I’m done with my MA at Purdue! All that’s left to do is fill out a few forms, pay a thesis deposit fee … and say all the things I really wanted to when I was asked to fill out a grad survey. And I’ve got a lot to say. This is the first part, looking back at the early days when everything was bright and green.

This is degree number four. 

It’s not a contest, it’s not a vanity project. But this one is special. 

It’s special because I’ve been working on it since 2019. That’s right. Seven years for a master’s degree. (I told you it’s not a vanity project!) 

Born out of my burned-out discontent with the dead-end that is Corporate America, it started out innocent enough. I met with an advisor at Purdue. Nice guy. He knew my circumstances as a full-time employee. He encouraged me to apply for the French PhD programme, and implied that—since course options were limited—I would be allowed to dip somewhat generously into other, related programmes to meet course reqs. I just needed to have five FR-hyphenated courses on my list, and so that’s what I stuck to. 

He went on sabbatical, leaving me with a new advisor. She couldn’t seem to understand that I was a working professional with a full-time job. She insisted on me completing the programme as fast as possible. Even after she half-nodded in response to my gentle protestations (had she not been listening?), she reiterated her bottom line: Take as many classes as you can, as fast as you can—get your degree, and get out on the job market.

Bewildered as I was, I found a handy solution when I moved my research interest from modern postcolonial to medieval. A couple e-mails later, and another faculty member agreed to become my new advisor. 

It was the pandemic, so I offered to set up a Zoom call with her to talk more, but she was happy to communicate purely by e-mail. 

No problem. I’m flexible. I’m chill. 

Then I met her in person. We were back for masked, in-person meetings and classes in the fall of 2021, and I had signed up to teach a section of French. At this point, I think I had been her advisee for about six months when she walked over to introduce herself like I was a total stranger.

“Hi, are you new to the programme?”

“Err… You’re my advisor.”

OK, fine. It was the pandemic. Weird times, weird ways of capturing people’s bodies in unflattering webcammed Zooms. I’m chill. Let it go and file it under “funny stories” for later. 

I kept on. The next spring, I took on an ambitious courseload—one French class and two history classes. Again, while teaching a section of French, working full-time, and gasping my way through the final throes of my first marriage. These were some of the worst days of my life. 

The French course I took was with my former advisor. It was completely irrelevant for my area of study, but I wanted to show that I was committed to the department. Plus, I was starting to think of the what’s next bit of my degree, and was keeping a careful eye on those magical FR-hyphenated classes.

Then my grandmother went into hospice care.

I had spent about a decade away from my grandparents, starting when I was in university for degree number one (what a way to measure a life). I often feel out of place in a group, and, as a queer person, family is no exception. We had reconnected a little when I lived in Georgia, but not much.

Anyways, I wanted to do the small thing that I could and try to be present as she passed. I had already lost two of my grandparents and I was losing my marriage. The way I looked at it, in fifty years, I would remember the days I spent with my grandma. I wouldn’t give a damn whether I got an A or not because I missed one or two classes. 

I explained this to my former advisor—the professor whose class I didn’t even want to take in the first place, the one I was trying to show up as a way of showing I cared about the department. 

Part 2 is on the way. In the meanwhile, please consider subscribing to my blog to get the latest posts sent directly to your inbox!