i guess i made dean's list

Speeding towards the classroom, with mere seconds away from being late, I saw him making a beeline right towards me. He was my student last semester in my school’s tutoring center, and because he reminded me of my brother, I had a bit more tolerance than I normally would have when he sat too close and wrote sentences about his lack of a girlfriend.

I thought that I would never see him again, but he somehow managed to bump into me randomly on campus. And he has a class right before mine in the same classroom. If I mismanaged my arrival time, he intercepted me and monopolized my time talking about music (he plays piano) and one of my friends, who is very pretty and a better pianist than he is. Fortunately, today, because I was late, I managed to say, “HiBorisIhavetogotoclass,” in response to his “ELIZABETH: WHAT ARE YOUR SUMMER PLA—“ and slip past him. There was no loophole for him—my professor was already at her desk taking attendance. I relaxed over my close call.

Immediately after class, I fled downstairs to exit in the front of the building. With our last newspaper issue on stands Monday, the staff was celebrating the end of the year with a picnic. It had been raining in the morning, so I wasn’t sure if we were still going to be outside, but I went to check just in case. Then I saw him again, coming in through the doors. I quickly changed directions to exit through another set of doors, but he saw my maneuvering and he intercepted me. “ELIZABETH,” he said, keeping pace with me as I sped up through the doors and down the steps. “WHAT ARE YOUR SUMMER PLANS?”

“Oh, this and that,” I said.

“YOU ARE NOT GOING ANYWHERE?”

“No,” I said, trying to move around him as I surveyed the lawn in front of the building. I saw no one I recognized. I would have hung out for a little while to see if anyone showed up, but Boris was not going away. He was talking about his summer plans, and something about the Dean’s List – I abruptly sped up and charged in the direction of the newspaper office. At this point, my only thought was escape.

“DID YOU GO TO THE CEREMONY?”

“What ceremony?” I asked, not making eye contact.

“THE DEAN’S LIST CEREMONY.”

“No,” I said, “I don’t think I made the dean’s list.”

“OH, YOU DID,” he informed me.

“Hm, I didn’t get a letter or anything.” I was close to the gate. There was the stop light. It was changing—I was plunging across the street, and Boris was still walking with me. He was saying something about how he didn’t go to the dean’s party because he’d wanted to practice so he could be a better piano player than my friend, and I said something vague about it being unlikely. He finally turned back, after making it to the middle of the street with me. I made it across the street and couldn’t stop laughing.

------

Every time I go to work, I see her, and I say hi and how are you doing? She says she's fine, but there's something going on with Matt/Bob/Nick/Joe/Mike/Tim.

Matt is the guy she met online.

Bob was also from online.

Nick was the guy at the doctor's office who took care of her when she was sick.

Her bartender, Joe, walked her home one night but now he doesn't talk to her.

She met Mike in the bar and he seemed really sweet so they went on a date, but she isn't sure about him.

Tim showed up over spring break and they've been dating for three weeks but he won't kiss her. Or is the kissing nice? I can't remember.

She gives up on guys about every other day, and I think that maybe that's a good idea because I can't keep track anymore.

"Is Nick the one that gained weight?" I ask.

"No, that's Mike," she explains.

"Who sent you that funny text?"

"Tim. I like Tim."

But I can tell that she's looking for any excuse to not like Tim, and today she found it. Something about a really weird Facebook message. But I forget to ask for details, then I have to work, and I wonder what it was exactly that made her not like Tim anymore.

The April Project: Day Two: Clever

I'm on page eight of David Sedaris' book, Naked, and I love it already. He's odd, it's true, but his very oddity blends with his fabulous writing style to create a delicious story.

I might be on page 15 of the book, or even 20, if it weren't for a little mishap I created this morning. For some reason, noon was implanted in my head as a Very Important Time. I have a tutor meeting today (we are forced to come to school on a Friday [a Friday!!] every month just for these things), and I did not want to be late. I was ready by 11 and out the door by 11:18. Yet, as the time inched closer to 11:30, and I, standing at the bus stop with no bus in sight, was becoming nervous about being late, my brain suddenly decided to kick into gear.

My meeting was at 1 p.m.

This minor detail was verified by a quick phone call to another tutor (who'd been up late the night before, drinking, and revealed through the tone in her voice that she did not care for the interruption), and I shifted my weight from side to side as I tried to figure out what to do. Home was an eight minute walk away, and leaving is always depressing, so that option was nixed. A friend with three adorable children lived about five minutes away, but she never answers her phone, and thus another possibility was quickly terminated.

Had I mentioned it was raining? And that I'd caught something itchy in my throat that'd been held at bay by random doses of Airborne?

Nevertheless, I decided to walk five avenues. In the rain. Fighting a cold. It gave me enough time to text a friend about spring break possibilities (next week. PRAISE THE LORD.), think about random things, and even buy a birthday card for that tutor I called. Her birthday is this weekend and her party is tonight, but I'm not going. Something about getting smashed and making out with complete strangers does not appeal to me. But perhaps kids these days do other things at parties. Like eat food. Or watch movies. I haven't the slightest idea.

I beat the bus I was waiting for. I saw it pull up as I went into the store. Then, as I was leaving the store, another bus pulled up just as I walked to the bus stop. Funny.

But not as funny as David Sedaris, who I will never be as clever as. Especially if I can't even remember when a work meeting is supposed to start.

Dear Dude,

I'd forgotten about you. You came for tutoring some weeks ago, and hit on me like there was no tomorrow. As usual, I grew flustered and shared more information than I should have, including the fact that my mother's dating and that I don't like that she is.

The next day, I asked my friends if it was okay to lie about having a boyfriend, and the responses I received were all in the positive. Yes, lie. YOU'RE PROTECTING YOURSELF. And I also decided that the next time I have money, I'm going to buy some sort of ring to wear. I usually decide to do this at least once month, and then no one hits on me for awhile, so I forget.

But then you showed up again. And I thought man, I really wish I had a 4.5 size ring right now on my left ring finger. You hung out for about ten minutes, chatting away, and you were as bold as you were last time. You took even less time to get to the point, asking me how my dating was going. I said it was okay. Then I added I had a boyfriend.

It was admirable how well you held your expression together, and how quickly you thought through that new bit of information. You asked if dating was seeing a few people at the same time, and having a boyfriend was still dating, but seeing only one person. And I said, perhaps you're right. I took that moment to get the spotlight off me and I asked you how your dating was going.

The next few moments were some of the best acting I've seen in a while. You broke eye contact, looked off to the distance, laughed, rubbed your head. Then you informed me that you're taking a break; it's not going so well. I don't really care how well it's going, but I asked why anyway, because I'm very interested in keeping in charge of the conversation. You explained that you're looking to settle down.

I thought, wow, that's brilliant. That must be one of the best flirting methods ever. Tell a girl that you're not dating because you want to date someone seriously -- you want to settle down.

Then you waited to see the response.

Unfortunately, I knew what your game was, so I didn't give you a response. And that's where things got tricky -- the conversation flipped from flirtation to therapy.

I'm in the wrong field. I should have become a psychiatrist.

Soon after that, someone from the front desk asked if I could tutor someone that hour, and you left, but not without a wink.

Until next time.

The here and now

I have a brand-new nephew, an adorable haircut, and ... oh, what's this ... a vise-like sensation gripping my skull. This headache signifies that I have signed up for a tuition pay plan to pay off next semester. I apparently am not receiving any more financial aid, and it will now cost my soul (signed away with a contract written in my own blood) and first born to finish my degree.

I wish this is something I could just blame on Bush and the flippin' retarded economy. But I can't. The fact of the matter is that I'm just a kid, trying to work my way through school, and I can't make enough to pay for rent, food, tuition, and MTA cards. What's that you say? Christmas is right around the corner? Insert inappropriate curse word here. No matter how many jobs I take on (three, last count) or how hard I try to finish school despite transferring (18 credits this and next semester), I can't seem to work it out.

I'm not looking for pity or to induce any sort of guilt. I merely want to present the idea that life is hard. People, life is hard, and we can blame the president or the economy, or we can take a moment to sigh, and then we need to keep moving forward. I heard once that if your childhood sucks, then your adulthood will be awesome. If I'm still a child, then I'll ride the wave a little bit longer. But if I am now an adult, then, dude, this still sucks.

We who are about to die

I am an editor at the better newspaper (there's two rival newspapers. Interesting and long history behind that) at my school. I give them advice on layout (which they don't want to take) and fix things they mess up (sometimes without telling them, and they don't realize why it's so much better). I also update their website, usually on a weekly basis.

I try to give them their space; they're all editors who are more important than I, with specific expectations on how their newspaper is run. I am something of an outsider and loner, having leaped into an editor position since I'd already climbed the ranks at my other school.

I usually don't comment on what they do.

Except, this time, they wrote something in their editorial that struck me. They wrote, "We at the ______ salute you." They were writing it to the young voters who turned out in record numbers for this election. This particular statement struck me because I've learned about Roman history. I've even watched the well-made movie Gladiator. I hope you have as well, because it is really a good movie, despite the incest and gore. There is a scene where the gladiators stand in the ring, prepared to die. They face the emperor, salute him, and shout, "We who are about to die salute you."

Historical fact: gladiators saluted the emperor when they were about to die--dying for the entertainment of the masses, who wanted gore and bread.

I'm not sure what the use of this particular phrase says about my newspaper, or my school, or my country. I merely found it to be an unfortunate use of words that were usually the last words of a man condemned to death, before he fought for his life in front of a crowd who could determine his fate merely by the position of an outstretched thumb.

Pulling teeth

At 11:30 a.m. this morning, I received my first "weekly." The weeklies are different from the walk-ins at the tutoring lab. The walk-ins come in, grab an available tutor, and torture the tutor for one hour. The walk-ins can make another appointment if they so choose with that particular tutor, or they can get another tutor. The weeklies, on the other hand, come in every week at the same time to torture their assigned tutor. I use "torture" lovingly, of course. Perhaps it's not so much torture as it is ... hmm ... no, it's torture.

There are the few perfectly lovely students, of course; I don't want to imply that all the people coming in for help only offer a time of agonizing pain and suffering--that's simply not true. There are the few who instantly get the point the tutor is trying to make, who manage to use their new-found knowledge to sculpt not only an amazing thesis, but delightful topic sentences as well, and who part ways at the end of the hour with a wide smile and a "have a great week!"

But these particular students are few and far between, and I seriously doubted my tutoring abilities this morning when I was given a weekly who somehow managed to seemingly cuddle with me, leaning on my shoulder at one point, with bad breath and a stubborn inability to understand anything I was trying to say. This was further compounded by the added stress of only having a half an hour instead of the full hour. When he left, I learned that he wanted to switch tutors; I apparently wasn't good enough.

The head tutor did reassure me, however, saying that that particular student was odd, he could sense it when the guy came in, but I was the only available tutor and I did fine. It wasn't me, he said. Which I seriously continued to doubt, especially when my next student, a walk-in, showed me a nearly incoherent essay with no visible thesis and phrases like "individual innocuous" splattered throughout.

So, after the equivalent of pulling five teeth (also equivalent to one and a half hours), we managed to come up with a thesis, and we started on the topic sentences. We hadn't even touched his grammar.

At 2 p.m., my shift ended and I finally ran away, completely drained of all energy and convinced that I was a failure. Could I quit? I thought, hurrying up the stairs to my Egyptian art class. Maybe I'll give it one more day. Maybe I'm not cut out to be a tutor. Oddly enough, there was no panic, simply a deep-seated weariness. Another writing tutor had warned me about this weariness--she'd said that the trick is to help them while not becoming completely drained.

Maybe I just need a little time to figure out how to do that.

UPDATE: Today (Tuesday) was a complete 180 from yesterday (when the above post was written), since I only had one student and I was able to successfully help her without coming away from the session feeling like a smushed pile of silly putty. That was nice.

Indecision

I didn't know what I wanted to do when I went to college. All I knew was that I needed to go. I jumped from wanting to be an archeology major to being a history major. My first semester, I had a class with the Most Bizarre Teacher Ever and knew that I had to do something else or the rest of my college career would include classes with this strange person. I switched to psychology, because I thought it would be interesting to study people, and, like, stuff. My interest in psychology ended when I learned ... hmm, now I don't remember now why my interest in psychology waned. But wane it did, and then I moved to English after I joined the school newspaper. There was a short period of time when I couldn't figure out if I wanted Communications instead, but I hate speaking in front of people, and in order to avoid speech classes, an English major I remained.

And thus I remain still, until this very day.

I have extensive experience in journalism, from reporting to editing to editor-in-chiefing to interning at a daily paper and compiling over 40 clips. Journalism was my life, my dream, my goal--until something happened, I don't know exactly what, and I decided that I wasn't sure if I wanted to continue in journalism.

I graduate next semester, finally, after four brutal years, and I am in the boat that I scoffed at others for being in. The boat that holds those who scratch theirs heads and murmur, "I don't know what I am going to do." It's a rocky boat, and there are storms on the horizon.

While I have some ideas about my future, I'm not entirely sure yet. It's not too frightening, really--or at least, I'm not allowing myself to be frightened--because, the possibilities are endless and I can set off in any direction I so choose. I was told today that I need to just get a job, that I need to stop being in a state of transition as a student and just arrive already. Get a job, she said, and use the weekends or whatever to figure out what you want to do.

Okay, I'm ready to arrive. Which direction to my dream?