Moving 87 miles away from one's job, counting on the don't-gotta-be-there-40-hours-a-week nature of academe has a drawback: if you ever thought about transitioning into academic administration, forget about it.
Say an opportunity comes up to head a new writing center. Say you are the ideal person for this job. Say you're a little tired of the 4-4 grind, and would love a bump up in salary. Say you're getting close to retirement, even, and your pension is calculated by the highest three years of your salary....
Ain't gonna happen when you have a 90-minute commute. I'm working through this newly closing door. I may be an academic for life.
Don't get me wrong: I'm not complaining. I just dislike having fewer options. It's a byproduct of survival mode, the setting my brain seems to be stuck on.
What I'm trying to do, now, is trying to accept that a new door is opening (or reopening): that of art. I spend a lot of time avoiding creativity, or channeling it into things like home decor. Why not write?
Because who wants to hear what a privileged white girl from NorCal has to say? Aren't we tired of hearing about white people? I'm tired of hearing echoes of hegemony in everything I read. I don't think I'm that unique, and I'm certainly lucky. I'm so lucky I'm starting to get paranoid about safety. Gross! Can I write something that anyone could relate to? Today, I don't think so. I can't imagine it. I'm going to work on this.
I need to be a little more friendly towards uncertainty, overall. Jeff and I have lived our lives in economic lockdown since we moved back to California. Our moves have been careful and boring. It's cost me. Our house is beige inside, with beige trim (speaking of home decor). It's oppressive. No more beige.
I'm reading about some privileged white writers and the chances they took. Some had no choice, due to wars, mental instability, poorly-timed childbirth, whatever. I have choices; now I have to choose chance.
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