The Story of Why

Once upon a time I was accepted into graduate school at the University of Alabama. I received a Graduate Counsel Fellowship for a paper I wrote about those originators of hip-hop, The Last Poets. I wish I could remember or locate a copy of the paper I had written. I clearly remember working on it in the fellowhip hall of a church down in Mississippi, where Michael had been hired to play flute and clarinet in a large-scale holiday presentation. That was many years ago. Graduate school was many years ago in fact. I've told you this before.

Pregnant in my second semester, I may as well have been in an intellectual coma, unable to produce, sometimes unable even to think straight. I lived on McDonald's french fries, ginger ale, and lemon heads. I turned in a dreadfully horrible paper in one class, and failed to complete another.

That uncompleted class hung over my head for years. I've described myself intermittently as a graduate school drop-out. All I could do was cancel my registration. I didn't complete a process or anything. For a long time I thought was going to finish that paper, then for a long time I thought I never would.

About a month ago I cried into my husband's pillow at an early hour of the morning, upset because my emotions were working against me, the money thing was bothering me, but more than that I was wondering what I was supposed to do. I was reading and studying on my own, trying to write regularly and not getting any comments, but there was never enough time, and I had no place to work. "You know me better than anyone does," I said to him. "What am I supposed to do? What are my giftings? What was a made for?"

"School," he said to me. "I think you should think about going back to school."

It was a significant statement coming from him, my husband who doesn't have much use for academia, and is unimpressed by the value-system of the majority of those who consider themselves to be intellectual. He told me I could go somewhere, leaving him there with the children the entire day, but he wanted me to make a move toward seeing what could be done about school. I laughed with Michael about a blog post I had read recently in which James K.A. Smith shared his advice for those wanting go attend graduate school, which was don't, but I also gratefully and tearfully agreed.

I emailed my professor, who said that he would certainly be willing to help me change the grade, but that I needed to contact the departmental secretary to find out what departmental policy would allow.

I waited many days before the secretary responded to my query. The result? My credits have expired. Eighteen hours of coursework are no more, and no longer contribute to my Master's degree should I pursue one. Which is fine. I was prepared for this response, and was therefore un-phased by it.

I am choosing to correct the incomplete for two reasons: I need a project to keep me focused, with a concrete goal to reach. The blogging wasn't doing it for me. I was getting embroiled in my insecurities, but this? Writing a paper about Theory of the Novel, and doing the reading it requires, gives me a sense of purpose that improves the discipline required to actually do it. The other reason? Someday I may choose to do something officially academic, and when that day comes it will be good to have one less thing to worry about on my transcript.

Tomorrow: the getting started business.