Dinner, handbook, and wondering what happened

I’m feeling domestic lately. Specifically, I’m actually cooking rather than relying on cheese and crackers or take-out. This evening, I tried couscous based on a friend’s recipe (I've always made the stuff out of the box in the past), then decided to add chicken. My parents bought me a grill for an early Easter present when they visited about a month ago. I think Dad decided that buying a less expensive charcoal grill would be offset by the numerous fire extinguishers he’s also buy in the event I got carried away with the lighter fluid. So I’m the proud owner of a shiny gas grill. So far, I’d just moved it when I mowed the backyard. But tonight I grilled chicken! All by myself!

When I was trying to find my grill tools – never before used and tucked away somewhere – I came across the handbook for my graduate department. It was with a pile of cookbooks in the corner of a low cupboard. I curled up on the couch after dinner (which turned out quite well for how quickly it came together) and flipped through my handbook. Then I remembered reading the same sections - much more seriously, of course - at my parents’ house after the first visit to my graduate department.

I glanced through the sections on the prelim, dissertation and defense as I rested on my childhood bed more than 5 years ago. I remember shaking my head – plan for a Masters degree firmly in place – and wondered who in the world would subject themselves to all of that just for a PhD. It’s not for me, I decided. It just wouldn’t fit.

My eldest cousin was the first to attend college in my family, though her younger sister quickly followed. And undergrad was kind to me – I went to a moderate school, did very well with little effort, and had no idea what to do after I finished. I rapidly devised a plan that would culminate in a return to my hometown prepared make plenty of money. It just required a 2 year stay in grad school – in the department which had offered me a generous stipend in addition to this nifty handbook. Everything was straightforward – a clear and intense course schedule. Qualifying exams after the first year, another shot a semester later if you failed the first time. Excellent faculty, outstanding research, a friendly yet challenging atmosphere. I knew I’d end up there.

I just didn’t know I’d stay for so long.

I’d been taught to respect education, but not to take it overly seriously. Grandma hadn’t finished 8th grade, and remained embarrassed about her lack of formal education well into my high school years. She was probably 75 when we talked about it – how schooling was so important, not only in offering knowledge, but in demanding respect for the work you’d done. She was smart, my grandmother. She read all the time, listened to people when they talked, really understood the world. And I remember deciding that anyone who failed to notice her brilliance based upon a lack of diploma was an idiot. I’d never do that, I promised myself. Fall into the trap of equating education with intelligence or personal worth.

Since I had (and have, I guess) no intentions of becoming a professor, why get a doctorate? It seems that I’d be falling in the trap I’d already defined – validating myself through years of education instead of accomplishments other than school. After all, I thought with a smile, flipping past the pages describing the upper-level departmental requirements and to the single page that listed median starting salaries for Masters and Doctoral graduates, if I was going to show people how smart I was, wouldn’t it make more sense to do it with money rather than a title?

Well, apparently not, right? And I could tell you about it, but I’m sleepy and haven’t quite finished the presentation I have to give tomorrow afternoon. But I’m trying to look at this blog a bit like I looked at grad school sometimes. If I just do it every day – make myself give a little effort, make a bit of progress – then eventually it’ll get good again and I’ll have something to show for my little slump.