that seemed more a suggestion than anything else. They didn’t talk about theology, or difference. They didn’t talk about who was right or wrong and why. In fact, they hardly talked about religion at all, save during their introductions (for my benefit) at the beginning of the meeting. Rather, they talked about their community, and about things they could do together to help the hurting in their community. Maybe they could cook food (even offer cooking classes!) for a local shelter for battered women and children … it’d take more thinking and they’d have to work out the details at the next meeting.

They’re good women trying to do good things for other people. It just so happens that they all come from different religious communities, but that never really seemed to matter or come up. I may have been the only person in the room who even gave it a second thought.      

Imposs–tible!

I’m not always good at seizing “teachable” moments with my three–year–old son Luke, particularly when the comedic value of his behavior appears to outweigh any potential threats to his safety or healthy development as a “normal” child. For instance, I admit to allowing him to mispronounce the word “fork” for a good stretch of time, and even exploiting this mispronunciation for the entertainment of family and friends at various social gatherings, due to the fact that his pronunciation sounded hilariously close to a certain curse word. (Of course, I would otherwise never intentionally teach my son this curse word, I merely abstained from correcting a mispronunciation for a few months … “No, Luke, it’s FORRRRRRK.”)

Today, Luke has been walking around the house pretending to be a spy with special eyeglasses that allow him to see ghosts. Whenever he spots a ghost (i.e. either Diana or me), he exclaims in mock surprise, “That’s imposs–tible!” Maybe you just have to be there, but it’s really cute, and a little funny. I should probably correct the mispronunciation … “No, silly uneducated child of mine, it’s IMPOSSSSSSSIBLE” … and maybe better fathers would. But I’ll probably just enjoy it for a while, because I’m sure years from now I’ll miss these funny little preschooler quirks, and I’m sure he’ll just naturally grow out of some of these little things anyway. That, or we’ll have a great deal of explaining to do someday when Luke goes to see “Mission Impossible 12” and realizes there’s no “t” in the title, or he begins to notice that people always seem shocked when he asks them for a fork.  

Doomed

At Bongo Java’s yesterday (best coffee joint in Nashville, and I dare anyone to disagree), I suddenly remembered as I poured Sweet’N Low into my coffee that artificial sweeteners have been linked with the incidence of cancer. As I started to visualize my obituary (“Loving husband and father killed by Sweet’N Low”), I reminded myself that just about everything has been linked with cancer. Look at this list of “Things the Daily Mail (UK newspaper) Say Will Cause Cancer” to see what I mean.

Facebook.

Deodorant.

Chocolate.

Mobile Phones.

We’re surrounded by the threat of cancer and, if these claims hold any weight, we’re doomed! Or, we’ll continue to be duped by misleading reports and fall prey to the all–too–common tendency to mistake correlation for causation (read this to see what I mean), something we’re always drilling into our undergrad students in their scientific inquiry course at Vanderbilt.

I’m thinking of conducting a study that will show higher rates of cancer among people who chew with their mouth open while eating red Skittles on the second Tuesday of every month. The media will scoop up the story and it will send everyone into a panic (“Wasn’t I eating red Skittles last Tuesday?? Oh my god!!”). I’ll enjoy 15 minutes of fame as a researcher, and you’ll never be able to enjoy red Skittles again. Until the next study comes out showing it’s really the purple Skittles.       

Grad school

I’m sure some of you have been wondering, “What does Mark do, exactly, as a grad student?”

“What does a typical day look like for grad student Mark?”

Today is your lucky day, because I’m going to tell you. I’m going to lift back the curtain and give you a little glimpse of what it’s like to be a grad student.

I’ll start with a little exercise. Check your email. Maybe there are one or two new emails there, maybe some spam, maybe one of those little mass forward emails from a friend (those emails are so funny and/or inspirational … I’m kidding, I hate those emails and never read them). Pause for exactly 30 seconds. Now check your email again. No new emails, oh well, I’m sure it’s no big deal. Pause for another 30 seconds. Now check your email again. No new emails, why does life hate me?? Repeat this process for the next eight or nine hours and you will have experienced a day in my life as a grad student.

The point of this little exercise is that much of grad life is about waiting. You’ve sent away a paper in hopes of getting it into a journal (any journal, really, it doesn’t matter, please someone just publish me). You’ve sent away a grant proposal in hopes of getting some prestigious financial award or fellowship in support of your research. Or maybe you’ve sent an email to your advisor asking them to proofread the above paper and/or grant proposal and (hopefully) validate your existence with their approval.

You’ve sent these papers and proposals away, these precious babies you’ve painfully birthed after months and months of writing and writing and writing, and now you are subjected to the torturous, unending process of obsessively refreshing your email inbox waiting for emails that seem as though they will never come, emails that will either accept or reject you, all the while knowing that your professional hopes for the future are in many ways hanging in the balance.

This week I’ve been waiting for the official notification on a grant proposal a colleague and I worked on and submitted a month and a half ago. According to the funding organization’s website, notifications are to be sent out this week. This means an email could land in my inbox at any moment, and it also means a disproportionate amount of my time this week has been spent simply clicking on the “Check Messages” button on my Outlook page. And yes, to answer the question you might be thinking, in the time it took me to write this post I have refreshed my email inbox approximately 73 times. Welcome to grad school.