A Post-Graduation Education

The earliest memories I have are memories of school: fighting over a toy with a fellow preschooler, learning the alphabet, and the gradual transition in difficulty from midday naps to algebra. Not surprising that those are my core memories—the pursuit of education constitutes a staggering proportion of our lives, starting when we’re in diapers and reinforced till we’re job-hunting twenty-somethings searching for the meaning of life. The routine of class, homework, and extracurriculars forms the foundation of our daily existence.

go fetch

There was a time when I thought I’d “found” myself, as if the core of my being was a misplaced set of keys or a new hairstyle. I stumbled across the mysterious gift of self-knowledge, not quite understanding how it tangled itself under my feet but gladly accepting its wrapping of confidence and charm. I knew and loved who I was, I thought, and with a sunny disposition I plunged into the future—a future I was blithely convinced would be grounded in the solidity of permanent self-love.

on graduation

(Thanks to Shehz for the pic & for letting me steal his identity)

I’m sprawled comfortably on the grass, head propped on my backpack, while a fat squirrel noses suspiciously around my legs. I don’t linger here often, but Associates Park is one of my favorite places on campus: it’s a pretty, grassy little area with trees and benches and a convenient diagonal path that I always use for shortcuts. It’s Squirrel Central as well as a human thoroughfare, and its bushy-tailed residents make pleasant company.

acquaintances & almost-friends

It’s a universal phenomenon, unavoidable on a planet of 7 billion people. You meet someone, you talk briefly, and there’s a spark—not necessarily a romantic one. Just a sudden awareness of connection, like the raw ends of two wires in your brain have just been put together and oh hey, this could mean something. Electricity flows from your smile to the hollow in your chest where the potential energy coils in a heady blend of hope and anxiety. Yes, this could be something. 

on cosmetics and self-image

My mom trots into the hotel dressing room, eyes skimming the sea of lavender-swathed bridesmaids, all dressed to the nines. Her glance searches impatiently, doesn’t find. “Where’s Ann?” she calls. I look up at her, sitting less than five feet from her, and raise my hand pointedly. She does a double take. “Ann! I didn’t even see you, hun. You look so much older! And so elegant.”

Regarding Literary Snobbery

A few weeks ago, I was chatting with my sister over glasses of orange juice, talking about her new book club. We began to discuss the book the club was currently reading--The Goldfinch by Donna Tartt. She wasn't a fan of the book, but was dutifully trudging through the reading. Curious, I did a quick google search on my phone to see if critics agreed. I came across a Vanity Fair review discussing critics who panned Tartt's writing style. I have no objection to harsh literary review when written intelligently, but certain means of criticism instantly hit a nerve with me.