Group meetings

“OK,” I told myself firmly as I tried to think and walk at the same time, “don’t act drunk. Act,” I paused to think of the right word and was distracted by how cool fog is. It’s like, like… like a cloud, but…thinner! And the CN Tower is tall! The top is like way far away from the ground. I went up in the CN Tower once. Got relatively drunk. Giggled a lot. Thought life was really amazing and lovely. I smiled while deciding that being a bit tipsy was certainly a happy state for me before reminding myself that I was walking alone back to my hotel. Giving a frown of disapproval to my two companions who had abandoned me for an extra 30 minutes of sleep, I picked up my former train of thought.

“Act aware,” I decided. “Head up, look around. No, not at the fog! Make eye contact with people – I read that somewhere. Oops, don’t think I was supposed to smile and say hello. Perhaps I should look sterner. Frown. There you go, keep frowning. See how I’m frowning, stranger? You should leave me alone. Hey! Look at the lights and how they play with the fog! Fog is awesome. Look, there’s my hotel! I love my hotel – all pretty and big with the green accents and the… the stairs and the elevators and the beds.”

Given that Toronto has always felt very safe to me (and perhaps that I’m an excellent frowner), I made it safely to my room. Due only to my excellent speed at going from dressed to pajamas, I fell asleep on top of the covers suitably attired for resting. I woke up a few hours later, realized my contacts were in and my face unwashed but was again unconscious before I could act on either situation.

I woke at 7 this morning – I know this because I opened one eye to look at the red numbers on the digital clock – and whimpered a little. I am not feeling particularly well right now. Luckily, the bottle of pills resides on my nightstand in my pretty room so I took an Advil and Excedrin and flopped back on the pillows for a few minutes. But I soon pulled the drapes closed, got in the shower and made coffee. Fog no longer seems all that amazing and those bellinis I had at the pretty bar near King Street are seeming like a bit of a bad idea. I only had two, happily sipping the peachy goodness mixed with rum and champagne and some other yumminess for several hours while talking with old colleagues.

“I’d have one,” Smarter said, staring at my second drink when I plucked the tiny plastic elephant from the mounds of adult slush. “But it’s too girly.”

“But it’s delicious,” I said, mixing the orange mound of frozen drink with the plum-colored pool around its edge. Smarter began to play with the mermaid that had come on my first drink, prancing the elephant around her. When he put it on top of her, I took it away from him, placing it on the other side of the table and rolling my eyes when he reached across me to retrieve it.

Taller continued to look sad across the table and I bit back the impulse to offer to listen while he talked. His current girlfriend might be moving and while he pronounced it ‘too much drama’ and said the relationship would probably end when she rotated to a different hospital, his eyes looked forlorn.

“I’m sorry,” I’d said earlier after I’d pried details from him with insistent questions.

“He’ll find another one,” Smarter scoffed while we walked down a hill trying to find a suitable establishment.

“He likes this one,” I replied firmly and frowned at Smarter while wanting to pat Taller’s arm. (It isn’t that Taller isn’t smart, by the way. He truly is. It’s just that Smarter is freaking brilliant.)

“So what’s been going on at this meeting?” I asked at some point. They both shook their heads in response, saying they stayed in on Monday, had a couple of drinks on Tuesday and were out with me on Wednesday. “Isn’t that pretty tame?” I asked, recalling our last trip to Toronto when we did shots until 1 then sat at a beer garden for another hour or so before they went off the clubs, leaving Carrie and I to head back to the hotel.

“We’re tired,” Smarter said. “We’re trying to be at the meeting by 10.”

“Ten?” I exclaimed. “You used to party until 4 and still show up at 7!”

“That was when we were young,” Taller said with a sad shake of his 30-year-old head. “Now we sleep.”

“Screw the morning sessions,” Smarter said and we clinked glasses together to emphasize the statement. But I still marveled at the change.

“I didn’t have any gray hair before I took this faculty job,” Taller said of his first year on the tenure track. I peered across the table in the bar and nodded at the appearance of his temples.

“Fucking grants,” Smarter said. “I wake up in the morning and think what am I going to do in two years or five years or next year?” Smarter was just awarded tenure at 33 (he’s really very smart and didn’t do a post-doc) and is safely funded for another couple of years. He’s charismatic and funny, bright and personable, driven and creative. The senior member of my group when I started grad school, I thought that I could never be like him. I was right.

“There are positions other than faculty,” he told me later in an attempt at comfort. And we discussed the lack of deadlines in post-doctoral positions – no grants equal no push to complete something by a given date. We talked through my current options, they both made encouraging noises and I finally shrugged and changed the subject. We told funny stories and I giggled as we caught up on gossip. The conversation soon dwindled to include only Smarter and myself, seated as we were in the two chairs across the table from Taller. He slumped into the padded seat against a wall and looked sleepy and sad.

“I love this drink,” Smarter said of his dirty martini. I shook my head at him as he playfully pranced my elephant around the table before I sent another worried glance to Taller. “Another round?” Smarter asked and I evaluated the state of my head and decided I was done.

“I have to walk back to my hotel,” I noted and decided it would only take about 10 minutes but I didn’t want to be severely incapacitated for the journey. “And I think Taller is ready for bed.”

“We should go to a club!” Smarter said once we’d left money on the table and wandered outside. I was trying to make sure I was properly balanced enough to walk, feeling relieved when I didn’t feel all that sloppy, though I tucked my hand in Smarter’s elbow for a bit of extra help. We made our way back to Front Street and our respective hotels, avoiding puddles at intersections and talking about how we were all old and tired and the sadness of that realization. Not that I’ve ever been to a club – it’s just not a Katie sort of activity.

What is a Katie sort of activity? I had engaged in a few earlier yesterday. I found YoungerStudent at her poster, pausing to smooth the wrinkle from the shoulder of her blouse and smiling at her fondly. We talked again about projects and prelims, research and career goals.

“Can I tell you something that bothers me?” she asked after we’d talked for a bit.

“Please,” I said and put on my thoughtful expression.

“When we talk about my fellowship and what a blessing it was that I got it on the first try, OlderStudent says it’s because I’m a minority.”

“Oh,” I said, blinking with surprise.

“And it eats me up inside that she thinks I’m not smart enough to get it and only am here because I’m black.”

I opened my mouth and closed it again, genuinely shocked. I’m sad, though not really surprised, that people might think that of her but I was caught off guard by it being said directly to her. Multiple times, apparently.

“She just,” I stopped myself, horrified that I was going to explain OlderStudent’s behavior and shook my head firmly, reaching out to touch YoungerStudent’s arm. “No. OK. Starting over. First, that’s not true. You know that’s not true and it’s inexcusable and awful and incredibly offensive that she said that to you. I was going to explain that she feels very vulnerable that she tried so hard to get that fellowship and couldn’t. So she’s trying to explain her failure by making your accomplishment seem smaller. But that’s not an excuse because that statement is grossly inappropriate and just plain wrong. It’s not true, sweetheart.”

She looked at the ground and nodded while I searched for something more to say. “There are,” I said slowly, trying to find the right words, “all kinds of ways to feel inadequate in academic fields. All sorts of people who are just waiting to help you do that.” She smiled at me then and I let my lips curve momentarily before continuing. “I don’t know how to avoid letting it eat you up inside – such a statement would wound me too. But it’s bullshit and you somehow have to know that. As for what you do in response, that’s up to you. You can correct her or avoid her or blow her off – I don’t know what the right answer is here. You could go to Advisor and have him step in and talk to her. Or I could say something to her tonight at dinner if you’d like.”

She assured me that she’d take care of it, looking suddenly proud and strong.

“I’m sorry this is a part of your life – your educational experience,” I said, shaking my head. “I think you’re amazing and talented and very smart.”

“You’re a blessing to me,” she said and I rolled my eyes. “No!” she protested. “Every time I see you I feel like a weight is lifted and I’m more capable and excited about doing what needs to be done.”

“I’m glad,” I said sincerely and shook my head when she asked if it drained me to talk to her. “Not at all,” I replied. “It sometimes makes me sad – I hate that there’s this extra layer of difficulty for you because it’s so completely wrong. But I do think you’re wonderfully strong and completely capable and I’m very glad I know you.” We hugged and said our good-byes and I offered a quick prayer for her as I wandered away.

OlderStudent and I met for dinner not much later, wandering the rainy streets and settling on a place because it was close. We talked of defenses and applications, papers and research, travel and teeth (long story – not very interesting). (And not my teeth – my teeth are fine, thank you.) OlderStudent doesn’t want advice, I thought, not for the first time. She wants to talk and have someone listen. She wants to hear that she’s smart and capable and will be OK. And I can give her that – I’m actually happy to give her that while I sip water and nibble vegetables on the side of my steak tips and mashed potatoes. But I remain frustrated that she can't feel some empathy for others given her own insecurities.

“She’s a minority too,” Taller said later when I told him about the racial issue between Older and Younger students.

“What?” Smarter said from across the room, still messing with his hair and picking out a shirt while I sat at the desk in the corner of their room.

“There’s not a box to check for lesbian, Taller,” I said and he grinned as Smarter made a sound of understanding and went back to becoming pretty enough to go out. I shook my head at the idea that I’d gotten dressed, did hair and make-up and walked to their hotel and was still waiting for a man to complete his preparation ritual. Honestly. “I do think it’s sad that she likely understands discrimination and being different than the majority, yet still tries to make YoungerStudent feel smaller by using such an awful method.”

Taller opened his mouth to answer – he’s vehemently against any sort of affirmative action – but Smarter interrupted by saying he was ready. And then there was drinking. And now there is pain. And soon there must be some move to dry my hair and dress so there can be learning. (But I did buy internet for my last full day in the hotel so I should be commenting and reading again soon! As a blanket statement, I hope you're all well.)