Defying Expectations

Graduate School rejections thus far:
UCLA (Feb 12)
Cornell (Feb 16)
Princeton (Feb 23)
Yale (Feb 23)

Schools yet to answer (alphabetically):
Berkeley
Chicago
Columbia
NYU
Stanford
UPenn
UCSB
Virginia

Oft have I been told that (for one reason or another) it is exceedingly difficult for a student to be accepted into a graduate program for the same university he attended as an undergrad. The rejection from UCLA was, thus, while disappointing, not terribly surprising; Cornell's "regrets" were a double whammy. Not to be outdone, Princeton and Yale teamed up to deliver their twin no thank you's simultaneously (both yesterday, both via email). Princeton dean William Russel was so gracious as to make the following offer in his email:

We apologize for the informality of this email, knowing that past practice would have you receiving a formal, signed letter from my office (I would, of course, be happy to provide such a letter if you so desire).

"No thank you", was my mental reply to his kindly proposition. One rejection per school seems entirely sufficient both to assure me that I am undesired, and to cast a melancholy shroud over my life. The graduate programs needn't drive me to depression with a second, more 'formal' declaration of the opprobrium with which they view me; they needn't provide a demonstration of their disdain by making the extra effort to reject me with the payment of postage and sending a hard-copy "nay."

This is view, however, is not shared by one person we'll call "Friend D."--as in the grade I would bestow upon him for the facility with which he provides solace. "Heck yeah, I'd want a 'formal, signed letter'," he began. "What kind of school is this 'Princeton,' anyway? Can't even afford a stamp? You went through all the trouble to apply there, and they don't have the decency to reject you properly. Write 'em back and tell 'em you want that second rejection in the mail."

Hoping to extract a modicum of sympathy out of Friend D, I confided in him that the dynamic due of Ivy League emails, which had arrived in quick succession, made a grand total of four "negatives"--and zero affirmative replies. This attempt failed.

I moved on to what I considered might be a more effective technique at milking him for some commiseration: a pity party. I said that I was academically worthless, that I was the intellectual equivalent of...something without value, that most likely no school would accept me, and I was destined for a sad, miserable future of under-employment. He took no effort to contradict any of this.

Finally, I decided I would make it as easy as possible for him to console me: I would say something positive, and let him agree. A simple "That's true," or even a monosyllabic "yes," would have been good enough at that point.

"Stanford was supposed to have come in late February, and it's already late February. Their deadline was the earliest, so they've had the longest time to make a decision. Do you think they're taking so long to reply because they're deliberating among me and some other candidates? Maybe I'm on the short list for Stanford! Maybe Stanford will accept me," I said longingly.

In complete and utter defiance of all I had anticipated and hoped for, Friend D. countered, "No, maybe Stanford is just less efficient at sending out its rejection letters."

Icy Stabs

As I was sitting in the front yard, pulling weeds from the lawn and minding my own business, I heard an advertisement for an interview local NPR personality Larry Mantle had with one Ms. Sonia Nazario. If you want to listen, the link is here. Otherwise, here is the abstract from the KPCC website:

LA Times journalist Sonia Nazario joins Larry Mantle to talk about her new book Enrique's Journey, the riveting true story of a Honduran boy who braved hardship and danger to reunite with his mother in the United States. The book is based on Nazario's Los Angeles Times series for which she traveled to Honduras and followed the same perilous route that Enrique took north, riding on freight trains, hitchhiking and interviewing people Enrique had encountered. The series won Pulitzer Prizes for feature writing and photography.

That's right: Pulitzer PrizeS, plural (as in multiple Pulitzers). Sure, Nazario undertook a "perilous" trek across multiple countries, endured extreme weather conditions, risked physical danger to her person, and exposed herself to egregious, debilitating diseases unknown to residents of the developed world. Ok, so her muckraking journalism unearthed an apropos story, and offered a human face to the nameless statistics of legal and illegal immigrants. Yes, she sacrificed her time to bring public awareness to the fact that "48,000 children, some as young as 7, make the journey alone each year, along the way risk[ing] their lives and their freedom as they face predatory smugglers and trolling immigration authorities." So what? Does that entitle her to our nation's most prestigious journalistic awards of excellence? What, are we just giving away PulitzerS these days?

Adding more insult to (perceived) injury, Terry Gross interviewed Ms. Nazario about her Pulitzer Prize-winning LA Times series, and subsequent book. [Link here.] Why all this sudden attention to a woman whose work has already earned Pulitzer PrizeS, plural (as in multiple Pulitzers)? A nod from NPR will give a healthy boost to anyone's book; two (or more ) NPR interviews will catapult a book through the publishing stratosphere, as they've done for Joan Didion's A Year of Magical Thinking, Thomas Friedman's The World is Flat: A Brief History of the Twenty-First Century, or Steven Levitt's Freakonomics. Does she really need the royalties to soothe the pangs of her Pulitzer PrizeS, plural (as in multiple Pulitzers)?

As I reflected on Sonia Nazario's Pulitzers, and her basking in the NPR lime light--not to mention the royalties she would soon be cashing in--two words entrenched themselves into my mind: icy stabs.

Icy stabs, now whence did this curious phrase come? I had to think a moment, because I knew that I had not generated these words myself, but was making some subconscious allusion to something I had heard or read. "Ah, yes," I told myself, "Sandra has icy stabs."

Sandra is, of course, Sandra Tsing Loh, and she referenced icy stabs in her book A Year in Van Nuys. In a visit to her therapist, she confesses that she feels these icy stabs of insecurity. Originally in the context of writer's block, the stabs are extended to all sources of personal discontent:

"I shouldn't feel like an utter human zero, but I do. Why? Because I am not a well-loved female sports commentator on ESPN 2. I'm not the eleventh guy from the left in the bar of Cheers. I'm not some lovable Man on the Street in a funny FedEx ad. The View!" I careen suddenly sideways. "The women on The View! What is that show about? Why are those women on there? Lisa Ling? What are her credits? And now why is she in these Old Navy commercials? Dancing, dancing, dancing with those pants? And the swingy hair?" This has become less of therapy session and more of a colonic purging--all one can do is look on from the sidelines and wanly remark, "Look at that...corn." My mouth widens, Roman mask-like, into a bitter howl. "Why why why not me me me me me me me me me me?"

[Later on, Sandra is accosted by the icy stabs when she sees her ex-grad school classmate Monica Veerklausen on tv accepting an Academy Award for best feature-length documentary for her film about Kosovo.]

And that is how I feel. As of today, I have been rejected from UCLA and Cornell. Someone said that graduate schools tend to reject their own undergrads to shoo their fledglings out of the comforts of the academic nest, so the UCLA decision was not a big downer. Cornell, however, was the second rejection, and the whole of this rejection duo is greater than the sum of its parts.

Where are my Pulitzers? Heck, where is my Pulitzer, singular (as in just one, one tiny Pulitzer!) Right now, I'd even settle for having won the Clara E. Hastings scholarship, the UCLA English department undergraduate award for excellence--for which I was nominated, but ultimately not selected. (Always a bridesmaid...) Where are my NPR interviews with Larry Mantle, Terry Gross, or even Ira Glass? Where is my book deal, and subsequent exorbitant royalities? All these accolades have evaded my grasp, and have, instead, been substituted by...

Icy stabs!

Student Profile 4

You've already been introduced to Kevin, of spectacularly gianormous earlobe fame. He had an exchange today with another non-student of mine, Brandon. How was I privy to this delightful conversation? The usual homework time teacher was late, and I was asked to substitute until she arrived. Reluctant to relinquish rest and relaxation to monitor the rowdy rabble, I reservedly relented, and was richly recompensed by this rather ribald (yet relatively restrained) repartee:

Brandon: [Some clever insult that has unfortunately escaped me.]
Kevin: You're lame.
Brandon: Kevin, come back to me when you have some better come backs.
Kevin: You're two years older than me, so I don't think this competition is fair. Well, you're a girl, so maybe it is fair.
Brandon: Kevin, that's crossing the line. Kimberly is going to punish you for that.
Kevin: Oh, cry me a river.
Brandon: You don't know this, but I CAN cry a river!
Kevin: Ok, let's see it. Cry me a river!

[At Kevin's bidding, Brandon does a fabulous Z-snap using four snaps (snap, snap, snap, snap!), but in the serpentine shape of an S, in lieu of the more traditional Z, with its hard, angular frame.]

Joanna's Christmas Menagerie

In true genius fashion, I have experienced a deluge of incredibly vivid dreams* recently. Why? Because I'm a genius! :) haha. Here is the latest one:

My student Benson requires a ride to his girlfriend's house. [Although I cannot remember why he needed a lift, he did.] I offer to take him, despite the fact that I am only on a scooter--the version run on foot-power, not the motorized kind. It seems that I have been to his girlfriend's house prior to this trip, and, although I have only made the journey once, I am able remember the way. [Reality note: I have a rather deplorable sense of direction.] We travel parallel to the ocean down some very narrow alleyways, when whom should be meet but...CHULA!

It so happens that Chula is on route to the same address, but she is driving a white sedan. [Reality note: in high school, Chula owned a white Rav-4.] Eventually the path we are traveling becomes too narrow for her to drive, so she gets out and pushes it to our destination, because the car has greater manuverability when pushed. (In the dream, this did not seem illogical.) [Reality note: Cars rarely experience greater manuverability when pushed.]

We arrive at Benson's girlfriend's house, which actually turns out to be Joanna and Joel's house! (Don't ask; I'm not sure if Benson is dating, or has ever dated, Joanna or Joel). Joanna has made a long list of things she wants for both her birthday and Christmas: a small doggy; a kitten; and a bird. [Reality note: Her birthday is only two weeks prior to Christmas.]

While the rules of our gift exchange stipulate that I need only give one item on the wish list, in my magnamimity I have bought her all three. She unwraps the kitten first (all the animals have been put into boxes, which were subsequently wrapped.) Upon coming out, the kitten immediately attacks her middle-aged cat, Charlie, by biting its neck. [Reality note: Joanna and Joel do have a middle-aged cat named Charlie.] "Bad kitty!" Joanna admonishes as she pulls it off. In truth, the new kitten was only defending the oldest, largest cat (that Joanna already had) from Charlie's aggression.

Next she unwraps the dog, which is some special breed that can be recognized by the fact that its feces contain no hair in them. (In the dream, all other species of dog lick themselves, and have large amounts of hair in their fecal matter.) This breed meticulously scrapes the fur off its tongue to avoid fur going into its GI tract. There is an instuctional card that comes with the dog to explain all of this.

Notwithstanding his wife's present-unwrapping glee, Joel's is beginning to look rather disgruntled because their house is relatively small, and unsuitable for 3 cats 2 dogs (they had one already), a bird and a bale of turtles, which they raise in their backyard. I advise her not to unwrap the bird, otherwise Joel may get upset at the small menagerie she is amassing...not to mention the baby on the way. [Reality note: Joanna is actually pregnant, and the baby is expected sometime in June, I think.]

To escape the mounting tension caused by my generousity, I abscond into their backyard and decide to feed one of the turtles (it can talk!) Offering it squash and mint lives, I find that is is a quite a rapacious reptile. Upon taking it back to the turtle pen, I discover that is has grown to about 5 times the size of its sibblings!

Re-entering the house, I pick up a magazine, which contains an advertisement that catches my eye: the 100 things David Sedaris finds funniest. One of them is watching the Thanksgiving episode of Futurama with with audio track from the Easter episode. Mr. Sedaris describes this experience as "hilarious," the strongest expression of approbation he uses in that advertisement, so I make a note to buy the Futurama DVD to experience the humor for myself.

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*For example, see A Real Dream, or I Had a Dream.

A Real Dream, A Win, A Loss, A Dreamy Reality

Last night I had a curious dream about my planned radio program interviewing survivors of the Japanese internment camps:

Ira Glass (the host of NPR's This American Life) has agreed that my piece is brilliant, and wants to air it. I arrange to meet Ira in person. [Since he is a radio personality, I don't actually know what he looks like. Nonetheless, my sleeping brain was able to generate a face for him. His voice in the dream was just like it is on the radio, but I don't recall the physical appearance constructed by my subconscious.]

Before my article is aired on This Amerian Life, the House of Representatives agrees that the piece is of significance to American history and society, and therefore calls me to Capitol Hill to receive recognition and testify on the importance of this issue. The representatives convene in an outdoor tennis stadium, with bleachers on only one side of the court. I am not unsatisfied with the lack of grandeur of the venue, but it's crowded (since we have 435 representatives), and 100 guests of my choosing are in attendance to behold the honors that the House has wisely decided to impart upon me.

While my friends and I are walking down the bleachers to find a seat, who should pass us by--none other than, you guessed it, former house majority leader, Tom Delay! How did I know it was Delay? Actually, much like my knowledge of Ira Glass's appearence, my familiarity with the former majority leader's visage would not allow me to pick him out in a line up; I knew it was he because he was wearing shorts and a t-shirt (all the other congressmen were suitably dressed--haha, get it? SUITably.) I remember thinking "Wow, he MUST be important if he can break the dress code here...that must be Tom Delay."


Tonight at Alvin's I won one game of "Carcassone," then lost a game of settlers (to Pam!) While driving home on the 605, this monsterous fog drifted in from no where. It was very surreal and dreamlike.

The fog refracted all the tail lights on my side of the freeway, making it look like red mist--a rather unsettling vista for a SoCal boy unaccustomed to fog and the optical illusions that it's capable of producing. On the opposite side of the freeway, the water particles were refracting headlights, which produced a white, glowing effect that, contrary to the horror of the sanguine spectacle directly in front of me, was pleasing. So pronounced were the color contrast and the effect it had on my psyche that I considered exiting the freeway to drive in the soft luminescence of the other side, but I knew that I would suffer the crimson curse irrespective of the direction in which I traveled.

Then, as swiftly as it had appeared, the fog disappeared, and I had a newfound appreciation for the beauty of a clear evening sky.

State of the Union, continued

I think no politically savy person expects the "State of the Union" address to apprise Congress of the present state of the Union, so much as to outline the direction the President would like to take the country in the future.

So what is the current condition of our nation? If you want an answer to that, this is not the blog for you; untrained in the arts of politics, economics, and sociology, I am inadaquate to attempt any reasonably sufficient answer. I do know, however, that yesterday was very remarkable in aspects other than its being the date selected for the delivery of the State of the Union.

Samuel Alito was sworn in today as our nation's 110th Supreme Court justice, after being confirmed by a Senate vote of 58 to 42; the decision was almost entirely along party lines, with only one Republican and four Democrats casting votes contrary to partisan expectations. With Alito sworn in, the retirement of Justice O'Connor, who submitted her letter of resignation last July (effective upon finding a replacement), became official.

As Justice Alito's confirmation formalized Sandra O'Connor's resignation, Alan Greenspan's retirement today opened the way for Ben Bernanke to take the helm as the Fed's 14th Chairman.

Civil rights activist, and widow of the Reverend Martin Luther King, Jr., Coretta Scott King passed away today. No one has been nominated, confirmed, or sworn in to take her place. [Perhaps my liberal friends will comment that the death of Mrs. King is an apropos and prescient comment on the direction of civil rights, in as much as her passing coincides with ascention of Justice Alito to the High Court, but I am not so cynical.] In his preamble to the State of the Union address, President Bush commented that "Tonight we are comforted by the hope of a glad reunion with him who loved her most." [This was a change from the original submitted to the media, "Tonight we are comforted by the hope of a glad reunion with the husband who was taken from her so long ago."] I was unsure if he were referring to a reunion between Mrs. King and her late husband, or Mrs. King and Jesus.

A recap:
Justice Samuel Alito in
Sandra Day O'Connor out
Alan Greenspan out
Ben Bernanke in
Coretta Scott King out (no replacement)

There has not been a date in recent memory whose events so aptly reflect the truism that the rate of change in our world increases with each passing day. These are indeed times of change.