Map in Hand
What I Learned About Parenting By Going Back to School
I just told my most important people that I will be wearing a cap and gown on a particular day in June, and that they should definitely plan on being there to take pictures.
“We’ll be there!” said my parents. “With bells on.”
There are two really important people I forgot to tell. My kids.
I’m in my last term of a MFA program at Antioch University. In between the work I do to pay for groceries and keep our household moving like a well-oiled machine, I do school work. I haven’t really talked to my kids much about being a student. Mostly because it happens afterhours when they are tucked in bed. And when they do catch me in the middle of assigned reading or pulling together a packet of creative work for my mentor, it really doesn’t look any different than what they usually see me do: read books and tap away on my laptop.
My husband mentioned my graduation ceremony to the kids at dinner. Their eyes got big and I felt something unexpected: embarrassment. My cheeks flushed and I looked down, as if I got caught doing something naughty. Such a sheepish reaction was a surprise.
I’m guessing my feelings stem from a deep-rooted conditioning to hide my creative self. I’m not the only mother to steal away time to write or dance or dream up a cinematic opus. Being a creative mother feels like continuously thieving time, pilfering it away from one aspect of life to fulfill another. Sixty years have passed since Susan Sontag scribbled in her diary,
“Where do I want my vitality to go? To books or to sex, to ambition or to love, to anxiety or to sensuality? Can’t have both.”
And I still feel apologetic for excusing myself from social gatherings to just write.
It’s worth mentioning, this is my second MFA program. I began a graduate program in Creative Writing at Chapman University in 2006. Two years later, I was three credits away from that degree—three credits and a master's thesis. That’s when I took a leave of absence with the intention of pulling my creative thoughts together, turning out a shit ton of pages, then re-enrolling to complete the degree. But, gosh, life (or fear, or love, or a penchant for daydreaming) has a way of completely derailing my goals. When I finally returned to Chapman to try and finish what I had started, they told me it was too late. Full stop. I was really disappointed in myself and tried to accept it was a goal I’d never achieve.
Four years ago, I started poking around online to answer a deep brain itch: Can I transfer graduate credits? Could I complete my MFA somewhere else? Do people do this? I found the answers are: Yes, some of them. Absolutely. And, all the time.
In seeking answers to these questions I realized that for me, the complexities of being a first generation college student didn’t end when I earned a bachelor’s degree. I continue to figure out the mysteries of matriculation and culmination without an experienced elder to guide me. Navigating academia without a generational map is hard no matter how old I get.
When my mom tells the story of my birth, I imagine my young mother all alone in a hospital room, unwrapping me, her first child, taking stock of all my baby parts—fingers, toes, and little rose bud lips. I imagine her whispering into the curl of my tiny baby ear a promise that would get louder and louder over the years until it finally came true: You will be kind and smart. And you will go to college. She didn’t know how she was going to get me there. But she did it anyway. My mom is damn resourceful. And so am I.
Last Sunday, I sat on my sofa and joined fellow MFA students via Zoom for a book circle where we discussed Brown Neon by Raquel Gutiérrez. As I articulated a response to the book, my daughter awoke from a nap and snuggled into my side with her wild hair and sleepy eyes. She watched as I talked about queer identity and the immigrant experience, about how privileged we are when someone does a thing before us so they can show us how it’s done. And how lost we can feel when we don’t know the way. I read a quote directly from Gutiérrez’s book to underline my point:
“We traveled with the privilege of knowing our way back home.”
Looking back, I see that I didn’t know the way. And that’s okay. The experience of our elders gives us a kind of map so we don’t get lost. Or so we feel safe getting deliciously lost, knowing we have the resources to find our way back. If no one did the thing before you, well, you gotta figure it out.
My daughter listened to our conversation, as we passed revelations back and forth. She’s five years old, so queer theory and immigrant activism mean nothing to her. Still, allowing her to see me as a student might be the best map I can give her. What a privilege.
I’m giving myself grace for missing the mark all those years ago, and for taking longer than some of my peers to achieve that fancy graduate degree I always wanted. That unexpected feeling of embarrassment has now evolved into a deep sense of pride for being a mom with creative goals that have nothing (and everything) to do with my kids. It’s a scenic route, for sure. I still do most of my school work after hours. But I’m trying to blur the line between being a parent and being a student so they can see the path as I do both.
Read more of Jazmine’s writing here.