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1:49 a.m. - April 27, 2003 Professors began asking me to come during office hours to discuss the GRE, grad school, the best Ph.D. programs and along I went with that confidence of being a top student, secure in the my-professors-invite-me-over-for-dinner-and-I'm-special manner, the scary-smart brilliant paper-writer-cum-rebel living with his girlfriend constellation in which I was admired and knew so. And we'd talk African languages and literatures (Univ. of Wisconsin), literary theory and American literature studies (Harvard), linguistics (Johns Hopkins), review papers I had written, and talk about My Upcoming Big Future. Simultaneously I was planning on a Ph.D. program while using my teaching credential to revitalize an inner-city school, write articles for the MLA, win fellowships galore, and marry my girlfriend. I�d tell my English professors that I also majored in Political Science for fun, because I enjoyed politics and of course I�m not pursuing the field; with my Poly Sci advisor, we mapped out law school and the LSAT and I pursued both, not seeing the inherent contradiction. Even while my time was drawing to a close, I wanted everything, I wanted to please everybody. I wanted to remain the Golden Boy. The mystique began when as a freshman I took the junior-level writing course intended for English majors and left my peers far behind and when I petitioned to take the senior seminar in Shakespeare and when asked why, I replied with 17 year-old bravado, Because I can. And I did. At a small university, arrogance casts a wide shadow and I made sure I was the top dog for my class. As a sophomore I took the senior seminar in literary theory and prided myself for holding my own; eventually I served on hiring committees (in a non-voting capacity, unfortunately), was involved with the Scott C. debacle, edited the literary journal, made sure my peers looked up to and admired me. I could do no wrong. I scoffed when asked to join the GRE study group, said I could do better on my own. I took the GREs and the English Subject Exam cold and was the first person to finish for both. I remember checking my answers on the English exam twice just so I wouldn�t be done too early; when I walked up the aisle and passed Mary Jane she gasped and I wore that smug smile of mine for the rest of the day. Again, I was tops and everybody knew it. You think you know what�s coming next, don�t you? I also took the LSAT and compared law schools, was contemptuous of fellow poly-sci majors who squeaked, I want to go to law school too. Received both the GRE and LSAT scores and again, tops. I satisfied everybody�s expectations, pretended to be bothered when my scores became common knowledge. I�m private, but not when I want to strut; I remember a so-called English major waiting outside Professor G�s office and I deliberately evoked a comment of With your scores, Jason, you can go anywhere you want solely for her benefit. My poly sci advisor was immensely proud of the LSAT score and I couldn�t tell him that really, I took the test because I was more indecisive than ambitious, wanted to please others more than myself. And shortly after, I received a letter denying my application to the School of Education. In simple prose it said I failed to satisfy the criteria for admission and I freaked out. This was not in my plan. I remember sitting on the edge of my bed slowly and in shock, a classic scene from a movie, and thinking Is this a joke? I wasn�t good enough for the School of Ed.? I couldn�t fathom such a thing. That same day I was in my Education advisor�s office demanding an explanation and quick reparation for this oversight, this foolish mistake. And she could only say that two of the three professors had decided I wasn�t cut out to teach and that was that. I was upset primarily because the application to the School of Ed. was mostly a formality; I had already taken the coursework and half of the internship and damn it, that credential was mine. In order to be reconsidered, the team required me to go to counseling. I would have none of that. At the last meeting I told them to remember what they said and to realize the profound mistake they had made. And that was that. So, technically, I only double-majored and triple-minored. When I moved back to California and began my master�s degree at Berkeley, my advisor mentioned something about being eligible for a tuition waiver because I was a credentialed teacher. Huh? At the alma mater, the credential was broken into Phase I, a quarter-long off-site-observation, a quarter and half of pedagogy, and two quarters of Phase II, the in-class-teaching. My advisor at Berkeley mistook my Phase I as the internship and signed off on the tuition waiver. I did not correct him. I was granted a California teaching credential after I took the CBEST on the same misunderstanding. My first year teaching in California I was named Teacher of the Year at my high school. Don�t think the team at the School of Education did not hear of it. I worked my ass off to be the Golden Boy again with the specific result and when that venture was successful, I lost my motivation. Or, rather, I had the gold medal at the Olympics and retired. All this to say, I do everything for others. When I�m working towards a goal, it isn�t for me; it�s to prove something, to right a wrong, to be the Golden Boy. And now, for a while really, it�s been just me. There�s nothing pushing from behind, nothing goading from ahead, and there�s nothing inside urging me forward. Writing the book was part of the Golden Boy routine and now that it�s out of my hands and in motion for the January 2004 release, there�s nothing for me. I don�t know what I want, but it�s something I don�t possess. It angers me to lack direction and focus and truly, I seek a competitor, an insult, something to fuel motivation because it simply isn�t in me. It�s frustrating and bothers me a great deal I�m not the Golden Boy anymore. There�s nothing for me to do, there are no piles of details and Do This, Do That to occupy my mind. I have no master plan. I didn�t say so here, but I dropped out of Stanford again at the end of last quarter. Everything can be perfect and I�ll still be unhappy, unsatisfied, lacking direction. I have homework to do for my therapist by Monday. I�m supposed to think about a list of �issues� she�s given me, selecting three that are most applicable to Then and Now. I am to contextualize them, pull together details and shed more light on the megrim (heh� I love this word). Childishly, I don�t like being pushed like this; I resent her intrusiveness. And I know it�s good, or will be good, to talk about things but I�ve talked about the issues here and that didn�t do me any good, so how will therapy? I don�t know. I�m fighting this but I don�t really want to; I want to talk about it, I want to talk about everything, but it�s as if I need to be prodded, I don�t want to seem weak with need. How fucked is that? Made a connection this week between the individual and group therapy; I never understood why I don�t like to be touched. I can do handshakes but don�t think of slapping my back or touching me, period. How stupid of me to not realize the origin. I found myself wishing I knew this before, when I was with Spec and that panicky feeling would come. I wish, I wish, I wish. Useless to wish, but still. If I could have articulated that I�d prefer him to touch me slowly rather than throwing himself on me or getting grabby, perhaps I might have responded differently overall. Or maybe not, you know? I don�t like to be touched but I like it sometimes when people disregard that like � when I�m forced to hug I hate it but I also never want it to end, I do it so rarely � but people aren�t mind readers. I�m going to work on that. The touching people / people touching me, I mean. Not the mind reading portion. I�m supposed to find a confidante and how quickly Dr. Indy was to insist that a written journal does not, cannot serve as a confidante. Smart woman, she. I didn�t mention that I trust nobody and would never talk about �stuff� to my friends � yeah, what friends? There are a few, but I�m sloughing left and right � so I�m thinking of a compromise. I�m going to write letters to people instead, and just not send them. I think that�s fair and as effective. I�m going to write them here, but I�ll lock those entries. A good compromise, methinks. Maybe not. My first counselor, the one who couldn�t keep up with me, once said that telling people, talking about it to people, having them talk to me about it, getting things out into the open was essential. I don�t know. I don�t like taking risks. I dislike being vulnerable. It�s one of those nights, can you tell? I suspect this journal will, if it doesn�t already, serve as the pet who listens to its owner prattle on because the owner is a shut-in and has nobody else to talk to. Heh. Somewhere nearby, Santa Cruz or San Francisco, people-with-pets are now called �animal guardians� because you know, ownership of a creature is inherently oppressive and wrong. Whatever. Hey, Tim, if you still read this journal, would you send me an email? I think I�d like to talk with you, if you wouldn�t mind. I want to write with substance. One of these days.
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