Football and Dissertations

From the standpoint of a student development theorist a college football game is a dissertation in and of itself.

I attended my first football game when OSU played Hawaii. Allow me to be clear – this was my first football game EVER. I know nothing about football. I know the scoring system but I couldn’t tell you the difference between a guard and a quarter back. The only reason I know those terms is because when I ask, the players tell me their positon.   It means nothing but I ask, none-the-less, just in case one day a trigger might be magically tripped in my brain that allows me to understand what a running back does…other than run – back – towards something – maybe – who really knows.  Incidently the hall in which I work houses the freshmen football players for Oregon State. A great group of guys for the most part, I have to say. One of the guys tried to explain football to me in a language I understand. The entire concept of “downs” has continually eluded me. So one of my players asked me to close my eyes and picture a pair of shoes at the check out counter that I really really wanted (my mind immediately strayed to a pair of Nine West red patent leather pumps). I am then told I am 10 aisles from the check out counter and in my hand is a credit card. I have four attempts to move the 10 aisles to my coveted pair of shoes. The catch is there are mean people that are going to try to take away my credit card because at the other end of the store there is a pair of shoes they really want but they need my credit card to buy them. It’s a race to see who can get to their pair of shoes first.   This was the best single explanation for football I have ever heard. For years people have preached yards, endzones, defensive line and other garble that meant nothing to me. This guy really knew how to speak a language I both understand and care about. Seriously, his wife is going to be a lucky woman.

Anyway my first football game. I went with one of my RA’s, Shelly Clark and one of the new RD’s who is in the CSSA program. This was a cultural experience for me. First, everyone wears orange. Not Larry Roper orange (a tame genteel, pumpkin spice) but bright, blind your eyes, flagger orange. It’s not like the 35,000 people that attended the game have a phone tree to call eachother and discuss coordinating colors. They just all show up in organge and they all magically match. I, sad to say, was a part of the perpetuation of poor fashion choices as I too donned bright Beaver Orange. Next, as you walk up to Reser students start taking out their student IDs. Why do they do this? There are no signs that say, please have your ID ready…they just do it because they know that’s how things go. I can’t get them to take their pizza boxes to the trash but within moments of getting in line they are digging in their pockets for their IDs. Some even walk into like with their ID already out, wielding it like Excalibur.

Next – you look at your ticket and see which section you are in. You enter the student section in your assigned area and immediately start to sneak as close to the 50 yard line as possible. This is hard for me.  I come from a theatre background…you have an assigned seat, people don’t sit in your seat and you don’t edge closer to the stage just because there is an empty seat.  This is not theatre, this is football and they don’t care.  I personally would rather have tickets a little closer to the end zone. I mean, I’d rather be closer to where the good stuff happens then farther away. If I go back to the shoe store analogy, why sit in the boot section when what I really want to see are the peep toed pumps? Anyway, after sneaking as close as possible to the 50 yard line people then stand on the bleachers (which incidentially have printed on themin large black block letters “Do not stand on bleachers”) to get a better look at the field. Then from a huge inflatable helmet on the stage right (I will always be a theatre geek at heart) side of the field the football team bursts forth to cheers and screams similar to what Ceasar must have heard upon his return home from “conquering” Egypt.

Then to my amazement, the freshmen in the audience picked up on the football culture as though they had been doing it all their lives.  These are people who have not spent a single day in the classroom or living in our residence halls.  They just came down for the game because…well, because they are freshmen at OSU and that’s what freshmen do, I guess.  There are all these arm movements, and things you do and say in time to the music or not…it’s all very complicated.

Realization to me…you know how when the other team has the ball, everyone is screaming and yelling?  All my life I have thoughts fans did that just because the other team had the ball and they were pouting.  Turns out, no, they do it so the players can’t hear the plays called from the sideline.  Not pouting, malicious.  And what’s with this high five stuff.  Whenever the Beaver’s made a touch down everyone starts cheering (totally understand) and high five-ing.  Really now, what’s that about?   Three guys in front of me turn around and start giving me high fives and I’m thinking, “Why are you giving me a high five…we didn’t just run the ball into the end zone. They did.  We aren’t dripping in sweat and wearing funky padding and ugly shoes…they are.   Where do you get off high five-ing like you are something special?”  But EVERYONE does it.  It’s a thing, a culture, a tradition and these freshmen, who have never been to a game before as a student pick up on it like they have been doing it since they were three.  It is truly stunning.  I can’t get them to study for their midterms but they can hum every little jingle the band plays.

Maybe that is what academia needs… a marching band.  Maybe if i had a marching band, students would clean up after themselves, study for their tests, and make good choices.  That’s it, I want a marching band!

Reflection as a way of life…thanks a lot, Jackie

Jackie, Don, Melissa, Jessica, Tom, Rich, Kris…I blame them all. I remember very distinctly telling my simply fabu Major Prof, Jackie Balzer, that I was done reflecting after my portfolio. I was taking a year off because I was reflected out. Today, I heard myself say to my staff, “I really need to reflect on that before I am prepared to make a decision.” It’s only been 5 months since I picked up the final copies of my portfolio. I have 7 months left on my reflection moratorium. A few short hours later I confessed to Joanna (a cohort mate) that I loved my blog because it allowed me to reflect on life and my career. When did it happen? When did reflecting become something I just do because it helps me focus and gives a clear path? I was sick, nigh unto death, of reflections during grad school and now I…jinkies, I cannot believe I am going to say this…I miss them. I miss a lot about grad school. I miss the routine, I miss the smell of new books (I went down into the bookstore and just stared at all the CSSA books with more than a twinge of longing the other day), I miss the built in face to face support of my cohort, I miss the sense of purpose. It is weird to be at OSU and not be here for grad school. It was what brought me here and now that it is done, I feel odd being here…almost as if I am an outsider, drifting without ballast or purpose.

Nothing prepared me for the transition from grad school to the professional world. It was talked about but the sense of loss was not covered. The sense of being unsupported and unsafe wasn’t discussed. We talked about job searching and authentic leadership…not the feelings aloneness. Tuckman would be intrigued…as a cohort we formed, stormed, normed…but I don’t think I emotionally adjourned.

Ironically, I’m going to end with a simple – this needs more reflecting.

Packratiosis

Packratiosis. This is a genetic problem that seems to plague people in my family. My mother’s mother suffers from it. “Save that piece of lace, honey,” I hear as I attempt to clean out her craft closet. “Seriously, Gramma?” I respond, incredulously, as I look at a tiny bit of lace not big enough to trim a Barbie Doll’s apron. But save it we do, because who knows when her arthritic hands might be miraculously healed enough to use that microscopic piece of fluff on the cards she makes.

My father’s mother suffers from it…to the extreme. Here is a woman who saves everything because saints alive, “It might be worth something some day!” Got news for you Gramma – a collection of Wonder bread sacks through the years are never going to be auctioned off at Sotheby’s for millions.

My father suffers from it to an annoying level. “Don’t toss that copper wire, if we hold onto it until the Armageddon maybe it will hit $3 a pound.” “Save that old refrigerator, I’ll turn it into a smoker” – fast forward 6 years to Tom hauling it out of the barn and to the dump…the poor thing having never experienced the wonders of becoming a smoker. And my absolute favorite – “I could get $1,500 for that car!” Really? The one that doesn’t start, with four flat tires, a pealing roof, dead battery, and is home to a colony of mice? Since when did we become a magician there, Pops?

My mother and her father do not suffer from packratiosis. They fall to the other extreme. “Toss it today, regret it tomorrow, but clean it ALL out right now!”

It is from this mingling of genetic material that I come. Mom has been after me for over a year to clean my room. I used to give her a bad time that she’d clean Tom’s room whenever he left but not mine, but upon spending nine hours in my room one day cleaning things out, I see why. And honestly, I tend to be umm…fussier, than Tom about my things. The Saturday before leaving home to come back to Corvallis, Mom had finally nagged me enough that I grabbed a garbage bag and hauled it upstairs to tip toe through a collection of about 13 years of my life.

Now I don’t have a big room but I do have a little cubby hole that can be used as storage…or in my case, a landfill. I pulled the good, the bag and the ugly out of there folks. Stuff even I was surprised to find peered up at me through a thick layer of dust. Most people talk about dust bunnies…there were dust creatures in there that could have swallowed Spencer and never unhinged their jaws. Mom and I went through boxes and boxes of stuff and drawers and drawers of stuff only to then go through sacks and sacks of stuff. At some point in my life I must have been into T-shirts because I’ll bet I threw away 50 of them. There were socks, and jeans, and pleated shorts that all bit the big one. My undergrad books went by the wayside (the boring writing theory, rhetoric, and tutoring books…I kept all the good literature books) and I tossed out all my papers, journals, and writings from undergrad. 14 bags of garbage got hauled out of my room and to the dump. I’m talking 14 bags of 50gallon hefty, hefty, hefty sacks, not wimpy, wimpy, wimpy sacks. It was liberating to get rid of so much stuff and in the process I learned where I stand on the scale of packratiosis. I am an emotional mover (I’m sure that comes as a shock to many of you) so when I move I tend to throw away a lot of things from the previous move and hold on to things that represent the phase of my life I am leaving. When I packed to leave grad school I threw away a lot of stuff from my years in Bend that I had been hanging on to. When I was packing to come back here I was able to throw away three more bags of garbage I wasn’t ready to let go of in June. When I move on from my current job I am sure there are things I will be ready to get rid of that at this point in time I can’t imagine parting with. Actually, I was unpacking my office today and ran across some things from last year that just hold too many fresh memories to toss but I know when I pack to leave next time, I’ll be ready to say goodbye to, so I just put it all in one box so I could look at it one last time, relive the joy of spending time with my students and friends right before tip the box into the dumpster and be content that the memories will always be with me even if the objects aren’t.

Domestic Diva….or not….

You know how every once in a while we’d all like to be someone we aren’t? I’m not talking about being another person entirely, though if I could switch bodies with Catherine Zeta-Jones and she wasn’t married to Michael Douglass and didn’t have two small children, I’d be all over that. I’m talking more about experimenting with activities that are well outside the normal comfort zone. Normally, I’d say it’s a good thing to extend ourselves beyond that which we normally do. These activities encourage growth. These activities lead to new passions, new experiences, new realtionships. This is a bunch of crap – they cause painful physicl damage to the only body I’m going to get on this planet.

I state this based on some of my summer activities. Mom and I went down to visit my grandparents around the first of July. During that time we helped Gramma clean out one of her closets. I own that I am a pack rat, but after working with Gramma I have come to the realization that it’s genetic and I can’t be completely blamed. But that’s for the next post. As we were digging through the mounains of fabric she will never use, we came upon a little bag and in that bag were embroidery pieces I had started when I was six or seven. Started and never finished. It is obvious my tastes have refined since then…I had started to embroider the teddy bear’s night cap in pink…no offense Leanne. Anyway, 21 years later I decided to finish what I started…after ripping out the pink. Sheer stubborness is the only reason that teddy bear’s pants got embroidered on him. Dear Lord! My fingers were so full of holes I could have had a glass of water and give the houseplants a good sprinkle with my fingertips. Did I learn my lesson? Why no! Of course not! And again my fingers pay the price.

I’ve officially moved into Finley, which has an adorable little kitchen. I have been kitchen deprived for two years so it excited me beyond reaon that I now have a stove, oven, actual cupboard space, and a freezer. Saturday I went picking blueberries with colleagues . I froze two gallon bags of lovely blueberries and then decided to attempt to make my Mom’s chicken salad (the most divine salad ever created!). I bustle about my little kitchen thinking I am just the next Donna Read; seriously I was a string of pearls and pair of heels away from the perfect 1950’s housewife…in my own mind. I’m boiling, mixing, chopping, washing dishes as I went (which should tell you just how deep I was into this little fantasy of mine) and after finishing up I walked to my adorable red hutch to grab the package of Saran Wrap so I could slide my fantastic salad, in its adorable bowl, into my marvelous refrigerator so the flavors could meld. The Saran Wrap was a new box so, rather than read the directions on the box that mentioned a pull tab (would June Cleaver bother with silly directions), I slid my finger under the tab and ran it down the side of the box…and that little metal strip with all the flesh ripping tips. Honestly, the Spanish Inquisition has nothing on these stinkin’ Saran Wrap boxes. After sucking half the oxygen out of the room with my pained yelp, I reached for the paper towel to stem the flow of blood. By now Spencer, who heard me yelp and came running, is bouncing around my feet trying awfully hard to help his momma. Nice thought but in the end it only made for a nice trip (literally) to the sink. Who new fingers bled so much?

I’m not a domestic goddess. I can cook. I throw a decent party. I know how to clean and can be coaxed into doing it by the possibility of using my leopard print broom but I’m not a fan. My skills come out when I am behind a desk…my fingertips safely positioned on the keys of computers, phones, and calculators. Sometimes it just pays to stick to your strengths.

Why do we say the things we say….

I’m going to be an aunt. My brother and sister-in-law are going to have a baby in March. You all know kids really aren’t my thing but I find I’m kind of excited at the prospect of being Aunt Diva (I so christened myself because I like the sound of it so much better than Aunt J). If it’s a girl they are going to name her Cassydee June and I will look forward to influencing her thoughts about shoes, college preparation, financial aid, housing options, getting involved on campus, following her dreams, and making a difference in her world. If it’s a boy, I’ll enjoy the same things but will scale the lecture on shoes back to a simple, “Make sure there is plenty of money in the checking account for your wife to buy the shoes she wants – no woman should be shoe deprived.” But above all of this, I think what excites me the most is the realization that my little brother is going to get paid back for every broken necklace he stole from me and then sold back to me, every tear he ever made me cry, and every mean thing he ever said or thought of saying to or about me. Mom was right when she said, “In the end, Jacelyn, God will deal with your brother.” So true, Momma, so true.

Anyway, it struck me as odd while we were going through the process of calling grandparents and family friends to tell them of the news that each and every one of them said, “Congratulations!” as though we had performed some exciting feat. I had nothing to do with this – why congratulate me? I had nothing to do with the creation, will have very little to do with the preparation for, and will have nothing to do with the birthing of Junior Human Keys. (I got in trouble with my mother for calling the baby “it” – and then my friends Tim and Kaylene looked at me as though I were quite possibly the Wicked Witch of the West when they found out…bring on the ruby slippers. In my defense I called the baby “it” because I didn’t want to get too attached to any gender until Tom and Shareana announced, but SOME people thought I was being horrible…no names mentioned: Mom, Kaylene, Tim.)

When I told my former boss that I was going to be an aunt, what were the first words out of her mouth? “Congratulations!” When I told Kaylene? “Congratulations!” When I told Tim? “Really?” He’s worked with me for two years, he probably feared for the child, but I digress. When asked why you congratulate someone for something they had nothing to do with, the only response Kaylene and Kaila could give me was, “That’s just what you say.” Though not satisfactory, I really couldn’t mount an argument against that.

Then today I was outside walking Spencer and someone said, “Your dog is just the cutest thing!” My first thought was, “yeah, well that’s because he didn’t run through the house this morning playing ‘keep-away’ with your bra” but because it was a pre-teen boy I kept that bit of education to myself. Let his mom give him that lecture. Instead, I said, “Thank you.” And again, I wonder why. I have absolutely no responsibility for the pairing of genetic material that created the little bra thief. I’m not the breeder; I didn’t raise his parents. I have absolutely nothing to do with what he looks like and yet, I said thank you as though I had carefully selected the sire and dam, bred them, and was in some way responsible for his little life on this planet (which after this morning I am responsible that his life is still on this planet because I wanted to strangle him). Trust me, I’d have bred for a toothless dachshund – it would save on power cords, ear buds, and bras.

The things we say automatically without reason or thought are truly amazing. Good morning is another one – seriously, save for Christmas, has there ever been one?

Goodbyes…

…absolutely suck.

The Job Search

Theatre and the job search have one thing in common with each other…it’s a life a rejection.   Job application number one was a rejection…a tough one.   I’ve found that the job search requires soul searching and personal reflection because the rejection tends to be a blow to the self-confidence.  I’ve really had to question my fit in student affairs in a whole new way – I’ve also had to dig deep and truly trust the Lord for my future.  I think that has, in many ways, been the most difficult.  I thought with a Masters degree, surely, people would look at my years of experience, my fantastic education, my heart for and proven work with students and think, “That, girl!  We need her!!”  This has not proven to be true thus far, again, sending me back to the emotional drawing board to reevaluate my values, philosophies, and personal view of myself.   It’s not that there is anything wrong with my values and philosophies, they are grounded in theory and rooted in experience but rejection tends to leave one wondering why and in the job search there are no answers.  It’s easy to go to the dark side and think, “They didn’t want me…I must suck.”  From that statement I start questioning if I belong in the field and quickly I can sink into the depths of despair.  Then I shake myself and think of what I would say to a student who was having the same thoughts as I and I talk about fit, faith in abilities, not letting the rejection rattle confidence, and being authentic throughout every job search process.  It’s amazing what good advice I am full of until I have to turn it on myself. 

One thing I notice different about my interviews now as opposed to pre-master’s degree days is the way in which I speak about the world in which I work.  I speak openly about community, relationship building, investment, student empowerment, and engagement in a way I never have before.  I speak of these things from the heart and with true commitment to student development.  More than that, I speak from a background of knowledge and understanding of what is vital in student affairs.  I’m really excited about the way in which interviews are a sharing of values, philosophies, and visions at this point in my life.

So onward and upward in the job search process.  I’ll keep you all posted!

 

European Children

If you have followed my blog at all you know my good friend, Emily Boling, gives me crap about my belief that European children are different than American children.  Normally, I work hard to avoid all children like the plague regardless of nationality; a part of me believes they might actually be carriers of this feared and dreaded disease.  Stop and think about it – the germs that crawl all over children. They pick their nose and eat it (perfectly acceptable way of building up immunities in my brother’s mind…at nearly 25 years of age he probably still engages in the activity), they crawl on the ground through things they shouldn’t, stick their fingers in their mouths after playing in things they shouldn’t – children are petri dishes of filth and disease. It’s just a fact. As such, I try to avoid them because while their youthful little systems are fighting bugs and infections like gung-ho iguanas mine is a little more laid back.

So I’m going through the UK successfully ignoring and avoiding children. Until London. London brings a new set of challenges for this little country girl…the tube. Last time I was in London, I didn’t even bother with the tube. It’s color coded –  you would think this would be my thing. You just find the color that takes you where you want to go, hop on the one going in the right direction, and hop off at your stop. Easy right? A woman with a masters degree should be able to handle this, right? Wrong. The only tube line I could handle was the Circle line…it went in a, as you might imagine, circle so there were no divergent tracks. All the other lines I had to ride on had divergent tracks and I could never figure out where I needed to be. This coupled with the fact that I get claustrophobic easily and I know I am waaay the heck underground caused some panic. As I’m staring at this map thing trying to figure out where the hell I need to be a young man comes up and asks me if I need help. Is the Pope Catholic?!?! He explains the tube system to me (all which I had previously read in Rick Steves’ guide to London book thing) and I thank him making my best attempt at looking confident in my ability to navigate the tube.   And the Academy goes to…not me. He comes up behind me and says, “I’ll take you to your platform.” I almost weep with thankfulness.  As we are meandering through tunnels and hallways we start talking.  He asks me where I’m from, I tell him.  He asks me where I live, I tell him.  He asks me what I’m doing in the UK, I tell him.  He stops walking.  This 14 year old child, who has been so kind and helpful, looks at me incredulously and says, “You almost have a master’s degree and you don’t know how to figure out the tube?!?”  To which I reply, “I am a human services type student – not a rocket scientist.  You want to know what identity is most salient to me at this moment, I can tell you.  You want me to describe inclusivity, identity, and building identity and community into the collegiate experience, I can talk for hours.  But this is well beyond my abilities.  Dump me on a gravel road in the middle of nowhere, I’m not worried.  I know I can find my way out but I am not a mole.  Being this far underground is unnatural and weird.”  He shakes his head, gets me to my platform and wishes me well.  With many thanks for his help I turn to get on the tube.  Because I was so intent on thanking him I turn to get on the tube just as the doors start to close and almost get mashed.  I turn to wave one more time with a sheepish look on my face and the look on his face was “Wow.  That lady doesn’t have a prayer of surviving this place.” 

Fueled by this failure to understand the tube system, I found a coffee shop and sat down with my tube map.  There are a lot of things I am not good at in this world but I am a damn good student.  I have never failed a class in my life and I didn’t intend to fail learning the tube system.  So I read from Rick Steves again, compared my tube map to his writings and talked to locals until I felt confident in my ability to tube.  I bravely descended the escalator of Victoria Station to put my new knowledge to the test.  I hopped on, and hopped off, switched lines, got lost, found myself again, and scooted here and there.  I figured the tube system out! 

On my way back from the Portobello Road market I hop onto the tube to go to Harrods to pick up a gift for my sister-in-law, proudly hop onto the nearly empty car, and think to myself rather smugly…this is fantastic, I can handle anything.  God has a sense of humor.  A brutal sense of humor.  Out of nowhere, 47 (yes, I counted them) children in red school uniforms descend and all manage to get on the car upon which I have walked.  They are blocking the exit.  I can’t get off.  And then one of the three, only three for 47 little monsters, chaperones apologizes to the four of us on the car.  It’s bad when the chaperone apologizes before the car has left the platform.  The car takes off and the little girl who sat down next to me started poking me.  So I asked her to stop.  She didn’t, so I gently took her hand and more firmly request she stop.  The car slows down and stops – there is no platform.  A voice comes across the car and says that to help even the spacing of the trains we are going to be stopped for a bit.  Hell no.  I am stuck in a tube car, where I can’t see the sun or breathe fresh air with a child poking me for an untold period of time.   So God and I chat for a bit. The conversation goes something like:

Jacelyn:  Very funny, God.  Kids and claustrophobia.  Did I do something to tick you off?

God:  —

Jacelyn:  Okay, so perhaps I was smug and a little arrogant about the whole learning to ride the tube thing and I really should have said thank you for sending me that great little guy to help.  I’m sorry. 

God: —

Jacelyn:  Thank you. 

God: —

Jacelyn: Not to sound like a raving shrew but this kid is driving me nuts.  If you have a free second, could you please do something about her?  Thanks

God: —

The tube started moving. 

Jacelyn:  Thank you so much!

The child is still poking me two stops later.  So I look at her and simply say, “Enough, Child!” She stops, looks at me, and says, “Do you have any candy?”  I am at this point truly done with children, European or not…and reply, “Have you ever heard the story of Snow White?  You might want to think twice before taking things from strangers!”  I get up and move towards the doors, wading through an ocean of children. 

As I tell this story to some of the people on the trip some look at me aghast.  I’m just doing my part to ensure that my friends in the counseling world are employed for years to come. 

 

 

The ups, the downs, the joys, the frowns…

Some reflections I wrote on my laptop throughout the Europe experience…

Dalkeith, Scotland.

So I’m not in a castle – technically it is a palace.  In two days I’ll be in a castle.   This won’t actually be posted until I get home because I forgot a thumb drive for my laptop, but know that as I type I am sitting at the top of a grand staircase in a comfy blue chair while the morning sun streams through the high paned windows.  Britt Q, another author on the blog, will be spending her summer in this fantastic, if a bit drafty palace.  Seriously, ladies and gentlemen…it is colder inside than it is outside.  Watch for Britt Q’s postings as I’m sure they will be rife with grand descriptions of what she is seeing and doing. 

As a reminder, my job is to blog on my internship.  As a part of my internship we are required to post about our challenges and successes.  I’ve opted to include them both in one blog and write them both while I am living my experience.  It could be argued that giving more time for reflect would be a better choice but logistically, I need to do this while I am here because I won’t have time when I get home prior to commencement.  Also, I feel there is merit in journaling about my experiences as they happen with my initial reflections.  There is something very honest about this style of reflecting…more raw than if I were to reflect well after the experience.  I’m sure in those reflections I will learn more and be able to apply my experiences in different ways but I am excited to share with you the “as I live and think them” experiences. 

This is my second day here and later we are off to Edinburgh today for free time.  Having been before I am excited to go back.  We had an orientation to the Wisconsin in Scotland program (tune in to Britt’s postings for more depth) yesterday and took a long walk on the estate  which is Patty’s (our hosts) cure to warding off jet lag – I think she is just cruel but it worked to some degree so I can’t really whine too much.  Thus far the most challenging part of the experience has been discovering my own identity within this group.  I am the only person from Oregon State and one of only two people on a trip of 28 who is a single (not here with someone from their institution).  My own identity is tied very closely to my job and “my place” wherever I live.  That has been thrown for a complete loop as I am no longer the RD (ironically I have heard me refer to myself as an RD to other people no less than four times – it’s almost as if I am reaffirming my own identity to myself) and I have no place at this point in time.  It’s been challenging at some points – when we arrived at our gate in Detroit everyone sat together – except me.  I felt very alone and yet instead of getting up to move I remained in my own seat.  I’m going to own the introvert in me was out in full force.  I really needed time to myself.  Last night we walked into Dalkeith for dinner (I had fish and chips…of course!) and I felt myself gravitating to the extroverted personalities in our group so I know I am ready to begin to put myself out there more. 

Part of the experience was an online portion of the class and I have to say I felt that to be a very disconnecting experience for me.   People didn’t seem to write replies to things on blackboard, probably because most people saw each other every day in class, but for me it was the only way to really connect with people.  I felt somewhat disenfranchised from the group upon arrival and now I am beginning to feel overwhelmed.  Everyone’s names and institutions are a big blob of goo in my brain.  I’ve gone from knowing everyone to knowing only me.  It’s so odd to feel this way.  I am normally a very confident individual but right now I feel like a little girl seeking approval.  I know in the days to come I will settle in and find where I belong but right now, despite the fantastic learning experience this is, I just want to go home.  No one ever has a pair of ruby slippers when I need one!  J

 

Alnwick (pronounced Annick), England

So I’m over the homesickness and having an absolute wonderful time!  We have been to Edinburgh University and Glasgow University (think Princeton and Stanford).   We’ve talked to quite a wide variety of their student services professionals and I am seeing how different their philosophical underpinnings are from those in the United States.  It is easy to get a little attitude about this and think we do a better job than they, but the reality is their retention and completion rates are phenomenal so something obviously works and works quite well.  I notice in the group a general learning towards the familiar.  That which is most like a US institution tends to be the one many people gravitate to while those institutions that have different values tend to be ones with whom people express dissatisfaction. 

We had a fun conversation today (Alnwick is the site of the St. Cloud study abroad program) on the topic of student development theory.  It was so good to talk theory again.  I’ve missed that.  Let it be known, missing theory is different than missing think cards…alumni and current students of CSSA will understand exactly what I am talking about.  Of course, I stuck by the tried and true…Jones and McEwen.  Seriously, I can make the MDI work for anything.  *sigh* LOVE it!  

It was interesting to hear of some of the challenges of running this type of program and some of the things Wade (our host) deals with on a daily basis.  I think, having heard him speak, I have ruled out this as a functional area for my future.  I believe in service learning, passionately, and think service trips abroad are a fantastic way to integrate learning into action and help develop a globally competent student and I would be excited and honored to lead these…I just don’t think I want to live abroad and coordinate semester long programs.  Woof!

 

Cambridge, England

I just felt the need to write someone while in Cambridge.  I don’t have much to say but I’m sitting here in one of the premiere schools in the world and it seemed stupid not to sit down and write something.  Today has been an enlightening experience.  We met with two gentlemen who serve as both professors and tutors (the equivalent of advisors in the US).  They also work on the admissions team.  I’ve often thought of Cambridge as a stuffy, elitist school and in my mind elitist meant white.  But it meant intentionally white – preventing anyone from a different race or ethnic background access to the same system as a white person would have.  This, I discovered, is a very American lens to bring to a situation…in some ways.  For example, Cambridge could really care less what color your skin is; they were quite clear on this point.  Grades are all that matter to them.  If a person doesn’t not have top notch grades they have no prayer of admittance to Cambridge.  They were almost proud of the fact race played no part in their admissions one way or the other…until it was pointed out that even in the UK those from socio-economically disadvantaged backgrounds are statistically still those of non-Caucasian heritage and that people living in those conditions do not have the same access to educational opportunities as those with comfortable means of sustaining themselves.  It doesn’t matter to them…the standards have been set for Cambridge and it is what it is.  This is something that is going to require more thought and reflection on my part before I can draw a conclusion. 

 

London, England

Tomorrow I head for home.  This has been a wonderful experience and now I am ready to go home, see my puppy, sleep in my own bed, and sit down in a restaurant and be served ice water automatically. 

Below are two things I have continued to think about since our first days in the country that I think will end up as most influential in this learning experience.  Please know that these only reflect the professional things I am mulling about at the moment – I experienced key personal growth as well but am not prepared to delve into that at this time – we fly out in 11 hours and I don’t have enough time!

·         The salience of identities are irrevocably linked with the transitions a person experiences.   

·         Student Affairs in the United States seems to come with a “group think” notion.  We do things very similar from institution to institution and I think shared values can become a rut (it did for me).  It’s good to take a step back and see what other countries are doing to remind ourselves of how different success can look.

 

Corvallis, OR

It’s nice to be home.  This experience has been great for me to look in depth at my own dualistic tendencies and see the world beyond Oregon State University and American Higher Education.  Being thrown into a situation where my identity within the group was undefined has been fascinating to look at from the perspective of a woman fascinated by identity development.  My own identity has been clarified in some ways for me and is very murky in others because of this experience.  Certain identities are definitely more salient here than they were abroad just as certain identities in the UK were almost entirely new to me.  All in all this has been a fantastic capstone experience for me and look forward to, in the coming months and years, uncovering more and more about this experience that has relevance to my philosophies and values surrounding Student Affairs and therefore impacts my practice. 

 

 

 

Cambridge

 

I had a truly amazing time in Cambridge.  I went to the Wren Library with Lesa – I saw Lord Byron’s handwriting.  And Tennyson – not to mention Isaac Newton’s cipher book and various writings: the original Pooh Bear scribblings, and various early biblical passages.  Truly phenomenal. 

 

We went to Emanuel College and even though it was closed to the public because the students are in their final examinations, Lesa talked to the porter and got us into the chapel.  Emanuel College is significant because it was the college to which John Harvard belonged during his time at Cambridge.  As we sat in the chapel the realization dawned on the three of us (Heather, another gal from BGSU was with us) that we were sitting in the same chapel John Harvard had sat in and learned from…the man who brought about the foundations of the higher education system we so love explored, grew, and learned in the halls we were walking.   There was some quiet squealing going on in that chapel. 

 

It also really connected in my brain how irreversibly linked religion/faith and education are to each other.  In America, we have separation or so we think, but the traditions and indeed founding principles are all rooted very deeply in faith and religion.  This is going to take more pondering but I see the connection from entirely new vantage points because of my time here in Cambridge. 

 

After Emanuel, Lesa and I meandered about, shopped a little bit, and ended up at the Cambridge Waffle Factory.  Oh, friends.  I ordered a sweet waffle; the waffle was set on a thick bed of chocolate syrup, topped with a scoop of chocolate ice cream which was drizzled with chocolate sauce and adorned with Cadbury chocolate buttons and Smarties (the UK version of M&M’s).  Oy vey!  Utterly divine and so rich I couldn’t finish it. 

 

After ingesting enough chocolate to put your average diabetic into a coma, we walked over to King’s College Chapel for the evening Evensong.  The ceiling of the chapel was amazing and the voices of the choir reverberated off the stones in such a way that you could feel the music in your bones.  It was awesome to realize that I was worshipping in a church that hundreds of years ago historical figures I read about in grade school sat and prayed in.

 

About myself I have learned – I don’t do hostels.  We have stayed in one for two nights which is two nights too many.  The pillows are flat…the duvets are questionable though the rooms are sizeable.  The heater in the room emitted a high pitched squeal all night long…both nights.  The bathrooms are…functional…just.  What I wouldn’t give for a can of the scrubbing bubbles.   The showers are cold and have very little water pressure.  I’m not sure I have yesterday’s soap out of my hair let alone today’s.   I hope the residence hall in London is better.