There are a lot of movies that revolve around the senior year of high school. There are some about the senior year of college (and more that focus on life following college graduation, like St. Elmo’s Fire or the more recent Post Grad). I don’t know of any movies that focus on the last year of grad school. And maybe there’s a good reason for that.
It’s anticlimactic.
At least with the high school movie, you can at least have that scene of the character strutting down the hallway, turning heads, because the character has become A Pretty Big Deal. Was I ever this person? Well, no, but I have to say that more of my fellow students probably knew me in high school than know me now in my graduate program. While a person can be known as “The Writer” in high school, you can’t have this moniker in an English graduate program because it applies to a whole lot of people. Maybe I can be “That Asian Girl of Above Average Height” nowadays? That could have fit several people in high school, but I think I can call dibs on the title now.
At my high school, seniors enjoyed a lot of privileges that the other students didn’t: being able to leave the building during school hours, accessing their lockers at any time, having lockers on the third floor instead of the sixth and having mailboxes. MFAs, at my program anyway, don’t have that hierarchy. (Thankfully so, though other forms of favoritism do exist in higher education). I have a department mailbox, but I’ve had one since I first arrived two years ago. I’ve always been free to enter and exit the building as I please, and I could have rented a locker all along, but I can do without that high school throwback.
The trouble with grad classes (for me, anyway) is that they start later in the day. I know this is the case because they allow students to work earlier in the day, whether it’s a 9 to 5 office job, or teaching undergraduates, or something in between like my job. But for those of us who are anxious by nature, it’s torture to be nervous over a class all morning or, worse, all morning and afternoon. My work schedule hasn’t fully kicked in yet, so I spent much of the morning of the first day of school listening to this song:
WARNING: I’ve had this song in my head for days. Would-be listeners, tread carefully.
Did I dance in my apartment? Well, maybe “shuffle” would be more accurate.
Another helpful tip: looking at an old college roommate’s honeymoon pictures is probably not the best way to pass the hours before class. While I attend classes in a building that has its charms, it cannot compare to touring Japan. This is especially a bad idea when, thanks to your hormonal cycle, anything vaguely sentimental or cute makes you teary-eyed (e.g., pictures of pugs).
Eventually it was time to head to school. Walking clears my head, and I could have used a muzzle on the “What am I doing with my liiiiiiife” refrain in my mind. I’m very fond of the wooded trails that can take me from my my neighborhood to campus. But, oh, it’s ninety degrees out, meaning that after roughly a mile-long walk, I’d be drenched in sweat. I might not be a newb in my program anymore, but I’m vain enough to want to look somewhat cute. The price to pay for my vanity in this situation: the bus, which is crowded with other students, many of whom wear big backpacks and are oblivious of smashing said backpacks into you.
But, then, class! FINALLY! I do not feel as bright and shiny as the new students seem to be. I just wanted to put on my sunglasses and prop my feet on the table, like I was world-weary and hungover. I resisted these urges. (I was wearing a skirt that didn’t allow for much movement, anyway).
Wait, class dismissed? Just an hour today? Back at the bus stop, back on a crowded bus. Back to the apartment.
End scene with me boiling lentils on my stove. This totally has “indie film festival darling” written all over it, right? I could tell you about my second day of school, but let’s see how the first film does before planning a sequel.
Girl Out of Bubble 