Base Camp

Hold for applause--it's your damn right

I have reached base camp in the climb up Mount BookEverest. I turned in my manuscript and materials, which means the project is off my plate for a little while and I can go back to doing human things like showering regularly. I am taking a minute to salute this milestone by way of a criminally caloric dinner in Boston’s North End—our version of Little Italy. I will also be on break from here until 9/6.

The wonderful writer Charlene Storey of Haver & Sparrow wrote a really beautiful piece recently about giving ourselves permission to own our accomplishments, to celebrate our growth and work and success without shame or the self-consciousness of fearing someone will swoop in and say, “You think yaaahhh bettttaaahhhh than me???” (Not just a Boston thing!).

The nature of this book project combines my photography and writing. It worked several different creative muscle groups, a few that I hardly knew I had, but boy did they announce themselves with a lot of burn. Over the last year, I’ve been on a rigorous schedule of traveling to various locations, shooting, editing, writing, and sometimes going back several times to reshoot or revisit. As my deadline approached, I’ve been working almost seven days a week alongside meeting other work obligations. But honestly, none of this grueling pace was unfamiliar. I had been here before.

In 2005 I completed my PhD. In the spring of 2001 I was admitted to Northwestern University’s Interdisciplinary PhD program, a fancy way of saying “we will pay you for four years to Frankenstein a hip research project that will land you an awesome job and allow us to ask you for alumni money until the world implodes in a ball of white fire.” Agreed. Signing on the dotted line to secure this blood oath.

I had a runway of four years with my tuition paid for and a stipend to live on. Beyond that, if I were still writing and finishing up, I was on the hook to foot the bill. I had already completed a 2-year masters’ degree that was also scholarship and grant-funded. I could do four years if it meant zero debt and a paycheck-lit glow at the end of the tunnel. That’s what I told myself. That’s what I told everyone else with the confidence and swagger of a politician in a gerrymandered district. At least I assume that’s what I sounded like because no one argued, no one tried to talk me out of it.

My four year track looked like this: completing two years of coursework; writing and getting my dissertation prospectus (another fancy term for long, long ass proposal) passed; and taking qualifying exams. These exams had two sections: a written and oral. The written part took place over three days. You would go to the department offices and hand over all your belongings to the administrative assistance who’s name was Liz. By the way, Liz saved all of us addled graduate students in so many big and small ways. I remember that each day I arrived for the exam, she would gently place my items behind her desk saying, “Just think, after this you won’t have to take another exam for the rest of your life. Unless, you know, you want to drive a tractor trailer or something.”

She would take you to an empty room and give you a yellow legal pad, a few pencils, and a print out that had between one and three questions on it. You were allowed to choose one question and answer it in about three hours. The following week you returned and met with your committee where they grilled you in a kind of exam mini-defense. They could ask you about anything you’d written, anything on your reading list, or literally just anything like “Mayonnaise. Why is it so weird?” No books or notes or phone-a-friend lifeline for this portion either. It might be worth mentioning that I turned into a latte drinker years AFTER this whole part of my life. I evidently powered through this stretch on sheer will power. Like cliff diving and Burning Man—advanced degrees are a young person’s game.

After passing these exams, you’re given the green light to start researching and writing your dissertation. Check. Also, I was teaching, presenting papers at conferences, and trying to get academic articles published. I continued all of those things into my final year while revising my dissertation in order to submit it to my committee within the timeframe to graduate in the spring of 2005. After you hand in your dissertation, you wait a week or so to schedule your defense. This is another kind of highly-intellectual, intense, playing-for-all-the-marbles “conversation” about your entire body of work, which has been stuffed, academic turdurken-style, into the dissertation that your nascent career now depends on. No pressure. Again, anything is up for grabs in the defense (“No, seriously, Mayonnaise? It’s like even spelled weird!”).

When the interrogators (aka up until this point, your friendly dissertation committee) feel satisfied enough to stop, they ask you to step out of the room so they can deliberate. It doesn’t matter if you’re standing in the hall for five minutes or the next three hours—time ceases and every molecule in your body seems to freeze with it. I can now deeply sympathize with anyone left standing at the altar. Fortunately, my dissertation was accepted and “approved without revisions.” I didn’t know that could actually happen, that a committee could make you tweak a few more things before rubber stamping your academic opus until I was mercifully on the other side. Last step: filing the dissertation. In some movie version of all of this you think that means going to another office somewhere and dropping off your 8-pound brick of writing. Foolish mortal. Filing involved both printing out a bound copy and submitting the manuscript electronically. And that part required reformatting it in accordance with all these inane, technologically archaic rules that have nothing to do with anything except giving some tech nerd in the university’s archival system something to do in between rounds of playing Tetris. No, I don’t consider that the straw that nearly broke this already broken camel’s back—STILL.

I did all of this with head and pedal down, moving from one hurdle to the next without any real breaks, without any kind of reflection on what I was accomplishing. I remember taking the train back to my apartment after my defense. I vaguely recall emailing a few people, my mother certainly, to tell them it went fine. There was a brief phone call to my boyfriend. There was definitely an order of very greasy bucket chicken consumed on my futon while I probably watched a bunch of Friends re-runs until I eventually peeled myself off and went to bed. Are you jealous of my glittery past?

I was the walking dead at my hooding ceremony. I have fragments of images from that weekend, like finding a box of Polaroids from someone’s wedding at thrift store. Because what I did not do, besides all the obvious take-basic-care-of-your-physical-and-mental-health items glaringly absent from this tale, is I did not celebrate any of it. I barely paused from the many base camps that littered my ascent, let alone the summit to let myself enjoy or feel proud of what I was achieving. It wasn’t that others weren’t paying attention and cheering me on and trying to pass me water and doughnuts like they do at marathons. Believe me. I would have stopped for doughnuts. It was that I didn’t allow myself to see what I was doing as “a big deal,” it was just what was required of me, nothing to make a fuss about, carry on. That is a deeply broken mindset. One I hadn’t thought about until just recently with this project as I’ve rounded third and eaten gravel sliding into home. Never. Again.

Sometimes you have to put yourself through what feels like extraordinary lengths in the pursuit of a goal that is meaningful to you. Your comfort zone is not up for debate or comparison and it is not defined by cultural garbage. That rigor is the “requirement” part and it looks different for everyone. And while we’re here, new general rule of thumb: if it’s a big deal to you, it’s a big deal. End scene. Along the way you are entitled to feel pleasure and take happy stock of how far you’ve come on your path. And that also means you get to stop, exhale, take it all in, express your gratitude and your damn joy, and make space for you to fully inhabit this incredible thing that you’ve done or are doing.

You might think (or you might have been taught) that you’re being humble and gracious by making yourself unseen. All you’re really doing is writing yourself out of your own story. You made something happen. That is no small thing and neither are you.

self-portrait of the PROUD writer. ©SheilaMoeschenPhotography

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Lens Zen!

Summmaaah is nearly over, but there’s still time for a get-away. Just ask our favorite super spies, Boris and Natasha!

©SheilaMoeschenPhotography

Natasha! It was so nice of Headquarters, I mean Acme Aluminium Siding company to send us on out of town assignment…I mean work trip! I am at rendezvous harbor point looking at ships and dinghys. Ha Ha. That is fun word. It is beautiful day for assignment, I mean, for being normal tourist go-er in charming seaside town. Maybe we should take Harbor Cruise with lobster dinner included. You know, for the blend. Tell no one! -Boris

@SheilaMoeschenPhotography

Boris! I am on way, but late. I am at adorable sidewalk cafe. As you know breakfast is most important meal of day for spies—-I mean Acme Aluminium salesmen. How they make cappuccino so light and fluffy? Why is croissant enjoyed out of side so much better than at home from supermarket? I will know these answers! Tell no one! -Natasha

@SheilaMoeschenPhotography

Natasha! I found perfect hide-out…I mean, B&B for Acme work trip. Very quiet, waterfront view, and very blendy in. I invite neighbors for grill out and dance party, but in this house we are sure to fly below radar. No one will suspect! Tell no one! -Boris