Growing Young

I’ve been making a lot of confessions here lately, and here’s one more: I was a pretentious teenager.

I wasn’t pretentious on purpose, and if you had suggested to me that I was, I would have been offended. It wasn’t that I was fake, really. In fact, I’m not sure that anyone can really be fake during adolescence, a time period in which bodies and minds–and therefore identities–are in such a wild state of flux. But Teenage Shanna was deeply invested in being taken seriously, and that meant being serious. I mostly skipped out on young adult fiction and set up camp in the classics. I remember a conversation (I can neither confirm nor deny that it was during interviews at the Miss Rodeo Texas Teen pageant) in which I touted my favorite authors as Shakespeare and Dickens. And meant it. And could back it up with specific texts. What sixteen year old says stuff like that? I thought the Harry Potter books were beneath my notice, and I arrogantly refused to read them. And though I was less strict about it, I also aspired to love serious movies the most.

I skipped out on a lot of other “normal” teen activities too. Like dating (not that there were any interesting offers anyway, but I didn’t mind). Or going to prom. That was all silly teen frivolity as far as I was concerned. One of the less mutable aspects of my personality, which I inherited from my parents and especially my dad, is a really low tolerance for drama or absurdity, and that was already cemented into place by the time I hit my teens. So I avoided the drama (a little too proudly, I might add) and I probably missed out on a lot of fun too. Of course, I didn’t see it that way at that time.

And anyway, I had plans. Big plans to make big dreams come true. Another immutable characteristic of mine is obsessiveness, and as a teenager, I was singularly focused on becoming a horse trainer. I had always been horse-obsessed, but as a teenager, I virtually lived in the fantasy that I was going to become a game-changing, world-famous horse trainer. When I got my first horse, Tigger, I would ride him for 2 hours a day, most days of the week. I would ride in the blazing heat and the freezing cold. I would ride in the mud and in the dust. I was serious about being a horse trainer.

I was serious about almost everything. That was the problem.

Having fun was at best a secondary or tertiary priority for Teenage Shanna. And that was even more true for Young Adult Shanna. If I had been invested in being taken seriously as an adolescent, the cultural distinction of adulthood made that even more true. At least, for a while. But then came that time period in which my dream of being a professional horse trainer began to crumble under my feet. I was simultaneously finishing my Bachelor’s in English, where there was nothing distinctive about my literary tastes. And I had definitely by this point established that I was not nearly as into serious film as I had tried to be. All of that seriousness, and where had it gotten me?

I think that’s when I started to unwind a little. I did silly things. I bought a sock monkey (as an adult!) at a Cracker Barrel store because I had always wanted one (it’s sitting on my bookshelf right now). I read the first five Harry Potter books (that’s all that was out yet) the week after finishing my senior year in college. I admitted to myself that I liked summer blockbusters and action movies better than dramas, and especially superhero movies, which I had always liked anyway, and most science fiction, even when they were silly, campy, and ridiculous. I started painting my toenails. I never missed an episode of Stargate SG-1. Or Stargate Atlantis. I started listening (occasionally) to pop music.

And gradually, I got here. Where almost half of my biggest bookshelf is occupied by children’s and YA fantasy/scifi books. Where most of the movies I own are my favorite Disney musicals or superhero flicks. And where last summer, a free trial membership to Marvel.com’s digital database got me hooked on comic books. Where I have a classic Thor iPhone case. Where I wear my Batman t-shirt pretty often. Where I ride horses (when I can) because it’s so darn fun. Where I take a gazillion pictures of my dog because I like to.

It’s not that I’m not serious about things anymore. In fact, I spend most of my time reading and writing and thinking about and doing serious things. But now that I’m a grown-up, I’ve come to realize that life’s a whole lot better if I don’t take myself seriously all the time. And so maybe I am a 29-year-old with a comic book obsession, and maybe I can talk books with 12 year olds at least as well as I can with my professors. Maybe I do get silly-excited about some movies (ahem, Hunger Games and Avengers). But you know what? I sure am having a good time. And the best part is that I’ve reached a point in my life when I no longer feel any compulsion to justify my choices or my preferences. It’s a good place to be.

More Confessions

1. If it isn’t made of beef, it shouldn’t be called a hamburger. I’m looking at you, veggie “burger,” and I’m calling you a phoney. A phoney! And a disappointment.
2. I have a big oral exam on Friday that decides if I graduate. I’m not particularly worried about it because a) my committee are  kind people; b) they’re really ready for the semester to be over; and c) I’m bringing baked goods. I believe baked goods release positive energy into the world and will shift the balance in my favor. Please believe that with me.
3. The topic of my exam is places and spaces in Irish lit. I’ve enjoyed studying the topic immensely. I mean, this topic is my main scholarly groove. But secretly, I kind of wish that we were also going to discuss the use of fictional cities in the DC universe as opposed to the real cities in the Marvel universe. Then it would be appropriate for me to wear my Captain America shirt and it would seem more obvious to use my superhero cookie cutters.
4. I’m guilty of judging the New Englanders (ahem, local weatherman) who complain about rainy days. We need the rain–it’s been an exceptionally dry winter (only 10 inches of snow and not a lot of rain), and the reservoir near my house is a good 2-3 ft below the normal level. These people, who are completely unaccustomed to dry creek beds, brown grass and water rationing, do not appreciate the life-giving, soul-renewing value of rain. Can I get an amen, Texas?
5. I just got an email from ETS about GRE test prep, and it gave me no small satisfaction to say to that email, “Ha! I don’t have to take the GRE ever again, sucka!” [Which you should translate directly to mean that I deleted the email vigorously albeit silently].
6. I don’t know how many dozens of times I’ve read Yeats’ poem “The Lake Isle of  Innisfree”. I don’t know how many times I’ve listened to the grainy recording of Yeats reading it, though I remember dreamily that some of those times were in the National Library in Dublin. And as much as I want to be cool and say that one of his more complex poems is my favorite, I know that it’s this one. The one I never get tired of reading and never read only once at a time. The one that always feels honest and resonant and beautiful. I’m glad it’s on my exam reading list.
7. Among the other things I’m looking forward to about this semester wrapping up is that I’ll be able to dig into Foucault’s Discipline and Punish. Also, the Avengers vs. X-Men. That’s how I roll.
8. On a related note, found a section in the library the other day that was scholarship on comic books. I wasn’t even looking for it. I stumbled upon it while I was hunting for a book on liminal spaces. I took it as a form of divine and institutional validation of my geekery.
9. I believe that no grad student should face finals without a reliable supply of chocolate. You have to plan ahead, or else you’ll end up eating chocolate chips by the handful.
10. My favorites have now been voted off of American Idol and The Voice. I wish that meant I had lost interest in the shows so that I could continue to deplore reality tv without feeling slightly hypocritical. Alas.

Confessions

1. I equally love and hate the Maroon 5 song “Moves like Jagger.” Whenever I hear it, a tense argument rages in my head, which ultimately leads me to questions of identity and self, those things having been muddled by my ambivalence toward the song. I bounce back pretty quickly, though, after the song ends.
2. I can’t tell if my love for Dr Pepper is psychological or because I like the taste.
3. I hate reality t.v. shows unabashedly, except for the singing competitions. It’s kind of a guilty pleasure, which I justify by telling myself that it’s about music and there’s a whole lot less drama.
4. On a related note, I’m watching The Voice this year. I like it plenty well for what it is, but a big part of the appeal for me is Blake Shelton’s drawl. He sounds like home when he talks. In fact, he sounds almost exactly like one of our former horseshoers, accent, rhythm and all. It’s funny the things you miss when you’re away from home, and Blake Shelton’s drawl feels familiar and solid. Also, he’s a funny guy.
5. My guiltiest pleasure is (are you ready for this?) verbing nouns. That’s right, folks; I have a bachelor’s and (almost) 2 master’s degrees in English, I teach college English, and I verb nouns on a regular basis. I know it my grammatical heart that it’s so, so wrong. But I can’t help myself. It’s fun and (often) funny. If this offends you, I’ll understand.
6. I’m really bad at staying focused while I’m grading (which is what I’m supposed to be doing now). But that probably doesn’t surprise you. I’m also really good at social media and blogging while I’m grading.
7. I made a B+ on a midterm paper this week and didn’t loose my mind. This is a big step forward for me, you’ll know. While I’m reasonably motivated to rally and make a better grade on my final paper, I’m honeybadgering (see? noun=verbed) this grade, and feeling pretty good about my ability—for once—to let a failure to live up to my own standards roll off my back.
8. During music-competition-show season, I sing like a rockstar in the shower and while I’m doing dishes and other chores. But there’s no chance of taking this show on the road because I’m not sure anyone else would really appreciate my unique combination of run-of-the-mill vocals and domestic chores. The world just isn’t ready for all of this.
9. My favorite thing that James Joyce does as a stylist is smashing together a compound adjective to make one word, like “sunbright” or “nutbrown.” Sometimes I try to do this myself, but the spellchecker’s red marks tell me, derisively, that I am a mere literary mortal who must obey the rules. Good thing Joyce didn’t have spellchecker.
10. I sometimes think about the fact that I could die without ever having gone to Disney World, and that makes me a little sad. So now that I’m moving to Georgia, which is conveniently located near Florida, I’m scheming about an adventure. But I’ll need a cohort with which to sally forth—any takers?

Food Opinions

My friends Sarah and Lauren are responsible for the creation of this post, but not the content. They were recently amused by my strongly-expressed opinions about food and suggested that they would read that on a blog. So, not wanting to withhold amusement, here are a few of my most dearly held food opinions.

All meat, and most other foods, taste better when cooked over open flame. All things cooked over open flame taste better if that fire is fueled by Mesquite wood. This is an objective fact in West Texas.

Hamburger joints that don’t ask how you want your burger cooked are doing it wrong. If they don’t have an option with barbecue sauce, bacon and cheddar, they are also doing it wrong. If they serve steak fries, they get a bonus. If they serve sweet potato fries, they get a double bonus. If they cook over fire (see above), they earn a special place in Heaven. If they do all of these things, I’m loyal for life.

Almost everything savory can be improved by bacon. Amen.

There is not, in my experience, a wrong way to make cobbler–unless it’s not sweet enough or too sweet, but that’s pretty hard to do. Or unless, of course, you make cobbler with cherries, which is perfectly absurd. There are just good ways–which involve pie crust–and the best way–which involves a sort of biscuity top. Similarly, there’s not exactlya wrong way to serve cobbler, but if you really love the people you’re serving, you’ll put a scoop of homemade (or Bluebell or similar) vanilla ice cream on top of a piping-hot bowl of cobbler. If you love them a little less, you might offer whipped cream, but that would nearly always be a mistake.

There is a right and wrong way to make pecan pie. There is also a right and wrong way to say pecan. Puh-KAHN, people. Say it with me. Any other pronunciation is illegal. I can’t actually detail the wrong ways to make pecan pie because I don’t know what goes into those recipes. The right way involves dark and light Karo syrup, chopped pecans and a generous sprinkle of cinnamon-sugar on top. It also should be served with ice cream, but you have to let the pie cool first or it won’t set up right.

Any baking recipe that requires buttermilk is automatically better than any similar recipe that does not.

Too-tall frosting on cupcakes is wrong because people don’t like getting frosting on their noses. No one should be forced to get frosting on her nose!

If you’ve never eaten a combination of berries and fresh basil, your life is incomplete.

American cheese is only tolerable in certain sauces.

If you have food opinions, please share!

 

Sweet Cheeks Q

You know when you go that it probably won’t really be Texas barbecue. You know something won’t be quite right, and even if it is, it won’t be your Texas barbecue. Where you see the smoker outside the restaurant. Where the sauce is just perfect, and the side dishes make your mouth water, and the desserts are cobbler or banana pudding. Where the employees know your “usual” and ask about your family. But you’re hopeful, maybe even a little desperate for something that’s familiar and comfortable.

You immediately decide to forgive them for the sign—almost school-girlish white letters spelling Sweet Cheeks and a shocking, hot pink Q, of which the tail is a curly pig tail. It’s cute, and it’s alright for Boston, but it lacks the rustic grit you associate with the best barbecue. But like I said, you forgive them immediately when you step inside and breathe in: smoked brisket. It smells like home, you think, and you grin like an idiot while they lead you to a long communal table where you’ll sit with your group and with other patrons. They bring you drinks in Mason jars and explain to your cohort that Texas barbecue is a little different. But you know. Better than the waiter does, probably. You admire the wood pile prominently displayed—is that Mesquite? I think it’s Mesquite. You forgive them again for failing to serve Dr. Pepper.

There are bottles of sauce on the table, which you smell and find to be a little too . . . sharp. Too much vinegar? But when you taste it, it’s not bad. Acceptable, even. You order a chopped brisket sandwich with confidence, and potato salad. You can hear a twang, more distinct than usual, in your own voice.

And then you wait. You begin to notice how clean and modern the design is, how city it is. It smells like Texas, but it looks like Boston. They’ve neglected to use barnwood anywhere. There are no antique farm tools. And not a single taxidermied animal or neon sign adorns the walls. It’s bright and airy and nice. And wrong.

But the sandwich comes, and the brisket is as tender and flavorful as any you’ve ever had. The potato salad—made correctly, without mustard—is good enough, but it doesn’t really matter because the brisket is perfect. Good enough to hide the so-so sauce. Good enough to make Texas proud. Too good to stop eating when you’re full, so you stuff yourself. And don’t regret it. And even though you pay nearly twice as much as you would  pay for the same sandwich back home, it’s worth it. It’s not a bad price for Boston, anyway.

Then you sit and laugh and have a good time, feeling just a little out of place. Why? You realize gradually that there are no cowboy hats in the place, no Wranglers, and the only pair of cowboy boots are on your own feet. In the aftermath of a delicious meal you begin to feel a little small and alone, just for a minute, because this is not home.

*****

The next day, all you want to eat is that brisket, to have back that moment of feeling close to home even if it would be followed, bittersweet, by a longing for flatland and big sky and blooming wildflowers.

The more places you’ll go

The more that your read, the more things you will know. The more that you learn, the more places you’ll go. (from I Can Read with My Eyes Shut! by Dr Seuss)

This is becoming a literal truth in my life. I’ll be moving to Atlanta this summer to start my PhD at Emory. I feel blessed beyond measure to have been accepted at a program that seems to perfect for me, and I’m excited about moving back to a warmer, Southern-er climate, although (as I’ve said) there are a great many things I’m going to miss about Boston. I feel lucky to have been accepted there, really lucky about the financial package, and relieved to finally have a decision made and a destination before me.

Leaving Boston

Yesterday I got the official rejection letter from BC. I was expecting it, so it didn’t come as a surprise. I guess I had been expecting it all along because I knew it was a long shot for me. The limited number of applicants that the English Department accepts is one thing working against me, and the even more limited number of accepted applicants who study Irish literature is another. But I also figured that my particular research interests wouldn’t really be the most interesting to the faculty here. So, like I said, no surprise. And no hard feelings, either. I’ve really loved my time at BC and my professors here, and I know that this rejection in no way reflects a perception of me as undeserving or undesirable. As with all PhD acceptances, they have to pick the applicants whose interests will fit the department best, and mine don’t. Fortunately, my interests do fit well at other schools.

But that means that I am officially (and not only possibly) leaving Boston this summer. I’m not saying for certain where I’m headed yet because I still haven’t heard back from a couple of schools, and while I have a pretty good idea of where I’ll be, I’d like to know what all of my options are before I make a commitment. The thing I can say with certainty, though, is that I won’t be here. And I have mixed feelings about that because there are a great many things I’ll miss about Boston, especially the people who have made this chapter of my life spectacular–old friends and new, an amazing church family. I’ll miss my cozy apartment, the nearby reservoir where Spur and I have walked miles and miles, the way that Boston bursts with color in the spring and fall, the mild summer. Trips to the North End for savory Italian food and life-changing canolli from Mike’s Pastry. Boston Common and The Public Garden. And so many other things that I have loved here.

There’s something in me, though, that feels ready to move on. At the end of last summer, I wrote in a post that if I didn’t get into a Boston-area school it would break my heart a little to leave. And I meant it, deeply. But it’s funny how declarations of desire work sometimes, because almost as soon as I wrote that post, there was a loosening in my heart and I began to feel a little free, and maybe even a little restless. I began to understand that I would miss a great many things about Boston, and I would miss my first place, but it wouldn’t break my heart to leave. I think God was preparing me even then for the coming change. Somewhere deep down, I think I’ve believed for a while now that I wouldn’t be staying. And in that same deep-down place, I’ve felt at peace with that.

I’ve been intrigued for a while now with the One Little Word project (which works almost like a New Year’s Resolution–you choose a word to focus on throughout the year), but I’ve never really decided to pick a word. This year, though, I think a word chose me–adventure. It’s been sitting on my heart and making my eyes twinkle all year. It’s how I think of trips into the city, cooking new recipes, trying new foods at restaurants, readingUlysses, going out with friends. And it seems especially appropriate now that I know I’ll be adventuring my way to a new city this summer, and adventuring through learning how to live in a new place, and adventuring through my first semester as a PhD student. Lots to look forward to.

For now, though, I’m glad that I still have a lot of Boston adventures to come. I’m ready to leave this place, but not yet.

 

Breathing Easy

Today’s been a good day. This morning I got an acceptance email from University of North Texas, and just a few minutes ago I got a call from the director of graduate studies at Emory informing me that they’ve accepted me to their program. I’m especially excited about Emory after my fantastic visit there this weekend. But I think excitement is a secondary emotion. What I feel most is relief. Things are working out. And I took the long way getting here–not many people get 2 master’s degrees in English. Now, I feel like I’ve made good decisions and I can breathe a little easier. And that is a really good feeling.

Hotlanta

Well folks, here’s an update. I figured out what to wear. My hair behaved, mostly. As well as it ever does, anyway. I did alright on the flight. I didn’t act shy or awkward. I met a lot of really fantastic people–professors, current students, and the other prospective students were all pretty wonderful. I felt like my interviews went pretty well, and I felt really encouraged after them. I was really impressed with the department and the way it really felt like a community and the way they have organized their program. I got some great ideas for theory that would be beneficial to my research. At a colloquium featuring three current students, I heard three of the best, smartest papers I’ve heard anywhere. I learned that there’s a relatively new field of criticism that focuses on disability, and it’s really fascinating. I held and glanced through the manuscript set of Seamus Heaney’s poem “Strange Fruit” and only cried on the inside. Also, I saw papers that had Ted Hughes’s work on one side and Sylvia Plath’s work on the other. I wondered at the 10 story library (10!). And I liked hearing people say y’all and other little things about southern culture that I hadn’t realized I missed.

Mostly, I found out that Emory would be a really great fit for me, and while I’m definitely hoping that I’ll get to choose between a few schools, I really hope that Emory is one of those options. The good news is that I should know in the next week or so

My thanks to everyone who said prayers and thought happy thoughts and sent words of encouragement this weekend. I appreciate you more than you know.

Facts

Fact: Tomorrow I am going to Georgia to visit one of the schools I applied to. I will apparently be meeting with their admissions committee, professors, current students, and of course a bunch of other applicants who, like me, have been invited for this visit. [In case you are wondering, this doesn't mean I've been accepted to their program. Yet.]

Fact: I’m kind of nervous. I feel pretty confident, generally. But still, a little nervous.

Fact: That tinge of anxiety is expressing itself pretty much entirely in relation to what clothes and shoes I should take with me. As if fashion is going to be my ultimate downfall. As if the admissions committee is going to say, “Well, her personal statement is awesome, her writing sample rocks, and her letters of recommendation sparkle. But good grief, did you notice those pants? We can’t possible let someone into our PhD program who wears cardigans with tall boots!”

Fact: They will probably not even notice what I’m wearing. They will be too distracted by the fear that my hair, courtesy of Georgia humidity, has developed the ability to act of its own accord and might at any moment attack them.

Fact: This does not lessen my obsessive need to bring The Perfect Outfits for two days of hitherto undefined activities. All I really know is that there will be walking and meeting with people.

Fact: It’s relatively warmish in GA right now, so I could choose to wear a skirt.

Fact: This does not make my decision process easier.

Fact: There’s a pretty good chance that I will try on half the things in my closet tonight as I attempt to make a decision.

Fact: Spur will be no help at all. Unless you count shedding on my clothes helpful. Which I do not.

Fact: I will probably stop caring about my clothes the moment I get on the plane. Because then I’ll just be nervous about flying.

Fact: I’m also kind of excited about this trip because Emory would be a great school for me, and would appreciate it if you would say a prayer on my behalf.