In the Vale of Tears

There are big events that provoke tears: loss, rejection, abuse, huge, unexpected disappointment. Some tear-jerking events are sexual: intense pleasure, mind-numbing violation, the pain of childbirth. The death of a loved one is supposed to provoke tears.

Then there is the shocking sting of tears that seem inappropriate, a lurid over-reaction to someone else’s tragedy. Tears like that seem undeserved (at least by the one who weeps). They are like sudden, unexpected orgasms – especially embarrassing if they happen in public. They are like water gushing out of the ground from an underground reservoir that no one knew was there.

Her name was Ann – not “Anne” with an e like the famous Anne of Green Gables. She was part of a small community of American academics in our town in Canada who all got together on American Thanksgiving.

I met Ann through my parents when I was a teenager and she was my father’s younger colleague. In time, I noticed that she didn’t really have friends.

Ann always seemed brittle, as though she would break if someone touched her. On the bus, where we often travelled to the university together, she would give me a brisk nod without words. She taught history, and often pointed out (after too many drinks in the home of the one who usually hosted the Thanksgiving dinner) that her parents had prevented her from following her first love by majoring in art. Apparently they thought history was a more suitably intellectual subject.

Once when the heavy topic of child sexual abuse came up in conversation at Thanksgiving, Ann said between gritted teeth: “How can you be sure that never happened to me?” She was chain-smoking, as usual, and she stubbed out her cigarette for emphasis, even though it wasn’t finished. I wondered to whom her question was really addressed. No one seemed able to look her in the eyes.

In her thirties, Ann married a local painter who had a reputation for being eccentric, if not downright insane. He created weird-looking metal sculptures. The marriage was over within five years, but she kept his family name for the rest of her life.

The three-story apartment that Ann and her husband had rented was cheap even by the standards of the 1970s, so I moved in with my current husband. The basement walls had big smears of red paint, presumably thrown there by Ann’s husband. We often came home to see lights on in the basement, even though I could swear I had turned them off. That part of the place had such a creepy vibe that I hated to go down there to do laundry. The washer and dryer never sat evenly on the concrete floor, and could shimmy into vaguely disconcerting positions, as though trying to give me messages in the private language of appliances.

My own marriage ended melodramatically when I escaped from house arrest with our three-month-old baby.

When my daughter was a preschooler, Ann borrowed a recent photo of her from my mother. Ann was taking a non-credit art class, and she used the photo as the basis for a drawing that she turned into a print. I wondered if Ann regretted her lack of children as much as she seemed to regret being exiled from the art world. I felt vicariously flattered that she chose to immortalize my baby girl in art, but the print itself didn’t impress me. I thought it lacked soul as well as technical skill.

The woman who always hosted the Thanksgiving dinners died of cancer, and my parents went into a nursing home. The circle of expatriates from the 1960s seemed to fall apart as a social group. I lost touch with Ann for several years, even though we were teaching in the same university.

Thanks to the efficiency of the university administration, every death, marriage and birth among the faculty is announced far and wide by email. That was how I learned of Ann’s death in her early sixties, when she was within sight of retirement.

My parents couldn’t attend the funeral, and I felt honor-bound to represent them – or to bear witness to the past. I had always planned to research and write something about the influx of American immigrants to Canada in the 1960s and ‘70s (before the U.S. government declared an amnesty for draft dodgers). Ann had been part of that wave, and I sometimes wondered (briefly) if my project would excite her and if she would want to be involved as more than an interviewee. But then I would remember that she was a pawn of Clio (the Greek muse of history, after whom Ann named her cat), not her lover.

At the funeral, I looked around for Ann’s relatives. I even asked a few of our colleagues where they were. There was no sign of them, or of her ex-husband.

The eulogy was given by the head of the History Department, who seemed to be making a recommendation: Dear God, this person has been a suitable employee, so please open the pearly gates for her. There was even a hymn (which all those present were expected to sing) about Sophia, the spirit of Wisdom, as a gift from God.

I looked around, and saw no signs of grief on any face. That did it.

OMG. OMG. The woman is dead, and this is all anyone can think of to say about her. Someone should be crying, dammit. Someone should be upset. I dabbed at my eyes with a Kleenex, and my tears flowed faster. Luckily, I was sitting near the back of the church, and I was able to avoid making noise.

I remembered having a similar reaction to the death of two gay men (a couple, not close friends) from AIDS-related illnesses within twenty-four hours of each other. One of them had been the treasurer on a board where I was the secretary. Number-crunching had been his day job as well. I learned at the funeral that he was younger than I thought (38 when he died, even though he had a receding hairline). That made my eyes wet.

Maybe I wasn’t entitled to mourn, in either case. Maybe my grief wasn’t personal enough. Maybe I should have sucked it up.

But dammit, someone should shed tears at a funeral. The dead aren’t coming back – at least, not in any recognizable form.

Someone once said that we don’t cry for the dead, we cry for ourselves. Be that as it may, I hope someone will pay a tribute of tears for me someday. I can already hear my parting song: “Please cry for me, Pasadena.”

---------------

Imposter

By Lisabet Sarai

When I was twenty one, seeking admission to graduate school, I interviewed at ___ University. The department to which I was applying offered to pay all my travel expenses - airfare, hotel and meals. I bought a new suit and headed to ____, simultaneously thrilled and terrified. This was one of the first times I'd traveled on my own. I vividly recall the rather stodgy, old-fashioned hotel where they put me up. I even remember what I ate for dinner the night before my appointment.

I spent all day talking to various faculty members, and probably (though I don't recall it) gave a presentation on my undergraduate research. My most enduring memory is my final meeting, with one of the young but already famous stars in the department. In retrospect, I realize he was a new Ph.D., probably no more than half a dozen years older than I was, but his brusque, no-nonsense manner intimidated me from the start. Confronted with his authoritative presence, my already feeble confidence wilted. I knew I was about to be exposed.

I sat in his office while he rapid-fired questions, probing my knowledge of the literature, testing my understanding of both my own research and his. I answered to the best of my ability, but as the interrogation continued, I grew more and more intimidated. A lump congealed in my chest. Tears gathered in my eyes. We probably talked for no more than twenty minutes, but I felt as though I'd been subjected to hours of torture by the Inquisition. By the end of the interview, I was appalled to realize that I was crying outright. How could I be so immature? So unprofessional?

At last he sat back in his chair, watching as I choked back my tears. “So,” he said, with a small smile that I knew hid his scorn. “Do you have any questions for me?”

“Um – well...” My voice quavered. Self-disgust almost overwhelmed me. “Do you think I belong here at ____?”

His smile broadened. “Oh, definitely. You'll fit right in.”

It turned out he was right. But that's not what this post is about. No, I want to focus on that sense of inadequacy, so deep that it inspired tears. Of course, everyone feels nervous when they're being evaluated, but all the evidence suggested that I was perfectly capable of succeeding at this university. I was graduating from another top school with combined bachelors and masters degrees. I already had a research publishing credit. My transcript showed a single B (in Physics, due to my klutziness in lab) over four years of study. I brought stellar recommendations from my adviser and other faculty. Why did I feel like I was a fraud?

I recently heard the term “imposter syndrome” for the first time. Apparently it's pretty common to feel that your successes don't reflect your underlying ability or knowledge – that you've just been “lucky” and “had the breaks”. It's somewhat discouraging for me to realize that I still suffer to some extent from this syndrome, not just with regards to my profession but also my writing.

Because you know, I'm not really a writer. I don't write every day – hey, if I can force out a few thousand words on Sunday, I'm grateful. I'm not driven to write, the way a real writer is. In fact, sometimes I'll do anything to avoid sitting down at the computer and attacking my latest WIP.

My publishing history looks impressive, but remember, that's over a twelve year period. My incremental rate of publication is pretty pitiful, especially compared to my peers. Even more telling is the fact that I really don't suffer for my art. I don't agonize, trying to find the perfect way to express my ideas. I don't dig deep into my soul for truths and then expose them on the page. I pound away, satisfied to produce superficial, forgettable stories that at best entertain. I rarely do more than two drafts, and the second is likely to be pretty close to the first.

Oh sure, I'm proud of a couple of my early stories, especially the ones that explore the relationship between submission and spirituality. But lately, the stuff I've been publishing – well, it really doesn't cut it. It's crap. And then I spend week after week, here at the Grip and on my own blog, pontificating about the writing life.

What a phony!

Sound familiar? I'll bet that it does. When I read the work of some of the other contributors on this blog, I'm simultaneously awed and envious. They're such excellent writers – their words move, inspire, arouse and disturb me. Even their blog posts sometimes bring tears to my eyes.

However, I suspect – no, in some cases, I know, because they've told me – that they feel the same way as I do. In my more rational moments, I recognize that this sort of comparison undermines my satisfaction, my motivation and my peace of mind – and theirs, too. That doesn't stop me from crying sometimes - from frustration and guilt.

Reason doesn't always win.