"But we are at WATER camp."

Dear friends,

I want to acknowledge that my blog is narcissistic, and then I want to move on to the very interesting things that I did and thought about throughout the week.

Point of interest: Duke was ranked the 2nd douchiest school in America in the September issue of GQ. Now you don't get to say that every day eh? "Hey, how's Western Seminary treating you? Good? Too bad you guys didn't make it on to the douchiest schools list."

As of late, I have been noticing the things that you must do if you want to be a proper grad student. I studied in a really pretentious coffee shop on Saturday and mostly did nothing but study the dynamics of the people in the shop. But first a story about my drink purchase:

[earlier in the day] Sara to roommate: "I would like to drink a delicious latte so badly. I don't think I've had a delicious latte since my last day at the coffee shop on August 8th."
[now at coffee shop] Sara: "oh my goodness, I am so excited to drink a delicious latte."

Sara to friendly barista man: "I would like a soy caramel macchiato, please."
[Friendly barista man promptly places a 1 inch tall cup on a miniature saucer alongside a miniature spoon.]
"Oh no!" I think, "that is most certainly not what I want. But it's too late now. I must deal with the repercussions of my order."
[Casually] Sara: "So this is not quite the Starbucks macchiato eh?"
Well meaning but pretentious barista: [shakes head with smug smile] "I don't know what a Starbucks macchiato is. This is a true italian macchiato. It's pretty strong. Would you like me to make you something else?"
Sara: "Oh no! Of course not. This is fine. It's just...I worked at a coffee shop and our macchiato was a layered drink with the caramel on the bottom, then steamed milk, then the espresso on top. I was just curious as to the components of your macchiato."
Barista man: "A real macchiato has no milk in it. It has 2 shots of espresso, splashed with caramel, and topped with foam. I could make you something more sweet if you'd like."
Sara: "No, not at all. I just don't wish to be ignorant about what I'm drinking. I can handle my shots, don't worry."
Barista man: "Your 1 inch tall drink is $2.10."

At this point, I turned and made one of my normal angst faces in my roommate's direction and went to settle in a pretentiously dark corner of the pretentious coffee shop. I immediately attempted to capture the smallness of the drink with my camera phone so that I could regale my old colleagues with my new espresso tale.

[Well meaning but pretentious barista man walks up to my table while I am in the midst of sending a text (his presence had that air that let me know that people with real angst don't have friends...or pink cell phones.)] Barista man: "How is your drink? Have you tried it?"
Sara: "oh yes, it's quite fine. Thank you."
Barista man: "I just wanted to make sure it's not too strong. Some people like their drinks sweeter, you know."
Sara: "Oh yes, I know. No worries. It's just fine."
Barista man: "Okay then, let me know if there's anything I can do."

Suffice it to say, this man cared about his customers and their orders just a bit more than I ever did. If, for instance, a 15-year old, skinny, blonde, Dutch girl came in while I was working and ordered a sugar free, Slim Satin Doll cappuccino, you better believe that I made them a real cappuccino, even when I knew that what they really wanted was a latte.
"What's that customer? You don't want a drink that is half foam? Then I suggest you don't order a cappuccino."
Maybe I wasn't always so kind, but the customers needed to learn from their mistakes.

Anyway, as I spent the day in that pretentious coffee shop, called "Francesca's" (of all things), I realized that I am never going to be a proper grad student:

Reason #1: I really honestly am keen on the color pink. I mean, I know that I never have any joy in life or anything, but pink is really my favorite color. When I was a little shmuley, someone told me I couldn't wear pink because it clashed with my red hair. Then, probably somewhere around the time that I learned that North is not always in front of you, I also came to a saving knowledge that people with red hair could like pink. However, this is now highly unfortunate because proper grad students do not like pink. Proper grad students do not like bright colors. Bright colors are reserved for people with feelings--for the people that make Duke the second douchiest college in America.

Reason #2: I do not have a rustic-looking, brown leather satchel that hangs neatly alongside one's blazer, flannel, or "gray t-shirt that lets everyone know you have no emotions." I, in fact, have a black and red, Eddie Bauer backpack that usually extends about 2 feet from my back. It is not cool at all. Proper grad students will likely never strike up a conversation with me if they see my backpack. Because of my backpack, I will never be cool. I feel as though this is very unfortunate and unfair because I simply cannot comprehend how those people can carry all their books around. I mean, c'mon. I would use a rolling backpack if it wasn't social suicide, and now you want me to carry all my books in a bag that is big enough for a notebook? Seriously! [douche word]

Observations such as these make me echo the sentiments of my previous blog: I do not have an identity. I really feel as though I don't fit into the douche category [at least the defined douche category], but nor do I fit into the pretentious grad student category [at least not the defined pretentious grad student category.] Also echoing the sentiments of my previous blog, it would be so much easier to have an identity if I were a man. All I would need to do is roll up my pant legs, grow a beard, carry a rustic looking leather satchel, and smoke cigarettes.

That would be so easy.

As it happens, I am not a man. I do not have an identity. And furthermore, no one here understands any of the things that I say. As in, none of the sentences that I say seem to make sense to anybody but me. This perturbs me greatly. The following story illustrates how I feel every day here:

The summer before 10th grade, I went to church camp just as I did every summer, this time with my friend Brittnee, and this time to water camp. Specifically, the theme of the week was Jackie's Blue Water Fun. We were to commence a week of swimming, canoeing, water games, and tubing. The point of the week was to spend time in the water (and to find Jesus--whether in the water or not).

Now, on the first night of camp, one of the things that every cabin group does during the first Bible study is make a cabin covenant. These covenants usually consist of a variation of the same 10 things: "Practice the Golden Rule, be quiet when others are sleeping, etc." So when my cabin group settled into our room that first night to make our covenant, similar guidelines were suggested. At this point, wanting to both contribute and introduce my sense of humor, I suggested the following rule for our week together. "Don't go in the water." Hilarious right?

Are you kidding me? It is hilarious when you are at water camp, and you suggest that a rule be that no one goes into the water.

Nobody laughed at all. No one even tried to temper the awkwardness of the moment by acknowledging my statement. We all simply waited in silence until the next kid threw out her suggestion, "Be respectful." Really 10th grade campers? Really? I make a hilarious joke and all you can come up with his "be respectful?"

The point of this all is that I feel as though every time I open my mouth to say something to a conversation partner here, it is like I am constantly saying, "Don't go in the water." My conversation partner then breaks eye contact with me, looks confused, and thinks, "Eff! What are you talking about? We're at water camp."

I never know how to recover from these situations. Sometimes I simply remark, "I don't think there is much point in continuing this conversation." That never seems to go well either.

So, in a desperate attempt to have an identity, I applied for a job at the pretentious coffee shop. The one with the pretentiously dark corners and the well-meaning barista man with a smug smile. The one where I got checked on after I had tried my drink. I saw a sign that they were hiring, and there was just no way that I could have stopped myself. This is always how I have tried to find my identity, ever since I've been of working age. One time I told a high school teacher that my mediocre, part-time jobs defined me. "Your jobs do not define you," she told me. "Yes, my jobs do define me," I told her. "No, they don't," she said, "that would mean that if you took your jobs away from you, there would be no Sara," "Exactly," I told her. "Exactly."

And this is why I need more jobs. I know I ended my last post by talking about how I had turned down the high-paying, resume-boosting job because I didn't think it healthy for me to have 3 jobs. That is a lie. It is unhealthy for me to not have more jobs. I think I just didn't want the job tutoring children because it would have required me to invest myself. I need jobs where I can succeed at doing meaningless, tangible tasks and thus convince myself that I have abilities. I have the ability to scrub the sticky Torani syrup off of the coffee shop counter. I have the ability to arrange the jelly packets in perfect rows. I have the ability to arrange Rod's white toast in the same perfect pattern every morning.

At school, I do not have meaningless, tangible tasks. I have meaningful, not tangible tasks that lead me to realize that I no longer have the passions I once had for learning. I don't know where they went. The purpose that I once had--the path toward which I directed my learning and thinking and ambitions--has dissipated. What I am trying to say is that I think I know deep down that I am not supposed to get a PhD. I am not supposed to teach. My skills lie elsewhere. I feel as though if I were to admit this--really admit it--I might be liberated from the self-deprecation that binds me so tightly right now. However, I fear so much that it might be the self-deprecation that has talked me out of the PhD and future of teaching. So now here I am, in divinity school, without a real reason to be here.

And that is why I need jobs where I wash dishes and punch little buttons on cash registers. I can complete those tasks, and I can succeed at those tasks. And that, my friends, is also why I will never be a proper grad student who spends their free time reading Rousseau or teaching themselves Coptic. That, and because I cannot fit all of my books into a rustic-looking, brown leather satchel.

Best,
Sara