A good friend's mother once asked me how I cope with the loss of a religious community. At the time--and please bear in mind, the time was my senior year of high school--I didn't think it a silly question, but I did sort of dismiss it. I had plenty of friends, I told her. I see people at school all day long, and then I see them again during softball practice or play rehearsal or weekend parties.
Now that I'm done with my coursework, I kind of see what she was getting at. School, or at least the classtime part of school, is likely over for me... and I miss it deeply. I'm not really built for the "independent research" thing, and I never have been; without the prospect of seeing a group of my peers every week to discuss a common intellectual interest, I'm left woefully unmotivated. Sure, there are dissertation meet-ups and the like, but those just aren't the same. My brain's procrastination center (which I'm pretty sure constitutes roughly 75% of my frontal lobe's grey matter) would still know I was there voluntarily, with no real consequences for failure.
As a would-be scholar of religion, I absolutely recognize that groups of like-minded people can lift individuals out of despondency. Or that a person might draw comfort from the beliefs his group stands for. It doesn't take a lot of probing to see this dynamic in action; for instance, when his young son died of cancer a few years back, my previously-lukewarm uncle threw himself into Mormonism with an understandable enthusiasm. So yeah, I get it. People need people.
Religious studies folks love to talk about communities, brotherhoods, sodalities, wholes-being-more-than-the-sum-of-their-parts. Getting caught up in a transcendent togetherness. Never having been much a one for organized ritual or spirituality, historically I've found plenty of proxies to achieve that feeling: academic seminars, theater productions, sports. But for the last few years, I've succumbed to that obliging malaise of the white urban twentysomething: ennui. Weltschmerz.
Without school, without employment, without softball or Waiting for Lefty, I'm just leading an atomistic life, floating from each one-on-one rendezvous to the next. Yesterday, I met up with a former fellow-student for coffee. I'm having drinks with another in an hour. These little tête-à-têtes, these little individual bitch-sessions, get me through the week--but these don't make a community. They can't stave off the anomie. I've got friends, sure. And they're wonderful... but they don't lend definition to my identity in the same way.
I'm not looking to join a new church. I did play softball last season, but it didn't stick. I've started doing a little volunteer work, but that's mostly just phone calls and emails I do from home. I tutor high school students, which is just more one-on-one time. I'm reluctant to start playing another sport without decent health insurance. I've thought about going back to school, to a different program, but that just sounds like I'd be digging myself into deeper debt without much professional payoff.
I've got an amazing boyfriend, a thoroughly terrific (though thousands of miles distant) family, and great friends. But without something bigger to participate in, to work toward, the self wilts.
Oct 7, 2011
Oct 6, 2011
Particles of Faith
Used to be, I'd tell people I was embarrassed. That it was personal information and only I should have control over who knew. I'd pretend to be politely annoyed when someone else spilled the beans. But the truth is... I take pride in it. It's a big part of what makes me unique, an intriguing element of my past and my family. Without it, I'm just another middle-class white girl from the suburbs. It piques others' interest and lends me a magnetism I might otherwise lack.
I'm an ex-Mormon.
Dad comes from a long, long line of Latter-day Saints. We're talking way back, to the early nineteenth century, not too long after the church itself was founded. He met my mom, the daughter of converts, when they were missionaries in France and Belgium; they got married in the Los Angeles temple a couple of years later. They had some kids, including yours truly. And then things got complicated in the mid-Nineties and we stopped being Mormon.
The reasons are manifold and took many years to develop, and they're a story for another time. Suffice it to say, my family could no longer pretend that our social values were compatible with church doctrine or the community atmosphere. Being a mere pre-teen at the time, I wasn't privy to all the nuances of the process; all I knew was that I could sleep in on Sundays from that point on.
Okay, that's not quite fair. It was a big deal to me at the time, at least on some levels: I had never been especially devout, but for the most part, I thought church was okay. I had friends there, and I liked my Sunday school teachers; most of my memories are of benign boredom. The women wore pumps and floral dresses that neatly straddled the tasteful/tacky line, while the men had perfectly shined wingtips and dark ties. It was safe and familiar and I knew all the songs. ("We'll sing, and we'll shout, with the aaaarmies of heeeaveeen...!") But I could tell when my parents' attitude started changing--it was gradual, but tangible. Things started to feel a little bit uncomfortable and itchy, kind of like the wool stockings I had to wear. And mom started sporting pantsuits.
Something was definitely different.
Even back then, at the age of almost-twelve, my parents trusted me enough to make up my own mind. They made it perfectly clear that I could always go to church--they'd drive me, they'd make sure I saw my Mormon friends, they'd get me to after-church activities if I wanted to go. If I wanted to go. This was the first major life decision they had put in my hands, and I could tell it was a doozy. But it wasn't a hard choice: it meant that my weekends were suddenly freer and fuller than they had ever been before. I could go to Saturday-night sleepovers without complication; Sundays could be used to get homework or important television watching done; nobody got me up at ungodly* hours to brush my hair and find my mary-janes. It's hard for me to imagine many ordinary pre-teens picking any other option.
In some ways, giving me such autonomy saved my mom and dad a lot of grief. Although we lived in a moderately liberal town outside notoriously enlightened Boston, it was home to a truly significant LDS minority, and my folks took a great deal of flak. A few local kids said mean things to us--and their parents said things that were much, much worse. But whenever concerned Mormon matrons would call the house, asking me and my older sister (in hushed yet pained tones) if our wicked mother wouldn't let us go to church, we could honestly say that such wasn't the case. No, we don't need a ride. Thanks anyway. Buh-bye.
My parents lost a lot of friends during that time. Their consciences may have been clear, and a moral burden lifted from their shoulders, but I don't think their lives were particularly happy until we moved far away a few years later. And I can't thank them enough for that emotional sacrifice: I might've made a contented Mormon--though I doubt it--yet I don't think we all would have. Some of us would have rebelled later, on our own, and without the same support system. Such dramatic changes could tear a family apart, and we're so lucky that it made us that much closer. (I can't say the same for my extended relatives, but that's another matter.) We went through this huge ordeal together and came out stronger for it.
In what my folks consider an ironic postscript to the whole affair, I decided to double major in religious studies during my sophomore year of college. Erin? The totally un-spiritual, decidedly not-interested-in-belief daughter? The one who only went to church to play with her friends and eat Cheerios under the pews? Yup. And now I'm pursuing my Ph.D. in religion, too. Go figure.
*Pun intended?
I'm an ex-Mormon.
Dad comes from a long, long line of Latter-day Saints. We're talking way back, to the early nineteenth century, not too long after the church itself was founded. He met my mom, the daughter of converts, when they were missionaries in France and Belgium; they got married in the Los Angeles temple a couple of years later. They had some kids, including yours truly. And then things got complicated in the mid-Nineties and we stopped being Mormon.
The reasons are manifold and took many years to develop, and they're a story for another time. Suffice it to say, my family could no longer pretend that our social values were compatible with church doctrine or the community atmosphere. Being a mere pre-teen at the time, I wasn't privy to all the nuances of the process; all I knew was that I could sleep in on Sundays from that point on.
Okay, that's not quite fair. It was a big deal to me at the time, at least on some levels: I had never been especially devout, but for the most part, I thought church was okay. I had friends there, and I liked my Sunday school teachers; most of my memories are of benign boredom. The women wore pumps and floral dresses that neatly straddled the tasteful/tacky line, while the men had perfectly shined wingtips and dark ties. It was safe and familiar and I knew all the songs. ("We'll sing, and we'll shout, with the aaaarmies of heeeaveeen...!") But I could tell when my parents' attitude started changing--it was gradual, but tangible. Things started to feel a little bit uncomfortable and itchy, kind of like the wool stockings I had to wear. And mom started sporting pantsuits.
Something was definitely different.
Even back then, at the age of almost-twelve, my parents trusted me enough to make up my own mind. They made it perfectly clear that I could always go to church--they'd drive me, they'd make sure I saw my Mormon friends, they'd get me to after-church activities if I wanted to go. If I wanted to go. This was the first major life decision they had put in my hands, and I could tell it was a doozy. But it wasn't a hard choice: it meant that my weekends were suddenly freer and fuller than they had ever been before. I could go to Saturday-night sleepovers without complication; Sundays could be used to get homework or important television watching done; nobody got me up at ungodly* hours to brush my hair and find my mary-janes. It's hard for me to imagine many ordinary pre-teens picking any other option.
In some ways, giving me such autonomy saved my mom and dad a lot of grief. Although we lived in a moderately liberal town outside notoriously enlightened Boston, it was home to a truly significant LDS minority, and my folks took a great deal of flak. A few local kids said mean things to us--and their parents said things that were much, much worse. But whenever concerned Mormon matrons would call the house, asking me and my older sister (in hushed yet pained tones) if our wicked mother wouldn't let us go to church, we could honestly say that such wasn't the case. No, we don't need a ride. Thanks anyway. Buh-bye.
My parents lost a lot of friends during that time. Their consciences may have been clear, and a moral burden lifted from their shoulders, but I don't think their lives were particularly happy until we moved far away a few years later. And I can't thank them enough for that emotional sacrifice: I might've made a contented Mormon--though I doubt it--yet I don't think we all would have. Some of us would have rebelled later, on our own, and without the same support system. Such dramatic changes could tear a family apart, and we're so lucky that it made us that much closer. (I can't say the same for my extended relatives, but that's another matter.) We went through this huge ordeal together and came out stronger for it.
In what my folks consider an ironic postscript to the whole affair, I decided to double major in religious studies during my sophomore year of college. Erin? The totally un-spiritual, decidedly not-interested-in-belief daughter? The one who only went to church to play with her friends and eat Cheerios under the pews? Yup. And now I'm pursuing my Ph.D. in religion, too. Go figure.
*Pun intended?
Oct 5, 2011
Taken for Granted, Taking for Granted
I've got a job interview tomorrow. It's my seventh since the end of the spring semester. And, if you'll permit me a moment to check... according to my trusty records, I've sent out roughly 95 applications in the last four months.
I'm not sure how I feel about this situation.
Okay, that's a little white lie. I'm glossing it over a bit. Of course I feel like crap, like everyone else in this situation. At least I've sort of got the cover of (sort of*) being in grad school; I'm expected to be chronically poor, and hey, at least I've got plenty of practice living the shabby chic lifestyle of the perpetual student. Right? Right?
The problem is, not only am I broke, but I'm feeling pretty downright worthless. Job-hunting is incredibly ego-bruising, as any non-nepotist can attest. But a small, sour part of myself has discovered a unique depth to this worthlessness: I feel a little like a hypocrite.
I've written plenty--and by written, I suppose I mean complained--about my undergraduates' perceived sense of entitlement. They worked hard in high school, they stayed up all night on this assignment, they've never missed a class... so they deserve an A, no? Well, it's hard for me not to see certain parallels between that attitude and my own during these past few months.
I worked f**cking hard in college. I graduated first in my class. I gave a speech and got a plaque and had the dean say nice things about me in front of hundreds of people. And then I got over it when all that work didn't get me into the graduate programs I wanted; I got in somewhere--not even a bad somewhere--and that was enough. And they paid me to go there.
On top of that, I managed to squeeze in a few awesome internships during my last two years as an undergrad. I've worked summers and I've worked part-time and I know more than one database management program. FileMaker Pro! Raiser's Edge! Access! Yes!
And yet here I am, about to go into yet another round of interviews. Still unemployed. Didn't I do everything right? Didn't I go to a top-tier university, and then grad school, and didn't I find the time to get plenty of office admin experience? Don't I have nice references from impressive-sounding people? So... where's my nice job offer?
I know the economy's in the toilet. I don't live under a rock. It's not like I'm expecting all my dreams to come true--even if Prince Harry is currently single. But damn, son. I've been turned down for minimum-wage jobs. I've been strung along for weeks by prospective employers who'd been too chicken to give me straight answers. I've gone in for meetings, gotten the good vibe, and never heard back. I've ritually scanned the postings and absorbed countless tidbits of Internet wisdom. I've borrowed money from my non-millionaire parents and let my non-royal boyfriend pay most of the rent.
So, yeah, I've been battling this entitlement issue from an angle I hadn't anticipated when I wrapped up my teaching gig in May. Back then, whatever sins my students were committing, surely I was innocent. Surely I knew better. Surely I was still destined for greatness, thanks to my elbow grease and naturally effervescent wit.
Sigh.
* I've taken a leave of absence from my program, because... yeah.
I'm not sure how I feel about this situation.
Okay, that's a little white lie. I'm glossing it over a bit. Of course I feel like crap, like everyone else in this situation. At least I've sort of got the cover of (sort of*) being in grad school; I'm expected to be chronically poor, and hey, at least I've got plenty of practice living the shabby chic lifestyle of the perpetual student. Right? Right?
The problem is, not only am I broke, but I'm feeling pretty downright worthless. Job-hunting is incredibly ego-bruising, as any non-nepotist can attest. But a small, sour part of myself has discovered a unique depth to this worthlessness: I feel a little like a hypocrite.
I've written plenty--and by written, I suppose I mean complained--about my undergraduates' perceived sense of entitlement. They worked hard in high school, they stayed up all night on this assignment, they've never missed a class... so they deserve an A, no? Well, it's hard for me not to see certain parallels between that attitude and my own during these past few months.
I worked f**cking hard in college. I graduated first in my class. I gave a speech and got a plaque and had the dean say nice things about me in front of hundreds of people. And then I got over it when all that work didn't get me into the graduate programs I wanted; I got in somewhere--not even a bad somewhere--and that was enough. And they paid me to go there.
On top of that, I managed to squeeze in a few awesome internships during my last two years as an undergrad. I've worked summers and I've worked part-time and I know more than one database management program. FileMaker Pro! Raiser's Edge! Access! Yes!
And yet here I am, about to go into yet another round of interviews. Still unemployed. Didn't I do everything right? Didn't I go to a top-tier university, and then grad school, and didn't I find the time to get plenty of office admin experience? Don't I have nice references from impressive-sounding people? So... where's my nice job offer?
I know the economy's in the toilet. I don't live under a rock. It's not like I'm expecting all my dreams to come true--even if Prince Harry is currently single. But damn, son. I've been turned down for minimum-wage jobs. I've been strung along for weeks by prospective employers who'd been too chicken to give me straight answers. I've gone in for meetings, gotten the good vibe, and never heard back. I've ritually scanned the postings and absorbed countless tidbits of Internet wisdom. I've borrowed money from my non-millionaire parents and let my non-royal boyfriend pay most of the rent.
So, yeah, I've been battling this entitlement issue from an angle I hadn't anticipated when I wrapped up my teaching gig in May. Back then, whatever sins my students were committing, surely I was innocent. Surely I knew better. Surely I was still destined for greatness, thanks to my elbow grease and naturally effervescent wit.
Sigh.
* I've taken a leave of absence from my program, because... yeah.
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