Flaming Baton

For a long time I tried to deny to myself how badly I wanted to be accepted to University of Michigan.  Denying my desires made the idea of rejection so much easier to bear.  But the closer I get to the deadline the more and more I feel that desire swallowing me up, engulfing my heart, and  working on devouring my sanity. 

I thought that after sending everything to my prospective schools I could breathe a sigh of relief.  But it never works out that way.  First, there was my safety school telling me they didn't have my transcripts.  Then, when I contacted them, they told me they had my transcripts but not my electronically submitted application.  Many emails and days later this was finally corrected.  A "technical error" they said.  Then, today, my heart just about stopped when I saw a course grade two marks below what it was supposed to be.  My professor said it was a typo and that it could be corrected, but it'd take awhile.  So, she is sending me a signed form in the mail, all the way from the upper peninsula, to my house, and then when I'm done with it two school officials need to sign it.  It'd all go a lot faster, I suppose, if we weren't on winter break!  I managed to be nice, polite, and upbeat on the phone, but I about had a mini meltdown as soon as I hung up.  I really wanted to send out my new grades to U of M.  I really wanted to show I could pull off this science class because I have a pretty limited background in science. 

It occurred to me that what I need is my own flaming baton. My own something special that will make me stand out from the crowd.  But what?  I've reviewed everything I can find on how U of M evaluates applicants.  Maybe my flaming baton is my letter of recommendation.  I haven't read it, but I trust that it was extremely strong.  Probably the strongest thing in my entire package.  Still, it's only one letter.  At first I thought I'd ask for two -- maybe three, but then I decided that no letter would be as strong as his, and if his letter didn't get me in then what other letter possibly could?  But now I'm thinking maybe I should have asked my other teachers. 

I'd like to think that my employee reviews, letters about extracurricular activities, and writing portfolio was strong -- if they find the time to at least skim it.  I doubt that my essays are nearly as strong as they need to be.  They're definitely not as strong as I want them to be.  Maybe a few of my awards will make me stand out.  But what is an "Excellence in Learning Award" to a complete stranger? 

And even if there is a flaming baton in my package, it's not going to cover up my previous academic indiscretions.  There's nothing I can do to cover any of that up.  All I can do is acknowledge it, and. . . disown it?  Embrace it?  That's the part that gets tricky.  A part of me wants to disown it, to admit regret and mistakes, and everything that I think people want to hear.  But then another part of me wants to embrace it, to learn from it, to discuss how much my failures mean to me, because really they have contributed to some of my best ideas. 

Still, no matter how much I desire it, and no matter how easy it is for me to obsess over, it's hard for me to actually admit what I want.  It's hard for me to answer the question "What are you going to school for?"  Someone asked me that this weekend.  When I was young I could have answered it easily, even proudly.  But now, it's so hard to say "Literature."  It's easier to say "education" because then it has an obvious function.  There's an obvious career attached.  Still, it's easier to say special education or high school education, not adult, definitely not college.  I've tried to become more confident about it, but I can't help but play it off and feel a sort of odd shame about it. 

How do you tell a single mother who has had to struggle to make twelve dollars an hour that you're leaving your job to study literature?  To talk about things that no one outside of the academy cares about?  How do you say that without changing your voice, your natural midwestern working class twangy voice that you feel more comfortable using to say "this stupid ass vent is blowing cold air all up in here" than you'd ever feel using it to discuss literary theory. Why did it become so much harder as I've gotten older?  I guess it's harder because there's a difference between being a child of the working poor, and actually becoming a member.  The courage to hope.  The ability to believe in dreams.  That is what it takes from you.  That is what it's tried to take from me. 

And so the question is: How can I use literature to liberate and improve lives of the poor when I can't even bring myself to publicly admit what it's done for me?  If I can't reconcile both worlds, it won't matter where I end up, I will have failed.  Still, I think if I end u at U of M, I'll have a better chance at beating the odds.