Lost in Seattle

Ray starts school in less than a month. He’s been such a mama’s boy for his three years, that Amy and I are concerned about how he’s going to adapt. She has carefully explained to him that (a) she’s not going to be there, and (b) he goes to school every day that daddy goes to work. He seems OK with it in theory; we’ll see what happens when we abandon him in a room with 24 other kids. To be honest, I think it’ll be harder on me and Amy. Even as I type this, I can’t imagine myself dropping him off and then leaving, even if he’s not screaming and struggling against restraints to get to me.

Amy’s talked to a few other parents of older kids about their experiences, and things seem to be all over the map. For one boy, there was a lot of crying and clinginess for a week; for another, that sort of thing lasted all year. Amy — quick to assume that any troublesome character traits in Ray originate from my genes — asked me if I remembered any stories about how I acted on my first day of school. I had to plead ignorance. I remember wailing hysterically before getting on the bus to first grade for the first time, but only because I thought my mom was going to come too. I don’t think I had a problem with going to preschool or kindergarten before that, but I don’t recall hearing anything one way or the other.

However, I did have a problem with graduate school.

I landed in Iowa City about two weeks before classes started. It was just after a summer of major flooding in the Midwest. Some buildings were still closed for repair and sand bags lay strewn about the city. I met some people through a graduate student orientation, but in general I was feeling pretty lonely and freaked out by my impending coursework. It didn’t help that the department had no funding for me as they implied they would. I didn’t plan to have to scramble around for a job on top of everything else.

After the first couple days of classes, I decided I had had enough. I called home to discuss options for my return. Needless to say, there weren’t many. I had already paid my tuition, taken out loans, and signed a one-year lease. My next stop was the History Department where I inquired about re-enrolling as an undergraduate to get a degree that would allow me to pursue my first career goal: teaching high school. The adviser informed me that, in all honesty, unless I could also coach some sort of sport, I probably wouldn’t have much luck in the secondary school job market as a history teacher.

Resigned to my fate as a film studies graduate student in Iowa, I slogged through another couple days of classes before we had our new student assembly with the department chair. He began his speech by describing all the feelings that we were all probably experiencing: fear, dread, lonliness, even hopelessness. I was surprised by how spot-on he was in his assessment. He went on to describe, rather amusingly, how those feelings could be attributed to Post Flood Stress Disorder and they were nothing to worry about. As the floodwaters recede and the buildings dry out, he promised, we would all begin to feel ourselves again.

His speech was so insightful and funny that I felt immediately relieved. Most importantly, it revealed that I was not the only one in my class with these feelings; indeed, not the only one in any incoming class, I’m sure.

Of course, I would later quit the program during another crisis of confidence following a demoralizing three years, but I’ll leave that part out if I need to tell this story as a boost of encouragement for Ray.