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insecurity is a way of life.
My mother is in New Jersey until Friday. When I spoke with her last night she offered to call me Thursday night to check in, and I said no, no, I can wait until you're home. I'm okay.
Ten minutes ago I called her for reassurance that she would, in fact, still love me even if I do not do well in seventeenth-century poetry.
It's already a given that I'm not going to get a wonderful grade; it's more a matter of will it be borderline okay or kind of awful. It isn't as though I can fail, unless I, oh, leave the final exam blank. Failing a student just because they don't only regurgitate your reading of a group of poems but include personal interpretation as well is just not an option, even in the non-democratic world of academia.
I've put a lot into this paper. I threw out three pages because I didn't think my analysis of that particular poem would be satisfactory. I spent almost an hour in Harold Skulsky's office today going over the poem in great detail. Why am I still absolutely panicked over this?
It could be that the last paper I wrote for him, a paper I handed in with great confidence, knowing it was worth - in the eyes of any *other* English professor in this school - an A-, *maybe* a B+, got me a C+. I can no longer trust my own judgement. My best really might not be good enough.
And that's something I'm used to and have come to accept in other subjects, especially science and math. But it's never happened in English before. It *devastated* me. As did the midterm grade I got. The midterm I walked away from feeling confident.
At heart, I am terribly anal-retentive. At heart, I am a perfectionist. To the extent that it drove me nearly insane in high school, because anything less than an A was cause for a nervous breakdown. Every test meant hours of agonizing studying and worrying and fretting, even when not a single other soul in the class was studying or worrying or fretting.
I got over this because I *had* to. I had to tell myself, grades are not worth my health or sanity. Grades are not who I am. Grades do not make me worth more or less than anyone else. And I had to learn to believe that.
And you know, I mostly succeeded. If it's been at the expense of my ruthless self-discipline then, well, whatever. I've found a balance between self-discipline and healthy procrastination that works for me. I may not have a 4.0, or even a 3.7, but I maintain the average that I'm comfortable with and I end classes happy with what I've learned, if not an A. I'm not interested in grad school, I don't *need* the grades, so it's a perspective that's worked for me without any ill consequences. And I've been saner for it.
But this past year has been different. It's begun to occur to me that I've become a better student during my tenure here, I've gotten more out of my education each semester, and I feel that the quality of what I produce - though not brilliant - has at least consistently improved. But I haven't seen that reflected in my grades. All of the sudden I'm getting excited about academics again, excited about learning, sometimes even excited about the papers I'm writing - and I find I want that to be acknowledged. I don't want to have to rely on grades for validation of this, but what else is there?
It's frustrating. This five-page paper has eaten up all of the time that I'd intended to devote to my *ten*-page Chaucer paper, and I've only just finished the rough draft. I know I will fret over it endlessly tomorrow and deliver it with reluctance to the professor's mailbox on Friday. I know I will then panic over my notes and study for hours and spend the two hours of the exam with my stomach in knots. And then I will go home and I will not be able to fully relax until grades are posted on Bannerweb. And then, maybe, finally, I will deal with the grade, whatever it is, accept it, and move on.
This is such a useless process. I'm sick of school.
Ten minutes ago I called her for reassurance that she would, in fact, still love me even if I do not do well in seventeenth-century poetry.
It's already a given that I'm not going to get a wonderful grade; it's more a matter of will it be borderline okay or kind of awful. It isn't as though I can fail, unless I, oh, leave the final exam blank. Failing a student just because they don't only regurgitate your reading of a group of poems but include personal interpretation as well is just not an option, even in the non-democratic world of academia.
I've put a lot into this paper. I threw out three pages because I didn't think my analysis of that particular poem would be satisfactory. I spent almost an hour in Harold Skulsky's office today going over the poem in great detail. Why am I still absolutely panicked over this?
It could be that the last paper I wrote for him, a paper I handed in with great confidence, knowing it was worth - in the eyes of any *other* English professor in this school - an A-, *maybe* a B+, got me a C+. I can no longer trust my own judgement. My best really might not be good enough.
And that's something I'm used to and have come to accept in other subjects, especially science and math. But it's never happened in English before. It *devastated* me. As did the midterm grade I got. The midterm I walked away from feeling confident.
At heart, I am terribly anal-retentive. At heart, I am a perfectionist. To the extent that it drove me nearly insane in high school, because anything less than an A was cause for a nervous breakdown. Every test meant hours of agonizing studying and worrying and fretting, even when not a single other soul in the class was studying or worrying or fretting.
I got over this because I *had* to. I had to tell myself, grades are not worth my health or sanity. Grades are not who I am. Grades do not make me worth more or less than anyone else. And I had to learn to believe that.
And you know, I mostly succeeded. If it's been at the expense of my ruthless self-discipline then, well, whatever. I've found a balance between self-discipline and healthy procrastination that works for me. I may not have a 4.0, or even a 3.7, but I maintain the average that I'm comfortable with and I end classes happy with what I've learned, if not an A. I'm not interested in grad school, I don't *need* the grades, so it's a perspective that's worked for me without any ill consequences. And I've been saner for it.
But this past year has been different. It's begun to occur to me that I've become a better student during my tenure here, I've gotten more out of my education each semester, and I feel that the quality of what I produce - though not brilliant - has at least consistently improved. But I haven't seen that reflected in my grades. All of the sudden I'm getting excited about academics again, excited about learning, sometimes even excited about the papers I'm writing - and I find I want that to be acknowledged. I don't want to have to rely on grades for validation of this, but what else is there?
It's frustrating. This five-page paper has eaten up all of the time that I'd intended to devote to my *ten*-page Chaucer paper, and I've only just finished the rough draft. I know I will fret over it endlessly tomorrow and deliver it with reluctance to the professor's mailbox on Friday. I know I will then panic over my notes and study for hours and spend the two hours of the exam with my stomach in knots. And then I will go home and I will not be able to fully relax until grades are posted on Bannerweb. And then, maybe, finally, I will deal with the grade, whatever it is, accept it, and move on.
This is such a useless process. I'm sick of school.
no subject
so, really, don't beat yourself up over that. you are a brilliant writer and grades really are irrelevant.
no subject
no subject
no subject
Don't worry about exams. You will do brilliantly. And then you will come home! Happy happy happy! (In my opinion, anyway.) Speaking of which, we must plan when/where we'll get together. I have a little over a week between when I'll be getting back from San Diego and when I start my internship. That's the week of my birthday, I believe. I don't know what your plans are for working or whatever, but I'd be happy to drive anywhere between Syracuse and Hollis to see you! 'Cause I miss you lots and lots.
love and praxis funds,
me