Sorry for the radio silence, fellas. I’ve been finishing up end of the semester matters. You know, the usual: writing a 27 page paper on the influence of 17th and 18th century Irish political writers on the American Revolution, via the illicit book trade between Ulster and the Colonies, chasing myself in circles around a deconstructionist approach to Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness, pushing 23 students to write more persuasively (even when they want to prevent the American-born children of illegal immigrants from becoming American citizens…), finding out I’m not graduating.
Erm, wait. What?
Two years should equal a Master’s degree, correct? Ah, but in the case of a clerical SNAFU, in which you are told you are ready to graduate when in actuality you have one remaining course to take (and when, exactly, did anyone expect you to fit that in there, hm?), two years decidedly does not equal a Master’s degree. In fact, it actually equals a summer spent writing a thesis paper that you did not know you needed to write. Luckily, since your Master’s degree holds no possible value on the job market anyway, you have no job, and thus plenty of free time to learn about post-humanism and apply a reading to The Road, Stripper Zombies, and Blood Car.
Now that the bad news is out of the way, let’s put the cynicism on ice, shall we? I am, in fact, graduating in one week, meaning that I will be walking in the ceremony and my diploma, once I receive it, will have May 2011 on it. But I won’t receive it, until I hand in my thesis, which I intend to have completed around mid-August. And I am, actually, looking forward to writing a paper; I love that I have the freedom to write about whatever I want, and that I don’t have to sit through classes and readings and tailor my scholarship to someone else’s requirements.
And while I remain jobless, I’ve had two interviews (at Harvard, no less), both of which have asked my back for second interviews, and there’s a mother on Mercer Island who would love for me to nanny her children (for the benefit of Mr. Kite. I mean, those of you who are aching for me to get back to Seattle). I have been applying for jobs in the Seattle and Boston/New Hampshire areas since March, in my spare time away from academia, and now that I am (for the moment) jobless and (mostly) school-less, I will be devoting more time to finding that perfect position.*
And tomorrow, after a brief pit-stop in Cambridge to complete a second round of interviews and to grab a drink with Alice, I am headed to the very tip of Cape Code, to Provincetown, with many, many friends from my program here. We’re staying in a rental on the beach for a week, and plan to cook good food, eat oysters, drink champagne daily, read, make music and fun and laughs, and have an all around wonderful end to this year, to this program, to this chapter of our lives. And while I may still have 23 (not very)persuasive essays to read, I’m looking forward to this week, to forgetting about Jonathan Swift and Joseph Conrad, about finishing up theses, about looming unemployment, about the uncertainty of my next move as a person. If I were more cliché, I would say that I’m looking forward to digging my toes into the sand and listening to the sound of the waves crashing on the shore. However, despite the fact that I may, in fact, be looking forward to that, suffice it to say that I’m just ready to get the hell out of New Hampshire for a week.
*I have experience teaching English composition, teaching ESL, in French/English translation, and office work, in case you were looking to hire me. I may, in fact, be the perfect person to translate your French fashion blog into English, full-time, at a starting salary of $50,000.