I don’t do well with transitions. For the last several years, I have been planning my life by ending one chapter and starting the next in a day or less (i.e. Graduation to Lifevoice to camp, etc.). Time in between such significant life events allows room for worry, I’ve realized, as my inner dialogue for the last few days has consisted of: “I can do this. I can do this. I can do this…” Schmoozing at an English Grad Program shin-dig on Thursday, I gripped my glass of punch and plate of shrimp cocktail while professors asked questions like, “Have you thought about going ahead with a PhD program after this?” or “So, what type of literature interests you most?” They seem like simple enough questions, but for one who is questioning everything that comes out of her own mouth, I became horrified when I heard myself say things like, “Well…ummm…I like British Literature quite a lot…You know, like Shakespeare…” Shakespeare? Am I kidding myself? What kind of an answer is that? Everyone likes Shakespeare! I receive blank stares. “I can do this I can do this I can do this…” There goes that inner dialogue again while I try to think of something a bit more interesting to say that would prove that I deserve to be in this program. Luckily, the conversation turned to post-colonial theory and criticism which I have read much about and I was able to contribute more naturally to the dialogue.

Later, I engaged in conversation with a very friendly current student and not once did I question myself or scan my brain for interesting or intelligent things to say, after all, I thought, she is a student just like me. As she was leaving, she stopped, looked me in the eye and said, “I noticed that earlier you seemed a little nervous while we were talking to the professors. You made it into this program without any help. You deserve to be here. So calm down and enjoy yourself, you’ll do fine.” I had been so busy trying to memorize the name of one of my classes in case I was asked (which I can now proudly rattle off: “British Literature of the West Indies in the Eighteenth Century Imagination”) that I had forgotten that I had earned my place in that class in the first place. I had been spending my time hoping no one would catch on that I didn’t belong there instead of enjoying the fact that I was wanted there. So even though my inner dialogue continues to incessantly chant “I can do this, I can do this…” don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine.