Why We're Staying in Marion for Awhile

In my last post, I mentioned that I had a job interview. It turned out not to be an interview so much as a discussion of what I'd like to teach and when I'd be available to do so, given what was offered in the schedule. Thus, I decided to take a (part-time) adjunct teaching position at the University of Southern Indiana in Evansville. It's about 1.5-2 hours from Marion, but I'll be teaching my three classes on a Tuesday/Thursday schedule. I decided spending about eight hours per week in the car was worth getting some actual teaching experience, since all I really have are my years as a graduate assistant, which requires all the work of a real job but offers little of the prestige on the resume. Like I used to tell my students: they were real students receiving real grades, but I wasn't a real teacher.

What initially complicated but ultimately solidified my decision to accept the USI job was that Aaron was called for an interview at the NBC affiliate in Green Bay, Wisconsin the day we had my interview in Evansville. They seemed impressed with his resume and cover letter, and wanted to arrange to fly him up for an in-person interview after an hour-long phone conversation.

All signs, initially, pointed to YES. We would be further north, slightly closer to home, and in a cooler climate. The station was an up-market move and had just become the official station of the Green Bay Packers. It was corportate-owned, which could possibly mean higher pay. I think I may have been more excited than Aaron was about the whole thing. I started daydreaming about wearing sweaters and driving through blizzards. And eating a lot more cheese.

They flew him up to Green Bay (by way of Marion, St. Louis and Chicago) to tour the station, meet everyone, and get interviewed. Aaron's flight from Chicago to Green Bay was cancelled due to storms in Detroit, and while that caused a minor inconvenience on the way there, it was nothing to also having all of his return flights cancelled. But he got there, and met everyone. He toured. He saw Green Bay. He ate at Lambeau Field.

And when he came back home, he had about two days to make a decision. Ultimately, after talking to his coworkers here and discussing it with me, we decided to stick around southern Illinois for awhile longer because it wasn't a good fit. It may have looked great on paper, but the timing wasn't right and Aaron wasn't quite ready to say goodbye to what he's built up here.

Making decisions as a married couple is complicated. He may have been willing to take a job that wasn't quite what he wanted had I said that it was what I really wanted for us. We were willing to consider having him move to Wisconsin while I stayed behind in Marion until my semester of teaching at USI was over in December. Basically, married-couple-decisions are fraught with the notion that you're simultaneously one person and two people, and you have to somehow get your interests/wants/needs to align in such a way that if both people can't be happy, at least one or both won't be miserable, either.

So, we'll be sticking around here awhile longer. Aaron gets to keep the job he loves, and I get to try out being a "real" teacher. We don't know where we'll be a year from now, but up until a few weeks ago, we didn't know where we'd be by the end of July. I'll take this as progress.

Unhiatusing

You may (or may not) have noticed that I haven't written in awhile--over a month, actually. I haven't felt much like writing lately, which is kind of unfortunate, since that is what I do every day for my job (which actually might explain why I don't feel like writing).

I'll be honest: not much has been happening here.  Aaron and I are still applying for jobs. We're both still getting rejections. I have an interview on Monday for a job I can't realistically take, since it's only part-time and it isn't local. I guess it will be practice, since I've done very few interviews in my life and eventually I will need one to go well enough that I get hired.

I've embarked on a small-scale self-improvement project, which means I'm trying to sit on my ass a little less and sweat a little more. I ride my exercise bike while watching documentaries on Netflix because it's too hot to do anything outside. I've only been exercising regularly for a week. I'm trying not to be too hard on myself, though.

Which brings me to my next point: the depressed funk I've been in for a few months hasn't yet lifted. I tried (and failed) to write a post about being depressed. I saw it as a way to help figure out just what the hell my problem is, but it's hard to write about depression without sounding pathetic and trite--and that made me feel worse, somehow. So I never finished the post, and I'm still depressed. Now that I have health insurance, I feel like I might actually have some options if I do choose some kind of treatment, which is a nice change.

I've been reading books. I've hung out with friends a few times. We had people over (a big deal, since we never do that). We went to the bar once or twice. We've driven around the backroads of southern Illinois, looking for nothing in particular and finding interesting stuff, anyway: waterfalls that have run dry, grazing cows in the middle of a wildlife refuge, a small cemetery, hiking trails through rock formations. This week, we even cooked a complete Thanksgiving dinner because we felt like it. We call home too seldom, and haven't visited since March.

Basically, nothing has been happening. Just life. I guess that's enough, though.

We Regret to Inform You; Or, Life in The Rejection Section

Last May, I finished my second go-round with graduate school, earning an MFA from Southern Illinois University Carbondale. I loved my program; half because I was able to spend three funded* years writing poetry and teaching, and half because of the people I was lucky enough to work with over the years--students and faculty alike. Not that I'm shilling for SIUC, but it was an awesome experience because Rodney, Allison, Judy and Jon felt more like poetry godparents than "faculty" at times. I've always looked down on the big-name programs because I'm not a name-brand kind of girl, and I've read about how students in big-name programs are neglected, that the atmosphere is hopelessly haughty, that the "literary star" faculty members are never there, etc. I'd take a kiss on the cheek from Rodney Jones over possibly, maybe, catching a glimpse of super-famous poet X any day. And Rodney likes my banana bread.

So I entered the world last spring with an MFA diploma to hang next to my MA from Central Michigan University. I had really developed my passion for teaching, and won an award (with a cash prize!) recognizing my efforts. I wanted to keep teaching. I loved teaching. It was the only place I really felt at home. The world was my oyster!

Well, no. As it turns out, the world (as far as teaching positions are concerned) is a rotten oyster. One of those mutated Gulf oysters suffering the adverse effects of the BP oil spill. I was released into a job market flooded with many, many qualified applicants, many of whom also have PhDs, in addition to one or more master's-level degrees.

Universities and colleges have openings, but I'm often disqualified from the beginning because I don't have a PhD. I'm further disqualified by the amount of specialization they're looking for in potential applicants, because they want the most bang for their (sometimes agonizingly paltry) buck, to the point where an applicant needs to be able to teach composition and/or ethnic literature and/or drama and/or gender studies and/or American literature and/or use technology in the classroom (pick three or four of these, and you get the idea). I can do some of this. I cannot do all of this. I'd wager that very, very few people actually can do all of this.

It keeps me up at night, that nagging yet cartoonish voice that says "Maybe you need to go back to school. Maybe you need a PhD to even things up." But I don't want to get a PhD right now. I may never want to return to graduate school, since I've already spent five years of my life as a graduate student.

So I apply. I broaden my search to include admissions and academic advising positions. I look for jobs in a huge general geographic region, but I'm still limiting myself because Aaron and I have this crazy plan that involves starting our real lives and having children, and we'd like to live a little closer to home so that our parents don't have to be long-distance grandparents. I know that's probably stupid, because it really does limit us, but I tear up every time I think of my unborn children only seeing their grandparents on holidays and trying to get my parents to figure out Skype.

And as I apply, and enter my personal information and education background and employment history, and upload cover letters, and submit resumes and CVs, and try to communicate with nameless faceless automated systems, I desperately hope for a break from a Human Resources representative or hiring committee. Often, there's no one to address the letters to, no name associated with the job search, no way to look them in the proverbial eye with a steady gaze and give them a firm handshake that says hire me.

And then I wait.

Recently, I had a telephone interview for a job I really, really wanted. It was a position as an academic advisor for the liberal arts college at a large university in the state of Michigan. Upon seeing the posting, I had rejoiced, because I went to a liberal arts college, I had not one but two master's degrees, I had a connection to the area. The interview went well.

But they still rejected me, saying they wanted someone with more experience and a broader education background. That it was an honor to be chosen for a phone interview. That there had been 221 applicants for the position. That I should take solace in all of this. And yet, it still felt like a punch in the gut. Or a brick hurled through my bedroom window in the dead of night, rubber-banded with a note that read Guess what? You're just not good enough.

I know that my self-worth is not tied to this one job. Or any job. And that being rejected for this position really doesn't mean I won't be good enough for a different position down the road. Or that, with a different applicant pool, my credentials would have buoyed me higher. If you look at in a strictly mathematical sense, though, I'm a penny-slot gambler thrust into the high-stakes table games.

The house wins.

Today, another rejection: a letter mailed to my house, rather than an impersonal e-mail. The ink on this one was smudged, my letter being just one among many rejections printed, signed, folded, and mailed out that day. Having a tangible letter feels slightly better than the hollow rejection e-mails, but only just.

So I keep applying. I write and rewrite cover letters. I whisper "Hire me, please" to unseen committees when I hit those submit buttons. And I push down the voice that tells me I should have majored in business or marketing or economics, anything but English, because I don't trust that voice to have the answer to what my soul has needed all along.

*The funding at SIUC was the biggest shock to me, kind of like a bait-and-switch from a shady used car salesman. Sure, you get your tuition waived and you get a monthly stipend. You also have to surrender an entire paycheck each semester to cover exorbitant student fees; you might get funding for one summer, but you also might not. And don't even get me started on the library without any books in it.