Desperado

Last July I began a journey that would alter the course of my life and those closest to me. After 34 years of residence in the San Francisco Bay Area, I moved to Austin with my two Golden Retrievers (Pepsi and Pearl) to begin a PhD program at University of Texas. Driving away from my home of 20 years, terror struck my heart when I glanced in the rear view mirror and saw my kids waving to me in the middle of the street. A flood of memories descended on me, gripping my heart, reminding me of the gravity of this leap of faith at 52 years of age. There was; however, no turning back. I wiped the tears and kept driving. Two days and 30 hours of driving later I pulled up to Cloverleaf Drive, about to find out what it means for a middle age mother to journey to a new life.

Breakthroughs in my life are typically preceded by desperation. Change or die. Going to Greece when my kids were 6 and 10, riding on a motorcycle from New Mexico to California a year later, traveling abroad alone, and driving to Texas with a vision to create an art installation on an overgrown lot were all acts of desperation. One of my friends described my trek to Austin as a “gutsy move”; however, for me it would have required far more not to go. That being said, I was still terrified about entering a PhD program after a 25-year lapse since being a graduate student.

The academic year was intense, challenging, dreadful, stimulating, and in the end, a triumph. My life consisted primarily of my studies. Without Pepsi and Pearl I might have gone crazy. They greeted upon my return and turned their attention to me when I felt myself slipping into the PhD abyss. There were the low points of crying myself to sleep and in the shower before my statistics mid term, the trauma of my second theory paper when I had no one to proof it for me and ran out of time, and feeling as if I could not do anything right in my methods classes. On the other hand, I met a friend for life, the other senior member of my cohort, Diane, and experienced the joy that occurs when you are learning, growing, and unifying your passions.

Solitude has been a necessary ingredient in my life. I travel solo, go to movies and dinner alone, and generally recharge in the quiet of my own company. It has long been my fantasy to move to a new house with only my doggies, a house with hardwood floors and character more suited to my personality. I had grown weary of people constantly coming and going, storing their belongings in my garage, and considering my space the epicenter of their lives. Other than a bed in the guestroom, my house in Austin was empty when I arrived. I shipped paintings and clothes, nothing else. My car was jammed packed with framed paintings, a rug, and personal papers. My intention was a fresh start, literally and figuratively. There would be no clutter in this house. I prided myself on buying only what I needed, feeling satisfied by the fact that the cabinets that lined my garage were practically empty. After my first overnight trip to Mart I anxiously walked into my house and felt a sensation that could only be described as “home”.

Although I relish and require solitude, this past year brought me to a new level of experiencing what it is like to be alone. Coupled with the intensity of school, living by myself felt like I had fallen off the face of the earth. Days would pass when I spoke to only my dogs, and had no social interaction until class on Tuesday. It is difficult to describe what it felt like in those moments. I felt lonely but had no real desire, or perhaps the energy, to call friends or family to chat. When I did speak on the phone I had little to contribute besides a litany of my due dates and my progress or lack thereof. I found little time to cultivate friendships, and truth be told, I lacked the energy for that as well. My night out was a movie alone, or a spontaneous trip to Book People to browse books I had no intention of reading until winter or summer break. My life had become one-dimensional. Sadly, the ability to hang out was a forgotten art.

I came to appreciate the visits of Gene, my kids, Tommy, and the few friends who made it to Austin. Being able to get up after hours on the computer to chat about anything other than schools was a treat. When Rena surprised my on Mother’s Day I was ecstatic. While studying for my statistics final in my office, I heard her empty the dishwasher without my asking, bringing tears to her mother’s eyes. Gene would take Pepsi and Pearl for long walks, tidy the house, and surprise me with a lemon meringue cupcake from Quacks. Tommy raked bags of leaves and cooked for me. Jonathan made BBQ and managed to put his arm around me at just the right time. Karen helped landscape my front and backyard, created a vegetable garden, and Pamm took me shopping and had me in stitches with her humor. Those interludes of companionship broke the density of my solitude and school driven life.

The transition from life in the real world to PhD student is akin to learning a new language and culture. Being self-made, I had to learn when to conform and when to hold my ground. I had the opportunity to do both, relying on wisdom and years of experience to guide me. I did not come to the program to loose myself or be remade in someone else’s image; on the contrary, my intention was to realize my potential and passion. In my qualitative research method class, Dr. Bell gave me the support and leeway to develop a method of visual analysis using collage portraits created from interviews I conducted in Mart. In Dr. Gilbert I found a mentor and colleague, developing a course with Mart as the designated site for service learning projects. I was guided with patience into my first semester methods class by Dr. von Sternberg who seemed more pleased with my mid term grade than I was. I found refuge in the art department with Dr. Adejumo, and in the history department with my dear friend Dr. Walker.

It was my advisor, Dr. Schwab, whose door was always open and provided a safe place for me to vent, cry, and receive sage advice when things got sticky. As my statistics professor he watched me transform from a fear stricken student to one who challenged a question on the final exam about the difference between binary and multinomial logistic regression. With his dry humor, he leaned back in his chair and wistfully joked about turning the clock back to the old Paula who never thought she would ever be able to master statistics. She has been replaced I insisted, and as we both laughed, I wasn’t sure which one of us was prouder.

I write these words from Ghana, where I am a teaching assistant for a Maymester course of 22 students from University of Texas. Inadvertently Ghana played a large part in my decision to return to school. When Jonathan and I visited Ghana three years ago I was exposed to the possibility of teaching and research as a vehicle to pursue my passion for art and social justice. I met people doing exciting projects in Ghana, Senegal, and the U.S. who felt my work was valuable, and encouraged me to apply to school and continue to develop my art projects. My Ghana series articulated a story I felt attached to through my children and launched me toward new partnerships in Senegal and provided the inspiration for the work in Mart that has taken on a life of its own. We recently received a grant for $20,000 for a community art program, community garden, and digital media project. And this is in addition to our black history and oral history teacher training projects funded by Humanities Texas. The lesson affirmed is not to ignore the visionary that resides in all of us - nothing ventured, nothing gained.

Being a desperado has its upside.
In my particular journey desperation is my partner in crime, causing me to venture to places easily avoided when comfort has a hold on my soul. I was driven to explore visual analysis by frustration with traditional narrative coding of the interviews I conducted. The despair and doubt I felt was rewarded with the rapture that accompanies creating art. No matter how many times I experience a break though preceded by what feels like a fatal desperation where I am cornered with no where to escape, I am compelled to learn the same lesson over and over again. When things felt most grim, Dr. Bell insisted I “trust my process”. What process I wondered? How quickly we forget. I had to remind myself that same process guided me through 28 years of parenting, creating artwork, building friendships in all corners of the world, and making leaps of faith inspired by my doubters as much as my supporters. With one year down, this middle age mother’s journey to a new life adds to the mounting evidence that even a desperado is capable of the respectable, otherwise known as the future Dr. Gerstenblatt. Just try and stop me.