Meteorological Dissonance

I am waiting the Winter Solstice out.  I was thinking midnight was around the corner, but it is only 9:45 pm.  It feels like it has been dark all day.

The university is closed for a full two weeks, which seemed like a decadent luxury.  I structured in my head the industrial days I would have with reading, researching, writing, and dissertating punctuated with tea, wine, and SunDoc Club.  All of these hours are mine.

Two weeks really isn't a lot of time when two major holidays interrupt it in tandem with traveling.  Suddenly, I have like two days to myself, one of which was spent around getting a refrigerator repaired.

Because I loathe the holidays so much, I do most of my shopping online, but I dread shopping for groceries tomorrow and the accompanying traffic.  My goal is to hit up Trader Joe's while everyone else is sitting in their cubicle with their cup of joe.

Suddenly, I have no idea how to structure my time.  If I start reading, I get anxious and fidgety because I realize there is so much to do, and I am ready to start synthesizing.  If I cut straight to writing, I don't know what to write.  I also have a conference paper and presentation in t-minus three weeks.

So it would probably be a good idea to outline my goals.

1.  Finish reading the suggested American legal theory texts.  Levi's Introduction to Legal Reasoning is excruciatingly  dull and painful, so I am plowing through that tonight.

2.  Refine the research question.  I feel like I did this, but it doesn't sound fancy.

3.  Write up my methodology section.  I am still uneasy giving up my survey, but it adds an element of complexity that is unnecessary for my study, so I will pass until I receiving one of those large grants that everyone thinks they are going to land to write the book.

4.  Write the conference paper.  Because it is that easy.

Admittedly, I enjoyed pretending to read in my armchair earlier, but the morning felt incomplete.  There were no breakfast foods or even milk for coffee.  I dressed for winter, but it was over 60 degrees outside, so I felt stuffy.  I thought indulging in comfort food would make feel relaxed, but not so much.  Perhaps after a shower and pajamas, Levi will be appealing.

But I am not getting my hopes up.

Cacophony

I'm not shy about the fact I hate Christmas.  I will, however, attempt to be diplomatic when discussing my contempt in an effort not to crap on everyone else's parade, those who started counting down in September and started playing Christmas music Thanksgiving Day.  I am not sure why I practice this deference when Christmas is all about being all up in people's faces with the same songs played over and over and blinking red and green lights like a neon sign flashing, "Be happy!  Smile!  Be happy!  Smile!"  But I really love the Fourth of July and would feel resentment toward anyone who says they hate fireworks and popsicles (although let's be honest, nobody has said that-- ever).

But Christmas is not a happy holiday for everyone.  It fact, it downright sucks for some people.  Spouses still walk out, loved ones get sick, people die.  The tacky blinking lights simply reinforce those points in the most annoying and inconsiderate way.

So I choose not to participate.  I appreciate the kind cards, but I never have the mind or time to return the favor.  I enjoy opening gifts but honestly just look forward to spending time with my family for an all day meal.  I do not enjoy buying presents.  Nobody ever tells you what they want, which they think makes them modest, but really makes gift buying more complicated in an already complicated time of year with short days, long nights, cold weather, and craptacular traffic.  Just tell me what you want.  This is the singular reason everyone receives my gifts in the mail after Christmas:  I don't consult the oracle and place an order with Amazon until December 21st because it just really sneaks up out of nowhere.

I was going to try this year.  I was really going to ride it out.  But I said "screw it" last week and waved my white flag.  While everyone else was out at Target or the mall, I was asleep in my arm chair.  The whole point of longer nights is nature's way of saying, "Chill."

In all honesty, I just feel blah.  It is dark.  I have been working longer hours to make up for the university closing.  I resolved a major issue with my dissertation and it turned out just fine, but with a steep strain on my calm.  I am eager to move forward and the finish line is finally in sight; without a doubt this is going to be an exciting year.  But there are also a lot of question marks dangling ahead.  Kind of like this:

                               (I think the surprise behind block two is the one-up I need)

There is just too much noise.  So the other evening, when I decided that rather than run to Target to pick up toilet paper and cat food I would give way to my armchair again, I turned off my phone and deactivated my Facebook account.

I didn't feel much.  It was just one Donald Trump meme too many.  A newsfeed filled with gun-control swipes at one another.  Muslims, refugees, terrorists.  Speaking of terrorists, there were also the pregnancy announcements.  Everyone just literally had a baby.  I'm not joking.  Babies were sprouting alongside pumpkins this fall.  So I thought there would be reprieve from the awful photo clues that have now replaced inside scoop uterus close-ups.  But there they were, the big brother/big sister t-shirts, row of shoes with baby booties as the outlier, the strategic bonus stocking.  This time, it isn't Thing 1, but Thing 2 and Thing 3.  Then there was this meme that wouldn't go away:

Now I get it.  I will never understand the best thing ever because I am staying up all night burping a literature review.  

With the meme explaining my limited capacity for Christmas joy, I decided to enjoy my holiday break without people behind computers telling me how I, or any other person, should think. 

It isn't the kids.  They're great.  People should be happy about their children, marriage(s), home closings, and vacations.  I just cannot be bothered with it constant streamed to me.  The word for that chatter is cacophony.  

It is also a reminder that children make progress over the years.  They grow up.  They acquire a vocabulary.  They master fine motor skills.  The develop personalities.  If my dissertation was a four and a half year old, by now it would know how to tie its shoe laces, recite the alphabet, and spell its own name.  Instead, you end up with a massive paper on a research project you designed.  That may be turned into a published book with a university press.  If you're lucky.  

Nick Drake sings, "Time goes by from year to year, no one asks why I'm standing here."  People do ask.  When I try to put my topic or progress into words, they glaze.  

I wish you all the happiness in the world.  I just cannot look at your magnificent Christmas lights, new SUV, hint hint wink wink pregnancy announcement, and for hell's sake, it's engagement season.  

But I have a proposal to finish.  I am armpit deep in legal theory texts.  I am going to sleep in so much it is going to make me tired.  I am going to be traveling.  I might punctuate those activities with coloring and a book for fun.  

My life doesn't look shiny right now.  Neither does Bridget's.  Neither does Sadie's.   Frankly, I don't care if it makes me sound "bitter" (special shout out to a special family member who is especially concerned about my relationship status and cynical humor).  But it is on my terms.  I am making my path.  I will post the filtered photos when I am done.  

I really wish this could be a place to share my PhD journey, tips, and tricks.  Instead, it centers more on the periphery issues.  But anyone can buy any number of "how-to" classics available on completing a dissertation.  There is little coaching on how to navigate the induction as an "other" (in this case, me as a woman).  From approaching difficult conversations crab-like and negotiating salary by bringing a big purse to the meeting (true tip) to being told at a major conference where I presented that I am "too pretty to work on a PhD", the woman in the academy has a different obstacle course to navigate.  

Also, writing lighter blogs is like a warm up to a marathon.

Stranger in Academia

My Monday trumped its own Monday-ness.  I was prepared for it with my pressed slack and riding boots, running ahead of schedule.  But the cat made a nasty mess, ran into my nasty neighbor, and sat still in nasty traffic for 45 minutes.  There really isn't enough holiday break to make up for a Monday like that.  

The problem with Mondays is they actually start Sunday night.  During the weekend, I am part of a normal functioning couple who run errands, buy groceries, and fix breakfasts.  The start of the week reminds me that we are actually running two households, I am here, he is there, and there is an expanse that must be traveled where I am somewhere in the middle.  

As for the problem dogging my dissertation, the troops are rallied for support and some word was received.  However, I am eager to move forward, itching with anticipation, because I am ready to continue, forge ahead, make solid progress.  Excited about the new direction my research has taken, I don't want any delays.  

A colleague of mine lamented about the treatment she receives in her doctoral program, treated as a red-headed stepchild rather than a valuable member of the program.  I have seen this divide before, some students receiving preferential treatment or attention while others languish with a lack of advising, funding, resources, or the like.  Usually the ones receiving such preferential treatment already have an abundance of resources at their fingertips, a supportive spouse or parental funding.  

I can respect the work of such individuals, but I have little regard for their tenacity.  

Perhaps the problem is that I say I am not angry, but in reality, I am, and more than that, I am disappointed.  

A dream is a wish your heart makes. It is not the way to a PhD.

November has been good.  It is one of my favorite months:  On the cusp of autumn and winter, a whimsy of colors, green, yellow, gold, orange, red trickling off of trees and tumbling down brown, the sky a distinctive, mercurial blue-grey sunny.  This November is particularly warm, which makes it more enjoyable, delaying the steely cold and barrenness that arrives in December, which I loathe.

I was happier, calmer, and more relaxed than I have been for a while.  I could just breathe.

I also finished my literature review.  Of course, it still needs work, it will always need work, but my new topic is developed and I am ready to proceed onward.

However, I encountered a problem that has been nagging me for six months.  This issue finally crescendoed with its realization, that the ugly gut-feeling I just given the side-eye is now a pink suede elephant sitting plumb in the middle of the room.

Worse, when I explain the situation and my unease, discreetly of course, it is met with nearly identical responses:  This is not good.

Without further detail, it just seems that when it comes to this PhD, shit comes from all sides.  Kind of like this:

I thought that writing might make me feel better.  Along with talking to my partner, my mother, my mentor, my friend.  But honestly, the whole situation has made me feel entirely demotivated and crestfallen.

This is a major problem.  Then there is student loan paperwork, open enrollment for health insurance, the holidays, sick relatives, and just everyday life handled completely on my own, I would give anything to just curl up under a blanket and just say, "I can't, I can't, I can't, I can't, I can't." Which is pretty much what I am going at the moment.

But then I start to feel indignant.  I put a lot of time, money, and effort into this dissertation and I simply refuse to acquiesce for the sake of making nice.  Nice, as another blogger states, does not get a dissertation done.

I become irritated when I receive the following replies from individuals who want to tell me they would like a PhD:  Because they think it is the "next thing" to do (terrible, terrible reason-- That is what master's degrees and graduate certificates are for) and because it is their "dream."

A dream is a wish your heart makes.  The PhD should never be a dream.  It is the means to a dream.  But let's be clear this is no dream.  It sucks a lot of the time.  It is one of the hardest things you will ever do.  Frankly, I am not sure what is worse, divorce or passing comprehensives.  The writing you once enjoyed in cafes will be replaced by writing that is scheduled, technical, and every word counts. It hangs in a balance of solitude and loneliness.  Clustered with an unstable market and prospects, there is little promise.

The dream should be entering a profession you feel you can make a meaningful contribution.  Perhaps even enjoy it.  That offers a means to a lifestyle you wish to achieve, whether it is world travel, family, reading, a home, or just even company health insurance.

Trust me, it does not look the way you think it looks when you get here.

Maybe I will better with a glass of wine and a good, scheduled cry.  Maybe tomorrow is another day.

Maybe a solution is the only answer I need.  

The kindest thing anyone has said is:  It's not your fault.  You're going to be fine.  You are going to make it.

(Break On Through to the) Other Silo

Today is Friday, which is Dissertation Day, the day all to myself and my dissertation.  Somehow, all of the other things that get neglected during the week also show up on Dissertation Friday, like canceling the cable service, getting an oil change, running to the bank, changing the cat litter.  I did successfully finish watching two documentaries today, one about food addictions and the other adopting unlovable children from Russian orphanages.

My dissertation is unlovable.  I really want to, but it is pretty uncooperative.  I thought two Amazon shipments of Japanese office supplies would motivate me to sit down and finish my literature review in one fell swoop, but unfortunately, what I really need is UPS to drop off data.

The problem is data.  I previously worked as a research assistant in healthcare policy, which has a lot of qualitative data and literature on basically every topic.  My topic, however, is interdisciplinary and comparative.  The literature I rely on is written in English my western scholars, so there is an entire world of Japanese scholarship I am unable to penetrate from my vantage point, and of that literature that is available, it comes from disciplines that are unlike mine.

It is all great scholarship and I admire the academics who did such thoughtful work.  But it feels like sewing a patchwork quilt of facts I scavenged.  It is difficult to find original research and supporting data; most of the work is interpretive, bolstered by anecdotes, media reports,  and interviews as primary sources.

I can accept this at face value and do what everyone else does, which is cite each other, or try to find the primary data, but frankly, I am at a loss of how to do this.

Part of the problem is that I simply do not have access to the resources I need.  My university does not specialize in Asian topics nor has a law school, so we never purchased access to those databases.
My wish list includes numbers and statistics on litigation rates over a number of a decades and court decisions.

For the litigation statistics, they are published in an annual report which is available at a midwestern university and my library is more than happy to request it.  The problem is that the annual report has four parts and they are bound copies, not electronic, which would like make quick translation a nightmare.  The next issue is making thirty interlibrary loan request.  I am certain my dissertation would never be finished and the librarians would revolt with pitchforks.  Certainly there is an easier way, but I don't know what it is.

The next issue are the court decisions.  I can reach out to one of those great law libraries that has access to those databases. . .  But come on.  I expect more of the internet.  Those cases have to be somewhere unrestricted.

The lack of those resources do not make or break my own research.  But perhaps, like most doctoral minions, I want my dissertation to be perfect.  I also want to publish something authoratative and concise, the kind of work I want to read.

I just really need to get the literature review done.  Nobody said it had to be perfect.  In fact, people are pleading for it to be imperfect.

It does not need to be perfect.  In fact, as I am discovering, much of the literature I consult is wrought with errors, sometimes critical (as in the content is inaccurate) to minor (typos, misspelled words, grammatical errors).  I am assured the quality is just fine and I will do no better.

I read one such chapter from a dissertation today.  I gained no more insights that I previously knew, except that this individual apparently worked for a prominent scholar who hates my guts for no other reason that the sky is blue when the sun is out.

That did not help my sense of feeling like I am locked out of a house or denied access by a stone-faced bouncer at a party.

Why do academics maintain silos?  Articles are secure unless your institution purchased the journal for a hefty fee, off the grid and the work is $39.99, on the server, it's "free to you", as though it is a benefit of a club.  A scholar acknowledges his work would not have been made possible without the help and connections he made along the way, yet coldly rejects any requests for assistance from a student who admires his work.  The prestigious university in the posh side of town ignores collaborative inquiries from the large urban research university downtown.  Tenured faculty acknowledge the poor working conditions of adjuncts and collateral faculty, yet do little to fight the good fight on their behalf and have them sit at the table.

I don't know the answers to any of those questions, dissertation or rhetorical.  I am just going to have to gird myself and start asking.

When a notification popped up for a cultural group I belong to from an undergraduate at my institution who wanted to know about internship opportunities, she was curtly greeted with a response from another member that the committee did no such thing.  I enthusiastically replied to her.

We were a lot alike, our academic journeys, dual-enrolled at two institutions to study a language and eager to find a toehold in the field for the career of our dreams but no idea how to do it.  Seeing my 20 year old self in this 20 year old, I shared my experience and suggestions with her via chat.  Mostly because she wanted to know about "the internships u know about."  My information was met with "that's cool" and "uh huh."

I encouraged her to reach out to me if she needed any help after giving her four points of contact.  I would be happy to discuss my journey or read her materials.

She wrote back asking if I knew about a committee because she heard back from a woman at my university it.  I replied that yes, I knew about it-- I responded to her post on the committee page.  That is, she did not put two and two together, it was the same committee.  I also explained that the committee did not offer internships.

"Actually, it does," she replied.  "She just offered me one."  Like that?  I spend nearly fifteen years working on three academic degrees and multiple professional positions to develop a career and all I had to do was be blissfully unaware of an organization that just gives me an internship because I ask?  If I had known that, the ensuing years where I tried on several jobs for size would certainly have been kinder.

Yet somehow, in the six hours between propositioning a Facebook group for an internship and reaching out to a complete stranger she had no idea was affiliated, this student got the jackpot.  Suddenly, I am useless, and maybe she'll see me at the event next week she did not know existed until I informed her of it, even though she is just started working there three minutes prior.

I remember the first intern I encountered.  I studied four languages and actually had my degree in hand already, yet landed a low paying entry level job while the kid next to me completed tasks that were far above her pay grade of free (and mine too).  She likely started with a salary at least $10K higher than mine for that brief two month stint.  Lovely.

I would like to think I made a difference in my student's, advisee's, and mentee's lives, but maybe they only liked me because of my cynical humor and superb bangs.

And maybe there in lies the problem.  Some of the siloing occurs because some people and institutions really believe they are better.  But maybe some siloing happens because most of us spend blood, sweat, and tears to break on through and are too tired and too jaded to lend a hand to a earnest, peppy kid who has time on their side.

I cannot write everything I am feeling on a public blog post, other than I have been dragging my feet on this dissertation because there is a club I am seeking admittance, and my work is just as good but unrecognized.  I am tired of tiptoeing around the silo, pretending I belong or trying to prove I do belong, but doing so timidly, asking permission.

My work is just as valid, I worked twice as hard, and I am not going anywhere.

The Return of the Mighty Pen

We no longer look up.

The students, actually.  They are the ones who never look up.  The campus is not contained, lacking any sort of barrier or boundary delineating where it starts and ends, but rather sprawling into wards and neighborhoods, practically connecting you to the medical campus on the other side of the city.  As the university has gobbled acreage and real estate in the name of growth and revitalization, it is heavily trafficked and populated.

With a Starbucks cup in one hand and their phone in the other, they stroll from one destination to the other staring down.  They are not paying attention to the damp fallen leaves on the brick walkway or considering the exam they are about to take but instead looking at their phones.  Many times, they are not just looking at the screens but interacting in some capacity.

For not looking up, they do a fine job of moving without incident, although they do tend to narrowly miss running into someone else, usually me, and on several occasions nearly walked into oncoming traffic.  I wonder what is so engaging that it simply cannot wait until a pause.  Perhaps they never stop.

There are many articles written begrudging helicopter parents for the ills of ill-prepared, self-absorbed millennials who wind up underemployed, underpaid upon becoming minted.  I beg to differ.

I think this as I walk in the rain on my way to pick up my own Starbucks coffee at the library.  A girl stops in the middle of the walkway, pulls out her phone, poses, and snaps a selfie.  I imagine her looking down as she walks away, narrating the scene with a caption, "Me and my hoodie in the rain."

Our library is recently renovated and it looks lovely and spacious.  Except the space was not created for more print.  There are multiple levels of space and new computers, but books were not in mind with this new addition.  Ushering in students are two large revolving doors.  "Well isn't that a metaphor for higher education?" I remarked to my colleague the first day it was open.

On the way out, with my cup in my hand, boots sloshing through puddles, I had all of the props, it didn't feel like a special moment to be captured and captioned for Instagram or Pinterest.  But then again, I am on the cusp of being a millennial, in fact, the scholars who replaced the term "Generation Y" had my birth year in mind.

Parent should not bear the brunt of all of the problems this particular generation faces.  We attribute it to them, but when I watch the students with their heads down, that is precisely what we have conditioned them to do.

We tell them to keep their heads down and make inflated GPAs, garner extra-curriculars like Girl Scout badges, and get trophies for showing up.  We tell them to keep their heads down as they take one standardized test after a number.  Well tell them to keep their heads down with a stream of applications made just for them to create a false digital community that purportedly keeps them connected.

The problem is we don't consider them actual people.  They are data points.  Standardized test scores.  GPAs.  SATs and GREs.  Student loan account numbers.  Their lives and stories constantly published and disseminated for Big Data, willingly offering details of their lives for free so social media and other outlets can collect it, repackage it, and sell the watered down contents back to them.

I'm not above any of it.  Look at me.  I am blogging as I stand on the soapbox.

I was thinking about looking up because I may have to take it all down soon for professional reasons. That is, cease production, pack it up, lock it down.  There isn't anything questionable or profane about anything I publish.  Perhaps the most offensive thing on the interwebs about me are retweets of "Shit Academics Say" and my introduction on Google+:  "Hell is empty and all the devils are here."  Mostly because it puts my cynicism right out there in your face, not because my friend William Shakespeare is offensive.

It's interesting.  Pictures capture everything, in the flesh, in the color.  But they are forgivable.  We really don't believe the sisters who took naked photos at Angkor Wat deserve to be imprisoned.  We will forget and forgive Kylie Jenner for dressing up as an Eskimo this Halloween even though she is old enough to own and operate a Rolls Royce and grew up during a time when cultural appropriation grew increasingly out of vogue.  We will let it slide.

But publish something and you might as well call a lottery.  It is there forever.  It sticks with you.  Not many of us consider ourselves prolific authors, yet that is what we do each day.

It made me think about this blog, if it stays, if it goes, but its purpose.  Recently, a woman I went to high school with but did not know shared with me her blog (upon request).  I was intrigued with what I understood was a person traveling the globe and I appreciated her opening up to me.

I am still looking to connect with others like me.  She seemingly fit the bill, holding a doctorate in a health profession with a passion for travel.  I hoped to draw inspiration from her story.

After things fell apart and continued to unravel for a while, I thought the only cure would be boarding a plane and never stepping off.  But I tempted fate and kept on keeping on with my program, the only anchor I had left, even though it was a bit light.

The pictures without the story would have you believe she was strong-willed, happy, carefree living out of a back pack, giving up her successful career, and rock climbing in third-world countries.  Instead her entries were about loss, being lost, letting religion guide her, and shaking off "should."  She was just as much of a mess as me.  It occurred to me then that the things I thought would put me back together again probably would have held it together no better than glue.  We all deal with these things.

In fact, I started to wonder if I was the brave one sitting in solitude with a disagreeable dissertation, facing the very things that frustrated, hurt, angered, impeded me the most.

The one thing that struck me about her blog was that it was all about her.  We read it to find out what she is doing and what she is feeling as she does it or reflects on it.  But true travel writing is not about the individual, it is about the place.

Maybe I am no different than this woman or the girl in the rain coat snapping a selfie in the rain.

I would love for my blog to be something more than that, a guide of some sorts to "phinishing" a PhD (get it?) without the sparkles and warm fuzzies you have when you start the program, believing you complete it in three years flat along with a couple of certificates to boot.

But unless you are following a blog, that's pretty useless.  Furthermore, there are real scholars who published books on the topic, and they actually work.  In the print, in the flesh.  Of course, I cannot find these titles in my library. . .

Some of the sharing is fun, inspiring even.  My recent interest is "studyspo" brought me back in touch with aspects of myself I long abandoned-- The kid who made straight As and loved art supplies.  My colleague called me over this morning to gleefully share about the new Japanese highlighters she found, courtesy of a blog about pens and highlighters, and we gushed about our mutual love for studyspo and writing instruments.

Admittedly, my study area looks less

And more research vomited on my carpet (*not my actual home, I decorate much better, thank you.)

(Inspire this.)

Because nothing ever looks like it does on Pinterest and Tumblr:  Exhibit A.  

In the long run, this really just helps me slatter all of my thoughts up somewhere quickly.  It really is all about me.  You won't learn how to write a dissertation here or glean any startling insights about higher education.

In essence, this is the anti-blog.

Move [!] Get Out the Way. . .

A few evenings ago, our dissertation study group was enjoying a Greek dinner because of course we were procrastinating.  I had moussaka, by the way, which was more tangy than I prefer, the richness absent, but I never complain about moussaka.  Picking at his calamari, my friend next to me stated, "Sitting down and actually writing is the hardest part."  Across the table was a fresh, unopened copy of Writing Your Dissertation in Fifteen Minutes a Day.

I reflected on advice given to me by a researcher who I admired not for the content of her subjects but the sheer volume of work she could complete.  Her advice was to write something every day, even if it is something mundane, like the table of contents.

Sitting down and writing is indeed the hardest part.  I wonder where the prize-winning, 12 year old poet in me ran away to or the 18 year old college-bound senior who promised to dedicate her first book to her English teacher.  Brilliance beamed from my fingertips.

Anyway, it is almost bedtime and I have jogged, eaten, and wined.  The dishes are halfway down, the groceries halfway put away, and the dryer is humming.  That really should be the soundtrack for at least a solid hour of writing.  But I would rather watch my tea cool than write about hortatory legal provisions in a 30 year old law that I have written and presented on eleventy times.

There are also dishwasher unsafe dishes piling up in the sink, which needs to be cleaned.  Nothing ever makes it back where it is supposed in the cabinets.  The cat has taken up a new hobby of knocking her water bowl across the kitchen and they will need to be fed soon.  Tomorrow I will need to tend to the litter box.  There are boots strewn across the bedroom I just organized last weekend because today was the first cold day of autumn and who in the hell knows what to where when that shock happens.  At least the bathroom is still in relative tact.

I also feel obligated to call my mother, visit my grandparents, lift weights, finish reading the book I deigned to open for fun, watch a documentary, and brush up on my foreign language skills for field work.  Also, in the grocery bags not put away are ingredients for recipes I intend to master yesterday.

Christmas is approaching and I considered adding to my wish-list:  Housekeeper.  Then I thought doesn't everybody need one of those, so perhaps I would just pay one to come over just once to make my home look something out of "Good Housekeeping", a Mari Kondo type who wouldn't throw out all of my clothes and books.

Sitting down and writing is the hardest part.  I tried taking inspiration from Studyspo, but then I just look at my picturesque mug, Sharpie highlighters, Semikolon tabs, and Muji pen arrangement.

Sitting down and writing is the hardest part.  There is a chapter meeting this week, a dissertation meet-up this week, and a federal compliance training this week.  And work.  And co-authoring.

Sitting down and writing is the hardest part.  I remember how delightful it was to be young and selfish with my time.  But this is my time.  Writing may be the hardest part, something mastered with Finish Your Dissertation in Fifteen Minutes a Day or The Artist's Way.  The sun may disappear into the orange-blue ether sooner and dead leaves scuttle across the sidewalk, but I decided to smile momentarily because at least a feel inspired, a chill that is thawing.  It's been a long time coming.

Another Song for Sharon

A friend of mine had a baby this week.  Actually, three friends had babies this week and another announced a pregnancy.  This was all on social media, of course, nobody mails a birth announcement anymore.  We could not do without the instantaneous praise and celebration nor the bear the anticipation of such a deliberate delivery.

A friend of mine announced she had a baby this week.  I was not completely surprised; it was about time for the next one.  She has a home in the rural suburbs, complete with a garden, chickens, and guard dog.  The couple wanted a lot of children.  Now they have them and perhaps another or two.

If the announcement had come, I suppose, in the mail, or even email, as the last one did, a personalized statement with an intended recipient, I could not say my reaction would be wholly different but perhaps more indifferent.  But the announcement was made on social media, to an audience of hundreds, and there was no indication this was in the works.  That is, I had no idea she was expecting.  In fact, I still have not seen the last child.

I am not sure what to do with this information.  Social media is a purveyor of useless information or sometimes useful but cumbersome.

We have known each other for nearly twenty years and although not the best of friends we were dear friends.  We achieved milestones at roughly the same time:  Graduating from college, moving in with our boyfriends, getting married during snowstorms, and enjoying such a timeless age.  But at the point she delivered her first child, my home life was unraveling, although I had no idea it was so.  When she purchased a foreclosed house to turn into that mushaboom dream home, I was in the process of moving out of my beloved country home on the water because a heartless drifter foreclosed on my dream.  Since then I have moved from one lake or river or reservoir to the next in such a manner, as Joni Mitchell sang, "I walk green pastures by and by."

We talk about the childless or the childfree as though they reap some sort of bonus life full of decadence, spendthrifts of time.  The benefits we reap include:  Sleeping through the night and in on the weekends, travel, parties, disposable incomes, spontaneous sex, and the endless pursuit of our own agendas, goals, and dreams.

But I knew with Sharon, as with most of my friends who started families, they eventually fly away into their own domesticity, like crows on an electric line.  They neatly separate into the Middlesex* clique, stay-at-home types who pedal direct sale cosmetic products for extra income, the Tupperware of our generation, drink grocery store wine, marble countertops, and refer to their spouses as "hubby".  Then there those like Sharon, aspiring farmers or crafters, with dozens of half-complete DIY projects, failed recipes at the dinner table, but hearty and nutritious.

Then there is one less phone number to dial for lunch or a double-date.  In fact, spending three hours over coffee with a single woman in her thirties who rents, does not own, never unpacking all the boxes in storage, or even her suitcase, she only stays home one weekend a month, is not so appealing,  so weightless and without an anchor, perhaps even a little frightening how one ends up in such a marvelous and hideous place.

(It's not quite that bad.)

This made me think about social media over all.  With YOLOs and FOMOs, we really are pitted against each other in such a cramped, expansive space.  Social media really fits the bill of capitalism and repackaging and reselling of our wants, needs, and desires.  Now, under the warm roof of collegiality and friendship, we can judge each other, gawk at each other, and measure ourselves to each other.

I wonder what my life would look like without social media, namely Facebook.  The choices and decisions I would make, the story I would tell, my own metrics of a life well-lived.  According to Facebook, I have no hometown, no education, and really no accomplishments to speak of except that I adopted two cats and spend Fridays drinking wine (never from the grocer) and writing my dissertation.

There is so much more to my life.  I just don't offer it up on a platter for consumption.  Those things are to be cherished and enjoyed, not managed and published.

Another friend of mine quit social media a year ago.  She too is a recent PhD recipient and single for similar happenstances.  As she put it to me, "If I saw one more ultra-sound photo. . ."  It really goes back to a Carrie Bradshaw quote (as awful as I find that program):  "Think about it. If you are single, after graduation there isn’t one occasion where people celebrate you. … Hallmark doesn’t make a 'congratulations, you didn’t marry the wrong guy' card. And where’s the flatware for going on vacation alone?"

So I would like to quit.  Take the whole thing down.  I always write about doing it.  It menaces each time I "post" a status update.

But then I think about my friends in far places, Japan, Dubai, England, Rwanda, Germany, Korea, and places closer, Pittsburgh, New York, San Francisco, Dallas.  A telephone call every so often or email will not suffice.  I want a photograph, a meme, an off the cuff remark.

I am not sure what I will end up doing, for now Twitter satisfies my news stream and blogs to peer into the lives of others.  There is also "Indian Summers", documentaries, unmastered languages, and yes, the dissertation.

Singular Possessive

It pains me to admit I am in the painful process of rewriting a literature review on a topic I have rewritten for several years, yet, when you find you have a sexy, brilliant dissertation topic that is the bane of sound social science research methodology, you cut your losses and heave ho.

The book on that topic will be forthcoming right before I am up for tenure unless the Nostradamus of higher education, aka the Chronicle of Higher Education, has its way.

But here I am "building" a literature review.  In general, I find literature reviews fun.  It harkens back to pre-doctoral "research" when "research" was supporting your hypothesis with somebody else's original research.  Now that I am doing original research, it's not so much fun.

I was never much of building kind of girl.  I was scarcely fascinated in Legos or Lincoln Logs as a kid, preferring dramatic storylines with my Little People or Barbie.  I always enjoyed writing, especially stories, so I considered writing a dissertation along those lines.

We all want to write our own story, right?  "Be the hero of your story" was an inspirational quote in the window of a classroom at a private school where I used to teach foreign language.  So every day, we master our stories, publish them on social media, sometimes wordlessly through pictures.  Today, while searching for organization strategies for dissertations, I found a "Dissertation Gal."  She just finished her PhD and something on her site expired a few weeks ago already, but the point of the blog is that at least according to her earlier posts, she was supposed to blog everyday about her dissertation.

The blog picqued my interest, although obviously this is something you would follow everyday if that was your fancy, not go back for leisure.  Maybe nobody read her blog like nobody reads mine, a vacant echo in the interwebs.

I have long wanted to keep a dissertation journal but frankly timid about it.  Do I narrate each day like a diary or simply jot down thoughts or feelings?  Are feelings even permitted with a dissertation?  It seems like the workplace to me--  You only cry in private, in a bathroom stall.

Pinterest has many glorious boards devoted to bullet journaling, complete with office supplies you can only by in Japan or Germany, or Cornell note taking on crack.   Perhaps if I converted my ruled Moleskine to grid paper and actually used the untouched Stabilo set I had to have last December, I would feel more giddy about the dissertation process.  My life would look like the neat workstation pins and I could relax ala "cozy" pin style, leg warmers, coffee in a knitted mug, and piles of blankets.

Instead, my work table is a beacon to Trader Joe snacks, a tea pot, rejected Earl Grey, and open Sweet 'N Low packets that mysteriously also ended up strewn on the floor.  My white carpet is hardly visible under the piles of color-coded articles, two Oprah magazines, and a recent Nikkei paper, guarded under the belly of a rather contented cat.  There is also a sticky note on the bottom of my shoe.

Seeing Dissertation Gal's blog reminded me why digital journaling can be fun, albeit the potential audience of creepers who might interlope for reasons other than reading about said dissertations.  I suppose a better platform and graphics might make the whole thing cheerier.

I'm not sure if I could commit to a blog on a daily basis.  I can barely commit to feeding my cats at regular intervals and there is a plant I just watered for the first time in six weeks.  I also worry about leaving information just sitting in the wastelands of the internet, like many ill-fated blogs I used to follow which suddenly just drop off one day, no ending, just a boring entry about something mundane for lack of an interesting topic.  What becomes of them?

But I do have feelings for this dissertation, or rather, with this dissertation and its process.  It's lonely. It's expensive.  I finally figured out that I am broke, not poor, a temporary transitory state until better horizons are within reach.  I have been in this transitory state for some time and frankly, I want dry land.

I used to believe that my heart would be complete, my cup would runneth over with satisfaction, once I reached here.  But instead, it is hollow.

It's a job.  It's not a calling or a passion.  A job.  Nobody tells you that on your way in.  Upon entry, you are the best and the brightest.  You sacrifice for the intelligentsia.  Then reality calls along with your student lenders and the other life/learning experiences:  Sick relatives, absent spouses, paid jobs,  long distance moves.

But that PhD is yours.  Your dissertation is original research.  Yours.  Singular possessive.

Community: "It's the Real Thing"

"It's the Real Thing"

(If you are a fan of "Mad Men" but have not seen the show finale, you probably don't want to read any further right now.)

Public administration is considered a social science, so "community" is a common theme in the discipline.  As a practitioner, community could be interpreted as narrowly as stakeholders and constituents.  

When I think of the textbook definition of community, I think back to the early social studies curricula when I was in elementary school, the textbook cover art lined with people of different ethnicities, ages, genders, and ability, each doing their part to build a "community".  

While some standard public administration textbooks do not address the issue of "community", several scholars do pay attention to its centrality in the discipline.  For example, Deborah Stone's polis model of society is a policy framework that challenges the "rational model" and relies on the concept of community.  She states, "Public policy is about communities trying to achieve something as communities" (p. 18).  Richard Box (2009) discusses community in terms of local governance.  Finally, Robert D. Putnam devoted an entire book, Bowling Alone, to the decline of community in the United States.

I want to shy away from the textbook definition of community in this particular post and think beyond this concept.  I want to consider community in a context that is global and intangible.

In the final episode of "Mad Men" the protagonist and anti-hero, Don Draper, sits meditating by the California coast, seemingly at peace with his past and present, the fate of characters resting in the balance of the future, which is ambiguous and unknown.  We do not know if Don or any of the other characters will get a happy ending.  The camera zooms in on Don with a blissful smile and then cuts to footage of the 1971 McCann-Erickson Coca-Cola commercial "I'd Like to Buy the World a Coke."

In this last shot, a community of viewers, the audience, collectively sat in an anxious send off, immediately resorting to the internet to share their perceptions of the ending in Tweets, status updates, blogs, and articles.

That is what is so remarkable about the ending, this juxtaposition between what is real, fiction, and nonfiction, creating this blended community.  We have the fictional Don Draper, who was never real to begin with, an ad man from a fictional agency bought out by a real-life agency, McCann Erickson, a fictional character who dreamed up (or not) a real-life ad about a global community.  The viewing community was able to meet at this apex between real and fiction.  Finally, there is the idea that the entire world is just one community bonding over a "real" product.

This leads me to global communities and how we interact.  As a researcher who studies comparative administration and policy narratives with a topical area is on another continent, I rely on individuals and communities through technology.  Nothing takes the place of on-the-ground field work, but the global community on a digital platform gives me more access to knowledge but also a "real place" to disseminate knowledge.  To illustrate, my topic area is Japan, so I rely on communities of scholars, practitioners, and subjects for my research, but it is also necessary to connect with communities on the West Coast and in other places such as Australia and New Zealand, whose scholarship I have found particularly enriching on my subject given their geopolitical interest in Japan.  I hope to similarly touch these communities as well with the knowledge I generate but also address a pivotal question in public policy scholarship.

CEnR plays directly into an intriguing question that public policy scholars face:
How is this knowledge disseminated to the community, which includes actors, constituents, and stakeholders.

The Den-Den Community

"We tell ourselves stories in order to live."  Joan Didion

One of the more fascinating elements of social network platforms is our digital narrative, that is, the stories we tell others, usually about ourselves.  We are the center of plots that we construct and if we hit publish, we make it real.

I started this blog in 2009 with no particular goal in mind other than the private blog I maintained on the now outdated MySpace seemed to suffer some technical glitch.  Perhaps the purpose, as denoted in the title, was to journal my academic journey which I intended to mythologize as an adventure or odyssey of sorts.  The entries were sparse, personal, and rarely academically oriented.  Life was sleepy and I basically lost interest in whimsy blogging on mundane topics with no readership to witness.

I am re-purposing this blog.  In general, I am gun-shy about about social media platforms, mostly because, in the words of St. Vincent (Annie Clark), "The real currency in the future will be privacy."  However, I decided to enroll in a MOOC offered by VCU called "Collaborative Curiousity" which centers on community-engaged research (CEnR).

My approach to the course is exploratory.  I am currently completing my Doctor of Philosophy in Public Policy and Administration and writing my dissertation on Japanese labor policy and gender discrimination specifically analyzing implementation structure.  My other research interest is in disaster recovery, gender performance, and government response with a particular focus on post-3/11 Japan.

My other-other area of expertise is in Title IX, Title VII, Violence Against Women Act (VAWA), and the Clery Act as it relates to federal compliance in higher education.

I have been labeled a "qualitative person" and admittedly, I really enjoy qualitative research design.  Although public policy and administration is a social science field largely dominated by quantitative methods, caught between whether the field is an art or science,  I prefer alternative methods, methodologies, and epistemologies as a means of studying policy topics.

Finally, I have started and quit more English degrees than I care to admit but finally accepted that while I am unable to cultivate the necessary appreciation of Shakespeare to muddle through the degree requirements, my penchant for literature can be found in my love for studying policy frames, which are little sagas told in symbols, metaphors, and numbers.

On a personal level, I hope the "Collaborative Curiousity" MOOC may challenge and illuminate my research approach and at minimal, on a professional level, bring new insights when I work on various studies and projects.