statement of purpose

When I was thirteen I responded to an altar call at a tent revival. It was not because I had previously considered myself to be lost, but because I felt dutifully inclined to make a public acceptance of what I believed was the truth. The custom of this particular tent revival was to have each respondent from the week's services to stand and give their testimony of what new work God had done in their lives. I was a new girl in town and it was my first time to this particular church's revival service, but all the other people grew up there, and they had heard -- or perhaps read a pamphlet -- on proper ways to compose a suitable testimony. Since I am a Gemini I wrote my own, and did not even think to ask if there was a template to follow. I suppose the connotation of "personal" coming from "personal testimony" was strong for me. I read from my notebook (it's somewhere at my mother's house; I'll discover it one day when I get my own place) some explanation of my not being a child any more, and that I was under commission to profess what I believed, and I ended by saying I gave my testimony for the benefit of anyone present who needed to hear the truth. Then, one after another, I heard the others read, and each one ended with, "please remember me in your thoughts and prayers." I immediately felt like the one who didn't get the memo, but afterwards I was approached by elders, evangelists, mothers, and grandfathers (in that order) who commended me on my originality.

Okay, that story is full of jargon, and Christianisms, and churchisms (which I'm not going to translate), and could possibly make a lot of you say, "see, that's why church is such total bullshit..." But I'm not writing about church, or my testimony, or conformity, but something more selfish. I obviously haven't been turned into a plastic reproduction of southern fundamentalists with their own insecurities so far up their asses that they can't even divert their eyes from their decrees-for-to-keep long enough to sense their own internal bleeding. What happened in me that week was sincere -- and personal -- and has remained so.

Here's what I want to write about:

I see some comparrison between that story and between my attempt at writing my statement of purpose right now. See, I'm trying to go to graduate school, and I have to send along a statement of purpose, and I'm the only one who's read it. I mean, no one has helped me with it. I didn't read a book on how to sell yourself in 200 words. The hook of the piece is when I say I am not interested in pursuing a masters to see what I can offer to the field of linguistics, but to see how the field benefits me. Then I explain that there is resident inside me an innate ability to process linguistic theory and it deserves to receive light. Like this ability I have is something completely me, and also completely separate.

Tonight when I remembered the story of my summer-heat testimony it's was like my subconscious was giving my worried mind a pat on the back and saying, "You've always spoken the truth from your heart, and it always takes you exactly to the places where you're supposed to be." My inner fat-self is saying that I'm signing my own suicide note to send such things to graduate schools.

I have an inner fat-self. It sounds silly, but she doesn't like herself, and she really wants to feel like the girls in the magazines look. She wastes time wondering how she could find someone else to help her stop wasting time. She is a glutton for pitty, and she gorges herself on fantasies, and then purges herself on guilt. She's not chubby, or full-bodied, she's fat-nasty and makes people uncomfortable to be near.

I try not to listen to her when she gets that way. In other ways she's helpful. Like, she has good suggestions on how to have an interesting personality, and to be funny, and how to comfort people. My inner fat girl has a great personality. She just doesn't take good care of herself.

Anyway... Graduate school...I could end up in North Carolina, Indiana, Massachusets, Rhode Island, Arizona, or remain right here in New York.

I'm a resident now, you know. I got my driver's license. It looks so strange... I've always had a Georgia license. I never got a Tennessee one, for one of two reasons.

Tonight my friends David and Amy are at a Flaming Lips and Beck concert in Boston. I bought the tickets... It was my big idea to go to the show. The seats are prime. Ahg! I mean, it's the Lips backing up Beck and it's Buddy and Amy who I love and cherish. I had to send them the three tickets and my apologies for not being able to go.

See, I'm a nanny, and the woman of this household in which I live went out of town this morning, and I therefore could not make a four-hour journey to Boston and miss taking care of the children both tonight and in the morning.

I suppose perhaps the weekends are significant to me now.

In other news my little girl got her period, so that's exciting. She's in love with a guy she's never met, but she's worried he might be Hispanic, in which case she's totally turned off. I might correct her judgement if I weren't sort of the same way. Up here, it's almost rare to meet someone who speaks English as a first language in their household. It's not cultural diversity, it's a communication traffic-jam.

Where did this wave of melancholy come from?

The CV joint on my car-back-home-that-my-brother-is-driving broke. Mom called to ask if I would fix it. I don't even drive the car. So now I feel guilty because I know she'll end up taking care of the problem.

My flight home for Thanksgiving was overbooked, so I spent all fucking day getting a new flight -- which was more expensive.

But why so glum, Michaela?

I'm not truly glum; I just don't like doing laundry, and Monday is laundry day, and I don't like waiting, and I'm waiting for all my paperwork to be sent to me for graduate school, and I don't like missing The Flaming Lips (who I like better than Beck. Don't shoot!), and today is the show I had had tickets for, and I don't like feeling like a burden to my family when all my mom wants is for us to "live near, visit often," and I do neither and the remnant of me sits in her driveway at her expense.

I think I'm going to call someone and smoke a cigarette. I call it my goodnight kiss. Everynight someone gets a call.

Sometimes they're not home.

I'm going to go now and make sure I don't cry.