As I near the end of my undergraduate career, I've been reflecting lately on the professors that have impacted me the most. Despite my first degree being in Criminal Justice, I have to say that my "Top Three" are not from that department. Though I could cite some of my favorite moments in my studies are from that side of the house, (having a fellow undergrad warn his friend to not get into an argument with me over judicial policy because "she's that good") my favorite academics are not. I shall call them Drs. Goethe, Wagner and Klemperer for the sake of pseudo anonymity.
Dr. Goethe is "the dude". I usually call him Dr. First-Name. He's the affable smart-ass. We make jokes at our own expense and share a wicked sense of humor. I was in his very first class at our university and I've been a fan ever since. He's the professor most students think is "so chill". He's been my research mentor for a couple years now and most of our meetings involve food and beer. Yep, he's that awesome. We've found common ground there and neither of us stands on pretense. Under his direction I've been able to find out who I "am" as a hopeful historian. I know that environmental history is not my bag. At. All. I'm more interested in the people, their stories, their lives. Thankfully, he saw my potential and encourages me to go my own way, find what interests me and run with it. I dare say Dr. Goethe is very nearly a friend.
Then there's Dr. Klemperer. I doubt even he would guess his moniker, though Dr. Wagner would probably guess it in a heartbeat. He's the lovable, socially awkward professor. Dr. Goethe and I privately call him Einstein, affectionately of course. He's the one I mentioned in my previous post that noted the change in my demeanor, post-Iraq. He's brilliant. He's probably forgotten more than I'll ever know. But his lecture delivery often comes across dull and monotone. I found that engaging him, making jokes (and getting my classmates to interact with him as well), would make the lecture a little less painful. I think he appreciated having interaction, rather than the dead, dull, glossed over stares that he received from some of my peers. Something about this shy, awkward man that's old enough to be my father, endeared him to me. I truly care about him. One semester, I signed up for a class of his, a writing-intensive at that, thinking it was something completely different (turns out the entire class did the same thing!) and didn't have the heart to drop the class. I think somehow I squeaked an A out of that class. I often wonder if he didn't just take pity on us. I always had Dr. K in the fall. Being the culinary lover that I am, I would often bring my latest baking project so school to share with my classmates and Dr. K. He chuckles now when I mention my latest cooking endeavor. I should bring him something soon... He recently found himself in possession of a very rough draft of one of my papers for another class (his box is right next to the intended recipient's) and was so excited about reading my paper, that I had to promise to bring him a final copy. He usually doesn't attend graduation, but since I'm walking, he is. I like to think I'm a favorite of his. I hope he knows he's always been one of mine.
Then there's the formidable Dr. Wagner... It's hard to pin down how I feel about Dr. Wagner. Except to say that it's a mess. First off, I have to say that I'm a little intimidated by him. He's the guy I don't want to let down, academically. I doubt he knows (or would care, really) that he's got somewhat of a cult following among his students. More of us give a damn about him and what he thinks of us than he realizes. He's a self-proclaimed introvert. But you'd never guess it from his classroom demeanor. He's the professor I'd want to model myself after. He seems right at home in front of a class and is very strict in his classroom conduct policies. Dr. Wagner is the one for whom I have the greatest intellectual respect. If I wasn't graduating soon, I'd continue to take his classes. I've rarely found it hard to concentrate on his lectures and I've never considered breaking his "no cell phone" rule, simply because I'm just that absorbed in the material. Unlike Dr. Goethe, I would never consider calling him by his first name. Ever. He's the consummate professional, and always calls his students Mr. or Ms. Last Name. I'd be surprised if he even knew my first name off the top of his head. Once, I sought his advice for primary sources that would relate to research I was doing. Without hesitation, he snagged the key to and snuck a book out of our department's permanent display case. That may not seem like a big deal to most, but to me, it was pretty awesome. Another professor I'd asked simply rattled off names of people to Google who might have written something about it. once.. Gee thanks... In recap, I think I just genuinely like him. Even more, I respect the hell out of him. Not just as a professor, but I think I like him as a person too. He's challenged me to want to be a better student. I hope one day I'll be a peer. He's one of the Top 3 simply because of who he is.
All that having been said, these three gentlemen have influenced me in ways I doubt they'll ever realize. I appreciate them each for very different reasons. And I doubt I'll ever tell any of them that. After all, I'm not very good at explaining myself in person (hell I can barely do it online) and the sheer awkwardness of the conversation would probably nullify any warm fuzzies. Maybe I'll just drop a cookie or two in their boxes with a simple, unsigned "Thanks".
Wednesday, December 5, 2012
Saturday, November 3, 2012
Still waters run deep
There are a million other things I "should" be doing right now. Reading for school assignments, interviewing locals for a research paper, wading through infernal Spanish homework, revising wedding budget items, etc. But I feel the need to put these thoughts down in writing. Typing them will have to do.
I recently had a professor for whom I have immense academic respect and personal adoration, comment on how he'd noticed a change in me after I came home from Iraq. He'd had me for a history class in 2007, then again in 2010 when I returned to finish my degrees. The academic in me wishes I could erase the memory of the less than impressive student I was then. Though I doubt this particular professor and I would've achieved such a rapport had I been different, given his shyness and socially awkward nature. This comment stuck in my mind and I've been mulling it over since. Granted, I knew there had been life-altering changes made down in my very soul. Those in my innermost circle know parts of the story. I didn't realize that as a woman, as a student and as a person, I'd changed so much to the outside world, though. Only Brian really knows the measure of the dark, haunted path from which I've emerged. And I count him twice on my list of blessings. He's literally and figuratively carried me when I couldn't stand on my own and lovingly put me back together after I've fallen apart.
I have, and always will, think that enlisting in the military was the best decision I've ever made for myself. In 2006, at the age of 20, I didn't know anything about myself or about the world. Do any of us, really? I joined the USAF Reserves, with the goal of furthering the law enforcement career I'd started in Pensacola, working in the Intel department and aiding in the capture of child predators. I would end up with a machine gun in a Humvee turret, thousands of miles from home, and loving my job. I mean, where else can a 5'3 girl be such a badass??? I couldn't fathom who I could or would become, and I certainly didn't expect the core of steel I found inside me. I know that my experiences pale in comparison to others. My soon-to-be brother-in-law served in the United States Marine Corps and was in Ramadi during the intial push. Heavy shit. But I also know that for me, the year 2009 changed everything.
I remember, with remarkable clarity, seeing the frosty air pass over the wing of our plane as we decended into Ireland that January dawn. The sheer beauty of that sunrise will, I hope, be with me for the rest of my life. In that one moment I was both humbled by the majesty of the sight, and shaken with the thought, "It's real. I'm going to Iraq. What am I doing here?" I reflected on the life I'd led up to that point, semi-charmed, priviledged and sheltered. The life I was heading into, hard, dangerous and exposed to countless, unknown dangers. I came back a solemn soul. Where there had once been a reckless, flighty girl, I found a grounded, determined woman. I didn't know it when I got home, but there were darker days ahead.
I moved to Minneapolis, MN on a whim that fall, barely a month after my return, because my strongest support system during that deployment, were the members of a unit up there. I'd been separated from my home unit due to my many qualifications with weaponry, surveillance experience, medic training and sheer determination when set to a task. I would be one of the sixteen Air Force personnel authorized to leave our base on patrol, none of whom were from my original unit. I'd formed deep, lasting friendships and I felt only those guys really understood me, what I'd become. What I didn't bargain on, was that they would go home to their families, and I would be so alone. That winter was a brutally cold one, even by Minnesota standards. I lived off of my deployment savings and odd jobs. But I mostly stayed inside, gloomy, cold and sinking deeper into a depression I didn't see coming. It wasn't until I looked at my recycling bin one day, thinking I'd need to find more room for the wine bottles I had in my hand, that I realized I wasn't ok. The decision to return home was a hard one. I felt like a quitter, like going home would mean admitting defeat. But sitting in my cold car, looking out over a frozen lake, in a quaint little town that I still miss, I heard a song. I began to cry. Uncontrollable, deep cries that shook me to my core. Within a week I was home. I packed my car full of essential clothes, my beloved dog and all his gear. I packed the rest in an ABF shipping container, and drove 23 hours straight, only stopping for food and gas. I arrived in Mobile at 9 am and thought to myself, "I'm home." A couple months later, I drove to the VA Clinic, went to the window and said, "I'm an OIF veteran, and I need help." And the healing began.
There was a trial and error period, trying to figure out the right medicine/therapy combination. I don't wish that on anyone. The depression would make me face demons both physically and emotionally. I faced a childhood abuser that haunted my adult dreams and found the words to tell him what he'd damaged. I would find a safe place to forgive myself and a sense of inner peace that I'm still in awe of. There are still bad days, ones that I have to force myself out of bed. But, I am pleased to say I've been in control of my anxiety and off meds for over a year now. I have a therapist that wears hawaiian shirts and swears like I do. The first session I had with Doc, he told me something profound that's stuck with me ever since: "The stories we carry from our childhood, aren't our stories. They're the stories of the adults around us. And fucked up stories, mean fucked up adults."
I don't share these words lightly or easily. But I needed to do it. The road to who I am now hasn't been easy. I'm the first to share my joy and a smile. I love reaching out to others to spread the happiness I find in life. There is much more there, though. I'm much more private about the personal devastations that have made me appreciate each moment. This is the first time I've put these words out into the universe to an as-yet unidentified audience. I don't know if they'll be read. But writing, rewriting and reading them has been cathartic. I'd intended this post to be about all the other things going on around me and how impatient I am for the next chapter... But maybe next time...
I recently had a professor for whom I have immense academic respect and personal adoration, comment on how he'd noticed a change in me after I came home from Iraq. He'd had me for a history class in 2007, then again in 2010 when I returned to finish my degrees. The academic in me wishes I could erase the memory of the less than impressive student I was then. Though I doubt this particular professor and I would've achieved such a rapport had I been different, given his shyness and socially awkward nature. This comment stuck in my mind and I've been mulling it over since. Granted, I knew there had been life-altering changes made down in my very soul. Those in my innermost circle know parts of the story. I didn't realize that as a woman, as a student and as a person, I'd changed so much to the outside world, though. Only Brian really knows the measure of the dark, haunted path from which I've emerged. And I count him twice on my list of blessings. He's literally and figuratively carried me when I couldn't stand on my own and lovingly put me back together after I've fallen apart.
I have, and always will, think that enlisting in the military was the best decision I've ever made for myself. In 2006, at the age of 20, I didn't know anything about myself or about the world. Do any of us, really? I joined the USAF Reserves, with the goal of furthering the law enforcement career I'd started in Pensacola, working in the Intel department and aiding in the capture of child predators. I would end up with a machine gun in a Humvee turret, thousands of miles from home, and loving my job. I mean, where else can a 5'3 girl be such a badass??? I couldn't fathom who I could or would become, and I certainly didn't expect the core of steel I found inside me. I know that my experiences pale in comparison to others. My soon-to-be brother-in-law served in the United States Marine Corps and was in Ramadi during the intial push. Heavy shit. But I also know that for me, the year 2009 changed everything.
I remember, with remarkable clarity, seeing the frosty air pass over the wing of our plane as we decended into Ireland that January dawn. The sheer beauty of that sunrise will, I hope, be with me for the rest of my life. In that one moment I was both humbled by the majesty of the sight, and shaken with the thought, "It's real. I'm going to Iraq. What am I doing here?" I reflected on the life I'd led up to that point, semi-charmed, priviledged and sheltered. The life I was heading into, hard, dangerous and exposed to countless, unknown dangers. I came back a solemn soul. Where there had once been a reckless, flighty girl, I found a grounded, determined woman. I didn't know it when I got home, but there were darker days ahead.
I moved to Minneapolis, MN on a whim that fall, barely a month after my return, because my strongest support system during that deployment, were the members of a unit up there. I'd been separated from my home unit due to my many qualifications with weaponry, surveillance experience, medic training and sheer determination when set to a task. I would be one of the sixteen Air Force personnel authorized to leave our base on patrol, none of whom were from my original unit. I'd formed deep, lasting friendships and I felt only those guys really understood me, what I'd become. What I didn't bargain on, was that they would go home to their families, and I would be so alone. That winter was a brutally cold one, even by Minnesota standards. I lived off of my deployment savings and odd jobs. But I mostly stayed inside, gloomy, cold and sinking deeper into a depression I didn't see coming. It wasn't until I looked at my recycling bin one day, thinking I'd need to find more room for the wine bottles I had in my hand, that I realized I wasn't ok. The decision to return home was a hard one. I felt like a quitter, like going home would mean admitting defeat. But sitting in my cold car, looking out over a frozen lake, in a quaint little town that I still miss, I heard a song. I began to cry. Uncontrollable, deep cries that shook me to my core. Within a week I was home. I packed my car full of essential clothes, my beloved dog and all his gear. I packed the rest in an ABF shipping container, and drove 23 hours straight, only stopping for food and gas. I arrived in Mobile at 9 am and thought to myself, "I'm home." A couple months later, I drove to the VA Clinic, went to the window and said, "I'm an OIF veteran, and I need help." And the healing began.
There was a trial and error period, trying to figure out the right medicine/therapy combination. I don't wish that on anyone. The depression would make me face demons both physically and emotionally. I faced a childhood abuser that haunted my adult dreams and found the words to tell him what he'd damaged. I would find a safe place to forgive myself and a sense of inner peace that I'm still in awe of. There are still bad days, ones that I have to force myself out of bed. But, I am pleased to say I've been in control of my anxiety and off meds for over a year now. I have a therapist that wears hawaiian shirts and swears like I do. The first session I had with Doc, he told me something profound that's stuck with me ever since: "The stories we carry from our childhood, aren't our stories. They're the stories of the adults around us. And fucked up stories, mean fucked up adults."
I don't share these words lightly or easily. But I needed to do it. The road to who I am now hasn't been easy. I'm the first to share my joy and a smile. I love reaching out to others to spread the happiness I find in life. There is much more there, though. I'm much more private about the personal devastations that have made me appreciate each moment. This is the first time I've put these words out into the universe to an as-yet unidentified audience. I don't know if they'll be read. But writing, rewriting and reading them has been cathartic. I'd intended this post to be about all the other things going on around me and how impatient I am for the next chapter... But maybe next time...
Callsigns: Lurch and Dumbellina. One of my favorite drivers, he avoided pot-holes...
Wednesday, May 9, 2012
An eventful semester
As the days get warmer and the temperatures rise, I'm reminded that it is once again summer on the Alabama Gulf Coast. This summer is bringing with it an unexpected break from school. Due to a financial aid cluster at our university, I'm unable to fund summer term. I haven't had a semester off since summer 2010. While that may not seem long, it's been 6 semesters of intense coursework. You see, I decided I wanted to get my B.A. in History, but I was so close to my B.A. in Criminal Justice, that it would have been wasteful to let it go. So being the adventurous person I am, I declared a Dual-Bachelors program. Rather than declare a double major, I am doing twice the course-work and will have two (yes, two!) certificates on my wall. Assuming of course that I'm able to find a job after graduation...
This year has been one of epic proportions. My dad has decided (again) that I'm not good enough to be his daughter. I have been fighting with the USAF over my medical retirement (I'm either in or I'm out, make a decision!). My brothers and I are trying to find our common ground... Not easy. And now, we're planning a wedding!
After much heartburn, several mini-meltdowns and 8 years of dating later, Brian finally proposed! After telling me just a day or two before that he didn't have the engagement ring yet and he refused to propose without it. I was crushed, I called my mother to boo-hoo. She reminded me that he would propose when ready and we had an upcoming trip that I needed to simply sit back and enjoy. My pride and mental health restored I resolved to do just that. So after driving through terrible weather and almost wrecking in the rain, we made it to New Orleans on Friday afternoon. The rain had stopped just in time for us to enjoy the evening. As we got dressed for dinner (the destination was unknown to me at this point), Brian suggested we go down to Jackson Square and take our traditional picture in front of St. Louis Cathedral (we take one EVERY trip), since the weather the next day was questionable. Being the picture lover I am, I readily agreed; especially since I was in a dress, heels and makeup(never happens) and he was in a suit and tie (also never happens). Unfortunately, Jackson Square was closed due to the bad weather. So I gamely said, "Oh well! Let's go eat!" Brian suggested we simply stand still for a moment, since we'd been planning this trip for months and enjoy just being in our favorite place. (here comes the good part) Standing behind me, he told me that he loved me and that he looked forward to our life together. I assured him that I felt the same. He then asked if I was happy, and if the life with him was still what I wanted. I again assured him that it was. Then my sweet man pulled out a beautiful sapphire ring and asked me to marry him. I won't even pretend like I didn't cry. And it wasn't even the Miss America, pretty cry. It was the ugly, wrinkled face, OMG-I- hope-nobody-is-looking, kind of cry. He then asked if that was a "yes"... Uh... duh! We then enjoyed dinner at Morton's Steakhouse (filled with laughs, congratulations and frantic texts) and a Flogging Molly concert followed by celebrating in true New Orleans style, until the wee hours of the morning.
I've found "le dress", the bridesmaids dresses, the caterer, the hair and makeup team, lost a "friend" because she's not IN the wedding and decided to walk myself down the aisle. All while working full-time, being mired neck-deep in school work, having BOTH of our cars in the shop within two weeks of one another and playing nuptual politics. The wedding is set for next March. With our (hopefully) final semester being this fall and a wedding shortly thereafter, I think my unexpected summer break is just what the doctor ordered.
This year has been one of epic proportions. My dad has decided (again) that I'm not good enough to be his daughter. I have been fighting with the USAF over my medical retirement (I'm either in or I'm out, make a decision!). My brothers and I are trying to find our common ground... Not easy. And now, we're planning a wedding!
After much heartburn, several mini-meltdowns and 8 years of dating later, Brian finally proposed! After telling me just a day or two before that he didn't have the engagement ring yet and he refused to propose without it. I was crushed, I called my mother to boo-hoo. She reminded me that he would propose when ready and we had an upcoming trip that I needed to simply sit back and enjoy. My pride and mental health restored I resolved to do just that. So after driving through terrible weather and almost wrecking in the rain, we made it to New Orleans on Friday afternoon. The rain had stopped just in time for us to enjoy the evening. As we got dressed for dinner (the destination was unknown to me at this point), Brian suggested we go down to Jackson Square and take our traditional picture in front of St. Louis Cathedral (we take one EVERY trip), since the weather the next day was questionable. Being the picture lover I am, I readily agreed; especially since I was in a dress, heels and makeup(never happens) and he was in a suit and tie (also never happens). Unfortunately, Jackson Square was closed due to the bad weather. So I gamely said, "Oh well! Let's go eat!" Brian suggested we simply stand still for a moment, since we'd been planning this trip for months and enjoy just being in our favorite place. (here comes the good part) Standing behind me, he told me that he loved me and that he looked forward to our life together. I assured him that I felt the same. He then asked if I was happy, and if the life with him was still what I wanted. I again assured him that it was. Then my sweet man pulled out a beautiful sapphire ring and asked me to marry him. I won't even pretend like I didn't cry. And it wasn't even the Miss America, pretty cry. It was the ugly, wrinkled face, OMG-I- hope-nobody-is-looking, kind of cry. He then asked if that was a "yes"... Uh... duh! We then enjoyed dinner at Morton's Steakhouse (filled with laughs, congratulations and frantic texts) and a Flogging Molly concert followed by celebrating in true New Orleans style, until the wee hours of the morning.
I've found "le dress", the bridesmaids dresses, the caterer, the hair and makeup team, lost a "friend" because she's not IN the wedding and decided to walk myself down the aisle. All while working full-time, being mired neck-deep in school work, having BOTH of our cars in the shop within two weeks of one another and playing nuptual politics. The wedding is set for next March. With our (hopefully) final semester being this fall and a wedding shortly thereafter, I think my unexpected summer break is just what the doctor ordered.
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