Last week, when I was visiting my godmother, we were talking
about her granddaughter, who is both beautiful and brilliant. Remembering that there had been talk at one
point about her skipping a grade, I inquired if this ever happened. “No,” was the answer, “her mom would rather
her be a big fish in a small pond than a small fish in a big pond.”
This familiar saying is a pretty good description of my own
life. The school district which I attended
from the first day of kindergarten through high school graduation was small,
semi-rural and better known for its drug use than its academics. I was one of four valedictorians and had a
flawless GPA. I was also a cocky,
know-it-all. But despite my arrogant
exterior, I knew that my high school academic success amounted to very little
in comparison to most high schools. The
thought of college terrified me because it would mean breaking out of my little
world in which I was queen nerd and facing the competition that a good academic
program entailed. And college was a big
adjustment. I remember calling home and
telling my parents that I was the stupidest kid in the honors dorm. Not only were my professors using words I had
never even heard of but so were my newly made friends, not only in classes but
also in late night conversations. But
despite my initial bewilderment and feelings of self-doubt, I quickly found my footing. Again, I flourished.
After college graduation, it was onto seminary. For some reason, I had no doubts in my
ability to succeed. Perhaps it was
because I felt assured of my calling. Perhaps
it was because my undergraduate professors spent so much time telling me that I
was destined for PhD studies. Whatever the
reason, I knew I could do it. And I did.
And then, I decided to do something as un-Christina as I possibly
could: I decided to pack up and study
abroad in Israel for an entire school year, at the Hebrew University of
Jerusalem, one of the top universities in the world. I was terrified, terrified of moving so far
away, terrified of surviving in such a well-known and well-respected
program. But again, despite some
language barriers and cultural differences, I came out on top.
[I do not mean to suggest that I have not been challenged in
the past eight years. My professors and
classmates have stretched me and how I think about the Bible. There have been other students who not only
pushed back against my interpretations but have also offered their own that I would
never have considered—and sometimes could not entirely follow or understand. But
never has a professor really given me any reason to think I was anything less
than extraordinary.]
And now, here I am, just days away from starting a PhD
program. I am incredibly excited. This is my dream. But at the same time, I am completely
terrified. I have, in many ways, always
been the big fish in a little pond, and I know I am about to became a little
fish in a big pond. Perhaps the past
eight years should convince me otherwise.
But I have heard the horror stories, the tales of professors who love
nothing more than to chew graduate students up and spit them out, the recounts
of dissertations being shredded and students told to start all over. And even if those are the worst case
scenarios, the fact remains that all the other PhD students have the same
credentials as me. We were all the best,
which means we cannot all still be the best.
Add to all my insincerities the fact that I have to move clear across
the country to a state that I really had no interest in inhabiting, into an
area that is probably far more liberal than I can imagine. Nothing about this is going to be easy.
But I guess that is why it is called a dream. What is it I wrote on my bedroom wall last
fall? “The only dreams worth pursuing
are the ones for which you must fight.”
Bring it on!
