Graduation

There's no need to be superstitious now, because Cambridge has officially conferred the PhD upon me. With my parents grinning in one corner, the Latin was said, I kneeled and received my degree. You can read a full description of the ceremony here, but here's the pertinent part:

The Praelector presenting the graduand holds the candidate by his or her right hand and says:

"Dignissima domina, Domina Procancellaria et tota Academia praesento vobis hunc virum (hanc mulierem) quem (quam) scio tam moribus quam doctrina esse idoneum (idoneam) ad gradum assequendum (name of degree); idque tibi fide mea praesto totique Academiae."

["Most worthy Vice-Chancellor and the whole University, I present to you this man (this woman) whom I know to be suitable as much by character as by learning to proceed to the degree of (name of degree); for which I pledge my faith to you and to the whole University."]

The graduand's name is called and they step forward and kneel. Clasping the graduand's hands, the Vice-Chancellor says:

I spent many, many hours in
that library behind me.

"Auctoritate mihi commissa admitto te ad gradum (name of degree), in nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti."

["By the authority committed to me, I admit you to the degree of (name of degree) in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit."]

Oh, and as luck would have it, the man acting as Vice-Chancellor for my ceremony was Rowan Williams -- until recently the Archbishop of Canterbury, and generally an amazing man! If anyone is qualified to give me a degree in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, it's him! I'd been told that the ceremony is almost disappointing in its brevity, but I thought it was perfect: arcane and ritualistic enough to have a sense of gravitas, yet no hours sat listening to sub-par speakers and lists of strangers' names. I'd love to do it again! But oh, wait, I have the highest degree it's possible to achieve. Woooooooooo!!!!

Flashbacks

As we grow older, so much of our daily lives from the past can become a blur, but occasionally something will come back in vivid detail. This week, I made an effort to prepare my own lunch rather than buying it or getting it from the college cafeteria. Thinking about what elements to include, I suddenly could envision with perfect clarity what I ate nearly every day of high school:

• A bagel and cheddar cheese sandwich
• Yogurt
• Fruit -- usually an orange, the peel going into the empty yogurt pot
• Large cookies

I even remember keeping the plastic spoon to be washed and reused. (Once, when I was in elementary school, I'd taken one of the real family spoons and absentmindedly thrown it away; never again!)

Recently, in search of something to watch before bed, I found a BBC documentary on the disaster that enveloped Pompeii. Earlier the same day, I'd been reading about the planned new mini-season of The X-Files, and together these facts sent me back in time -- because my brother had a disturbing obsession with TV productions about disasters and alien abductions. I am four years younger than he and a self-confessed wimp, so this was a truly unfortunate thing for my sensitive psyche.

Sometimes these small-screen dramas were downright laughable, like the one about The Big One, an earthquake that finally rips Los Angeles free of the mainland -- or does it just sink into the sea? I can't remember. Others were more upsetting. And with the miracle of VHS tape, we could repeatedly watch "Miracle Landing" (thank you for the title, internet), a recreation of an actual flight where the top of a Hawaii-based airplane rips off and they have to keep flying because there's nowhere to land. I specifically remember a passenger with a strip of metal adhered to the side of his face. Another one, unimaginatively entitled "Crash Landing," starred Charlton Heston as the pilot. (Confession: I had conflated these two in my mind until just now.) Maybe it was my brother's ambitions to be a journalist that drew him to the dangerous and alarming, but I've never understood why these things actively excited him. They don't seem to have permanently scarred me, but this week I tasted once again the combination of fear and fascination. And some home-made lunch.

The gift of time

The best possible way to spend
a Sunday afternoon

It's spring break, which means that choir has disappeared from my weekly schedule. I've sent my passport off to be processed for yet another visa, which means that I'm stranded in the UK for a while, and do you know what my daily schedule looks like? I go rowing or erging at some point during the day, and the rest of the time I sit at this laptop tinkering with documents. Some are job applications, one is an article long overdue for revising, one is a friend's PhD chapter, which I'm proofreading.

But overall, there is a ludicrous abundance of time to take things at a leisurely pace. Sunday, for example, was a perfect gem of a day. In the morning, I had a magical outing with Cantabs, the town rowing club I've joined. The boat was so well balanced that we could work hard but feel the reward of a beautiful glide. After a cheeky nap, I then had a very different kind of outing with some folks from college who are still in town during spring break. Half men and half women, we paddled gently to the end of our usual stretch of river, hoisted the boat out and around the lock, and paddled a bit further to a pub in the town of Waterbeach. It wasn't quite warm enough to justify how long we sat outside to consume our burgers, pints, and desserts, but we refused to slink inside when the sun was shining. We then rowed home, careful not to upset our now-very-full tummies. A four-hour lunch? Why not. I spent the evening watching something interesting on TV and got into bed thinking, "This was a good day to be alive." Simple pleasures, and enough time to enjoy them.

Feeling positive

Well, here it is: the final copy of my dissertation, bound by the venerable J.S. Wilson & Son bookbinders, who have been in business in Cambridge since 1830! I'm sort of afraid to touch it, actually.

To add to my cheerful mood, spring is definitely drawing on. It's hard not to feel optimistic about life when the sun is shining, the birds are chirping, and little flowers are forming their annual skirt around the big tree on Trinity Hall's Latham Lawn. I am spending my afternoons writing job applications, which normally depress me terribly. But somehow I'm feeling positive anyway.

Friends, let us rejoice.

One month ago yesterday, I had my viva, and it was quick and painless.

I haven't written about it yet, partly because so many friends have asked how it went that I'm tired of my own report, and partly because the idea of the viva still makes me nervous, even though it's over and done with. They began by saying "We enjoyed reading this, we learned a lot from it, and we're going to recommend that it pass with minor corrections. So you can relax, but don't relax too much." We then spoke very pleasantly for an hour and a half. I answered some questions better than others, but they were on my side, which was hugely helpful. Minor corrections = fixing typos and odd inconsistencies, so they were easily done over a couple days.

The English Faculty's degree committee approved me on February 26th, in accordance with what I'm told were very positive examiners' reports. Today the university's Board of Graduate Studies should have done the same. I now have a month to hand in a hardbound copy that will remain in the University Library foreeeeeever! So, I spent my afternoon finding an endless stream of minor formatting problems as I attempted to create a PDF containing my entire PhD. It now exists -- hold your breath until I get it to the printer!

Step by step

After that downer, I figured I better update you with something more positive. I got my passport back with a week to spare! Without getting angry at me, the powers that be rescheduled my viva. And the extra time at home gave me a chance to actually work at the office of the company for which I edit, which made me feel like a real grown-up for the first time in quite a while.

And now I'm back in Cambridge at last. And my viva is tomorrow. TOMORROW. I am in a strange state of simultaneous terror and "que sera sera". Everyone seems to agree that you can't do too much to prepare apart from reread the dissertation and think about how you'll respond to probing on the weak points. Then try to enjoy it as an engaged conversation about your work. I've taken this onboard, and I'm trying not to freak out. I think I'll feel okay as soon as it actually gets started -- but it's the unknown that scares us most, isn't it? No actual incarnation of a monster is as frightening as the shadow and suggestion of one. So even though I know my examiners will be fair, they still go bump in the night right now.

I've been thinking a lot lately about how we construct narratives to make sense of our lives. When I was in Iceland, one of my new friends from the hostel was trying to find me on Facebook, but I have a rather common name. When I told him to cross-reference for Stanford and/or Cambridge, his reaction was that general mixture of being impressed and "well aren't you fancy?" But that version leaves out the years of working jobs I didn't like very much, the many many rejection letters I got -- twice -- before getting here, and the things that happened along the way, like a year of pulling my hair out over rowing, and missing three weddings of old friends. If things go well tomorrow, we can revel in the triumphalist narrative it seems to complete. But first I have to get there.

Trying to stay positive

It's 2015. I've said to a few people that I've rarely faced a new year knowing so little about where I'll be or what I'll be doing at the end of it. So far, I have to confess, it hasn't been a promising start.

First, I miscalculated how long it would take to get my visa extension back. So I've had to rebook my flight, taking my best guess as to when I can travel again. Second, I finally -- finally! -- got an email about when my viva (PhD defense) will be. You guessed it, it was set for a day I can no longer make. I hope the repercussions aren't awful.

And as I contemplate going back, I'm starting to wonder how selfish I've been to say I'll stay living in England for another year, just because I like it. On whose money? Mine, if I can bulk up my work hours. But the fact is, even "giving academia a try" takes a few years of waiting around, and being a 31-year-old who remembers having a job, I don't know whether I have that kind of patience. I'm sorely tempted to take a real, full-time position somewhere and have everything sorted. But possibility only comes with its Siamese twin, uncertainty. I'm trying to stay positive.