A classmate of mine writes a blog about her medical school experiences. I don't know if her blog receives heavy traffic. I don't feel inclined to link it here, because I would rather not connect myself in any matter that my classmates in real life may discover me here. But J sent me a text about this girl's newest blog post, and I felt inclined to take a look.
In short--it was a bit surprising for me to read. As a bit of context (from my point of view), this girl, whom I shall refer to as Emeraude, is one of those girls that everyone knew almost immediately. Truth be told, I was almost scared of her at first because of how much power she seemingly wielded. In the beginning of the year, when everyone still went to class for anatomy lab and the class dynamics were still a novelty, gossip and secrets were abound. Allegedly, Emeraude knew them all. She was hardly a Regina George in terms of deviousness (in fact, she was generally nice in person, to me at least), but she imposed an intimidating figure precisely because you didn't know what she thought of you, and how she chose to deploy such info could easily influence how the rest of the class thought about you as well.
That, in part, was a big reason behind why my goal in the beginning of med school was to stay under the radar as much as possible. Regarding Emeraude, I tried to be cordial to her whenever we crossed paths. But she and I didn't make much of an effort to become more than friendly acquaintances, and I was at peace with this. On a surface level, she struck me as my complete opposite--extroverted, in the spotlight, etc. And I did not exactly see eye-to-eye regarding her enthusiasm for keeping up with the gossip on others.
Back to the topic at hand. The bulk of her blog post was about loneliness. Specifically, that she felt lonely in medical school, and that she felt as if it were incredibly easy to amass social friends but that she was amiss to name even five people whom she felt would be there for her if she needed someone. She speculated if we professional students were too selfish to invest in more legitimate relationships, as opposed to her close friendships during her undergraduate years.
I was a bit startled by her admission of loneliness--after all, she is someone who takes immense pride in having gone out of her way to meet every single person in our class. But I have to admit that I found myself disagreeing with a lot of the conjectures she was making, which is why I felt compelled to write my own post.
Sure, I've been lonely here too. I've written about it before on this blog as well. But her experiences of loneliness do not strike me as something unique to our medical school--or any medical school in general. It'll happen anytime you move to a new place and have to rebuild your social niche brick by brick. Friends of mine who found jobs in new locations post-graduation had to deal with the same loneliness as well. To me, it's part of the greater scheme of transitioning into full-fledged adulthood. You quickly learn that if you're feeling lonely, the simplest thing to do is simply reach out to others first. Because more often than not, someone out there is also lonely, but they're just sitting on their haunches waiting for someone to find them first, either out of fear or out of pride.
There's no shame in texting a friend, "I miss you. Can we hang out soon?"
On my end, I would have to admit that I may not have amassed a huge cohort of social friends here. But I can definitely think of five friends I would immediately call if I had an emergency. Granted, this has always been my nature--to have a few really close friends as opposed to a large social circle. But it's not impossible to do this here, and I don't think it's as difficult as my classmate makes it out to be. I didn't build these friendships by going out to all our class block parties and class social events. These were cultivated from all the little, quiet moments--studying together at a coffee shop, sitting on the pier and relaxing after an exam, inviting someone over for dinner while we study biochem, making a quick Costco trip together.
It's true -- friendships take work to cultivate, and it can be especially challenging when we feel compelled to study during all of our waking hours. But if there's anything I learned at Duke that has stuck with me even now, it's this: You don't have time to do things. You make time for them.
May 16, 2015
May 10, 2015
Before I Die
On the side of the Ogden Museum of Southern Art in downtown New Orleans, there is a long black wall with orderly repetitive lines in white print:
Fragments of colored chalk are scattered all around the concrete. People pass by, perusing through the completed sentences on the board. Some bend down to pick up a piece of chalk and contribute their own entries.
He and I sit on the parking lot curb by the Before I Die wall. The mid-afternoon May sun is warm on our backs. A trio of guys nearby laugh at the entry about wanting to "swim in a pool of beer." We can't leave this place without writing something, I say exasperatedly. Then what are you going to write? he asks.
It's not a matter of having nothing to write, but of having too many. They all sound so cliched in my head. Before I die I want to publish a novel. Before I die want to graduate from medical school. Before I die I want to become a mother. And then, there are other things that come to mind, that I don't to share with him because I am still too self-conscious.
But it occurs to me as we sit before that expansive board of scrawled hopes and dreams, just how much things have changed since our orbits collided. The paralyzing anxiety has been melting over time, and I come to the realization that the thought of checking off the "Before I Die's" with this person beside me isn't such a terrifying idea anymore.
Less than a week later, I sit in my car with my finger on the ignition button of my Prius. He has already gone back into his apartment complex, and I can feel sleepiness already ensnaring my brain. But in that moment, I pause. For months I'd been waiting, listening for that intuition and gut instinct to speak to me, and suddenly, it's there. Clear and crystal as a bell.
Oh fuck it.
I ask him to come back outside. And I take the plunge.
Before I die I want to _______________________________.
Fragments of colored chalk are scattered all around the concrete. People pass by, perusing through the completed sentences on the board. Some bend down to pick up a piece of chalk and contribute their own entries.
He and I sit on the parking lot curb by the Before I Die wall. The mid-afternoon May sun is warm on our backs. A trio of guys nearby laugh at the entry about wanting to "swim in a pool of beer." We can't leave this place without writing something, I say exasperatedly. Then what are you going to write? he asks.
It's not a matter of having nothing to write, but of having too many. They all sound so cliched in my head. Before I die I want to publish a novel. Before I die want to graduate from medical school. Before I die I want to become a mother. And then, there are other things that come to mind, that I don't to share with him because I am still too self-conscious.
But it occurs to me as we sit before that expansive board of scrawled hopes and dreams, just how much things have changed since our orbits collided. The paralyzing anxiety has been melting over time, and I come to the realization that the thought of checking off the "Before I Die's" with this person beside me isn't such a terrifying idea anymore.
Less than a week later, I sit in my car with my finger on the ignition button of my Prius. He has already gone back into his apartment complex, and I can feel sleepiness already ensnaring my brain. But in that moment, I pause. For months I'd been waiting, listening for that intuition and gut instinct to speak to me, and suddenly, it's there. Clear and crystal as a bell.
Oh fuck it.
I ask him to come back outside. And I take the plunge.
May 1, 2015
Postscript
Every once in a while, I go through my old documents and read my old work. I only really started to take creative writing classes in my senior year at Duke, so for the most part, my college portfolio of writing consists of essays.
In particular, the one that I read today was written in my last semester. Titled "Tiger Cub Plays the Piano," this essay stands out in my memory today because I wrote it for my class with Professor Oscar Hijuelos.
English professors tend to be eccentric types, and Professor Hijuelos was no exception. I signed up for his class, partly because I knew he was a Pulitzer winning writer and I was curious about what I could learn about writing from him.
A friend of mine took a class of his that same semester about the art of fiction. She told me that when her class became squeamish about critiquing a classmate's piece which involved a sex scene, Professor Hijuelos became fed up and ordered everyone in the class to go home and write a sex scene to be critiqued next week. They returned the following week with everything ranging from metaphorical deflowerings to explicit anatomical descriptions.
Writers often debate whether or not it's necessary to take writing classes. I tend to be in the camp that writing classes may be helpful but not entirely necessary. There were two key things, however, that I got out of taking a class with Professor Hijuelos.
The first was his surgical precision with words. I had never come across anyone before who was so exacting about word choice. I'd always heard the adage along the lines of, "Every word is deliberate," but I'd never seen it executed so unrelentingly. When I talked to him for a final conference that semester, I mentioned how I really admired watching him critique in that manner during class, and he used a tennis analogy to explain it to me: "The difference between good players and great players are that the great players can hit winners on a regular basis. A great writer knows how to hit the winners regularly, instead of just once in a while."
The second was less about what wisdom he imparted on me, and more of a confidence issue. My writing ego is a pathetic, fragile thing that puffs up whenever it receives compliments. Writing is by nature fraught with self-doubt, and it is even more so for someone like me who has always felt as if she were putting it off on the backburner. I was not one of those classmates who took solely English classes and lived and breathed on writing. I was always worried that my skills were rusty or that my gifts were going to waste. And so, for a writer whom I admired to compliment my final essay, I was elated. I even saved the last e-mail he ever sent me:
Oscar Hijuelos passed away later that year, about five months after he sent me that e-mail. He'd been playing tennis when he suffered a heart attack.
I still haven't read his novels. It's been on my ever-growing TBR List for a year now. I found a signed copy of "The Mambo Kings Play Songs of Love" at the William Faulkner bookstore in the French Quarter but couldn't bring myself to shell out 50 dollars for it. A part of me wishes I'd had the foresight to buy a copy for him to sign that spring. But I should be grateful for all of the other mementos I have from that semester in his class.
In particular, the one that I read today was written in my last semester. Titled "Tiger Cub Plays the Piano," this essay stands out in my memory today because I wrote it for my class with Professor Oscar Hijuelos.
English professors tend to be eccentric types, and Professor Hijuelos was no exception. I signed up for his class, partly because I knew he was a Pulitzer winning writer and I was curious about what I could learn about writing from him.
A friend of mine took a class of his that same semester about the art of fiction. She told me that when her class became squeamish about critiquing a classmate's piece which involved a sex scene, Professor Hijuelos became fed up and ordered everyone in the class to go home and write a sex scene to be critiqued next week. They returned the following week with everything ranging from metaphorical deflowerings to explicit anatomical descriptions.
Writers often debate whether or not it's necessary to take writing classes. I tend to be in the camp that writing classes may be helpful but not entirely necessary. There were two key things, however, that I got out of taking a class with Professor Hijuelos.
The first was his surgical precision with words. I had never come across anyone before who was so exacting about word choice. I'd always heard the adage along the lines of, "Every word is deliberate," but I'd never seen it executed so unrelentingly. When I talked to him for a final conference that semester, I mentioned how I really admired watching him critique in that manner during class, and he used a tennis analogy to explain it to me: "The difference between good players and great players are that the great players can hit winners on a regular basis. A great writer knows how to hit the winners regularly, instead of just once in a while."
The second was less about what wisdom he imparted on me, and more of a confidence issue. My writing ego is a pathetic, fragile thing that puffs up whenever it receives compliments. Writing is by nature fraught with self-doubt, and it is even more so for someone like me who has always felt as if she were putting it off on the backburner. I was not one of those classmates who took solely English classes and lived and breathed on writing. I was always worried that my skills were rusty or that my gifts were going to waste. And so, for a writer whom I admired to compliment my final essay, I was elated. I even saved the last e-mail he ever sent me:
"[Sophelia], I just wanted you to know that I really loved your final paper: I found it wonderfully written-- you have a real gift for words, and I was happy to see just how much you've honed your skills.
Or to put it differently, it was a pleasure to read. Ad did me proud.
Well, that's about it.
Hope you have a wonderful summer.
Oscar H"
Oscar Hijuelos passed away later that year, about five months after he sent me that e-mail. He'd been playing tennis when he suffered a heart attack.
I still haven't read his novels. It's been on my ever-growing TBR List for a year now. I found a signed copy of "The Mambo Kings Play Songs of Love" at the William Faulkner bookstore in the French Quarter but couldn't bring myself to shell out 50 dollars for it. A part of me wishes I'd had the foresight to buy a copy for him to sign that spring. But I should be grateful for all of the other mementos I have from that semester in his class.
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