Hurting today. Suicides, a fresh conversation about depression that still isn’t the needful one, more black men gunned down in this our police state (it is a police state for brown boys). Less Greek and more raging, then writing, today. Maybe that’s the plaintive answer to “why ever poetry?” Because as much as today hurt, as a poet I can ask myself “how can I use this?” even as the feelings are overwhelming. There’s an outlet and a purpose, albeit manufactured with effort.
Also feeling grateful today that I feel part of a community of people to whom I’m responsible for responding clearly and with nuance when the world happens. Posted on Facebook tonight because I needed to respond somehow–and even though it’s the no-man’s land of social media, I felt connected to the writers pouring out words on the interwebs today.
The old anger is fresh today and it’s asking “why poetry? How, in this godforsaken world of ours?” I can’t put words to it. I have my doubts, as do all the faithful. A few attempts at an answer:
(1) Poetry, practiced right, is a running towards and not a seclusion from the world. It is absolutely not and cannot be direct political action or social change (and I’m not up to debating you on that today, just bear with me). But it can be a channel for anger that would otherwise simply make the piston waffle around furiously aimless. It is not a vehicle for making others see more clearly, but it is a step forward from stewing in emotions that would otherwise overwhelm the poet or narrow the poet’s world.
(2) I’m going to feel the anger and the hurt and the hopelessness anyway. If I write them down, they become choate (or less inchoate). Refined anger is more useful anger, even for a definition of useful limited to “actionable.” Distilled hopelessness takes up less space in the brain. At the same time, poetry is less pernicious than overt rationalization in how it lets us precipitate out a feeling for later consideration, rather than insisting the feeling doesn’t or shouldn’t exist.
(3) Practicing poetry is hard enough that it takes up at least a small part of my store of attention that would otherwise be spread thin over all the solid reasons not to value the world we have. It lets me actively call out one evil–though only to myself and for my own useless benefit–instead of throwing up my hands in the general direction of all of them. It thus gives practice in seeing into an evil in search of understanding. That practice might be important at some crucial instant, though probably not in my lifetime. The thin hope of this potential use is enough of a reason to keep practicing poetry and it is a value I can see, though the smallest thing.”
My recitation today went off pretty well. I love Eric’s challenge to always take an opportunity to perform seriously–not ever to make half-assed use of language, if you want to be serious about poetry. It pushed me to really get into the head of Sappho’s speaker and make sure my recitation was reflecting the meaning of the Greek, instead of being content with reciting without knowing the meaning fully. Performance nerves got in the way a bit, but I think I gave a dramatic spin to at least a few parts…
My favorites are the shift from “tas emas audas aiosa peloi“, where the participle is present and the peloi fills out the progressive aspect, to the dramatic (loose sense) aorist of “eklues” beginning the next line; the light, one might boldly say winged, touch of the light syllables “pter’ ap'” describing the sparrows in contrast with the long sounds of the (smushed together–technical term) “wranwther-os dia messw”; the running together of the plaintive question “tis s’ w Saph’ adikeiei;”; the forthright closing plea, “summachos esso.”
I recited with understanding and performance work one of my favorite Sappho poems in the original Greek! Grinning so hard. This is, I think, a kind of pride baby-queer Jamie would adore, and more jaded queer Jamie can still dig, parades be damned.
A few awesome things that happen to one as you get into the “head” of a new language or author–as discussed over beer and Korean food with Justine and Rey:
*When Rey or I have a particularly impossible time with a passage of Lucretius, both of us will check out an English translation. Especially for the passages where it seems the difficulty is all vocabulary–the purple-wreathed hegemon exulting in Arabian myrrh, or whatever. The really awesome thing about consulting a translation is that its poverty compared to the original actually HELPS you understand the original. I’ve had numerous times when, reacting to a translation of a passage I wasn’t quite getting, I have an intuition “that isn’t quite what was being said,” even though I was unsure what was being said in the Latin, and then I’m able to reverse-engineer my understanding to get closer to the Latin through precisely where the English translation seems to fail. So I don’t only get to appreciate and remember why it’s so important to be able to read the original, but the liberties of the translation, which might frustrate me or be sad in some contexts, actually end up strengthening my relationship with the source language. (And yes, I do think of it as a relationship…language is my first and best mistress…)
*I can’t wait for the frustration and joy of starting an author we haven’t read in the Greek program, having the familiar “WTF DO I REALLY KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT THIS LANGUAGE?” feeling–then gliding right past that shit and getting into the flow of that author. It’s so life-affirming, since the thought processes and stylistic taste of the new author gets in your head, fucks with you, and stays with you.
*Trying to puzzle out a few lines from a Greek “papyrus” in the paleography lecture made me proud of my progress in Greek. With no word divisions, I could still with my group get most of the 10 lines, and I was making judgements *based on knowing Greek morphology*, like “this is more likely a finite verb than a participle, so that’s probably an “ntai” ending and not “nta.” Sometimes I find, for example, paleography in Middle English tiresome. Because I know much of what I’d expect the Middle English to be, and I think it’s more a feeling of getting the manuscript to match something I already have in my head of what the possibilities are. With Greek (and I assume with other of my non-native languages), I feel closer to the text and language per se, since I bring fewer assumptions about what the forms “should” be. It also feels good to feel my understanding of Greek morphology increasing as I make hypotheses about what forms something could be–especially when you can still recognize the part of speech or ID the form a verb that isn’t in your lexicon. So Greek Paleography can increase my feeling of competence and it makes morphology come alive as something that really helps you, whereas English paleography doesn’t seem to change my understanding of English as much. Then again, I just haven’t done enough English paleography 🙂
*Sight translating has been going really well. I have wild conjectures, I make silly week 1 mistakes, but the Greek comes to make sense in a much shorter time than I would’ve imagined, even though I knew the same thing happened to me with Latin. I love the concrete and immediate sense of accomplishment of getting through a Greek passage at sight–and I love that in our Aristotle elective, the literal Greek is making enough sense to us quickly enough that we get to dive into the commentary and talk about concepts — it’s been too long! Funny, though, that I didn’t miss philosophical and conceptual debates about what a text means that much. Translation itself and sticking real close to the language really is my jam.
*Separately–I am a poet who loves language itself, for itself. Language could be one of the things “good according to itself” for me, per Aristotle. I love how my relationship with language is stronger than “I like the sounds of this” or “these lexical items are striking,” but it’s really based on grokking the syntax and structure, and how different languages allow speakers and writers to have different effects on their audience by playing with different expectations. For example, it’s definitely changed the way I think about style to read Ciceronian Latin and get viscerally the effect that an inflected language with flexible word order can have via periodic sentences. Like music–suspension and resolution, when you get participles giving background, cum inversum, relative clauses filling in more detail, then suddenly, blissfully, the finite verb…
As Rey said, the more you get into languages, and every time you start a new language, everything is strange, wonderful and frustrating…and the world just gets richer and richer and stranger as you learn more languages. If everyone needs something to hope for in order to live–and I think we really do–the promise of getting to deepen my relationship with language as a lifetime avocation is a hell of a saving hope.
Sight today was so cool! Now we have relative-corelatives, the verb “to be” in all its existential utility, and the sorts of puzzles I love from Latin. The sight passages are starting to be of the sort about which (heh, unintentional Greek-speak) one can debate and ponder conceptually. (Today, for example, a part of Aristotle’s Politics where he’s comparing men to animals, and we learn the colors of verbs, in a way–what’s a sense perception versus a cognitive perceiving. Aristotle was describing “voices” (sounds a human makes) as the reactions to felt things hitting one, as they are for animals, and he goes on to talk about reason and understanding these “signs” as the mark of man.
At the end of sight, Aramis read aloud and translated for us a passage from Sophocles’ Oedipus, which included delights like “mechanorrafon” (I need to learn beta code), reminiscent of Dido “weaving the pretexts of delay” in Book 4. I’m starting to see some of how Greek makes new words from old ones (verbs from nouns and v.v., like “a sense perception” from aisthanomai, etc.) and it makes the language really come alive for me. As does the chance to sit in an air conditioned, albeit windowless, room the whole summer and occasionally get glimpses of what it’s like to have, say, Aramis’s level of fluency in Greek.
The sense of Greek as a joy and a refuge is coming to me much easier, this summer, than that feeling did for Latin, last summer. Last summer, that sense came after the program. It was such a struggle to work on Latin some days. I’m not ever, really, feeling that way with Greek–it’s delightful! And totally unexpected–I wonder why. Partly, the language has more morphology, and thus in a way, less syntax–less ambiguity in forms, more you can do with fewer words (I think–I’ll contradict myself in a few months when I actually know something about Greek). Partly, it’s actually loads better to be doing this language for no practical reason at all, because it keeps me in the happy and rarefied mental place where the language matters because poetry and the history of science matter. And those two thoughts, untenable some nights in my version of the real world outside the Institute, within it are mutually reinforcing–the language makes me care about poetry more, just-so stories (and more rigorous ones) about ancient science motivate learning the language.
The biggest difference, which I hope I remember when I fall off the diligence wagon, is that I am drilling my morpho and syntax like hell this summer. Last summer I think I was still somewhat in student mode (immature one at that)–oh, I’m doing okay on assessments, so I can afford to be lazy about knowing exactly what the syntax of this one ablative is. Now I don’t feel like it’s an option for me to be lazy about syntax or uncertain about morphology (that we’ve learned and practiced, I mean–sight is of course different). It makes such a huge difference for how much I enjoy the language! Which I knew it would, even when I was not doing it quite right last year. But I’m glad I’ve been able to carry through and treat Greek with the care and attention a beautiful language (redundant? yes–) deserves. I wanted to go in and “do the Institute right” at the beginning of the summer, and I’m feeling grateful to all the people supporting me, and yeah, proud and excited, that I haven’t flaked on myself (or the community that is the Institute), as I so often do.
Time for sentences! Then more drilling old & new morphology. I really am finding it all fun–with Ray, I hope (wish incapable of fulfillment in present or future time) that our shirt this year isn’t something about bitter study bearing sweet fruit. This is a joy and a privilege. This is a community getting an astonishing amount of good things done in a summer together. This is what learning could be, if we give and get elsewhere the kind of support we give and get here. I get wanting to be in an insider’s club that’s done this terribly hard thing, but I hope we talk about the Institute in a way that does justice to what happens here when we’re through. Is it a harsh way to learn a dead language? Sure. Maybe. It certainly doesn’t work for everyone–and we shouldn’t get into “special flower” thinking if it happens to work for us. But it is, and could also be, such a joyous way to learn that really affirms, continuously, progressively, repeatedly, emphatically, that this language and what was written and thought in it matters. Just because. Because it’s sacred, to my (devoutly atheist) way of thinking.
I’m feeling, intensified, some of those same things about Greek in particular, language in general, and learning in general that came, happily, last summer. I miss diagramming sentences – I’m looking forward to it; the relatively heavy morphology and light syntax we’ve had in Greek is a different sort of challenge than Latin was (during the Institute) and has been (since). I feel my nascent Greek reading abilities coming more fluidly than my Latin did, both because the languages are different and because I know how to learn a dead language now. Greek word order (in the fake Greek we’ve had) and the unambiguity of most forms has made Greek less like a puzzle and more like what will, I can feel, be a fluent reading experience at some time. Knowing morphology cold seems to have a clearer payoff in Greek than in Latin–not that it was in any way not essential in Latin, but I have a greater sense that you’ve fought more of the battle once you know what possible forms a Greek word could be in a sentence.
So far it’s not demanded as much systematic thinking of me as Latin, which I miss on the one hand, but which has a certain joy of intuition on the other. At first it drove me crazy that the Greek verbal system is much more sprawling and demanding of memorization than the thing of algorithmic and mathematical beauty that is Latin’s stem-infix-ending. Now I kind of like that about Greek–I’m starting to regain the zen feeling I got with Latin verb synopses, and I appreciate how verbs like lambanw are a mish-mash of principal parts from different verbs, since the commonest verbs often are. These irregularities that made me groan under the weight of irregular principal parts now give me a feeling for how Greek was a living language that evolved, that standardized its usage, in which different verbs once had different flavors and odd usages before coming together into one verb.
The thrill of language and the continuous feeling of stretching and miraculous competence and the restructuring of my English thought patterns are all there. Perhaps because having taught intensively this past year, I have more meta-cognition about what this program (happily) does to me. I notice more of the pedagogical moves that program instructors make, the incredible design and coordination of the whole thing, and I LOVE that. I’m trying to make my thoughts more explicit this year as I have them, about the unique combination of fast and slow reading, fluency and philology that the Institute fosters. What I loved half-wittingly last year, I understand my love for this year. This is a sort of haven for language and literature lovers, but a rigorous one, for once. Again, there are several fellow math folks among the students. I can confidently say after a day of Greek that “I know how to say something I didn’t yesterday”, which is a unique joy of language-learning for a poet and reader. How often, as a writer, do you get to feel that you’ve figured out how to say something right–an image, a word, a turn of phrase, an analogy, a reference, an anecdote–that you couldn’t yesterday?
My days when I am writing (or mathing) are marked by intense mental effort that often goes nowhere, or moments of solution and insight that mostly turn out to be false. Greek isn’t like that in this learning phase. I have the pleasure of analytical thinking like in math–but I get to say not just that I’ve learned a new technique for sparse graphs, but that with my poor grasp of Greek, I yet got to tackle the story of Prometheus or witty one-liners from Menander. How often do you get to feel like you’re making steady progress and unambiguously growing your toolbox for attacking what Anthony Storr, (following Thomas Szasz, in The Art of Psychotherapy) calls “problems of living”?
The Institute is unique in my life for its explicit encouragement of both philology and fluent reading–being able to dive down the rabbit hole, but not by default thinking of a sentence in an ancient language as a puzzle to be solved, instead of something one can aspire to read continuously. It’s perfect for someone like me who finds it hard to give up either of thinking analytically or synthetically, and it’s an amazing corrective to the turn towards contextualizing and cultural situation of texts, away from texts themselves. (It lets me keep this historicizing and contextualizing impulse, but be rigorous about the words in a poem too in a way that I partially pretend at in English.) Last year I think I was too overwhelmed by the newness of both classical languages and Institute methods to reflect much. This year, the structure I am looking at is more explicitly of the Institute itself and how it works, since I’m not too bogged down in the emotional roller coaster of learning a language this way.
Something else strange and COOL is happening in my relationship with the Institute this time around. I remember Alice getting frustrated at us one day in our Augustine elective because (probably) we were underprepared. She framed the situation in terms of our responsibility to do what the Institute asked of us, and I remember thinking it was a little grandiose. We were all there voluntarily, had paid tuition, and were going to take out of it what we would; we didn’t “have” to do any of this, even though we’d signed up for this–at least in the strong sense of moral requirement. Of course I took her framing seriously, because philosophical approaches to the sanctity and obligation of the classroom aside, she was right that we were underprepared and that was hurting the community.
I feel much more moralistic about it this time around. The sense of responsibility I feel is not because “I agreed to take part in this”, but because the Institute has to work a certain way for it to work, and I as a student have to (moral requirement, this time!) play my part fully and enthusiastically. I think I was a little more dazed and shocked by the pace of things last year, and more prone to complaining. Perhaps there were more people learning Latin for a requirement than there are learning Greek this year (medievalists in various fields, historians, etc. – there’s only a few students wonderfully crazy enough to be taking Greek the Institute way because they need it for something basically unrelated, like Koine for seminary). Either way, I find myself much more oriented towards the needs of the community and the mutual investment of all students and teachers in this crazy thing. I feel energized after a week of Greek, and I’m probably annoying some fellow students when I call this “fun”, unironically, with some frequency…and as much as I love translation and composition over drilling vocab and morphology, I can even get myself to do that with some enthusiasm, knowing, this time, around where I will be in my Greek on Day 31, 41, 51 if I do right by the program.
What this means is: what I’m not naturally inclined towards is still fun because I know in my Latin-Institute bones how helpful it is and will be. I trust more completely that Hardy, when he and Gerald Quinn put together this marvel of a textbook, and all three teachers, when they prepared for this summer, know exactly what they are doing when they tell us learning some particular thing is more essential than it might seem. I’m not so focused on the emotional impact the program has for me, this time, because I recognize–partly from last year, partly from more teaching experience of my own–the orders of magnitude harder our teachers have to work than we do. Just conceiving of how much true coordination and common preparation this level of synchronicity takes is doing wonders for how I think about everything from my board work to how to say exactly what I want to say and not a word more to the new level of thoroughness I realize can exist in preparing lessons and lectures. I’m not a little in awe of Institute teachers. (And wishing I were gonna be a classicist so there could be some sliver of hope that I’d teach here one day…)
I love what I didn’t see fully last year, too. I felt emotionally supported as well as pushed, last year, of course. I had a few breakdowns in Aaron’s office and pushed back against and finally accepted the wisdom of Akiva’s iron insistence on knowing the syntax of everything. (I have to remember to go genuflect to his teaching insights sometime soon…I’m now that person who knows the syntax of every word in a Greek sentence and not all of the vocabulary meanings, which doesn’t *only* speak to how I need to step up my vocabulary retention…). Now I see more clearly the things our teachers are doing minute by minute to strike this delicate balance of unwavering support and tough love. “No, you’re not being too slow translating, and yes, you need to get faster,” they manage to say, and make us believe. “Yes, it’s okay how this is going–and yes, we want you to progress and go at Greek differently.” That’s a series of subtle moves that I have a lot to learn from pedagogically (and as a person!)
As much as I feel humbled by the dedication of my fellow students and the faculty, I feel some pride in how I’m handling this year too. I’ve had a few nights of being sick or utterly beat, but for the most part I’ve pulled through on my promise to myself to thoroughly prepare every sentence and prose comp for drill the next day. From my experience last year and listening this year, I feel some level of independence and competence in how I know what questions to ask myself about each sentence. I look for what is new about the sentence, what Hardy (and Quinn) are clearly reinforcing from a few units ago, all the interesting features that one could conceivably examine in this sentence. Then the same for the next. I think I’m really doing my part in drill this year in a way I didn’t last year–I don’t keep questions to myself or leave them until during drill. There hasn’t been a sentence where I say “pass on me, I don’t have this one”–which there were not many, but too many of, last year. I don’t feel complacent about how much I need to drill morphology on the weekend, really knowing how much it’ll help and how I can always do better at Greek. So much more goes into teaching at the Institute than I can imagine, but I really feel like I’m holding up my end of the implicit learning contract we have here.
I even, blessedly, get to encourage and help along some of my fellow students with insights from last year 🙂 Not that I know anything better than last year, not at all–but I think, and certainly hope, that it might be making a difference to hear from a fellow student that the steep learning tasks the faculty are asking of us pay off. I think maybe this would be some of the joy of teaching at the Institute–I feel a thrill watching fellow students who haven’t learned languages before, or here, and having some sense of what part of the roller-coaster they’ll be on today, what the Greek learning landscape must look like to them right now, and where they’ll be with their language in a week, then two, if they keep up what they’re doing in their learning. I guess it’s weird to say this, but I feel okay saying it having done a lot of teaching myself, even though not at the Institute: I feel so proud of what my fellow students have learned about Greek and about what they are capable of learning so far. I’ve seen them grow so much already in how they approach language in particular and learning in general, and the many inspiring things I’ve heard from them about how they’re figuring out the Institute way and how to make it work for them are inspiring me in turn.
I feel so grateful and privileged to be here this summer. The Institute is beginning to occupy a special place in my life not just for making me learn my languages like gangbusters, but for the special dedication, community and pedagogy that’s grown up around it all these many years.
This has nothing to do with scholarship, but I’m learning that it can be a prerequisite for me–so this time, some more personal musings.
I’m settling into a pattern (not a routine!) that I think will do me a lot of good over these next few months before (I hope) I go back to school. My job isn’t too far away and it leaves me time to write in the mornings and time to rehearse and read in the evenings. (Still working on that “social life” thing.) This morning I got up not-too-early and still had time to read some, “check the incoming” without being overwhelmed, do laundry, bake cookies, and start to write this at the sun-drenched kitchen table in a home that breathes the fresh air with me in the mornings. I have time to myself, gloriously alone in the mornings–time that I’m slowly, but surely, learning to manage and not fritter away with the temptations of the Internet. And I have time with my family and to catch up with friends in long phone conversations at night. This is a good thing I have going.
Amidst all that, of course, there’s the constant struggle between mind and brain–that’s how my doctor has started framing it, and it’s a distinction I find useful. This week, as I changed my medication regime, I started feeling like I could track hourly the dosage of the stuff that was in my system by a physical sensation of my brain being “pumped up” or drained. This was a rough week in the mind-over-brain struggle. But I also got through a depressive episode by realizing that it was the medication change that was bringing these depressed thoughts I haven’t seriously dwelt on in months, that I could continue to feel secure in the progress I’ve made recently despite the apparent relapse, because it was my brain’s altered chemistry asserting itself. For a while finding that there was something going on in my brain that was out of my control–something that is a sort of baseline that can’t just be fixed by will or character or moral fortitude–was a deep blow to my sense of self. Here I was thinking that I’d figured out a lot about myself these past few years, and I was convinced I saw it all come tumbling down into a muck of chemical vicissitudes and moods that seemed to intrude themselves from outside me. Self-insight is really important to my self-concept and sense of control, and I thought I must’ve been deluding myself to miss something so basic to my psyche.
More recently, I’ve made a lot of peace with my brain. She and I are learning to work together, and she lets me subdue her least welcome side with pills most of the time. I still look at my little white pills and have a moment of bizarreness sometimes, wondering how the hell these things can do so much to me–but I’m not resistant, and so far it’s always a passing thought that goes with a shrug. And I’ve gotten back a certain trust in myself: trust that I know what’s going on in my inner life, or that I can look inward and discover some things at work when I don’t understand. I’m getting more practice with that under my new framework for understanding my inner life and how my brain mediates it, and I can look back at past events with a sense of understanding again.
I even found a dosage that makes me feel calm and centered even as it increases focus! Thank goodness–not sure I could’ve handled the highs and crashes new meds had me going through for any length of time.
It was an extremely liberating point in my life when it really sunk in that there is a difference between intellectuals and academics. I began to see true intellectuals in my friends and in many people, from many walks of life, who I have known and talked books with over the years. They have many sorts of jobs–the lucky ones as professional teachers and writers, the majority as tradesmen and other people who read and think when they go home and on lunch hours.
There were many things driving this realization, but I think, two primary ones. One was my introduction, through conversations and an REU and the math blogosphere, to the professional world of academic and even industry mathematics. At first, it was expanding because I met NOAA scientists with GR books on their shelves that they discussed with officemates, and I knew there was science outside the academy. Now, it’s even more expanding, because I recognize the trappings of a full-blown profession in the culture and training of scientists, and I can see how distinct that is from a love of science. I’ve been to conferences (loved JMM!) and seen how most math academics live in a scholarly world of at most five to ten people who understand what they do; how there are sub-sub-sub-divisions within the major professional societies of science and they often don’t go across the hall to another faction’s conference room. I don’t mean this negatively, or as a judgment: my introduction to the professional practice of mathematics was thrilling, as I saw the teaching debates strewn in the notices and columns of certain journals and felt myself with a big stake in them, or as I saw real problems applied mathematicians are working on. The point in my career when I joined SIAM and organized reading groups and seminars and mentored other students and scanned conference aspects and moderated a math question forum showed me how varied the world of mathematics is, and removed some of the blinders that any single institution’s flavor of scholarship puts on a student. It showed me that I love mentoring and teaching math, and even that I can be decent at it with a lot of work, and those were amazing discoveries with ramifications far beyond my professional life.
On the flip side, it also taught me to approach my love of mathematics with caution and really consider if I wanted a professional career in mathematics. As I began to understand that graduate school means having a particular problem you’re very interested in and apprenticing yourself to someone whose interests overlap, I dropped the childish idea that “grad school is something you do if you like the subject enough and are good enough in it and want to teach.” I understood that it’s not the training of scholars (except in the narrow sense), but the training of researchers in particular fields by what is functionally a guild system. I stopped asking myself if I was “good enough” or “dedicated enough” to do mathematics, stopped just taking the hardest classes I could find and comparing myself by hardcore-ness, and started the long process of figuring out whether there is an area or a problem I want to devote many years of my life to, years in which my teaching will be less and I won’t have the time for expanding my broad knowledge base and mentoring others as much as I do now. I haven’t found that particular problem yet; the jury’s still out on if I will. But it’s been so good for me to understand that graduate school is a professional choice and not a reflection of character, and to treat it as something you can only do properly with a solid research plan.
The second major turning point was more gradual, the steady accumulation of anecdotes, observations and advice over many deep conversations, as I discovered how people I admire for their science and their teaching came to do what they do. I learned how one mentor of mine turned to a focus on teaching because he was tired of being the world’s expert on one section of one Drosophila chromosome, because he went into evolutionary biology for a broad enthusiasm for evolution in all its variety. That’s not to say that he taught me I shouldn’t specialize–he taught me that it’s possible to be a scientist whose first love is teaching, and to write for the public and not shove aside the contact points between science and society. (The conversation started with a piece I was writing on the evolutionary theories behind homosexuality, and involved a discussion of how many science students are socialized not to think so much about questions of sexuality.)
Jury’s still out on if I’ll find that problem I’m glued to–though my preliminary thesis work on machine learning with a digital humanities spin is occupying a lot of time these days, and feels like it could go either way into math or English. But whatever’s next, I’m really glad I rescued myself from a lot of the emotional angst that comes with judging my scholarly ambitions with too narrow a framework. I’m confident that scholarship will be a crazy-making, tantalizing, frustrating, ultimately rewarding part of whatever life I build for myself: that confidence was a long time coming, and it still waxes and wanes. But that’s okay.