What I loved about Stephanie's dissertation defense last week (besides the inane questions about ecojustice critiques) was how valuable her thesis is. How it is indeed alive and pulsating. It could form the basis of future pedagogies for future students who march along the grass under blue skies with fists to the air, voices in unison. Words for life rather than the vaults of the scholars.
I want my work to breathe. To move consciously and subconsciously up and down the veins to the river, to rush us forth.
(Oh, and I also want my Ph.D. Does this surprise anyone? Didn't think so.)
Well, they're almost done. Nick, Pete, Kristina, Rob, Celeste, Grandma Weston, good ol' Julian Zwanstein.
I drove home the other day and finally decided that they were valid. That something happens in this story that doesn't happen in other stories I know. At least, not in the same way. That by circumstance and eventually his own volition, Nick begins to find his own way. Make his own life.
And positive professional feedback calling it an "extremely fine manuscript" doesn't hurt, either!
I need this moment. I tend to not allow it for myself but--
I need to let myself be proud!
"I'm not here to paint you pretty pictures. I'm here to break your heart." - Red
As I walked through campus tonight I realized that I'm actually graduating. Going forth. So they say. You're forty-five minutes away and I'll always stop by for another part-time gig. But I'll miss you, Southampton.