Slow Education

D.I.Y. Mind vs. The Institution

In the hierarchy of academia graduate students are at the bottom of the totem pole - a faceless voice on zoom.

I only want to be better. I am only in competition with myself and it can be brutal. There are no poets in this room, no artists. I am not a scholar. I don't want to be a scholar. I want to make work for the world, for what is outside, even if you invite me in, I am still thinking about what is outside. I was asked if I ever feel like an imposter, I replied I always know what I bring to the table but I don’t always know the table. 

During my interview, the professor said- I see you used to hop freight trains. Later he sent a pdf titled - how to think about land as a scholar. I spent my whole summer pursuing the river. I had left the land to enter the classroom. I had gone to the woods empty handed with no scholarly text as guide. I imagined the ink running down transparent pages, my dirty hands leaving a print.

A few years ago, at the start of the pandemic, I circled back to the city where I am from, I applied and I was accepted to attend the (little) ivy league in the same town where I barely finished high school. I spent much of my youth skateboarding across ****’s campus and climbing trees. When I was a teenager, downtown was empty. What are now expensive lofts were once warehouses filled with dank tobacco leaves. Downtown was deserted at night except for those who had nowhere to go and the bustling packs of out of towners who had come to be educated. At this point in the city’s history, the students seemed like the haves while the townies were the have nots. Once I had returned to my hometown, I wanted to go inside and walk the hallways that had taunted me from a distance. 

At 18, I  attended college to study film but I dropped out to ride freight trains. A few days after leaving I found myself staring at an unfolding landscape from a boxcar headed to New Orleans. I didn’t understand then but I know now that I had to go see the world. I had to enter the story in order to tell the story. There was no film inside me, I had to go find it. My curiosity was always led by movement. I was never still enough for school. Once I crossed over, I knew I was meant to be on this side of the window.

I was taught from D.I.Y. spaces that everything you write/everything you do is a manifesto. Your actions must be held in the light of your greater inner morals. It’s the definition of  karma- the sum of a person's actions in this and previous states, decides their fate in future existences- and that future existence can be just moment to moment, day to day, not just lifetime to lifetime. You have a choice of where you place your energy, how you spend your money and of whom you surround yourself.

When I returned from riding trains I lived in a warehouse with 15 others. We had art studios, a recording studio, practice spaces, a coffee shop, a venue, a gallery and bedrooms. I considered this time my DIY College–a time when I had resources and community to learn and grow. My approach to education has always been to utilize information however it arrives. I believe that there is no hierarchy in how one can gain knowledge: a basement music venue, conversations with strangers on the subway, a shared sidewalk cigarette, a shoebox of zines- all of these are as sacred as any lecture hall. Or, more so. These spaces/situations/objects can often be accessed without a fee. They want to exist. 

My grandfather was a quaker and a philosopher. Few people understood his work but he was able to teach and he had the resources to pursue ideas throughout his life. Even as a young kid I could see that his existence wasn’t that different from an artist's life. You have to create space, rituals, - you have to invite ideas in and trust them and be patient. When I am creating (be it music or writing)- I am trying to transfer what I am feeling into an object, to stand outside of the creation and see it how others see it. To erase myself from the making. It’s a way to give the idea freedom. To hand it off to the collective so others can take it and build upon it. 

During orientation week at ****, I witnessed thinkers thinking. Sentences began with -as a scholar, I believe ... .and …well, the academic way of approaching this is…There was no air in the room, the conversation felt vapid, to label a thought before speaking it, it felt so limp and empty. I felt my humanity step from my body and slowly walk from the room while my eyes pretended to listen. I am rarely not thinking but only in this room, did my mind have nothing to say. 

In my experience of playing improvised music there is often the discussion of staying out of your own way- meaning that you play to contribute to the sounds that are already in motion rather than playing for your ego’s need to be heard. Pauline Oliveros who coined the phrase deep listening spoke often about how every musician is first a listener and that at times silence can be one’s best contribution. What I heard in this room was people in their own way. I yearned for what was in between- silence.

When I think of schools, I think of Monster Island, The Secret Squirrel, Death By Audio, The Werehouse, Nightlight, Youth Group Gallery, etc. (Though these spaces were rarely silent.) When I think of teachers, I think of the musicians, artists and poets who have surrounded me and surround me now. Some of the greatest poets I have ever met, have never written a word. The greatest storytellers I know, would never tell the same story twice, or even bother to write down something that they have already said. I believe that everything that is great is great because it is filled with humanity, and that some people are unable to access that humanity and so they create new lexicons, systems and schools ruled by financial gatekeeping to disparage what is natural and awesome, and so, they can certify what is culture, what is thinking.

I lived in NYC from 2009-2019 and for a while, I worked with a documentary production company. I was able to direct short films and so, I learned how to sculpt and share stories. And how to speak to and be with others. Throughout this time I became involved with NYC’s music scene. I played trumpet in a number of ensembles and I was able to learn from heroes whom I had championed as a child and I gained new heroes all of the time. 

I began to self-publish chapbooks of my writing. I distributed these books throughout bookstores in the city. I gave readings. I met awesome people who I learned from. I was wide awake and thankful. I moved to Mexico City for a year and found other peers who embraced me and whom I embraced in return. I was always learning. 

I have been lucky. I am lucky. I have walked in and out of many rooms. When I moved back to my hometown during the early months of the pandemic, I decided to go back to school. I graduated from a low residency liberal arts college in Vermont with a bachelor’s in creative writing. It was fun, though at times, a frustrating adjustment but I was happy to have done it and I was proud of the work I made. I wanted to continue my education and so I applied to grad schools.

I applied to **** and got in. I applied because I had learned to love my hometown. I wanted to continue my education in the city where I was from. I wanted to understand and approach the island of **** that had inhabited the city of my youth. I wanted to connect with it and embrace it so it wouldn’t feel so distant.

I was encouraged to apply to the Liberal Studies M.A. program because **** doesn’t have a creative writing MFA and with the Liberal Studies M.A. one can sculpt their own program by taking classes in different departments. It was sold to me as freedom, a department with no bounds. I was told that there were creative writing classes hidden in the English Department and other creative outlets via the Experimental Arts and Documentary Studies Department. It sounded perfect. 

Months later I had my first meeting with my advisor (the head of the department) and I learned she was a historian. I could tell that she had trouble discussing creativity with me. Once I had access to my class list I struggled to find classes I wanted to take. I found myself signing up for the two classes that referred to poetics, both of which were in the Experimental Arts and Documentary Studies Program. Then there was a 3rd mandatory class that included a 200 page document about scholarly thinking that I knew I would hate but I tried to keep a good attitude. 

I was told that I would start to receive information about financial help and that information never came. My summer became an ongoing inner pep talk where I tried to see beyond the writing on the wall. This was a good school and I was lucky to be there. I began to undo things in my life to prepare for this next chapter. I slept badly for months, unsure of what I was walking into. 

Some of this felt necessary, I needed to reassess what projects I wanted to take part in, I had to reconsider how I distributed my energy and creativity. The anticipation of grad school put me in that mindset but by the time the summer ended -my grad program felt like one of the things that was now in my way. 

There are certain things that I will never adjust to, like being asked an I.D. number before being asked my name. This happened every time I entered a room at ****. I told a friend early in the week of orientation that I felt like I was going to school at LaGuardia Airport. Like I was entering an in-between space where no one felt at home and security checks never ended.

I soon realized that none of my cohort were at **** for creative reasons. I was going to mainly be taking classes with the Experimental Arts and Documentary Studies Department but as an outsider, as someone who wasn’t in that department. I was told over and over that I would find financial help once the semester started but as it stood, I was facing an unfathomable amount of debt. I had expressed an interest in teaching and no one told me (I was ignorant) until the week of orientation than an M.A. would not certify me to teach at a university. 

There was no reason left for me to be at ****. I had a limited amount of time to make a decision before I could leave without losing money. On the day that I had to decide, I met with the head of the Experimental Arts and Documentary Studies Department and he invited me to sit in on classes throughout the semester and that if I wanted to, I could apply to the program the following year. 

He began to list resources and events that I could go to in town that were organized by alumni from the department. As he named names I realized that I was friends with many of the people who he mentioned, in some cases they were my collaborators. A teacher currently in the department was a friend who I used to play shows with in high school. The only person teaching a poetry course hosted my birthday party three years ago at their home. It became clear to me that anyone who left the island of **** would be able to find these resources within the community, where we introduce ourselves by name and not by number. Eventually he said to me- you know, most of my favorite artists don’t have MFAs, you don’t have to be here.

After that meeting, I biked to the Graduate School’s office. I walked in and met the receptionist named Destiny. I told her I am leaving and I want to make sure I don’t lose a dime. Over the next few hours she walked me from office to office and I slowly untangled myself from ****’s web. 

By the end of the day, I was back in the river.