I Am Who Is Supposed To Be Here (Greenblatt Lecture)

Saw Stephen Greenblatt speak at school Tuesday. It was what you might call "a big deal."Greenie is arguably the most famous living person in English academia. He helped invent new-historicism and write intros for Shakespeare plays in anthologies. I knew it was biggish, but I suddenly felt lameish when I realized everyone entering the reception sported ties and blazers. I was coming straight from class and sporting my giant stuffed to the gills lilac backpack. I was modeling the latest spring fashion of an oversized grey sweatshirt. Boop.

I edged around the sides at first, thinking I might be able to get inside and nab a seat, be largely unnoticed, but I saw a small pool of my peers hanging out by the refreshments and laughing over mozzarella kabobs. I saw a basket filled with assorted crackers and eyed my favorite snack ever: those sweet little brown digestive wafers! Any shame I had flew out the fancy windows as I picked through the basket and elderly women in cocktail dresses sullenly snorted "excuse me" into my behemoth knapsnack.

I had a pretty rad realization. "Hey," I thought, "I am who is supposed to be here." I am a student, getting my degree at this educational institution. The lovely people surrounding me were all very respectful of the man we came to hear, of the event itself, but I was actually in the first on this one. I have a big heavy backpack because I'm at school all day working and learning. I wear cozy clothes because I make peanuts and I drive a scooter that gets everything I don a little bit dirty. It was okay to be me. I felt good. I wondered if I ever mentally hold people to standards they weren't meant to meet. "I'll try to be better," I resolved.

Greenblatt was Greenblah. The man, the myth gave a (what I consider) a half-hearted look at storytelling and aging, mostly via King Lear. It was eh and my middle-age I-Teach-Persuasive-Speaking peer texted me during it, "Where are his signposts?" Everyone's a critic.

I didn't stay for Q & A. He hadn't charmed me enough. As I skittered out I noticed a table of assorted cookies for a post-talk reception. The tray was barely big enough to feed a fourth of the people in the room. I considered leaving the treats for the real academics of the night who stayed until the bitter end. But then I saw the most delicious-looking black and white cookie I've ever laid eyes on, so I scooped it up and gnawed at it as my peers and I walked back to our respective vehicles, laughing into the Arizona dusk.

High and Dry

Writing a play for high school girls. I have massive writer’s block, which is odd for me. But also, I’m just really grossly burnt out. I so don’t deserve to be. I just had fall break. This morning Ro stopped at home for a mid-morning cig and we sat on the back porch, her in work clothes, me in an over-sized Cosby sweater. It was like a game—“What stresses you out? This is what stresses me out.” And then we died laughing because we’re 20somethings just hanging out at 10 AM on a Thursday. How bad could it be? I mean, we recognized that, but then we paused, and all the grey stuff still hung over.

So, this writer’s block. High school girls. I plunged into some prime material: my old LiveJournal. It was just so sad. I mean, even when I was happy, it was still sad. This puddle of gloom, of “What will happen after this? This is all so fleeting.” College had umbrella’d since I was twelve. I clicked through other friends’ journals. None updated since 2006, 7. These kids stuck in cyberspace. And they were sad. So sad. Just like me! Girls I loved, girls I didn’t, girls I envied, girls who envied me. None of us were that different. But in each piddly little entry was a kind of hope. A hope that the writer was young and knew more was to come. Twinge of nostalgia for high school sure to end, but a feeling of relief that soon the confusion was over, the sad sack days were numbered.

Honestly, I liked high school, but I also grew up surrounded by TV and movies assuring me that growing up is supposed to feel like hell. At times it did, but that was apparently norms. College is more the mystery. Everyone I know went through some form of depression in college. But it wasn’t cute anymore. It's just wrong. "No one is supposed to feel this way anymore," you think. But deep down you know everybody does and this time it never ends.

Lena Dunham said in an interview last year that she created Girls to explore just what is wrong with youth culture. No one ever says they are happy when asked sincerely. For a while I took this as a challenge to be genuinely happy, and I think I was. I think I am. But it’s weird that the word “think” is in there.

What Makes Me Think I Know?

Me and Kath. One year ago.

Sometimes when I'm getting antsy or worrisome about things not going the way I think they should go--from arriving to work on time to affording another year of grad school--I have learned to stop and ask, "What makes me think I know?" Because we get antsy and worried based on the foundation that we absolutely are certain how things are "supposed" to be. When, uh, not to be a jerk, we really don't.

Everybody is a part of everything anyway.
You can be happy if you let yourself be.