Five Years Single

A couple of weeks ago, I celebrated five years of being single.  I took myself out on a nice little date for some delicious fro-yo. Many of you probably saw the FB post, possibly even liked it.

I wasn't making some sort of grand feminist, anti-guy statement, nor was it an attempt to lash out against my ex. I was making a grand, I-am-perfectly-content-being-single statement. When I realized that day that it was the fifth anniversary of having my heart broken to pieces, I realized that I was okay with it -- that the fact that I hadn't had a boyfriend in five years wasn't the end of the world.  That may not seem like that big of a deal, but if you would have told me five years ago (or even two years ago, or even six months ago!) that I would be here today saying that the utter lack of a guy in my life is nothing to stress about, I wouldn't have believed you.

Because, to be honest, all of my life, or at least most of it, the most important achievement to me was to find a guy, fall in love, get married and have babies. I grew up in the idyllic American family -- a successful businessman father, a stay-at-home mother, an older brother and family dog. My parents were even high school sweethearts. Most of my friends had similar families -- dads worked, moms stayed home, two (maybe three) kids and a family pet. It was normal, and I never imagined my life would be any different. I didn't want my life to be any different.

I remember when I visited my undergrad advisor during my first semester of seminary. When I told her I had a boyfriend, she was immediately concerned that I would give up academics for him, that I would get married instead of get a PhD. I'm not gonna lie, it was a legit concern. I probably would have forewent (or at least postponed) PhD studies for him. I would have made that sacrifice.

But five years of singlehood has brought many adventures that I never would have imagined or even considered. I mean, on a whim, I applied to Hebrew University in Jerusalem and ended up living in Israel for nine months. I packed my bags and moved to California to get a PhD. I can devote myself to my studies without worrying about maintaining a healthy relationship or stressing over financing a family. (Not that I don't have plenty of friends who are doing a stellar job managing both their studies and having a family) I get to live in a dorm, which may sound like torture, but I actually really love it. I have a community that loves and supports me and that I in turn love and support. I have been far more successful in this program than I ever thought I would be. I am accomplishing everything I ever wanted to academically. And I am single.

When I say I am living my dream, I mean it. There used to be a little tug on my heart when I said that, like I knew I wasn't being entirely truthful because my dream always included having a family. I'm not saying I've sworn off men entirely or that I am going to go join a convent, but I am finally comfortable in my own skin, by myself. We all hear (and probably spout) the whole feminist women-don't-need-men-to-complete-them line, which is true. It also makes females who want a man feel like crap, like they aren't strong enough to stand on their own, or least, it made me feel that way. I mean, yeah, I don't need a man to complete me, but that doesn't mean I didn't *want* a man anyways. Women live in this double bind of being told they don't need a man to complete them yet when they do find someone, that person makes them "whole." In other words, being a female isn't easy. In case anyone was wondering.

What I am really trying to say is that whether I am complete or incomplete, whole or partial, I am content. I am single, and I am okay. I still find certain guys attractive, and every now and again I feel lonely, but all-in-all, I am content. I am satisfied with my life. I am living my dream, which at this moment does not include a male co-star. That might change. Then again, it might not. But regardless, I am the star, the leading lady. There are plenty of supporting characters, but no one should upstage me in my own dream.

So yes, I am five years single. But I am never alone.

Nightmares (And Living the Dream)

I have been plagued by nightmares this summer. Recurrent ones, like it's the first day of Greek class and I forgot to prepare the lecture (with various variations...my favorite one was when Anya from Buffy was my co-instructor and we both forgot to prepare and then spent the entire class arguing over how to co-teach). Research-related ones, like some man tries to rape me, but I escape (the joys of domestic violence being central to my dissertation). Conversation-related ones, like my brother was smoking pot and ate all my stuff out of the fridge (although, on the off chance that my brother actually reads my blog, I should clarify that it was a conversation with a friend about her former pothead days that led to that dream, not my brother). There was even a pregnancy, giving birth one, which I'm sure all those dream-interpreters out there would tell me is related to writing my comps proposal, but it definitely was a nightmare, not some joyous occasion!

But all of those nightmares, and all the ones that I am sure will continue to haunt me, end when my alarm clock goes off. And when it comes to that Greek one, I can make sure it doesn't come to pass (although, admittedly, I still haven't prepared for the first class!). But, the point is, I get to wake up. How many people never get to wake up from their nightmares? How many families in Gaza are trapped in a living hell, unable to escape, dreaming every night and every waking moment that the IDF will injure or kill them or their loved ones? How many Israelis never feel safe in their home, constantly afraid that Hamas might finally master the technology to actually kill them with their missiles? How many wives, partners and girlfriends live in fear of their husbands, partners and boyfriends, that their raised voice will lead to a raised fist, that the next blow might strike their child instead of them? How many parents find themselves living the nightmare of losing their child, having to bury them, due to disease, to senseless violence, to preventable overdoses, to unforeseen accidents? How many people find their reality to be their worst nightmare?

So as annoying, and at times frightening, as my nightmares can be (or, in regard to the pot-related one, amusing after-the-fact), they are just dreams, bad dreams, but dreams nonetheless. I wake up in the morning and go about my day. They are not my reality. My reality, in fact, is just the opposite: I am living my dream. Of course, my dream has shifted over time, but this, right here, right now, is what I want, it's what I have been working so hard to achieve. And while some parts are not quite as I expected, I have to say, overall, it is far better than I ever imagined.

Here I am, in California, where I never wanted to be but where I nonetheless need to be. Five years single and loving it, which I never would have thought was possible, even content with the possibility that this single thing might be permanent. Getting ready to start my third year of the PhD program, getting ready to teach my first classes all by myself, getting ready to propose my comprehensive exams. Getting ready. After 10 years of higher education, 10 years of studying the Bible academically, it's all being put to the test. Being tested literally in the form of exams, but more importantly, being tested in my ability to teach. This is what I have been training for, what I have been waiting for -- teaching students, sharing my passions and (hopefully!) igniting theirs. I wake up each morning, shake off the nightmares, and then get to it. I get to spend each and every day doing what I love, reading and researching. And because I ended up here, where I didn't want to be, I've been learning about things I never wanted to learn about, realizing the importance of things that never mattered before. Which means I'm incorporating class sessions like "Queering the Psalms," when I, in fact, don't know how to queer anything. But I'm gonna learn, because it is how so many people encounter and relate to the biblical text -- and that is what is truly important, understanding how people engage the text and being able to meet them there. Unless they're crazy fundamentalist. In which case, don't even bother trying. (Said as a true former crazy fundie.)

Failing at Life: Or, How I realized I am more than my grades

School is my life. That, I am sure, comes as no surprise to anyone who knows me. And I have written before, over and over again, about the costs of academia.  About how no one makes it to where I am without sacrificing their social life, their health, hell, even their sanity.  It is, of course, a luxury to have the time, money and brains to do a PhD program.  But, as with most things in life, the good comes with the bad. (And, just as importantly, the bad comes with the good)

I have said multiple times that I am so glad I am single in the midst of my studies. I really seriously don't know how anyone does this with a spouse, with a family, with a significant other, even a pet! Half the time I feel like I'm a success if I am fully dressed, in clean(ish) clothes, and manage to eat three out of the five food groups in a given week.  Forget about make-up, regularly scheduled haircuts, housework or catching the latest blockbuster.  I buy index cards, pens and highlighters in bulk, and the precarious stacks of library books have spilled out of my dorm room into our living room.

And the total mess that I am, well, I love it. I get so excited just thinking about my research, just thinking about teaching next year. It's what makes me feel alive, why I get out of bed in the morning. It is what fills me up and makes me whole.

Then I have a day like today, where I get some pretty harsh feedback from a professor and I just literally cry for a good hour and a half.  The kind of thing that makes a person just wanna drop out and run away.  And in the midst of all the tears and tissues, the logical practical side of me knows that the professor is really just trying to push me to be the best student, scholar, teacher I can be, but that doesn't stop me from being overly emotional and, yes, overly dramatic.  I mean, my studies are my heart and soul. Criticize my academic performance and you basically criticize my very essence.

So after I cried all of the moisture out of my body (which is really not much of an exaggeration), I decided to step back and get a little perspective.  By which I mean I took an evening off from studying to watch TV, draw and snuggle with my roommate's pups.  And so I was sitting here, watching Buffy (because really, nothing helps work through academic frustration like watching a bunch of vampires getting dusted) and of course Buffy, despite being all chosen and alone in the fight against evil still has all this crazy boy drama.  I've been watching the final season, and I have to admit, I am a total sucker for the whole Buffy-Spike relationship.  Not because she makes him a better person but because he in his own way makes her a better person too.  Anyways, I'm watching and there is this scene where they're not together anymore but Buffy asks Spike to stay with her and just hold her as she sleeps. Later Spike tells her it was the best night of his 100+ existence. And yeah, the whole thing is a bit cheesy, but watching it made my heart ache.  Because while I'm not some fancy vampire slayer, I am, in my own way, alone.  I am so focused on my studies that I really don't have room for much else in my life.  I love my studies, and I am passionate about my research, but at the end of the day, I can curl up with a book but it's not like that book is really all that snuggly.

I am a strong, independent post-modern woman. I don't need a guy in my life to complete me. I'm quite whole all on my own, thank-you-very-much.  It's not that there is anything missing from my life by being single, but in that moment, I realized that there needs to be something more than just my studies. Because, let's face it, negative feedback from a professor shouldn't eat at the core of my very being.  Maybe today was just a bad day and I was just overly emotional (because, hey, I'm a girl and we have a tendency to do that) and I overreacted. Maybe. But I need to not be defined by a bad grade or even a professor I just can't seem to please. I need there to be more to me than just school.

And that's why I am so grateful to live in this crazy, over-the-top, radical, loving community. I'm the momma hen, and sometimes my baby chicks resent me and don't want to listen, but when push comes to shove, we're all there for each other -- holding each other up, dragging each other along, offering one another hugs and love and sometimes a much needed kick in the behind. We're family in our own crazy messed up way.  No matter how many lessons I learn in the classroom, I've learned so many more from these people -- lessons on love and acceptance, lessons on faith and belief, lessons on grace and forgiveness, lessons on life and on living.

School may be my life.  School may be my calling.  But my community is my ruah, my life-breath and divine spirit, infusing me with love.

"And the Spirit May Carry You I Don't Know Where": On the Lenten Journey

I have never been big on Lenten practices.  For one thing, I grew up in a tradition that didn't really do the Lent thing -- I don't think my church even had an Ash Wednesday service, not even sure we had a Good Friday service.  My family definitely didn't attend those sort of services.  In high school, I adopted Lenten practices as a means to hide and further my eating disorder.  Last year, I was challenged to give up being so self-critical, which was an interesting experiment (turns out, when I am gentle with myself, I am mean to others instead, even if only in my thoughts).

This year, I am doing something different, something deliberate, something explicitly spiritual.  It centers on art:  everyday, I will incorporate art in some form of art into my day, either through journaling or drawing or, what is the main form, making cards for other people, as the Spirit leads.  It is fun, meaningful and life-affirming, for me and for others.  I make cards to encourage or to thank or to pray, and then tape the card on the person's door or drop in campus mail or find other creative means to get the card to the person (sometimes enlisting others to help).  But it then becomes an unexpected, pleasant surprise that brings a little cheer in their day, and many have expressed their appreciation to me, more than one saying it was just what they needed at that moment.

Of course, it makes me feel good to be appreciated and for people to view me as a thoughtful, caring individual.  It's very validating of me and my self-worth.  But I am also realizing, that there is something else going on here, something much bigger than me.  I am being very deliberate, making cards for those whom the Spirit puts on my heart -- not just my friends or people I think need it.  In some ways, I am going out on faith.  One of the first cards I made, I almost threw away because I was afraid it would offend the person or would seem so off the wall that the person wouldn't know what to make of it.  But I decided to trust God that this was coming from the Spirit and was indeed something that the person needed.  And of course, the person was appreciative and touched by the card.  So I am learning how to trust that it the Spirit who is speaking to me, and realizing that it is in fact the Spirit who is speaking through me as I make these cards. 

It is a very humbling experience, to be a conduit of the Spirit.  It is a lot of responsibility, really, learning not only to trust the Spirit, as crazy as she may be sometimes, but also learning to discern the Spirit's voice from my own inclinations.  Not all of the recipients of my cards have even acknowledged they received them, not that I need affirmation that I am doing something wonderful, but it does make me question at times whether it was really the Spirit who was prompting me.  I am learning from the Spirit, being shaped by the Spirit, being carried God only knows where by the Spirit (not that I'm taking a course on the Elijah-Elisha narratives or anything) -- I am learning to embrace and develop my spiritual gift of encouragement.  And that's what it is, a gift of the Spirit.  I am the momma hen and the personal cheerleader to those around me, not because I am such a lovely person or because I want people to like me (although obviously, it is nice when people like me and think I am lovely), but because it is who I am -- I am someone who sees needs and meets them, I am someone who understands that we gain more from building each other up than from tearing each other down (despite the competitive nature of American capitalism), I am someone who is fed spiritually by feeding others spiritually.  And I am realizing that since this is my spiritual gift, that not everyone has this same gift -- not that those with other gifts are allowed to be cruel to others -- but their gifts are elsewhere and therefore I shouldn't expect them to provide the same sort of encouragement that is so natural to me.  It doesn't make me better than them -- it makes me different.

I love making these cards, bringing a little of sunshine in people's lives, reminding them they are a beloved child of God -- and a beloved child of the community.  And I hope those who I am not moved to make cards for know that they too are beloved children of God and of our community.  I love being the momma hen-cheerleader, it is who I am.  I love this community, my MDivs (and other master students), who both humor my momma hen ways and appreciate how I look out for and encourage them.  In some ways, my life is very different than what I thought it would be at this point -- I mean, I thought I'd be married with a couple of kids, barefoot in the kitchen -- but in other ways, I'm living my dream and then some.  I am so incredibly happy and fulfilled in my single life, focusing on my studies and being family to those around me.  The Spirit is such a funny thing.  She's carried me so far from home and from all that I held dear, but she's created for me a new home and a new family. And God only knows where she will carry me next!

On Being Kickass: Or, Why I Decided To Embrace What I Deserve

I am a straight, white, upper-middle class American woman. I reek of privilege. But it is a privilege that I was relatively unaware of growing up.  I come from a small Midwestern town where everyone is white and of generally the same socio-economical status.  Sure, I remember when my family was lower middle class and middle middle class, the days when we didn't buy it if it wasn't on clearance and only if we really needed it, but I was never really conscious of any of difference between me and my classmates, even if they were from a slightly higher or slightly lower economic situation.  Perhaps I was just naive or completely out of touch with reality.  I was, most definitely, an arrogant ass who knew she was smarter than everyone.  That part definitely didn't win me many friends.

I was exposed to more diversity in college, but I still didn't really grasp my privilege.  I struggled in the beginning, feeling like an impostor.  I distinctly remember calling home and telling my parents I was the dumb kid in the honors dorm.  But that only lasted a semester or so, and then I started receiving attention from my professors, who encouraged me to further my studies and go into academia.  I was still pretty arrogant, still thought I was something special -- and that was because of me, not because of some luck of the draw.

I was humbled a bit in seminary.  Part of that whole studying to be more like Jesus thing.  I started to understand that I am privileged but still didn't really get it.  I was still the smart one, still special.  

Then I moved to Berkeley, to PSR.  I have written in the past about the challenges I had when I first moved here, and not just the struggles I have had no longer being the best of the best.  It was such a culture shock -- like Dorothy, I was definitely aware that I wasn't in Ohio anymore.  This straight white girl was rather out of place, that's for sure.  I was quickly educated not only on queer culture but also on privilege and particularly the white privilege which is innately mine as a result of my birth and through no actions of my own.  This concept of white privilege is something with which I have really struggled over the past year, year and a half.  I have been made very much aware of what this privilege really entails, and on top of the "normal" white privilege, I am also gifted and privileged with parents who truly support my academic endeavors, not only emotionally but also financially.  The financial support has decreased over the years, sure, but I have definitely been able to focus more exclusively on my studies and not have to worry so much about funding my education.  As a "professional student" that is a huge privilege!

This struggling all came to a head in December.  In a previous post, I spoke of this amazing opportunity with which I had been presented but how it would impact a different opportunity that I was hoping to have.  At that point, I wasn't able to announce what was going on, but many of you now know what happened:  Out of nowhere, I was approached and asked if I would be interested in teaching the introductory Greek sequence next school year (2014-2015).  Obviously, it was a huge honor to be considered and when they decided they wanted to move forward with me as the instructor, I was ecstatic.  The only problem was that I had already applied for a teaching fellowship to teach Psalms and Spirituality in Fall 2014.  After talking it over with my parents and my mentors, I decided to accept the position teaching Greek and just assumed my application for the Psalms course was essentially tossed out.  Imagine my surprise, then, when a few weeks later I received an email stating that I had been awarded the teaching fellowship for the Psalms course. 

I was thrilled, over the moon, feeling beyond validated for all my hard work.  And then I was brought back to earth when it was suggested that it was not fair for me to accept both positions, that more students should be given these opportunities.  I was once again smacked upside the head with my white privilege.  Would I have received these offers if I was a minority?  Would I have been as equally qualified for them if I was a minority? (by which I mean, would I have had the same access to education, etc. that I have had as a white person?)  I ultimately decided to accept both positions.  It was probably the hardest decision of my life.  So many tears, so many conversations, so many pro and con lists.  I considered not only what was best for me but also what was best for the GTU.  I talked to my mentor, who was my sponsor for my application (and who would likely have to teach the course if I did not).  I talked to my mentor from seminary, who told me I should never feel guilty about achievements with which the GTU recognizes me.  I talked to my parents, especially my dad, who is a manager and has a business mind.  My dad was adamant that I wasn't given these teaching positions but rather that I earned these positions, and he likened it to when one of his employees receives a raise.  He doesn't hand out raises because that is what he is supposed to do but because the employee deserves it.  Thus, my dad argued that I wasn't robbing another student of an opportunity to which they were entitled but rather that I earned these positions through all my hard work.  Those from the PSR community with whom I talked over my options and what I should do were likewise very supportive.  I was told by more than one PSR student, "You are blessed to be a blessing." "God is giving you a double blessing so you can bless others."  A (female) student asked if the fact that I was offered both positions would have even been an issue if I was male instead of female.  And I have been told in the past (by a straight white man with more privilege than me) that I have been essentially coddled because I am a woman and therefore a minority in scholarship -- in other words, that I have been given unfair advantages because of my gender, beyond my white privilege.

So in the end, I decided to embrace what I deserve, to acknowledge that I am kickass.  Perhaps I have been unduly blessed, but that does not mean that I need to reject it but rather that I should share it.  Yes, I reek of privilege, and yes, I need to be aware of it and try to disseminate it, but I also shouldn't let that privilege get in the way of me embracing what I have earned.  Yes, I have had help along the way, but I have also worked hard and I am qualified for these teaching positions.  Yes, I reek of privilege, but I am not resting on its laurels.  I did nothing to deserve my privilege, but I also did nothing to receive it.  And if I thought my decision to accept the teaching fellowship was denying someone else who was equally qualified from receiving a fellowship, then I probably would have made a different decision.  Being a strong, white (straight) female in academia isn't easy.  It automatically makes me a bitch, an arrogant ass who should be put in her place. 

I am kickass. I deserve to be treated with respect.  I deserve to be taken seriously.  I deserve to receive the same love, kindness and compassion I show others.  I am kickass, not because of my white privilege, but because I am a smart, thoughtful, hard-working, loving person in spite of it.  

The High Cost of Being an Academic

I have been reflecting lately on the high cost of being an academic.  Obviously there are the monetary costs associated with education -- tuition and books, along with the normal living costs, which cannot be met because we lack 'real' jobs.  But there are other costs as well. 

The social costs: choosing the library over the bar; choosing a solitary life over relationships; writing papers instead of going to the movies; the inability to communicate with a 'normal' person. 

The mental costs: having your ideas and abilities repeatedly ripped apart and rejected; forever feeling as if you are not smart enough or good enough or anything enough; the anguish over the inability to cultivate new and revolutionary ideas.

The physical costs: the physical manifestations of stress; the strain on your eyes from reading for hours; the back pain from spending hours in the hard library chairs; the headaches from frustration with the progress of your studies; poor nutrition from unhealthy snacking instead of eating properly; sleep deprivation; the resulting compromised immune system due to all of this.

Non-academics often muse, "Oh, it must be nice to just sit around and study all day."  And it is.  It is a wonderful opportunity and privilege to be able to study.  But let's not kid ourselves.  The life of an academic is no easier than the life of someone who has a 'real' job.  We don't do this because we are too lazy to work.  We do this because this is what we are passionate about, because despite the financial, social, mental and physical costs, this is what feeds us in a way that nothing else can.  It is not a luxurious life; most of us do this fully aware that the academic job market is dismal, at best.

For me personally, as a biblical studies (wanna be) scholar, I view being an academic as a calling.  I certainly would not be doing this if it was not coming from God.  I could have easily chosen a more "practical" field which would have required far less education and would have resulted in a more favorable job market with better financial security.  Instead, I am struggling with the academic lifestyle, in hopes of finding a university position, teaching undergrads who will likely resent me for either forcing them to read the Bible in the first place or for destroying their cherished beliefs.  Thinking back to my own reactions when I first began to study the Bible academically, as a freshman in college, I remember how I lashed out at my professor, whom I blamed for the faith struggles I encountered as a result of the class.  Shortly before I moved out here, I had lunch with that professor and admitted to her that I was the type of student that I am least looking forward to teaching.  And yet, that is exactly what I am called to do, for better or worse.

And so, despite the high costs, despite the mental anguish, despite the compromises to my physical well-being, despite the perpetual life as a ‘poor college student,’ despite complete lack of a social life, despite my total inability to engage in normal social interactions, despite it all, I am willing to pay the price, because this is who I am, this is what I love, this is what God has called me to do.

God help me!

The Good, The Bad & The Hope

This past Sunday was the first Sunday of Advent. And I was asked to light the candle, the candle of hope.

My family experienced a tragedy the week before Thanksgiving.  One of those moments in life when our joy is turned into mourning, when the future collapses on itself.   My emotions have been all over the place -- grief, sorrow, guilty, shock, anger, dismay -- but in the midst of all the negative emotions, there is also joy, laughter, happiness and hope.  As I was finding out about this tragedy, I was also being contacted about an absolutely amazing opportunity.  It was unexpected and is still a bit unbelievable, that I was personally chosen for it.

[NOTE: Many of you know what both the tragedy and the opportunity are.  I am not naming the tragedy here because it is not my story to tell.  I am also awaiting official, official word so I can make it "Facebook official." If you don't know what's going on, text or send me a message on FB]

I woke up the following morning crying. Crying out of sorrow for the loss, crying out of guilt for simultaneously being excited about my own amazing news. I was also torn, not between the tragedy and the opportunity, but between this new opportunity and another possible one.  To process these things -- the tragedy and the two opportunities -- I turned to my mentor, a lovely elderly Jesuit professor.  He immediately told me to accept the new opportunity, which was not only essentially guaranteed but also the better opportunity.  Then, as I teared up, I told him about the tragedy and how I was struggling not only with the tragedy but specifically with the joy and excitement I was feeling in light of this new opportunity.  My mentor smiled at me reassuringly and simply stated, "The good things in life do not wait for the bad things to pass."

The good things in life do not wait for the bad things to pass! Hallelujah, thanks be to God!

And that is the hope -- that good things continue in the midst of the bad.  More recently, I was listening to a podcast of a sermon a friend gave. One of the many things that struck me was "hope in the mess." Life is a mess. Life is always a mess, no matter how good things are.  And no matter how messy things get, no matter how bad things may be, there is always good, always hope. No matter what, there is always hope in the mess.

The thing about hope, too, is that it requires patience.  We hope for what is not yet real.  We hope for what may yet be.  That "yet" means we have to wait. We have to be patient. We must wait and see. It is our human nature, in the 21st century, to try to hurry up and get there, when in fact part of the process of hoping is that waiting -- waiting to see what will unfold, waiting to see what God may have in store.  Hoping with God, hoping for God, just hoping.

In the midst of tragedy, I hope.
In the midst of opportunity, I hope.
In the midst of Advent, I hope.
In the midst of life, I hope.