This is my last year – really – I promise. I have been stuck in the labyrinth of college and, I have to say, I’m obsessed. Addicted. I am hung up. I am stuck. I am lots of things. Being in school rejuvenates my desire to write and to learn and to read. Some might argue that it never really goes away. But there is something inside of me that clicks on when I am in the classroom. How you have to take notes. How new and unusual concepts build on top of old ones.
If my education were one famous structure, it would be the pyramids. Built slowly over time, fun to look at, not necessarily of any remaining usefulness.
When one double majors in Psychology and Women’s studies they are presented with an interesting combination of knowledge. This is how the mind works and this is how people work, and then, separately, this is how oppression plays into that. I’ve learned about the neuron, I’ve learned about mental disorder, I’ve learned about counseling, I’ve learned about relationships, I’ve learned about sexual kinks, I’ve learned about sexual assault, I’ve learned about empowerment. My scale of knowledge zooms in and out, woman, human, man, people, groups, physiology, psychology, sociology, anthropology, philosophy. How anyone can think anything has a simple answer is beyond me.
This term I am somewhat disillusioned by my schedule. I am taking two feminist classes that essentially sound the same. Like, feminist analysis, and feminist empowerment. Something to that effect. Social change. The women’s movement. Theory and progress. I’m just making stuff up now.
Then, tossed in there like a lost dog, is introduction to poetry. A friend of mine told me I ought to start carrying a notebook around and jot down the things around me from time to time whenever I remember. I fell in love with that idea because it implies that I ought to buy another notebook.
I expect that poetry will slip in among the other courses, a diversion from analysis. A place to take out all the theories from my mind and decorate the page with them. Make them look pretty.
The last two terms will be a complete cluster fuck. All the things I never did, all at once, a great reflection of how my college years were as a whole. Practicum work, volunteering, general ass-kissery. I’ll want to find people who can verify that I am a capable and worthy human being and I can think of nothing more disgusting than asking for someone to write a letter of my worth. Oh the humanity. Where’s my book on adulting, because these last few steps are quicksand.
And there it was, there it is, there it shall be. I’m in a car without breaks and the rest of my life is right in front of me like a brick wall.