Finally drove over big hump; two weeks before scope of damage determined
This morning was my second (and final) attempt at the music history examination. Going into this short span on a cold Saturday morning took me at least the better part of two months of study, if you don't count all the preparation for the first try in October.
I walked out of the testing room really glad that I could begin working on uncramping my hand. I had hoped for that gush of endorphins that normally accompanies a major turn-in like this. I got it last time I took comps and I was really looking forward to it.
It didn't happen. I just quietly went back to my car, pleased to be out of the cold when I unlocked the door. I didn't have that rush of feelings driving off campus. I didn't have them when I downgraded my celebratory lunch plans from a nice sit-down place to a nice fast-food place (Culver's). I didn't have it when I sat down at home and looked at all the myriad notes and books and knew that I wouldn't have to look at them again.
And I still don't have it. At this point, I'm thinking it's not coming. I can't blame my endorphines for hiding. I need to save them all if I get bad news in a few weeks when the results come back.
I updated my Facebook status last night to say "Andrew is oscillating between despair and confidence." That's pretty much a metaphor for this entire week. I would study a lot, remembering things I thought for sure I would have forgotten, and my mood would elevate. Then I'd remember that a particularly dogmatic professor is sitting gatekeeper at the Early History Exam, and I'd be despondent. Then I'd have good ideas about what I could do with my life if I didn't pass. Then I'd focus on the big looming failure.
Back and forth. Forth and back. I went to view all of the graded exams from October, hoping to gain some insight into how close I was to passing. Was I really close and just forgot a pyramid? Or was I writing down directions for making Oobleck when they asked about Beethoven?
Leafing through the exams was another episode of ups and downs. The Early history exam has two parts: definitions and an essay. The graded terms were practically ink-free. There was a faint elongated infinity symbol across one entry. On another term, the professor had drawn a line through the word "form". Or it might have been an underline... Of the six, only two had writing, and you can see how well I learned from THOSE corrections.
The Early Essay had no marks. Whatsoever. Just a directive on the cover page to "retake both". Conceive the scene with me. Andy sitting at a conference table, writhing and wringing his hands because he has no idea how wrong anything is.
The Late Terms had considerably more ink (those are graded by a separate professor). I had some wrong information here, some lackluster sources there. The Late Essay had lots of comments, mostly negative, but I passed that.
I worked my way through the exams again. Surely I missed some faint red marks. Perhaps the Early professor was in the process of contracting mononucleosis and her strength had been sapped. Should I use powdered graphite to see if the pen made any indentations in the paper?
In spite of that not being helpful, other exams that I passed were a nice pick-me-up. The three theory exams were all graded "A". The comments were all very complimentary. I laughed at one portion because I had apparently lost my ability to count. When asked to identify how many measures were in a particular section, I dropped a ten and put 61 instead of 71. I laughed because that test had me so frazzled I had forgotten how to count.
I laughed at the fact that the trumpet professor wrote positive comments about the humor in my project for him. That was the best one. I came back to that test again and again to soak in how much it had amused him. I came out of that session knowing that even though I may be hopeless for history, I had passed all the rest with flying colors. Even if I can't be a doctor, I'm still not completely hopeless in music. It was a nice message.
Last night, I couldn't shake the giant failure. It's completely conditional and hadn't even happened yet, but I couldn't get out from under it. I thought about how I'd have to rewrite my resume. I thought about how I'd have to change the name of this blog. I thought about how much it would crush me to be told I wasn't good enough to do something I knew I was spectacular at.
So I sat at a chair at my dining table and cried. The sort of frustrated crying that comes from having the tears squeezed out of you by the pressure of all the people you've ever known. The sort of crying that comes from twisting the words of support from friends and family into one giant honor debt that is owed to them.
I cried because I was worried about a whole host of things that had nothing to do with the exam. One of my uncles has inoperable lung cancer. Another has a marriage on the rocks. A friend I took to a clinic a while ago is contemplating an abortion. Friends whose relationship is on the rocks. Violence everywhere. People being killed because of cartoons.
In short, it was the kind of jag that I really excel at. It's basically the exact opposite of when Atlas Shrugs. It's Atlas finally paying attention to how much this thing really weighs. I don't know if I just tune that sort of stuff out most of the time, but I do know that once in several blue moons, it really sinks in how much is the weight of the world.
Of course, by the time I woke up, most of that was forgotten. I'm NOT a morning person, so I get a free pass on worrying in the mornings, because my brain just hasn't gotten that far down the checklist. I was into the first hour of the exam before I thought about how much I *had* been worrying. Even then, it was only because I looked at the Late Terms and realized I didn't have any idea what one of the possible terms was. "William Jennings/Song school method"? Anyone? Bueller?
The stress for this exam manifested in ways that didn't occur to me at the time. I was slightly indignant about the brass band rehearsals I was in. I was angry at the other section members who got angry at the conductor in the Friday orchestra rehearsal (huh?). I said something slightly crueler than I intended to one of the other trombonists.
In a hundred tiny ways, the stress of being under the shadow of that test was changing who I was and how I behaved. I can't explain how upsetting that realization is. That's also why, no matter what the results, I'm really glad I don't have to take that test again.
And there's the rush of relief. It comes from realizing that I just avoided going down a road I (in my right mind) would never want to be on.
I walked out of the testing room really glad that I could begin working on uncramping my hand. I had hoped for that gush of endorphins that normally accompanies a major turn-in like this. I got it last time I took comps and I was really looking forward to it.
It didn't happen. I just quietly went back to my car, pleased to be out of the cold when I unlocked the door. I didn't have that rush of feelings driving off campus. I didn't have them when I downgraded my celebratory lunch plans from a nice sit-down place to a nice fast-food place (Culver's). I didn't have it when I sat down at home and looked at all the myriad notes and books and knew that I wouldn't have to look at them again.
And I still don't have it. At this point, I'm thinking it's not coming. I can't blame my endorphines for hiding. I need to save them all if I get bad news in a few weeks when the results come back.
I updated my Facebook status last night to say "Andrew is oscillating between despair and confidence." That's pretty much a metaphor for this entire week. I would study a lot, remembering things I thought for sure I would have forgotten, and my mood would elevate. Then I'd remember that a particularly dogmatic professor is sitting gatekeeper at the Early History Exam, and I'd be despondent. Then I'd have good ideas about what I could do with my life if I didn't pass. Then I'd focus on the big looming failure.
Back and forth. Forth and back. I went to view all of the graded exams from October, hoping to gain some insight into how close I was to passing. Was I really close and just forgot a pyramid? Or was I writing down directions for making Oobleck when they asked about Beethoven?
Leafing through the exams was another episode of ups and downs. The Early history exam has two parts: definitions and an essay. The graded terms were practically ink-free. There was a faint elongated infinity symbol across one entry. On another term, the professor had drawn a line through the word "form". Or it might have been an underline... Of the six, only two had writing, and you can see how well I learned from THOSE corrections.
The Early Essay had no marks. Whatsoever. Just a directive on the cover page to "retake both". Conceive the scene with me. Andy sitting at a conference table, writhing and wringing his hands because he has no idea how wrong anything is.
The Late Terms had considerably more ink (those are graded by a separate professor). I had some wrong information here, some lackluster sources there. The Late Essay had lots of comments, mostly negative, but I passed that.
I worked my way through the exams again. Surely I missed some faint red marks. Perhaps the Early professor was in the process of contracting mononucleosis and her strength had been sapped. Should I use powdered graphite to see if the pen made any indentations in the paper?
In spite of that not being helpful, other exams that I passed were a nice pick-me-up. The three theory exams were all graded "A". The comments were all very complimentary. I laughed at one portion because I had apparently lost my ability to count. When asked to identify how many measures were in a particular section, I dropped a ten and put 61 instead of 71. I laughed because that test had me so frazzled I had forgotten how to count.
I laughed at the fact that the trumpet professor wrote positive comments about the humor in my project for him. That was the best one. I came back to that test again and again to soak in how much it had amused him. I came out of that session knowing that even though I may be hopeless for history, I had passed all the rest with flying colors. Even if I can't be a doctor, I'm still not completely hopeless in music. It was a nice message.
Last night, I couldn't shake the giant failure. It's completely conditional and hadn't even happened yet, but I couldn't get out from under it. I thought about how I'd have to rewrite my resume. I thought about how I'd have to change the name of this blog. I thought about how much it would crush me to be told I wasn't good enough to do something I knew I was spectacular at.
So I sat at a chair at my dining table and cried. The sort of frustrated crying that comes from having the tears squeezed out of you by the pressure of all the people you've ever known. The sort of crying that comes from twisting the words of support from friends and family into one giant honor debt that is owed to them.
I cried because I was worried about a whole host of things that had nothing to do with the exam. One of my uncles has inoperable lung cancer. Another has a marriage on the rocks. A friend I took to a clinic a while ago is contemplating an abortion. Friends whose relationship is on the rocks. Violence everywhere. People being killed because of cartoons.
In short, it was the kind of jag that I really excel at. It's basically the exact opposite of when Atlas Shrugs. It's Atlas finally paying attention to how much this thing really weighs. I don't know if I just tune that sort of stuff out most of the time, but I do know that once in several blue moons, it really sinks in how much is the weight of the world.
Of course, by the time I woke up, most of that was forgotten. I'm NOT a morning person, so I get a free pass on worrying in the mornings, because my brain just hasn't gotten that far down the checklist. I was into the first hour of the exam before I thought about how much I *had* been worrying. Even then, it was only because I looked at the Late Terms and realized I didn't have any idea what one of the possible terms was. "William Jennings/Song school method"? Anyone? Bueller?
The stress for this exam manifested in ways that didn't occur to me at the time. I was slightly indignant about the brass band rehearsals I was in. I was angry at the other section members who got angry at the conductor in the Friday orchestra rehearsal (huh?). I said something slightly crueler than I intended to one of the other trombonists.
In a hundred tiny ways, the stress of being under the shadow of that test was changing who I was and how I behaved. I can't explain how upsetting that realization is. That's also why, no matter what the results, I'm really glad I don't have to take that test again.
And there's the rush of relief. It comes from realizing that I just avoided going down a road I (in my right mind) would never want to be on.
*virtual hug*
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