Scholastic Misgivings, Too Cool For School, And Such and Such

If it’s not a step in the right direction, it’s a step in the wrong one. While this may sound glib and reek of “all or nothing thinking (one of my favorite cognitive distortions), it does seem apropos given the thoughts in my previous entry about returning to school. Sure Social Work would afford me the opportunity to help people, a passion of mine, it’s an approximation towards my ultimate goal of doing so through my writing. It’s not like being a therapist wouldn’t provide rich writing material (even with confidentiality mandates), but after a certain point, it’s like stop beating around the fucking bush, be direct, ignore B-Y and jump straight from A to Z.  Sure there is something to be said for respecting the process, but the only one holding me back from me is me, and perhaps that’s the most frustrating part is the actual execution of it all. Am I too rigid in my thinking (me? Never, ha!) The proposed writing project doesn’t have to be a memoir, perhaps something of the self help variety? The latter would be far easier, due to the logistics of retelling a decade of memories clouded by chaos. Furthermore as it regards certain processes, there is a time to respect the process, and a time to say fuck it, who are you the processor, or institution that’s doing the processing, to evaluate, grade, license, test, etc., me? That was a major issue for me at Berkeley with the interminable hoops through which they expected me to jump for MA/Ph.D. It was one thing in college, which was completed out of parental expectation, ease, and naivety to some extent, but as someone once so astutely observed, you have to graduate at some point, and then it’s back to square one, or two. Develop the career, progress professionally, etc. I remember being conscious of this during my final years at USC; I went hard because truthfully, I didn’t want to go back for any reason, which would explain my grand four year hesitation in finally committing to graduate school. Finally free! “And you want me to sign up for more of that bullshit?” Often times, you don’t know what you are doing until you stop doing it, and when forced to re-do that same thing, the perspective granted is eye-opening.

As far as school goes, it was my bread and butter from a very young age. If I were to fully commit to an MSW program and give myself every opportunity to succeed by choosing a program wisely there is no doubt that I could excel were I able to quiet the, “don’t test me voices.” Honestly, being tested at this stage in my life, in any form or fashion in general, but academically/professionally in particular, seems like a juvenile exercise in discipline, order, and authority. Even with the extra-curricular mayhem at Berkeley, I excelled GPA-wise, but even thinking of being tested for the MA Orals was indescribably irritating. “You really want me to sit down, read these forty or so canonical texts, and regurgitate their contents to you on command?” Besides being a waste of my time, it seemed and still does to be pedagogically inefficient at best, depending how your training and temperament. It was Maya Angelou who said, “there is a difference between being trained an educated.” If I want to have anything to do with a train, believe me, it wouldn’t be of the academic variety. I’m already knowing for the MSW, there would be a master’s thesis, then an internship, then a licensing exam, then countless renewals and evaluations as the years progress. That’s a lot of testing for someone who long ago lost the tolerance for them. If focused, I will pass, defeat, break, and defecate on any such test that requires academic recall. Don’t test me, don’t push me, don’t try me. My resume dating back to elementary speaks for itself, and at this stage in my life, feeling the need to prove something to someone would be akin to acting. I’m nobody’s Denzel. Like OK, teacher or supervisor or whomever, why are we playing this game again. Games are the province of children, so why stick to the puerile script, so to speak.

Had to get that off my chest.

Nas captures my sentiments brilliantly in song called reachout. If I would more technically proficient, I would embed the link, but instead, here go the lyrics to the first verse, with my favorites in italics:

3:45 am can’t sleep, can’t dream
I’m stuck, money problems pop up
How will I survive, guess it’s best to decide not to decide
So that’s my decision
Whatever happens happens
I keep makin’ my millions
Can see myself in presidential campaign dinners
But I’m passin’ blunts around a bunch of gang members
When you’re too hood to be in them Hollywood circles
And you’re too rich to be in that hood that birthed you
And you become better than legends you thought were the greatest
And out grow women you love and thought you could stay with
Life become clearer when you wipe down your mirror
And leave notes around for yourself to remember
I like to teach and build
With brothers about how easy it is to reach a mill
All you need is some skill, then it’s grindtime
Imagination better than knowledge, say’s Einstein
It’s all in the mind
Nasty the nicest, I’m somewhat of a psychic
Just one minute after it’s heard
You all excited, you all repeat it
So call me a genius, if you didn’t
Now that I said it I force you to think it
Write in my little vignettes, sipping Moet
When you vision me, you vision the best
When I was young they called me, Olu’s son
Now he Nas father, I was the good seed
He was the wise gardener

About the Growing Cost of Stability.

If the cost of stability is mind-numbing (or perhaps mind-rotting) monotony, then it’s growing less and less worth it as the one day blurs into the next. While manning the register once seemed like a daunting task, I have now capped out as far as my cashiering efficacy goes. I’d say 90% of the produce PLU’s have been committed to memory, and I have now resorting to doing mental register math to stay somewhat alert during my shifts. It’s been great to dust off the mental number line, but alas, even regurgitating change upon receiving whatever denomination of bill is handed to me has become simple.

I worked 8 days in a row, had two out of three days off, then was scheduled for what would have been nine straight. I say would have been, because, as my luck would have it, my throat became scratchy yesterday at work, so I went home. Normally I would have toughed it out, but I have a wedding to attend this weekend (which will hopefully provide some much-needed inspiration as well as a change of scenery) and didn’t want to risk worsening my condition immediately prior to this joyous occasion.

It’s come to the point where I am starting to fancy returning to school for yet another crack at this grad school thing (fourth time’s the charm right; to be fair, while technically it’ll be my fourth strike, so to speak, two attempts were foul tips). If I were to do it, my first and probably only choice would be Boston College. My grandfather, Casper Augustus Ferguson, was recognized as the first black graduate of this fine institution, but genealogical legacies aside, it simply gives me the best chance of succeeding with the bevy of growing support networks (from medical to personal) that I have in place in the area. Stability is the name of the game, if it kills me, and while I feel it would be a step up the ladder, providing an entry point to an actual career (as opposed to a dead-end job for which I have no passion), I do have a feeling it would be a circuitous path to my ultimate goal of writing for a living.

A Master’s in Social Work, while equal parts magnanimous and rewarding, would be something that empower me as far as options (and certainly an increased salary) and occupational prestige go, but however noble the field is, it strikes me as a tad bit roundabout way to achieve my objective(s).

My issue with writing for a living is two-fold. One, I would like to write what I want to write about as opposed to having whatever abilities I may have be exploited by simply taking on random freelance jobs. Second, there is the motivation, or lack thereof, factor. When asked to write for other people, I can knock it out the park on my first swing, but left to my own devices the memoir, (a very early draft of which I finally found in my inbox) is still a work that is only about 2% complete.