For years we had cried together. Over lunches, over the phone, after interviews or bad days. We first met in a bathroom on the second floor of the Wheatley building. I was crying. Our second day of graduate school, and I had just listened to twenty other students, many of them ten years younger than I was, expound on the virtues of education and the theories they had and the experiences they were bringing with them in their years as educators. I couldn't come up with a single thing to add to the conversation. I was mute, overwhelmed, way, way over my head.
My standard reaction when I run into a challenge, anything hard to do or that could take substantial effort, is to quit. It's the typical "I can't fail if I don't try" mentality. I had gone straight to the ladies room after the class ended, first one out the classroom door. I burst through the bathroom door and headed for the first dingy stall, barely lit by the weak, outdated fluorescent lighting from the original construction in the 60's. I closed the door, turned the lock, and sat down on the toilet seat. I spun a few squares of thin, institutional toilet paper off the roll and let big, silent tears of frustration and self-loathing roll down my face. My sinuses filled, my nose ran and my breathing got hard to control. It wasn't a wailing, moaning cry. I don't remember making a sound. There were others women from the classes in the bathroom and I didn't want to be "that girl" who cried after only two classes.
I struggled to gain control of myself. There were only ten minutes between the first class of the night and the second, and I had wasted most of it. The night before I had learned that the next instructor was unforgiving of tardiness (I couldn't find the room the night before) or being unprepared (we were supposed to bring curriculum materials, but no one knew this) or... well, anything, really. Pep-talking myself into a semblance of my old self, the one who used to feel like she knew what she was doing, I dried my tears and opened the stall door.
Jen was standing alone at the sink. We were the only two left. She looked at me in the mirror. I could see myself too: face flushed, eyes puffy and glistening, tissue paper balled tight in my fist.
"It will be OK." She looked right at me. "Autumn will be mad if we're late."
It was such a simple statement of fact. There wasn't any judgement. Maybe I couldn't control this feeling of having no idea what was going on, and I had no clue how I was going to get through a whole year of graduate classes and a teaching residency, but I absolutely could control whether I would be late for class. I could control whether I would try or whether I would give up before I even started.
I splashed water on my face, dried it off, picked up my backpack and put one foot in front of the other. Our next class was spent defining "rigor."
The next chapter in my life was just beginning. New experiences, new friends, new adversaries, new challenges, new opportunities. Struggles and successes I'd never know could exist were waiting for me. Jen was about to play a major role in most of it. She has become a benchmark to measure myself against. A competitor as well as a cheerleader. A source of ideas and a critical ear. I have become all those roles for her as well. We embarked together on this journey of internships, bad mentors, ineffective professors, amazing experiences, questionable classes, disinterested administrators, catty colleagues, wonderful students, hirings, firings, resignations, build-ups, breakdowns, and tears.
Lots of tears.
My standard reaction when I run into a challenge, anything hard to do or that could take substantial effort, is to quit. It's the typical "I can't fail if I don't try" mentality. I had gone straight to the ladies room after the class ended, first one out the classroom door. I burst through the bathroom door and headed for the first dingy stall, barely lit by the weak, outdated fluorescent lighting from the original construction in the 60's. I closed the door, turned the lock, and sat down on the toilet seat. I spun a few squares of thin, institutional toilet paper off the roll and let big, silent tears of frustration and self-loathing roll down my face. My sinuses filled, my nose ran and my breathing got hard to control. It wasn't a wailing, moaning cry. I don't remember making a sound. There were others women from the classes in the bathroom and I didn't want to be "that girl" who cried after only two classes.
I struggled to gain control of myself. There were only ten minutes between the first class of the night and the second, and I had wasted most of it. The night before I had learned that the next instructor was unforgiving of tardiness (I couldn't find the room the night before) or being unprepared (we were supposed to bring curriculum materials, but no one knew this) or... well, anything, really. Pep-talking myself into a semblance of my old self, the one who used to feel like she knew what she was doing, I dried my tears and opened the stall door.
Jen was standing alone at the sink. We were the only two left. She looked at me in the mirror. I could see myself too: face flushed, eyes puffy and glistening, tissue paper balled tight in my fist.
"It will be OK." She looked right at me. "Autumn will be mad if we're late."
It was such a simple statement of fact. There wasn't any judgement. Maybe I couldn't control this feeling of having no idea what was going on, and I had no clue how I was going to get through a whole year of graduate classes and a teaching residency, but I absolutely could control whether I would be late for class. I could control whether I would try or whether I would give up before I even started.
I splashed water on my face, dried it off, picked up my backpack and put one foot in front of the other. Our next class was spent defining "rigor."
The next chapter in my life was just beginning. New experiences, new friends, new adversaries, new challenges, new opportunities. Struggles and successes I'd never know could exist were waiting for me. Jen was about to play a major role in most of it. She has become a benchmark to measure myself against. A competitor as well as a cheerleader. A source of ideas and a critical ear. I have become all those roles for her as well. We embarked together on this journey of internships, bad mentors, ineffective professors, amazing experiences, questionable classes, disinterested administrators, catty colleagues, wonderful students, hirings, firings, resignations, build-ups, breakdowns, and tears.
Lots of tears.