Uncanny confidence

Sunday, 5 December 2010

I begin this post with a confession: I spent much of the past several years being almost paralyzed by the enormity of the world and its and knowledge base and my insignificance by comparison. My mother always counseled, “Keep your eyes on your own page” and don’t compare your talents or weaknesses with others’. She gave good advice – that I’ve rarely been able to follow.

As I waded through the graduate-school application process nearly seven years ago, I went from seeing myself as a self-assured, prize-carrying college graduate to realizing, crestfallen, that I was just one more wet-the-behind-ears neophyte being swept along in the current of grown-up life. Even more discouraging was the feeling that in my newly adopted town of Washington, DC, it sometimes seemed that just about anyone would pull you under, if he could. Of all the experience and accomplishment sloshing around the graduate applicant pool, only maybe a duo-decillionth of it was my own.

From this dejected state, I strove, with little success, to bounce back. I began to worry that, even with a degree in International Peace and Conflict Resolution, I would never find a job in my field because I just didn’t have the necessary experience. After completing the first year of my program, however, a job offer all but dropped in my lap. It wasn’t in my field, but in the back of my consciousness, I had, for years, entertained the idea that one day, I’d love to work for a certain New England newspaper.

I’d never really thought of myself as the journalist type, but when the opportunity to work at my favorite daily presented itself, I had to seize it. Besides, I thought, this will give me the experience I feel I’ve been lacking and will make my degree (which I’d hoped to finish in the future) that much more significant.

When I moved to Boston, I set myself the arbitrary goal of staying with the paper at least three years – more if journalism turned out to be my calling. My calling it was not, but I did make my three-year mark in the frosty north. I sat two years at the op-ed and editorial desks and one year in the home and garden section of the paper.

I thought spending time learning a trade – the craft of editing, writing, and reporting – would make me feel like I had a useful skill set to offer future employers or grad schools, like I’d finally accrued enough experience and understanding to be called a successful adult. Instead, I felt that what I had to give (and I wasn’t sure what that was) was dwarfed again by the cumulative perspicacity and veteran know-how of the writers and editors around me. I was awed by their deftness, frustrated that most had neither the time nor the inclination to hold the hand of a novice editor, and terrified that any question I asked would reveal the enormous deficit in my expertise and ability.

Momentary mental paralysis may have been normal in the face of such a large learning curve. I, however, barely inched past this block during all my 10-, 12-, and occasionally 16-hour days in the newsroom. And yet, I wouldn’t trade one second at the paper. Friends and colleagues, I think, saw potential in me and were frustrated, right along with me, that I wasn’t reaching it. But all the time I felt at a standstill, I’ve since realized was actually a period of great growth. I’ve seen in small ways how my writing, editing, observation, and analytical skills have vastly improved. If this is evident in no other way, I see it in how I handle the task of wordsmithing. When I have to write or edit these days, the job is not so slow and arduous. The “birthing process,” as my friend and former boss calls it, is not so painful, and thus, I don’t fear it.

Besides this improvement, I think my dilettante days in journalism actually did add up to some worthy experience. This makes me feel mentally a lot more like a real adult – finally. Still, even this sense was tardy to arrive. After I quit the paper, I went back “home” – to my mother and step-father’s house, where I had never actually lived, and to the town of my birth, where I hadn’t resided in 16 years.

To be 28 and living, in part, off your family’s resources is no confidence booster. In hindsight, though, I see that this time, too, amounted to wisdom gained and capability honed. By the end of my year teaching English to refugees, I’d worn several hats and built some beautiful relationships, which, as they should be, are much more dear to me than any skill set.

Confidence came in force, it seemed, the moment I stepped off the plane as a Peace Corps trainee in Cameroon. Or rather, “freedom” is, perhaps, a better word. Outside my own culture, where no one knew how a “normal” or “accomplished” American was supposed to look, I felt I could be myself. I stepped out from under the shadow of other people’s accomplishments and felt free to enjoy every new experience – not for what it would bring to my flat, faceless resume, but for how it could enrich me and my life – and no one else’s.

Yes, we had assignments and deadlines during those three months of training. But I did what I had to each day, not worrying so much about that project that was coming due in X number of days. What I find interesting having come out of that protective training bubble is that my new sense of freedom and self-assurance has ebbed (but not evaporated).

Training was a this magical time when, although I was with other Americans who know how Americans “ought” to be, I rested assured that they, too, must also have some atypical air about them to have signed up for Peace Corps in the first place. So I didn’t worry about revealing my quirks or weaknesses or questions or sense of humor or even sense of fashion. I figured those who would love me would love those traits. Or they wouldn’t love me at all, but they probably wouldn’t hate me or judge me by my resume, either.

I danced for the first time in years (if you can call how I move “dancing”). I had no shame about sporting the atrocious sack-shaped dresses (known as a “kabba”) and hairstyles my home-stay family loved to give me. I loved not feeling self-conscious about my usually sweat-soaked attire or the salt marks left behind when the perspiration dried. We were in Africa, and even the most professional people were sweating as visibly as I.

When I first was able to Skype with my family, my step-sister commented that she hadn’t seen me smile so much in years. Yes, she said “years.” I had to cry a little, knowing she was right – but not for long. Before I came to Cameroon, I could count on one hand the number of times in the past seven years that I had laughed so hard I teared up. Here, it happens routinely.

When I think of these past several years now, I remember a favorite church hymn, to the tune of the Irish ditty, “O, Danny Boy.” Part of one verse portrays perfectly my sentiment: “He [meaning the Christ] comes to give thee joy for desolation / beauty for ashes of the vanished years / for every tear to bring full compensation / to give thee confidence for all thy fears.”

Looking back on those vanished years now, I see the beauty in them. I wouldn’t change anything about them, even if I had the opportunity. And I’ve certainly been blessed, in full measure, with joy, compensation, and confidence these past several months.

Not everything since joining Peace Corps has been easy. Gone are the heady days of self-assurance I felt during training. Sometimes, among the other volunteers in my region, I still feel a bit like an outsider. I don’t always feel sure of what my next steps will be after my two years of service. And since starting a real teaching job at a real school, I’ve often felt overwhelmed, exasperated, inadequate, and way too busy. Nevertheless, I love my students, and I like my work. I don’t worry about being perfect or keeping up with the Joneses’ careers or that the mistakes I make are beyond correction.

I feel sure enough of good, of myself, of Life itself to commit to a plan: I’m thinking of moving to the same town where my immediate family is moving and of going to law school, which I think would suit me and my special gifts. This plan could change, but the thought of seeing such an intention through to fruition doesn’t frighten me the way it did when I ran away from grad school the first time, fled a potential career in journalism, broke out of the family labor camp (aka my grandmother’s mental-health business), and took flight to Cameroon.

There’s a Bible verse I love that says, “Forever, O Lord, thy word is settled in heaven.” I’ve clung to it often since graduating college. I still don’t know what my future holds. But, at last, I think I may be settled enough in my adult life to feel at peace about whatever lies behind the dim unknown.