Canada in Cambridge

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Midterms

I'm in the midst of midterms, and that's the least of what's going on in  real life.

First, the school life: started receiving grades back, which has deescalated my stress significantly. Oh, I'm NOT failing out. Doing fine -- getting GREAT feedback on the assignments to help me further...really, all of the parts of education that are necessary to be successful.

Most important, though, I'm learning So. Much. There are so many opportunities to learn -- both in and out of the classroom. Forums and panels and networking events and meet-and-greets...too many activities, really. Something has to give.

I end up looking at my planner and my to-do list (yes, two different ways to document how busy I am -- highlighting means I've completed a task) and scratching items off...running out of time or steam on any given day. 

Last week, I saw Barbara Walters. This week, I'm going to a Public Speaking development session entitled "Delivering Bad News"...how bizarre and wonderful. All of this to say...I love it. School, graduate school, learning, listening, internally debating -- it's outstanding.

And now, real life. My partner is dealing with tremendous stressors right now, including a very ill grandfather (who is 95 and has lived quite an amazing and happy life) and, a few days later, a father who is currently on life support, with no changes in three days. I feel so helpless out here. Because we're partners, I know that she needs me as her support. Not *needs* -- she's so incredibly strong and capable -- but, it's why people have partners, right? To rely and depend and support and love. So I'm lost out here, unable to fully do the things we both signed up for when we committed to each other. Midterms are here, and the cost to fly there with short notice is ridiculous. 

Thankfully, we have fantastic friends who help however they can; she appreciates it, and so do I. I owe a lot of people a lot of favors when I get back.

And now, back to work.

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"You seem to have it all together."

Just a short, brief, momentary post.

Early last week, three people said a variation of "You seem to have it all together." I was ahead of reading, I felt good about my first writing assignments that were due later in the week, I felt...pretty chill. 

Having been asked that by three different people, though, I started to think...wait, should I panic? Am I not stressed out enough? Why am I so calm?

And promptly began panicking.

Graduate school is SUCH a weird place.

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Teenagers vs. Children

I worked with teenagers for eight years, and over the course of that time (or perhaps since the beginning), I developed an ability to tune them out. 

That...might sound terrible to anyone who has never interacted with a teenager, but trust me on this one -- it's a necessary skill.

My office for the last three years was a drop-in center for students to come talk about their futures and receive help from me in their life-long journeys. It also served as a space for them to do homework, meet with their friends, hide from their teachers, watch clips of the Broncos, and shop for prom dresses. Other things, too. (**I would argue that ALL of these are future-type conversations and activities, despite not being college applications and scholarship searches, but I digress.)

Because my work was not only about the direct services with students, I had to tune them out. How would I ever get work done? There is only so much one can get out of listening to the most recent soccer game victory tales or the pain and torture of Calculus AP. My brain would isolate their conversation to a certain area, and tune in when needed. Students were sometimes surprised at what I did hear, which often led to emails to coworkers about what was Overheard in my office (here's a classic: "My brother looks like Cher" -- when I asked for clarification, the student responded, "HE DOES.").

My partner has also commented numerous times on this ability, as I also used it at home. The TV, radio, dogs, outside noises -- anything, it seemed, could be tuned out and I would (mostly) miss it all. Again, my brain would signal to me when something seemed relevant enough, but mostly, it was contained.

But now I live next to a playground.

The children on said playground are tiny people. They mostly attend the elementary school across the street, and their teachers march them over in rotation every day.

And they scream.

My roommate said to me this morning, "I don't recall that many games as a child that involved screaming."

And I thought about it, too. I don't recall screaming on a playground. I also don't remember talking on a playground, but that can't be right, either. There must have been talking, and there was probably screaming.

I chalk the screaming up to being inside the school building for most of the day, and when the tiny people get to go to the playground for thirty minutes, their brains and mouths EXPLODE. What a wonderful, wonderful thing it must be to spend time on the swings and monkey bars and a jungle gym and OUTSIDE.

There have also been numerous days in which the children are playing some sort of game (tag? what other games exist for children?) and they are singing the Darth Vader theme song. You know it, and so do I. And so whatever education policy reading that I am attempting to comprehend is interrupted by Imperial stormtroopers, light sabers, and the dark side.

Despite my best efforts to block out the sound, I find it impossible. And I get nothing done until I go somewhere else, far away from children that tiny and that loud. 

The signal for the children to leave is a syncopated clap by the teachers, and the playground silently listens to the instructions. So do I. And they march back to school to learn -- whatever it is that tiny people learn -- until the next batch comes in to play the requisite roles of Luke, Han, and Leia, as I march back to my school, headphones in, feeling like Vader.

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"Do you go by 'Elizabeth' or 'Liz'?"

During Class Shopping, one of the previously mentioned nine courses made me physically uncomfortable. It is one of the Leadership classes that can count toward my course requirements, and it is entirely taught through the Case Method. I have...never taken a class using this method, nor have I ever read a "case."

In the Shopping session, the instructor navigated the room of 100+ people with ease, walking around, talking to us, making us talk in front of everyone else. "This is how class will be," she said, and I was terrified. "Participation is 40% of your grade in this class." We were expected not only to talk, but to have something to say.

So I decided to take the course.

Before every class, we have a set of readings to complete and a few questions to answer/consider in advance: "You will never be surprised with what I expect you to know." For our first class, we read about a guy who had taken over a start-up and was doing...well...poorly. 

I read the case at least eight times. You know...because of the terror. I wrote notes in the margins. I wrote different notes in the margins. I typed up answers to the questions, and then I hand-wrote over those answers the night before. What was I going to say? There would be ninety students in this class -- some with business backgrounds -- what was I going to say?

With five classes, I originally anticipated an even spread of fear for each one -- but found my brain circling around the case. What was I going to say? What if my thoughts were completely different from everyone else's? What would that mean about my "leadership style" or my ability to be in this class? What if my instincts were completely wrong?

I stood outside the room for the first class on Thursday, and a guy had a look on his face that I am convinced was the same as mine. "How do you feel about this?" he asked.

"Terrified."

"Me too."

We spoke for a few moments about the fear, and how we weren't sure what we would say.

My plan was simple, though. I had some ideas that I felt were non-controversial. Simple things, really. 

"He shouldn't have offered that woman a job at a salary he didn't receive approval for." Easy. A straightforward mistake. Don't offer jobs to people you can't pay for -- pretty basic stuff, actually.

"I didn't feel like he was supporting his staff; it felt like he was dictating how they could improve their jobs -- without really knowing what their jobs were." Guy had no experience in the field. Easy. Non-controversial.

So by the time I sat down and watched everyone starting to pour in, I felt...confident. Yeah. I could say one thing today. I know this case pretty well; I'll wait a good solid thirty minutes and raise my hand. Done. 

The instructor came in and began the class with, "I'm not going to introduce this class until the end of day two. We're going to jump right into this case in about a minute." She then gave a quick and dirty summary of what we knew about the case, and posed the question, "So what are the problems he is facing? What has he inherited?" And she stood immediately in front of me.

"Do you go by 'Elizabeth' or 'Liz'?"

Terror. Pure terror.

I survived it, which was good. And I said things that made sense, which is better. A few people commended me afterward for having to be the first ever cold call in class. "You did really well!" And my favorite: "I watched you turn bright red, but then you nailed it."

This morning, at our Library Orientation, a guy sitting next to me introduced himself.

"I'm Liz," I said.

"Oh, I know. You were the one who had to start that class. I'm terrified to talk in there."

Me. Too. And that's really, really good.

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Class Shopping

After Orientation Day 1 (a full day of small talk and socialization), we spent the next two days "Class Shopping." I've never experienced such a thing (but Andy does in Parks and Rec).

Pretty straightforward concept: attend forty-minute sessions of any class you'd like to know more about. Instructors talk about their reading load:

"There is going to be a significant amount of reading in this class."

"There isn't a lot of reading, but I expect you to read very closely."

"Not much reading! You could take this as your fifth class!"

Instructors talk about their writing assignments:

"Three memos, about 5 pages each, plus a 10-15 page paper, and some reflections along the way."

"One short paper (5 pages) and two longer papers (15 pages each)." 

"Not much writing! You could take this as your fifth class!"

And, of course, the group work:

"There will be a group project."

"There will be a group presentation."

"There will be a group book that you will read together and then present your final project."

I started the Class Shopping session very interested in six classes -- and ended with nine. Class Shopping actually made my life worse in that there were too many excellent courses from which to choose (not including Howard Gardner's class; I heard many people attended his Shopping Session just to see him in person). 

Now...it sounds as if, like Andy, once we find the courses we love, we enroll...but that's not quite the case.

Then comes the Class Admissions process; many of the courses require instructor's permission, which could mean one of two procedures:

1. Submitting an application: answering between 1 and 5 short answer questions (resulting in a short essay).

2. Pure lottery: submit your name, degree, and program...and cross your fingers.

I had a list of four classes that do not require instructor's permission -- in the event that I was rejected from all of them. Some classes were going to have 200+ applications...and 50 spots. The lottery classes are a complete crapshoot. I needed a plan for enrollment...and I wasn't alone. Everyone had this slight look of panic in their eyes. I heard numerous students mention that "we already applied and were admitted to this school" and now we were doing it again for individual courses.

We also read through the instructor/course evaluations of each class to find out what past students had to say about the work/learning/environment.I've referred to it as completing homework to get into a class...which will give us homework. 

I wonder what it would have been like if I received my schedule at Orientation, rather than options. I imagine that I would have sulked, unhappy that I couldn't choose the courses I really wanted -- of course ignorant to any other possibilities. I would have justified the schedule, though, as "any courses I take here will be worth it" (which is how I began to prepare myself for the rejection emails). And I would have wondered what the other courses offered, and how my schedule was selected, and whether my application last year could have been tweaked to give me a better schedule, and so on and so on.

All of that to say...I was accepted into every class I applied for (whether by essay or lottery). Which, honestly, made my decision harder -- how could I narrow the list down? I had banked on being rejected from a few!

My academic advisor -- who is fantastic -- was a tremendous help; we had our one-on-one meetings with him at the end of the week, and after talking with me a bit about why I was at this school, my experiences, and where I wanted to go next, he used a line I've used with students so many times before:

"Do you want me to answer you bluntly?"

Yes yes yes yes yes yes.

"Take this course; don't take this course. You won't learn as much in it."

Done and done.

I'm beginning with five classes this semester, with the option to drop one by September 19 -- many students take four each semester, but since I'm paying for these nine months, I want as much as I can out of it. So, why not five each semester and a winter course? 

Before our first day of class, we have plenty of reading already (my five class combo has about 500-700 pages of total reading to complete before the first session). Now the real work begins.

[canadaincambridge]

In many ways, this is what Class Shopping feels like.

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"I'm nervous -- are you nervous?"

I have arrived in Cambridge, safe and sound — thanks to the amazing efforts of my cousin, who took two days off to spend with me, one of which was primarily in a car and on three flights of stairs. But, I’m here.

I have two roommates — also starting the 9-month graduate school whirlwind tomorrow — who are both very sweet…and very young.

Let me be specific: I am 31, 32 next month. They are 24 and 23. 

I knew when I decided to enroll in this program that I would be around younger people — I knew that. It wasn’t until we were cleaning out a room, which has accumulated junk for almost a decade, and found a stereo that it really hit me.

Me: “Wow, it plays cassettes.”

Roommate: “Really? Where?” 

Where. Because Roommate has not ever seen a cassette player. 

So I, of course, felt immensely old — and somewhat nostalgic — for a few moments…while hoping Boyz II Men might be in one of the cassette decks. (No dice.)

Tonight, as I sat at the kitchen table eating and listening to them reminisce about their college experience from two years ago, it occurred to me…these could have been my students. Both graduated from college in 2012, meaning that they graduated high school in 2008…and I had already been teaching high school for two years.

It was a hard reality as I ate my sweet potato dinner.

As one roommate left to take a shower, the other continued to talk about experiences and asked questions about my partner and me, and then, in a slight moment of pause, said, “I’m nervous — are you nervous? Is anyone else nervous? Or is it just me?”

I very secretly slipped on my College Advisor hat (just one more time, I swear), and said, “Yes, I think we’re all nervous. What specifically are you nervous about?” And we talked about worrying about failure, choosing classes, landing an internship, juggling massive amounts of reading and writing…and I felt calmer. Hey, I know this stuff.

I’ve been helping kids her age for years.

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My (Abbreviated) College Journey

People make very interesting comments when they find out I'm going to Cambridge for a year.

"Wow, if I were you, I would be shouting that from the rooftops."

"I have NEVER met anyone who went there. That's amazing!"

"Honey, shake her hand. She's going to Cambridge."

I interpret it as disbelief, which of course I default to since I have always been unsure of my own academic abilities.

In high school, I was very convinced that I couldn't be accepted into college. I...heard that from my Guidance Counselor, though I will readily admit now that those words never came out of her mouth. We had our semi-annual meeting in junior year, and from 9-11 grade, I had shown little to no interest in school (though I still averaged a solid B throughout). College was something that I figured I should do since my parents had invested so much time, money, and energy into my softball life. College to me was about playing, not studying or learning.

So when I met with my Guidance Counselor, and she asked me what colleges I might consider, I said the name of a school that was not in my home state, which was really the only qualification I was looking for: Penn State University. I knew nothing of their softball team, nothing of their admissions standards (nor would I have been able to define "admissions standards"). But it was a school name I knew, in a state away from our own.

My Counselor said, "That's a pretty big party school, and hard to get into. What other schools are you considering?"

That's it -- that's all she told me. And what I heard was, "You can't get into that college." And although I was a fiery teenager, I was NOT confident in my academic abilities, and so I listened to what I heard, and never considered that school again. No need to defend myself; she was (probably) right. 

But I still wanted to go to Pennsylvania, and a friend who was a few years older attended Bucknell and seemed to really enjoy it. When I was visiting with family in the summer before my senior year, and they (like so many family members in the summer before senior year) asked me what colleges I was thinking about, I said, "Maybe Bucknell?"

And I remember sitting outside on a deck eating a hamburger -- all of us around the table -- and saying those words aloud, and the immediate response: "Oh, wow. That's a really hard school to get into."

That's all that was said. And I heard, "You can't get into that school." So, I listened (again), and never considered it. No need to defend myself; they were (probably) right.

My aunt and uncle lived near Bucknell, and when I was at their house a few weeks later, they had a college book that was sent in the mail with classes...from Bloomsburg University. "What about this school? It's not that far away." 

I scanned the book. Was the school in Pennsylvania? Check. Were people talking about the school to me like it was too difficult? No? Check. Done and done, I had found my school.

A few months later, that was the only school to which I had applied (by way of a teacher helping me fill out the application -- and by that I mean forcing me to sit at a table until it was finished), and by Christmas, I was accepted. Done. I never applied to another college, nor did I care to. I was thrilled to be accepted to college, so thank goodness that was over with. I didn't think it would happen, so I was glad to be free of that fear.

I want to be clear, though. I feel pretty confident now that I could have gotten into Penn State. I don't know about Bucknell, truly. My friend who was older had much better SAT scores and a higher GPA, so I just don't know. 

In college, I had a tremendous amount to learn; high school was a breeze that required zero effort on my part to maintain a B average. I slept through Chemistry, quite literally. I left my unread Lord of the Flies book in a friend's locker until the day of the test, which I didn't realize was coming up until a friend called the night before asking if I had finished it. I pretended to look for homework in my backpack when the teacher would check for it to bide time until he forget to ask for it again. I didn't do any work in my first three years.

But, I learned to work in college. Every single day of college, I feared that it would be the day I would fail out. That something would happen and I wouldn't be able to do it (college? work? papers? reading? I can't even articulate what "it" was) anymore.  By the time I was a second semester sophomore (although I had pretty decent grades up until that point), I knew Bloomsburg had been the correct choice and I was excelling in my classes. I felt like I belonged in college, which in high school, was not the case. Suddenly, I was good at school, and knew I could graduate. 

I went to Seton Hall for my English Master of Arts -- again, only applying to that one school -- and it was there that I began to realize that I was actually smart. In the middle of my second semester, I knew I belonged there, and that (again) I wouldn't fail out.

Tomorrow, I (finally) head up to Cambridge. Someone asked me last week why I was on the East Coast with a Colorado license plate, "Oh, I'm going to graduate school in Boston." My cousin, who was also in the car, said, "NO! Ask her WHICH COLLEGE she's going to in Boston!"

I...don't like saying it aloud because it's still so surreal.

I will be surrounded by incredibly smart people, and although I've been mentally psyching myself up that I can do this, the fear of failing, dropping out, letting people down, and embarrassing myself still lingers -- but I don't have time to adjust, as it's a nine month program. Even after all of these years, there's still a nagging in my brain that hears the alternate interpretation of, "That school is hard to get into."

Yes, it is. And I got in.

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"Guess who is starting college on Monday?"

I received a text from a former student today with one line: "Guess who is starting college on Monday?"

I assumed she wasn't asking me a trick question, but still responded with, "Who??"

"Me! Are you proud?" -- well, to be fair, she actually wrote it as, "Me!! :) r u proud"

Yes. Overwhelmingly yes. This student actually graduated in 2013, and although she had every intention of wanting to continue in college, she didn't enroll in the fall.

Why not, though? What could possibly "go wrong" for a student who wants to go to college?

NOTE: This is sometimes asked to a College Advisor as, "What do you do after the students graduate?" As if the enigmatic world of college is suddenly simple for students as they walk across the graduation stage -- as if their diploma is actually a ticket to college with every step perfectly explained.

For this young lady, there were plenty of barriers along the way. She wasn't sure where she wanted to go to college. She wasn't sure what she wanted to study. She was pretty convinced she wanted to stay at home, though, so that narrowed down the field. She received great grades in some classes, but not math -- and her ACT score wasn't great.

Oh, and she's undocumented...and with that comes all sorts of other issues.

She's not eligible for federal financial aid (remember when you did your FAFSA all of those years ago? She can't -- nor can she receive any money from the federal government, including loans). She can receive in-state tuition in Colorado because of Colorado ASSET, which is a huge deal...as long as she find the funds to pay the bills. The idea of a job after graduation is even more intimidating than it can be for a U.S. citizen (though DACA helps tremendously).

And even with all of these hurdles -- and more that I'm sure I'm forgetting now -- she still wanted to go to college. She's a really great kid, college or not. But she didn't want to stop going to school.

She did, though. I remember her visiting me last August at the Starbucks across the street from the high school, and she had her college checklist from the community college she was planning to attend -- and she had this very overwhelmed look on her face. 

"I don't like my academic advisor, he confuses me." She had one meeting with him, and felt worse about all things college than she did before the meeting.

My academic advisor in college was fantastic. The paperwork he gave me (which never changed over the four years of my undergraduate career) was very clear, but even so, I'd still meet with him every semester to fill it out with him, talk about my classes in the current semester, and my plans for the upcoming semester. He made me feel at ease.

For this young lady, however, she felt worse having met with her advisor. Not. Good. 

When we looked over the paperwork, I (silently) agreed that the paperwork was a hot mess. I had no idea how to read it -- and this is kind of my job. Although I encouraged her to meet with him again, and we laid out questions to ask him, I do not believe she did...and then she didn't enroll.

She did, however, visit me a few times over the year, and kept saying she wanted to go to college, that it was still important to her. We talked about the ACCUPLACER and fractions, I gave her some homework to help her before she would retake the placement test. We talked about how much it would cost if she received certain scholarships and saved some money. 

And then, about three months ago, she came marching into my office at the high school: "I need you to make a copy of my DACA card and send it in to the scholarship office. I need you to check over this paper I filled out." She came in with demands of her college paperwork instead of questions. She was...on her way to college.

After finishing the paperwork, I asked her very bluntly, "Last year, at this time, you were not sure what you were doing with college. This year, you have it all together. What changed for you?"

She thought about it for a few moments before responding, "I had a really good meeting with my academic advisor last week. And I registered for classes. So it's real this time, I guess. Last year, my meeting with him was terrible. This year, he explained things differently and it wasn't so scary."

Same guy, different meeting, different feeling, different outcome. This time, she was on her way to starting college.

On Monday. And I am so proud.

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"Where do you live?"

On Monday, my car was packed, I drove due east for three days and 1,800 miles, and arrived in New Jersey -- which is not my final destination. 

My coworker, who very kindly drove with me through all of the corn of America, introduced me to a family member in NJ, who immediately asked me, "Where do you live?"

I had no answer. I ... don't know where I live. I own a house in Colorado. My belongings that were important enough to pack are in my car. My toothbrush, at that moment in time, was at my aunt's house, my backpack was at my grandfather's house...I hadn't stayed at the same place for more than one night.

So of course I just stood there foolishly looking at her, racking my brain for an answer. Cambridge, right? That's where I live? But I don't -- yet. I haven't gotten there. I've never even seen it in person.

Her husband then said, "She lives in Denver. She's here for school."

Yes, that seems most accurate. Let's go with that.