1. A small letter arrives.
2. I try very hard for several minutes not to run to pick up the mail, hyperventilating with the effort and anxiety.
(Please note - minor hyperventilation happening RIGHT NOW TYPING THIS.)
3. I pick up the letter, admiring the seal that says some crazy date like "1205 AD."
4. I read a nondescript rejection letter that begins "Dear Miss Joanna, We thank you very cordially for your interest in studying literature at Oxford and we read your application with great care. As strong as your work was, and as highly recommended as you were, we had far more applicants than space. We thank you for your submission, and wish you the best of luck. Also - you're a freaky desperate stalker; please stop contacting us. Love, Oxford."
5. I cry a lot and try to wipe my tears with my dog's very furry paws. He gets up and goes outside. DOUBLE REJECTION!
I got that far in this very sad-sack episode while welling up over the ironing board last night. It sounds ridiculous, and it should, but I think I've been so determined to cushion myself for any possible blows that in my self-reassurances, I've actually downplayed the option that I might just not fucking get in. Like, really. Not hypothetically. Really. I've glossed over it. I've compartmentalized and wrapped each possibility in paper and tape and bows, and refused to touch either. And now...
My friend Kelsey and I were talking about the unbearable waiting we're both going through right now, and she told me she thought it was particularly agonizing for me because I only applied to one school, whereas she applied to five or six. It's hard to say, but my first inclination was to disagree with her. It isn't because I applied to just one program - it's because I applied to Oxford.
I feel like I've gotten some flack for that decision from a lot of people, both jokingly and not so jokingly. The comment I'm so tired of hearing (in various forms): "Cambridge wasn't good enough?" Short answer: No. I don't expect anyone to understand or think it a smart decision. Objectively, it was foolish. But before that letter gets here, I want to type this out. I want to have it somewhere I can remember it.
My dad is someone I very rarely discuss, and believe it or not, rarely think about. If we're newer friends and you're reading this, you might not've gotten the family drama - my parents separated when I was eleven. It was messy, horrible, and shitty. And the worst part (maybe), was that the divorce proceedings lasted forever. And for extra fun, I got dragged into it. Over and over. If it weren't for all the terrible and disgusting shit he did before the divorce, my dad's actions during (and since) the divorce would definitely suffice for our estrangement. When I remember my life with him (and I admit, it's hazy), I mostly remember a lot of arguments. I remember him telling me he knew I loved my mom more than him, and he cried himself to sleep about it every night. I remember him getting angry over seemingly trivial shit. I remember his need for brownies with walnuts. And his slippers. His ties, and his shiny black shoes.
I also remember going to my grandma's house and seeing an old photo on the wall, and asking her how old I was in it. She laughed and said "mija! That's your dad." (In my defense, he had shoulder length hair and looked a lot lighter.) I thought it was funny, at the time. I was his favorite. Not just because we looked a lot alike, but because I was a good kid. I was happy and easy and undemanding and obedient. I was quiet and a natural student. While dad screamed at my brother and threatened him with military school, he praised me and asked me to watch Xena with him. When I switched schools in fourth grade and went from loving Montessori to brutal prep school, my grades and self-esteem plummeted. I distinctly remember feeling crushed, because for once, I knew there were lots of other girls smarter than me.
What really did me in, believe it or not, was our weekly spelling test. Secret: I used to suck at spelling. A lot. I bombed about three or four spelling tests before my dad took me aside and told me that I a) needed to work harder, and b) if I did, he'd get me the green Swiss Army Knife I wanted. He then told me that he failed math in fifth grade, and now prided himself on his math skills. And one day, if I worked harder, I would say the same thing about spelling. The next week I brought home an A+ and he gave me my knife. He'd made a label for it, and it's sitting next to me on my desk. "ANYA" it says, in red. I look at it and don't remember the lying asshole my dad turned out to be. I remember how good it felt to make him proud that day when I was nine. How good it felt to prove I could do something, conquer something.
I haven't spoken to my father since I was fifteen. I'm not looking for another Swiss Army Knife. But I realize, as I'm typing this, that I am still hoping to make someone proud. Except this time, that someone is me. That's why this means so much; that's why this waiting is agony.
Having said that, I can also tell you that I'm not going to join a nunnery in Bhutan if I'm not accepted. I'll just have to find a new challenge, preferably in a different city and with a different pay scale. (Haha.) In fact, in a post I'll prematurely assure you will make you LAUGH instead of GROAN, I will be posting pictures and witty anecdotes of the kick ass time I had in New York City last week. Despite many years of vowing I would never move there, I now say:
Brooklyn! I could live there!
(don't worry, Katie. I still say: San Francisco! I can't wait to live there!)
a teaser:
can I get an "OH BABY!" ?
(fyi, those are crushed Stumptown coffee beans...)
No comments:
Post a Comment