Almost Done in December

On Friday, I pressed send and printed 127 bound pages before submitting them as a final project. It's over--almost.

The epigraph to my Kingsley project is a quote from Virginia Woolf's A Room of One's Own (potentially the defining text of my undergraduate career, since I've read it every semester since my enrollment at Kenyon College, and it was the first text I was assigned to read for a college class): "Anything may happen when womanhood has ceased to be a protected occupation." I wonder if the same is true of when one's occupation of student is temporarily suspended.

Usually, upon completing final exams I return to my dorm room to flop into the center of my mattress and order a pizza with my room mate before driving home to spend a week watching cable television and eating my weight in pasta. Here, though, I feel lost, rather than relieved upon the submission of finals. I'm drafting this post from my second residence in Chicago--the second booth from the right at Argo Tea--because I don't know what else to do on a Sunday afternoon. I'm filling my days with applications and DVDs because a.) it's exceptionally cold here and b.) all semester I have defined myself by that which I needed to complete. Now that my project is, indeed, complete, what am I to do?

I know I should leap from my seat and, despite the cold, skip down the sidewalk to all of the Chicago places I have not yet seen, but I can't seem to do it. Does this mean I am officially past the point of tourism and have potentially entered the label of residence? Am I just tired? Or, am I completely lost without my master status of student/scholar?

This whole experience has been like one massive game of dress-up, except, instead of donning a princess dress or a witch's hat, I've been dressing up as an adult. Responsibility, solo living, pencil skirts, 7 a.m. wake up calls, and basically no undergraduate partying--what have I been doing with myself? And, how can I return to a cinder block dorm room and Papa Johns pizza, PBR, potato triangles in the dining hall, and all-nighters? I'm very excited to return to my friends, professors and routines, but I think it might take me a while to re-adjust. Based on my current confusion, however, I'll be happy to have a few dozen chapters to read and papers to write.

Until then, I have a presentation of Wednesday to stress out about, and then, it's official. ACM Newberry Semester: owned. And over.

Giving Thanks and Thank You Gifts

As I roll pie dough and partake in the annual familial celebration of food and fighting, I find myself appreciating my time in Chicago more than I ever anticipated. Before arriving home, I found myself unconsciously humming "Wayfaring Stranger" and Edward Sharpe's "Home" among the early holiday shoppers of Chicago's sidewalks, but, now that I am, in fact, home, I miss that place that I made home. Though sometimes overwhelmingly isolated, at least the CVS at State and Division is open 24 hours. Here in Westerville, theoretically the Steak 'n' Shake is open all night, but I drove past at 10 PM only to encounter an empty dining room and one sleepy waitress/chef/drive-thru attendant. Things certainly are slower away from the city.

Everything seems slower. Hours crawl, cars barely travel faster than bicycles, and self-check-outs are just a lost cause. Of course, this is my Home with a capital H, and I feel calmer and less anxious among the smiles of people who know me and the Christmas lights of suburbia, but I miss the streets of the city. All I want is a small order of fries from Five Faces and an Earl Grey Vanilla Creme from Argo Tea, preferable consumed on the Red Line, headed to the steps of the Art Institute or maybe to Myopic Books for a $3 Virginia Woolf paperback. I never thought it could happen, but maybe Chicago is partially my home now, too.

In "The Lake Isle of Innisfree," Yates' speaker proclaims, "And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow." I found that peace in Chicago, and, like leaving Kenyon, I only realized it when I was gone. How am I supposed to spend six weeks here in the cornfields, where the corn is dead and the heat of the summer I left has frozen into November's infamous grey?!? LSATs and preparation for senior comps and summer research can only last me so long. I'm ready to return to Kenyon, but I'm also very thankful I have two more weeks to enjoy my adopted home.

I'm also thankful for Kingsley. As I edit edit EDIT, I am so very glad she poses such a difficult problem for me to puzzle over. Without Kingsley's complex relationship with her multiple social environments and the associated gendered expectations of each, I'm not sure I would have figured quite as much out about my academic future nor my current values.

And, so, I give thanks for restrictive gender codes, Argo Tea, the city of Chicago, and the people I have met there. What better way to fill the grey of Ohio Thanksgiving than with baking cornbread and writing thank you cards? Hold your breath, Chicago. I'll be back soon.

Research, Writing, Wrapping Up

As I become more and more entrenched in my project, few things are explicitly clear to me anymore. One thing has increased in clarity the entire time, however:

Mary Kingsley = Bad Ass.

Proof? Plenty. I've learned so much from Kingsley. For example:

SASS: "he incarcerates my revolver, giving me a feeling of iniquity for having had the thing. I am informed if I pay 15s. for a license I may have it--if I fire French ammunition out of it. This seems a heavy sum, so I ask M. Pichault, our mentor, what I may be allowed to shoot if I pay this? Will it make me free, as it were, of all the local shooting? May I daily shoot governors, heads of departments, and sous officiers?" (107)

STYLE: "you have no right to go about in Africa in things you would be ashamed to be seen in at home" (19)

INDEPENDENCE/SASS: "as for the husband, neither the Royal Geographic Society's list, in their 'Hints to Travellers' nor Messrs. Silver, in their elaborate lists of articles necessary for a traveller in tropical climates make mention of husbands. If they did, by the by, they would say he was to be green, but they don't say a word about one" (167)

There are few intellectual crises that can't be solved by a cup of Earl Grey and bad French dance club music.

Diners, Discourse, Dancing, Distance, in a word--October

If you're looking for a happening place in Chicago, I highly recommend the Newberry Library. In addition to fifteenth-century manuscripts and Jack Kerouac's letters, this majestic mansion houses seven pretty excellent undergraduates who are bleary eyed and excited. That's right, folks. We're writing our papers, and boy are we a fun crowd! From spontaneous dance parties to banana breaks on the front steps to youtube videos of dancing cats and snarky-messaged postcards depicting baby animals, we're finding all kinds of ways to not do our work.

Last week was the first week without class. For someone who relies on structure for everything, motivation has proven to be a bit of a struggle in this new schedule of structureless nothingness. And yet, it most certainly is not nothingness. I'm pretty much overdosing on gender discourse and the social constructs of womanhood in the Victorian era, and it's wonderful, but I have come to appreciate my liberal arts curriculum. It is very nice to spend my day focused on one project that is entirely mine, but there's also something refreshing and invigorating about alternating between race theory, economics (actually, there's nothing refreshing about economics--bad example), Toni Morrison's Sula, and the most recent ecological study. Perhaps it's my natural inclination towards multi-tasking, but I might be going a little crazy spending so much time entrenched in Mary Kingsley's West Africa. Good thing I'm breaking it up with lots of weddings and city viewing.

This past week I ventured into Wicker Park, potentially the most Kenyon-esque place in the city of Chicago. From coffee shops with organic muffins to more thrift stores than I can possibly handle (the Mt Vernon Goodwill doesn't have anything on these!), I felt especially nostalgic for the Yauger Road hill and a grilled cheese on focaccia in the library before the nerd bell at midnight. The nerd bell here rings at five. This most certainly is not Gambier.

I also have been sampling all of Chicago's diner food. I think I've pretty much decided to subsist entirely on fried food products and breakfast food. It's a survival tactic, and a delicious one at that.

So, though the stress has increased and the heat in 2 West has not, I am slowly achieving, in the words of Kingsley, "the thing a worker in any work most wants--the sense that the work was worth doing."

Where are you from?

Yesterday, three different people stopped me on the street and asked for directions--and I knew how to get them to where they wanted/needed to be! Perhaps this is because of my exploratory nature or maybe because I'm so anxious I've memorized the subway map. Either way, I'm beginning to recognize Chicago as my city. When some tourists from D.C. asked me where I was from, I responded, without missing a beat, "Chicago!" It's true. I live here. In the seminar that guides this whole semester, we have been discussing the distinction between travel and tourism. If I fall into either category, I'm leaning more towards that of traveler, given my inclination towards non-chain restaurants and independent bookstores, but really, I feel more like a resident than anything else. The cashiers at my neighborhood cafe know my name and breakfast order, I just got my Chicago public library card, I'm joining a gym, I've signed up to volunteer with a few organizations, and I was filmed dancing in Millennium Park! I could just hear the tourists narrating, "Real, live Chicago wildlife" as they pointed their lenses towards me and my friends.

On that note, however, I must say--Chi Town does not dance. I've been to three concerts in this city, now, and even when the music is especially dance-worthy (who can resist Pavement's "Cut Your Hair?"), I find myself to be the only dancer in all of the Pritzker Pavilion. Where are all the crazy legs?

Of course, though I've become better at navigating the city, I still have trouble finding my way through the Newberry Library's catalogue. My project is shaping up nicely. I've located almost all of the sources I'll need to complete the project and am even formulating an organizational outline. My research prospectus is due (gulp!) on Monday, and the following day, I will present my prospectus to the library community. Once that's over with, this is official, which is actually invigorating. I can't wait to start setting my own schedule and really diving into the material I love.

As the weather gets cooler, I am missing Middle Path quite a bit, especially since Yahoo just publicized Forbes' pronouncement of Kenyon College as the most beautiful college in the world. Then again, Gambier does not have the Nordstrom coat section to peruse and lust after. I think, at least for now, I'll stay and continue to discover, as Miss Kingsley says, "the qualities of a good thick skirt." Who knows? Perhaps I'll find myself to "be more comfortable there than in England"--err Gambier.

And Where Beauty Leads, There It Follows

In preparation for my upcoming move to Chicago, I have been immersing myself in some of Chicago's finest literature, most recently Theodore Dreiser's Sister Carrie.

The heart-wrenching novel initially appealed to me because of its premise: small town midwestern girl moves to the big city. Indeed, I found myself identifying with Carrie's overwhelmed approach to the city. The more I read about all Chicago has to offer, the more excited and daunted I become.

Of course, I don't intend to settle with a Drouet or to run away with a Hurstwood, but perhaps my cozy room in the Gold Coast might offer the same comfort that Carrie initially feels in regards to her apartment with Drouet in Ogden Place. I certainly hope I am not inspired, whether forcibly or not, to depart Chicago on the arm of Hurstwood and settle in New York. Firstly, unlike Carrie, I do not possess dramatic aspirations, and secondly, I think Chicago is a big enough city for me right now.

Indeed, while Carrie's adventure ends in fame and fortune, I do not seek so much. I can only hope upon reaching Chicago in pursuit of beauty I, too, may dream of "such happiness as you may never feel."

Reading and All that Business

Today, I was supposed to be working on finishing some of my summer projects (I'm working on a research project on the gender dynamics of the Norton Anthology of English Literature and typing some lovely love letters from WWII), but instead I found myself perusing a present from my grandmother: Chicago Free and Dirt Cheap. I started listing everything I want to check out in the city, and I think it's safe to say I won't be able to do them all, and that's not even counting all of the things I don't yet know about.

Here's the greatest hits list:

Chicago SummerDance in Grant Park

Uptown Poetry Slam with Marc Smith

Chicago Jazz Festival

Mexican Independence Day Parade

Heaven on Seven

Greektown

Oak Park Beach

Green City Market

Hull House

Art Institute

Grant Park Movie Festival

Old Town School of Folk Music

Women and Children First Bookstore

Beatnix

This list is much more exciting than that of Westerville (my hometown). I'm back in the Ville for a few weeks before returning to Kenyon for one last week of hellos to the new first year class and goodbyes to my dear friends. The greatest hits of Westerville include:

Cookies from Cheryl and Company

Ice cream from Graeter's

Fish and Chips at Old Bag of Nails

Fourth Fridays

Sand volleyball at Hoff Woods

A bike ride along the Hoover Reservoir

A jaunt into Columbus

A stroll around Otterbein College

While these are wonderful, I've done them all about a billion times, and I can't do any of them without running into an old babysitter, ten old classmates, my next door neighbor, or my parents. So, right now, while I'm home for a bit, I'm excited about new adventures and a little anonymity.