Cab and Gab

The older I grow, the more I become like my parents.

Back in Calcutta, whenever we went out as a family and took a cab, my dad would always hop in the front and start chatting with the cab driver, totally ignoring the rest of us. The rest of us would sit back bored and clueless. This was routine. While mom and sister and I loved hanging out with each other, my dad loved hanging out with the driver. We always wondered how come he had so much to talk to with every cab driver he met. With those who migrated from Bihar, he would start talking in Bhojpuri, and the conversation between long lost friends would never end. My mother, usually feeling ignored, would try giving subtle, sarcastic hints about the newly found member of the family. Dad would cleverly ignore all the hints. 

And now, every time I take a cab (which I did a lot during my recent trip to the US since I do not drive anymore), I somehow found myself chatting up with every cab driver. Inconsequential conversations about what they like about their city, how long they have been doing this, why they do what they do, and what interesting things they see on the streets everyday. It's not that we exchange phone numbers and become Facebook friends, the conversation ends every time I get off the cab. Talking doesn't even come to me very naturally. But when you are in a vehicle with a stranger, it only makes sense to talk. The conversations are interesting all the more because these are short-lived, with someone whose life is poles apart compared to mine, someone I am never meeting again. I wonder what my dad would say to that, other than, don't talk to strangers when you are alone. 

If I had a job where I had to take the cab every day, I would write a little book about all my conversations with the cab drivers.

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Unit(ed)

The unit conversion cells in my brain have never been more active until I moved to Deutschland. There are some I never adopted in the US in the first place, so it feels comforting to revert after all these years. For example, I always understood weather or temperature in Celsius and not Fahrenheit. So when you say that 32 is a cold day and 85 is a hot day, it does not make any sense to me. For me, 0 means cold and 100 means hot. The weather channel is always set to degree C. And although I weigh things in pounds at the grocery store, I always weigh myself in kilograms because that made more sense to me. 60 was great, 100 was fatal, and anything in between was a work in progress in either direction. Weighing babies or milk in ounces confuse me even more. 

Then, there are new things I learnt in the US, like driving. So buying gas in gallons, measuring distance in miles, or speed in miles/hour makes so much more sense to me. I just had to see the number 60 to know that I was fine, or 80 to know that I should really slow down. Now, the autobahn sometimes specifies a speed of 120 (km/hour). If I did not know the unit, it would freak me out. I am relearning what it means to measure distance in kilometers or area of rooms in square meters (and not square feet). After many years, I am buying milk in liters. And weighing vegetables in kilograms. 

The mm/dd/yy has gone back to dd/mm/yy, but I see that after the first few years of instinctively writing dd/mm in the US, I am now instinctively writing mm/dd in Germany. Earlier, I was converting USD to INR and back, but now, it is a mishmash of USD to Euro, Euro to INR, INR to USD, and what not. 

And time. Here in Germany, I have meetings at 14:30, dinner at 18:30, drink coffee at 16:30, and go to bed at 21:30. There is no concept of am and pm. Even the computers show the time from a scale of 00 to 24 hours. This is something very new to me. 

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2014

2014 was a remarkable year for me in many ways. It brought in many a heartbreaks, and boundless joy. This is an exercise for me to remember some of the significant things of the year.

January

First day of the year, I bid goodbye to Seattle after a wonderful holiday break. I land at the airport in the middle of a cold and wintry night. It had snowed the day before. In the process of driving back home on the freeway, I skid on black ice, not once, but twice. I am about to hit the side rails, driving at 50 mph on an 80 mph freeway, holding on to the steering for life, and waiting to be hit by any car, either from behind or head on. My life flashes by me in a few seconds. A miracle happens, and the car stops, barely a few inches from the guard rails. I am alive and unscathed, and have the presence of mind to not linger there, but quickly drive. My hands are shaking, I keep driving for the next 60 miles with my emergency lights on, and that was the longest night in my life. I come home and break down. I had a minor whiplash, and suffered from mental trauma. So much that it took me at least a month until I started feeling normal while driving again. I take the next day off to recover, but have to eventually go to work. For many weeks after that, something strange happened to me, and I stopped piling up food in the fridge. I started buying only as much as I would need for the next two days. For some reason, I could still not accept that I was alive, and stopped buying things, in case something drastic happens again.

February

February is a blur. The only thing I remember is driving to attend Saraswati Puja. This time, I was extra careful, and drove only during the daylight. Winter is at its peak, and every day is a misery. The Midwest sees a record of low temperature. I pray to God everyday that I don’t have to see another winter in Nebraska. In the midst of everything, I win a dissertation award, chosen among the top three finalists in my field. 

March

The beginning of March was the Academy Award ceremony. We watched it at a colleague’s place, who had cooked up a storm. Winter is kind of about to end, although it is still very cold. The ides of March, I learn that my contract will not renew next year. The job hunting starts. End of March, friends visit me from Seattle and Boston. It is the first time someone visits me in Nebraska. I had left hope that anyone would be even remotely interested in seeing this place. I was wrong. The last day of March, I have a conference presentation in Pittsburgh.

April

Beginning of April, I am away for conferences. After the one in Pittsburgh, I take a break at Washington DC for a few days, and meet up old friends. The train ride from Pittsburgh to Washington DC turns out to be quite inexpensive and relaxing. I visit the World Bank, and get very inspired about working there. I next go to Philadelphia for another conference and meet up with more friends. I realize that I have more friends in all the corners of the US than I have had in any other country. I am visiting Philadelphia after 6 years, and miss some of my old friends who used to live there. The weather starts to get better in Nebraska by mid-April. I discover a fantastic sushi place, and start frequenting there for the happy hours. The job hunt is still on.

May

I start going to these Friday art walks (held in many cities on the first Friday of every month), and start enjoying the experience. The job hunt is still on. I have applied to a bunch of places in the US, more than I can keep track of. But nothing seems to be working out. I am still hopeful, my visa does not expire until the end of August. Memorial Day, another friend from Idaho visits me. I am amazed at how many people are starting to visit me. The weather is much better now, leaning towards the hotter, humid side. I would prefer that any day over the cold and snow. I start driving more, and exploring the nearby lakes and forests. My friend and I are supposed to explore the Badlands National Park and Mount Rushmore. An hour into our 10-hour long road trip, my car breaks down for the first time. I have no clue what’s happening. We call the hotels and cancel our reservation, and spend the next 3 days at home, waiting for the car to be fixed. My friend is pretty cool about it, but I keep getting restless. This is the first time in many years that it is a holiday and I am not traveling.

In the meantime, I am still looking for a job, and now start talking to Indian friends who got a PhD from the US and then moved elsewhere. A particular friend who moved to Israel asks me to explore the options there. I am not terribly excited about Israel, I am still hoping that something works out in the US. I cast a wider net and start contacting faculty all over the country. In the meantime, I identify a good program in Israel, and contact the head. He asks me if I am willing to learn Hebrew. I say yes. Something in me is utterly lost and disappointed. He asks me to contact him in a few months, but in the meantime, contact a renowned research institution in Germany. This raises my hopes. I had loved Europe from my visits before. I contact the organization in Germany. End of May, I contact them. I hear back within a day, telling me that there is no available position. The next day, the head writes me back, asking if I would be willing to visit for 4 months. I miss going to my PhD graduation ceremony. 

June

I decide to go to Colorado for the first time, to meet my friend from college. I take the Amtrak to Denver (an amazing overnight train ride, cheaper and way comfortable than driving).  I meet my friend after 12 years and relive old memories. We drive down to the Rocky Mountain National Park, and other places like Vail. In the meantime, I hear back from at least 6 places I had previously applied to, asking if I am available to interview. I am on top of the world. I know that something is going to work out now. I had applied to two positions in Colorado alone. After my trip, I now start to hope that the job in Colorado works out. The rest of the month is spent interviewing with these places, and waiting. In the meantime, Germany has decided to offer me a position for a year (as opposed to four months), and now wait for my answer.

July

The positions I applied to are either not contacting me, or asking me for more time. I set a deadline of July 15, and decide not to prolong Germany. More friends visit me from Seattle for the July 4^th weekend. This is the third set of friends visiting me. Germany won the world cup football. And I decided to move.

August

August mostly involved packing, moving, and numerous trips to Goodwill. There was some confusion with the date of my moving out, as a result of which, I had to pack and move out on one evening’s notice. Although I was preparing for it for a while now, it was sudden. I hardly got time to mourn my move. By the first day of August, I had moved in with a friend. He sponsored a wonderful farewell dinner for me at a very nice local restaurant, where I had duck for the first time. I started for my first solo road trip in the first week of August. For the next 25 days, I was on the road, travelling 8,000 miles across 22 states. My three-week long criss-cross country solo road trip ended in Seattle. It started in the middle of the country (Lincoln, Nebraska), going south (Houston, Texas), north (Chicago, Illinois), east (Washington DC) and west (Seattle, Washington). The distance I drove was the distance between Washington DC and India, via Europe. I met 42 old friends in the process, and made 9 new friends. In this process, I also got a renewed Indian passport and a new German visa. There were no speeding tickets.

September

September 5^th, I sold my car. I lived for a month in Seattle, meeting old and new people, hiking Rainier and other places in Washington, and enjoying my last Durga Puja in Seattle.

October

I moveto Germany. I make my first friend there, a South Korean friend. I discover the only Starbucks in the city. I start enjoying the habit of watching huge cruise ships on a daily basis.

November

I make my second friend there. Also South Korean. I get my residence and work permit. I am slowly developing roots in Germany.

December

I visit my first Christmas Market (Weihnachtsmarkt) in Germany. I have my first Glühwein (glow wine or mulled wine). I submit my first grant. I visit Calcutta.

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A Conference in Chicago- 2

I love living in hostels. My first hostel stay was in 2009 (Hawaii). After that, I had some pretty interesting experiences in Paris, Portugal, Puerto Rico, and now Chicago. It is a wonderful way to be surrounded by action, and see a constant flux of faces from different parts of the world. And I absolutely love hopping onto a bunk bed and sleeping high above ground level. It reminds me of traveling in long-distance trains in India.

The following day, I had breakfast with a bunch of Europeans and Brazilians who are backpacking around the world. The interesting stories they shared abound. There is always a dude with the guitar, sitting by the porch in the evening and singing his heart out. And a bunch of nicely dressed people partying and drinking beer. Since I was jetlagged, I was falling asleep by 7 pm. So my first night in Chicago, I fell asleep listening to some live music right outside my room.

I'll prefer staying with strangers in a nice hostel any day to staying alone in a luxurious hotel.

An old man boarded the bus the next day with some difficulty. He wore a nice beret cap, formal clothes, and a walking stick. He walked slowly to find a seat. The nearest seat was occupied by a man, who was too busy browsing on his phone to look up. Grandpa took the opposite seat, behind the driver.

I was watching him from the back, awash with a sense of sadness. Why were old people left to walk alone and board public transit on the busy streets of Chicago? Why didn't he have company? Whenever I see old people, I wonder if my life will also look like this not too many decades down the line. A few stops later, the young man was still on his phone, too busy to look up.

As the bus left a particular stop, grandpa got up to get off at the next one. Suddenly, a cab pulled up from nowhere in front of the bus, and the driver had to brake hard. I am shuddering to write about it, reliving the memory again. Everyone lost their balance momentarily, and we heard a loud thud. Grandpa had fallen flat on the floor. The noise reverberated loudly, and it was so loud that my mouth went dry. I don't know what grandpa felt, but that noise made me dizzy. I know that thud from childhood, when my own grandpa had slipped in the bathroom, had a cerebral stroke, and never quite recovered after that. It was the first day of the year in 1990.

A bunch of men rushed to help grandpa up. His glasses were gone, cap had fallen, and he had that disoriented, helpless look on his face that would move you to tears. I held on to the rod tight, watching him as tears stung my eyes. It was no one but the cab driver's fault, but of all the people who could be hurt, grandpa got hurt. I kept wondering, why did his family leave him to navigate the busy streets alone. Old age looks so much like childhood. Just that in childhood, your parents and elders and the entire world is smitten by you. In old age, the parents are gone, and no one else cares.

"Are you alright, sir?", people asked him.

"I don't know. I guess that I will know the pain tonight", said grandpa in a painful voice. There were no visible signs of injury, but that fall was bad. The bus moved to a corner and stopped. Grandpa thought that his stop is here. He started to get up again. He was visibly embarrassed and confused.

The driver made an announcement. He said that he cannot let the old man leave like this, and he had to call the doctor. So it would take a while, and everybody is welcome to wait, or get on the next bus, and they would not have to pay bus fare again. Everyone nodded and understood and started to get off. Grandpa protested, saying that he was going to the church and he would be late and he felt alright. But the driver insisted that he could not let him go without making sure that grandpa was alright. Most people wished him well or touched his arm before getting off the bus and disappearing into the crowded streets of Downtown Chicago.

In less than 5 minutes, I had witnessed two thought provoking things. First, what the scary picture of old age looks like. Second, what good citizenship looks like. I don't know if the driver did it out of humanity, rules, or the fear of being sued, but he did the right thing. And hats off to grandpa, who still goes on with his life, attending the church and traveling in buses. And for me, it leaves me so much to reflect on. I might have a thousand things in life that are not perfect right now (okay, make that a hundred), but I am sound, physically and mentally, and do not have to depend on anyone. If I don't feel like driving or taking the bus, I can walk, jog, and sprint. I do not forget things easily, and am usually not ailing or in pain. But these are the perks of being my age. Things will only go downhill from here.

And thus, I spent my third jet lagged night being alert and awake, hoping that grandpa was sleeping soundly, and was not in pain.

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A Conference in Chicago- 1

Coming home

Six months after leaving the US, I went back to attend a conference last April. The familiarity of everything American dawned on me at the airport, even before I had left the German soil. I had traveled to four other countries in between, two Asian, and two European. However, none of them involved such an elaborate screening and security check process.

An airline official was ready with a long list of questions at the airport. Am I a terrorist? Am I carrying illegal substances with me? Have I received any unknown package from anyone at the airport? Instead of getting perturbed, I started to re-realize that I am indeed going to the US. I went through this for eight years, and something felt very familiar and strangely reassuring about it. 

There was a final point at the airport after I had checked in my bag and gone through security clearance. There was another security checkpoint near the gate. I was traveling with a German colleague, and interestingly, he was allowed to skip that last security check, while they asked me to go through security once more. They even patted me all over this time. I don’t even have to guess why the colleague was allowed to go and I was not.

It was an eight-hour long flight to EWR, followed by another shorter flight to ORD. Things were uneventful during the flight. As we took off, I looked below and strangely, did not feel even an iota of sadness about being away for 1.5 months. For a brief second, I wondered if I should feel anything at all, but let go. It is what it is, and emotions can rarely be forced.

The food was horrible, cold, and bland, the chicken rubbery, and the cutlery all plastic. I knew that I was definitely flying an American airline (On a different note, the best food I have had is while flying Emirates and Turkish Airlines. The last time I flew Turkish, they served an eggplant preparation. I have never tasted a better eggplant preparation before!).

Immigration at EWR was easy-peasy. The officer greeted me in German, and I told him that I understood no German. He checked my documents, asked me why I was here, and that was it. When I said that I used to live in the US, he even added, “Welcome back, and enjoy your stay.”

My next aim was to find a power socket. I suddenly realized that I needed no adaptor (I have to use the American to European adapter in Germany; my laptop is from the US). The power cord fit in perfectly. It was symbolic. It felt like I was back at a place where I fit in perfectly.

Being unlost in translation gave me a high. Suddenly, I could understand every announcement, every small talk people around me made, could navigate around machines and ATMs, and did not have to use the "Translate to English" features anymore. I needed to buy a ticket, and my credit card worked perfectly, not protesting a bit. After using cash for the last six months, I was back to swiping my credit card. These little things gave me a certain comfort that came from the familiarity of how to navigate around and get work done (for example, I have two medical bills in my bag right now, and I have no idea what they say, and if both of them say identical things. So I will wait until Monday to ask a colleague to translate all of that for me. I am of course back in Germany now).

Anyway, back to Chicago. I flagged a cab to take me to my hostel. I was so happy to hear fluent English that I start chatting up. Cab drivers make excellent people for conversation anyway, since they meet so many people on a daily basis. And this one sure was one of the most interesting ones. When not driving cabs, he spends his free time reading about the brain. And learning Deutsche at the nearby cultural center (I was too quick to ask, "Why on earth?"). He told me about the neocortex in the brain, neural network, why old people become forgetful, why people are afraid of studying science, and a bunch of other interesting theories of his. He was from Russia, and knew that New Delhi is the political capital, Mumbai the commercial capital, and Calcutta is the cultural capital of India. I was almost tempted to ask him to have dinner with me, so that I could continue to listen to him. Just listen to him speak interesting things in a language I understood. That is the extent to which I had missed hearing English.

Much later, while dropping dead out of exhaustion in my room did I realize that in my excitement to talk, I did not ask for a receipt. I never got reimbursed for that ride.

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Nothing to lose

There are times in life when you take in a lot of garbage. And then comes a day when nothing really happens, but a small something tips you over. You realize that you have had it, and you are done taking in all the garbage. I think I reached that point recently.

It happened the same day I wrote my earlier post. I was walking back to my office, and the wind was strong. It was raining as well, and thankfully, I had my umbrella with me. I have very fond memories of this umbrella because I bought it on a rainy day during my trip to Europe. So it is a souvenir. Anyway. The wind was strong (Nebraska is infamous for that), and my umbrella kept turning the wrong way. There was no point in carrying it if I was getting wet anyway. So I tried to close it.

At that point, my finger got stuck in the umbrella, tearing a little bit of flesh and drawing a few drops of blood. I find the sight of blood very repulsive, and as I looked at my finger in horror, something in me flipped. Tears started rolling down my cheeks, mingling with the rain, as a bunch of school kids on an educational excursion walked by me. These were not tears of sadness or fear, these were tears of anger pent up for a while. The umbrella incident was totally random, but it invoked a strong sense of anger in me, because it was symbolic of the helpless situation I was in. And I realized, I don’t want to be helpless anymore. I don’t want to feel like a victim, because I have not done anything that should make me feel like a victim. I am done being in this toxic situation that I am in.

And suddenly, in my head, I heard my own voice. Screw you job! Screw you visa! Screw you insecurity. I don’t have to take this. I don’t have to live in a country where I am perennially afraid of the insecurities. I don’t want a colleague suggesting me ever again, even jokingly, that I should have tried hooking up with a citizen, like many people wanting to stay here do. I am done. I am so done with this life. It is no better than being made to feel like an outcast, being asked to sit separately, like the British did to the Indians pre-independence, or higher caste people did to lower caste people.

The epiphany of “screw you” perhaps came from self-worth, and gave me more strength than anything had given me in the last few months. I have a PhD (I am told that less than 1% people have a PhD, but in America or around the world, I do not know). I am in good health. I can speak in English. I can learn. I can relocate anywhere in the world. I can do math. I can think. I have the energy. I have the courage and determination to do what it takes. I can take risks. Most importantly, I am alive. Why am I forgetting all my blessings? Why am I constantly trying to fit in? When I moved to the US eight years ago, I had nothing. And I had nothing to lose. But now, what do I lose if I don’t find a job? Absolutely nothing. I just go somewhere else, and take my skills and ideas with me. I haven’t spent a single day for the last few years when I have not worried about a visa. No self-respecting academic should ever fear that. Because wherever I go next, I take my brains, and my ideas with me. I realized that a high school dropout is perhaps more fearless than I am, armed with fancy degrees and all.

This realization gave me a lot of strength. Often under duress, we tend to think that we are helpless. We are not. This will be my chance to reinvent myself, create my future, and start a new chapter in life. I am looking for a job, but I already have enough work to sustain me for a while. Then what am I so scared of?

When I get a job, this post will be shelved as one of those inspiring notes written during crisis. If I do not, these will become words that will dissipate into nothingness. In either case, I will have nothing to lose. And that thought that I have nothing to lose is empowering in itself.

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The Ides of March

A few months back, they selected my doctoral dissertation to be among the top three in the field. And last month, they told me that they do not have additional money to renew my contract.

The bipolar nature of academia baffles me. How could these two extreme things happen within a span of a few weeks, I cannot explain.

So I am back to looking for a job, a postdoctoral position to be more specific, not knowing what awaits me. It has been six weeks since that day, and I still haven’t found anything. But in these six weeks, numerous meltdowns and heartbreaking days of staring into the unknown later, I have had some profound realizations.

I have realized that I cannot control everything. That instead of resisting the waves, I can only learn to ride with them.

I have realized that the transition time between the end of something and the beginning of something else is the region of greatest possibility. I make the analogy using Lego blocks. Whenever something ends, anything, a relationship, a career, a job, a life, we lie like a pile of Lego blocks, broken, without direction, and feeling useless. But that is also the exact moment when we can recreate and redefine ourselves, mold ourselves into something new, create new possibilities, and become someone different. I think that if we were never broken, we would never get a chance to build ourselves again.

I have realized that the US is extremely unfriendly and unforgiving for people who require a job as well as a visa. Even when they have a PhD from the US.

I have started looking into my options in other countries, which I had not done before. The complacency of having a job in the US had stopped me from looking into my options elsewhere.

I have learned to reach out to other people. I don’t just wait for a job posting to show up. I proactively contact people, asking if they are looking to hire. Sure, nothing has come out of the effort so far, but failure is not the opposite of success. In fact, success and failure lie side by side, the opposite being not trying at all.

I have realized that people can ask to interview you, and you give a job talk with full gusto, only to be told that they do not have a position, but they will keep you in mind. What baffles me is, if they never had a position, why did they make me prepare a job talk and make a presentation in the first place? Human behavior is sometimes difficult to make sense of.

I have realized that there is more to me than what I do, my professional identity. When asked about who I am, I say that I am an educational researcher. However, there is much more to me than just being an educational researcher.

I have learned to be able to stare at the ending of something, and let go. If I do not find another job (with the visa in place) in the next few months, my stay in this country is history. I have been here for more than 7.5 years now, and to think that I might just have to leave everything I have and leave one fine day is heartbreaking. It is worse when you know that it was not your doing, and you cannot do anything to make the situation better. The feeling of paralysis that comes from helplessness is very difficult to come to terms. In fact these days, I notice in me a tendency to push doing certain things that bring gratification. The other day, my mom remarked that I need a haircut, and I told her that I want to save the occasion for the day when I find a job (equaling a hair cut with finding a job). I am seeing that the rice at home is beginning to get over, and a part of me is debating whether I should delay buying the big bag of rice until I find a job, because I don’t want to leave it unused if I have to go. The rice connection doesn’t even make sense to me, one needs to eat everyday, job or no job. Yet the prospect of spending for something makes me feel guilty, not knowing how much I might need to save for the rainy day.

I have realized that there will never be a dearth of work for me, even though there is a dearth of jobs. The number of papers I am involved in right now, it will take me at least a year to finish writing all those papers, job or no job.

I have started to notice myself as an observer, like I would observe someone else. Some days, I feel so lousy, it is hard for me to get up and get ready for work. Other days, I am naturally strong, telling myself that this is just a phase, and things will look better soon. I have better days when I feel stronger. But when I do not, the day drags on aimlessly, and inefficiency spirals, to make me feel even more lousy.

And of the many other realizations, I have also realized that I can look at the situation whatever way I want to. I can blame myself, my luck, or whatever. Or I can be kind to myself, and tell myself that it was not my fault. That come what may, I am in control of my life, and a certain external situation that was not created by me should not have the power to disorient me. Sure, I can choose to dance to the whims of fate, breaking a little bit every time the weather is rough. Or, I can choose to stay calm while the storm passes, because things will be better again. Is my pain greater than the collective pain of the world? I am looking for guarantees and securities in a world where airplanes disappear into thin air, and sturdy ships sink into the bottom of the ocean. Is my pain any greater than their pains? Or tomorrow if I was diagnosed with a terminal disease, will the job situation still bother me so much? It is all about perspective.

But most importantly, I just feel annoyed that anything should come in between me and my work. I dream of a day when I will be able to wake up and start working with enthusiasm, not having to worry about things like employment and visa.

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Impostor Syndrome

“I am a fraud and they will soon find out.”

I have always wanted to research more about impostor syndrome (a psychological trait in which people do not believe in their accomplishments). This is because I know that I secretly suffer from it. It is a fear that comes on accomplishing something, that perhaps it was not deserved, and perhaps someone made a wrong judgment, and soon, everyone will find out that you are not as bright as they think you are. There is abundant literature about how women in higher education feel it all the time. It often comes from not having enough self-confidence, sense of worth, or mentors and role models who are like you (racially, gender-wise, etc.).

Although I suffer from it, I am now consciously aware of it, so that whenever such thoughts cross my mind, I make an effort to dispel such fears. But that was not the case few years ago. When I first moved to the US, it was to study at a top-ranking university in my field. I have always believed that I was perhaps not their first choice, and someone must have decided not to move to Seattle, and hence I got admission. It may or may not be true, but that is not the point. It shows how I never had the conviction that I could be somebody’s first choice.

Then when I got another acceptance for a PhD four years later, in a public ivy school very well known internationally, I had the same sinking feeling once again. I thought that they saw my previous school’s credentials and assumed that I am good, but they do not know that I am not that competent. I write this with a lot of sadness. I struggled through the fear that someday, my adviser would find out that I was ordinary, and be utterly disappointed.

I finished my PhD in 3 years. In 33 months actually. This shows that it had nothing to do with my mediocrity or luck. It was all hardcore hard work and dedication. The problem is that I did not believe enough in myself.

I have often wondered why I had such fears. Interestingly, I never had that fear in India. It started when I moved to the US. Also, I have this fear only with things related to my career. For my personal achievements, I don’t give two hoots about success and failure. But when it comes to career achievements, I feel that there is too much at stake. I wonder when and how I developed such a uni-dimensional trait. Think about it, I have achieved everything based on my abilities, and not any backing. I had no Godfathers in the field. Every college admission, every job I got was because of my own abilities. My advisers wrote me recommendation letters, but none of them used their contacts to get me a job. I have often asked myself, “Then why?”

With time, I grew conscious about it. So every time I would see myself achieving something and belittling my achievements, I would check my thoughts. It might have to do with personal identity. In the US, I never had role models who are like me. What do I mean when I say, like me? I mean, single, Indian, immigrant female. When I met immigrants, they were not single. When I met single women, they were not immigrants. And if they are single and immigrants, they are male. Your personal identity goes a long way in shaping how you see, or do not see yourself. I wish that instead of feeling what I felt, I told myself that yes, I deserve to be here, in this field, succeeding and making a name for myself, and I am not going anywhere.

So why am I writing this? Because I did the same thing today. My dissertation has been selected as among the top three in the US, in my focus area. I was not expecting it at all. So my first sub-conscious thought when I read the congratulatory email was, “They must have sent me the email by mistake.” Immediately, I checked my thoughts. I realized that once again, I was letting myself be a victim of impostor syndrome. None of the selection committee members know me personally, and it is impossible that they are doing me a favor by giving me this recognition. I have been selected in the top three, but they give only one award. So next month, they will let me know if I won it. It is a big honor. Yet momentarily, I forgot about all the hard work and dedication I put in my dissertation. I forgot how I strove to be the best, and produced a quality manuscript. Writing a 300 page document was no fun, but I forgot all about it. Instead, all I thought was, “Perhaps they sent me the email by mistake.” Later, I was pretty mad at myself for feeling that way. The conscious, saner side of me was rebuking the darker side for belittling my achievements all the time. It is as if I am my own enemy, seldom recognizing that I am capable of reaching professional milestones.

So this is for all of you like me, who suffer from impostor syndrome. Believe in what you achieve, and do not attribute your success to anything other than your own hard work. And learn to celebrate your success. It is so important, although I am guilty of not doing it. 

On a different note, I always felt bad that I do not have an "Awards" section in my CV. I have never really won any awards, barring winning a science quiz in the sixth grade (that I participated in because I had a crush on one of the boys), and a Sanskrit calligraphy competition in the seventh grade. I often eyed the awards section of my colleagues' CV with greed. You can imagine, being selected the top three was equivalent to winning the Miss. Universe crown for me (and I did not even have to lie about how I am going to save the planet, and donate all my money to the needy).  

They will let me know next month. If I win, I will be presenting my research at the conference in a few months. And even if I do not win, I get to start a new “Awards and Honors” section in my CV, and add a line there. I’m almost tempted to do a happy dance as I write this.

sunshine 

The seven year (h)itch

Today marks the seventh year of my move to the US. Like I keep repeating this story to the now bored audiences, on a sunny September morning seven fall seasons ago, I had toured the entire world (almost) on my maiden flight, from Calcutta to Mumbai to Frankfurt to Los Angeles (with a one hour cockpit tour over Turkey) until I reached Seattle. I was tired, jetlagged, discombobulated, and ready to collapse. That started a series of many first experiences in life.

            I started with paying a rent of $375 every month (including utilities) in my first apartment at the U-District, sharing a floor, a kitchen, and two bathrooms with seven other people. Canon was my first point and shoot camera. A tub of Vaseline was my first purchase (which I still have, because another tub came free with that). My first trip was Las Vegas during Thanksgiving.

            Honestly, I had no idea what I was getting myself into. I was twenty five, starry eyed, and ready to change my life with my freshly minted F1 visa. Moving to Seattle was the best decision of my life, something I have never regretted. It started many a memorable journeys in life, making hundreds of new friends, whose spouses and siblings and neighbors and parents also became my friends eventually. 

            And what a fantastic journey it has been. I had never lived outside home before that, and this was my first real taste of independence. I have messed up quite a lot, burnt my dinner, knocked off a trash can while driving in someone's driveway, woken up late and missed class, shown up for the wrong exam, failed my Biochemistry test, had bland soup at someone's house because I did not know how to use a pepper mill, wished happy Thanksgiving to a cop after he gave me a $300 speeding ticket, ordered quesadilla as kyu-sa-dilla, the list is long. These are real life examples as well as figurative examples.

            And yet my learning curve in the last seven years has been tantamount to my learning curve for the twenty five years before that. Have I changed as a person? I don’t know. But I think that I take life way less seriously now. My goals are still serious, but not the way I see life anymore. Because nothing matters at the end of the day. 

            Regrets? Not at all. Okay, maybe a tiny one. I still have not seen Grand Canyon, but I intend to change that soon. I'll add Alaska to the list too.

            Quoting Jhumpa Lahiri from Interpreter of Maladies, “Still, there are times I am bewildered by each mile I have traveled, each meal I have eaten, each person I have known, each room in which I have slept. As ordinary as it all appears, there are times when it is beyond my imagination.” Seven years, and I have moved and lived in three cities and six apartments. I will always associate most of the significant milestones of my life with this country. Getting a masters degree. Getting a PhD. Working. Researching. My postdoctoral job. My first digital camera. First car. Failing the theory of the driver's test the first time. First speeding ticket. Trips to Hawaii and Puerto Rico. First road trip. First paper publication. I realize that memories of the milestones achieved in India will slowly fade out, replaced by memories in the US.

            Quoting Jhumpa Lahiri from The Namesake again, “Pack a pillow and blanket and see as much of the world as you can. You will not regret it.” No Mrs. Lahiri, I have never regretted it. Today might as well have been my second birthday. And here is a toast to everyone who has been a part of this amazing journey.

sunshine

Day 7: Location

January 12^th, 2013

As I have started applying for jobs, the two most important and only things that are governing my job search is, the kind of work and location. To me, location is very important. I prefer living in larger cities. If it is a small city, I prefer it being close to a large city. Then I want to live somewhere that is not snowed in most of the year. I hate being cold, having to spend 30 minutes heating up my car and scrapping off the ice before I take out the car every time. Then, I will prefer living along the coast, east or west. I would really prefer not to live in the middle of the country, amidst corn fields and all. Proximity to the mountain or the sea is an added plus. Talking about proximity, a local airport nearby is a real must. Ask me about the pain of asking people for airport rides, especially if they are more than an hour away. You will be amazed that as a professional, how much connectivity to other places is important. It helps if the place is pretty, and has a lot of history, rolling fields, and pretty locations nearby. Most importantly, I want to live in a place where I can connect to the people around me. Being a single woman in a foreign country, thousands of miles away from family, I take my location very seriously. You see, I am not really looking for an area flooded with Indians, people like me. I don’t crave for the bay area in California or Chicago for the same reason. But having an Indian grocery store nearby doesn’t hurt. Having a nearby place to be able to order Biryani doesn’t hurt either. It will be nice to live somewhere I can cultivate my hobbies, being able to have writing groups, photography clubs, or hiking groups. And having my favorite stores (Macy’s, Trader Joe’s, Ikea, etc.) at least 1-2 hours away may not hurt.

You must be wondering what is wrong with me. In this shitty economy, it is a blessing to have a job, and beggars should not be choosers. I agree. However, work is a part of my life, it is not my entire life. There are some 12-15 hours in my daily life when I do not work. To ensure that I am efficient at my job, it is very important that I am mentally happy during the rest of the day. I know that my class cohort is applying to every possible job, and will leave no stone unturned, willing to relocate anywhere. However, this is a risk I am willing to take. I have done it in the past, and I am doing it again. After all, you just need one acceptance offer at the end of the day. I did not go to Ann Arbor (being a top ranking school) because it is extremely cold in winters, and I did have an offer from another equally ranked school. A few years later, I did not go to Bloomington for the same reason. I have taken risks based on locations, and I have been lucky so far. Even now, I am not applying to places like Greeley, Pullman, and Murfreesboro (despite job openings) because I don’t see myself living in these places. Well, I wouldn’t say never because you never know, but given a choice, I would like to live in more well known and well connected places. Some of these places I haven’t even heard of. I don’t want to be stranded in the middle of nowhere, hundreds of miles away from my friends. It’s about safety, but it is also largely about mental well being. Taking anti-depressants will be the last thing on my agenda ever. Some of my friends think that I am crazy, but then, it is about me, and not about them.

In life, it is very important to know what is it that you want. And even if you don’t know that, it might be important to figure out what is it that you definitely don’t want. God, I just want some luck.

sunshine

Feeling writing

It has been more than 6 years since blogging happened to me. Even after all these years, someone appreciating my writing, saying a few nice words, liking or sharing a post on Facebook, or getting me published always thrills me. Hence this post.

I have always taken my writing seriously. That is one of the few things I enjoy doing. In my professional life, I do one of the two- I either run statistical analysis, or write. Someone told me the other day, “You don’t feel stats, you just do it. But you feel writing.”, I was taken aback by the honesty in what my friend had said. True, I do stat because I need to earn my living, I need to finish my Ph.D. on time, get published, find a job, and accomplish. That doesn’t mean stat thrills me. Writing does.

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The Titanic is sinking … and she stays onboard

She had walked from the department to the bus stop that afternoon, feeling the weight of the world weighing down on her shoulders. It was a cold, rainy afternoon in fall, and it seemed nature was crying at her predicament. She reached the bus stop just in time to see the bus leave right in front of her. The frustration of missing a bus becomes manifold when you actually watch it leave right in front of you, knowing that you do not have enough time to run and cross the road. This was perhaps very symbolic for her that afternoon, looking at the bus full of opportunities abandon her. Although she was suitably qualified for what she was aspiring to be, she did not have that powerful piece of document that declared her eligible for the job. It was the same document of citizenship or permanent legal residence that people in the past have killed, manipulated, and married for. Neither her parents had the foresight to visit the US and give her birth there, nor she had the foresight to get hitched to someone local. As a result, despite what she would have liked to think of as spectacular and scintillating academic potential, she was disqualified for the numerous teaching fellowships she tried applying to. Apparently, she did not fall under the category of people America deemed fit to allow to teach and educate their children.

She had always wanted to work as a science and math teacher. That was her forte, her calling. That was what she did in India, and that is what she eventually wanted to do in the US. Who said PhDs were overqualified to teach in schools? She was doing a PhD, training to be a professor, but she also wanted to take a few years off first and go teach in a public school setting. She thought she would immensely benefit from the classroom experience while developing her research agenda as a professor, and she loved teaching anyway. Hence, while most people’s careers took off on an upward trajectory, she was willing to step down and go teach in a school for a few years. Don’t get her wrong when she said “step down”, for she in no manner insulted teaching in a public school as an endeavor fit for the lesser achieving. What she meant is, she was overqualified for the job, and hence thought she would definitely get it. The minimum requirement for teaching in a school is a bachelor’s degree. Armed with two masters’ degrees, and a PhD on the way, she knew she would never struggle to find a good school to start teaching.

She forgot something very basic while happily making her future plans. She forgot that she did not belong to this country. She was an outsider, a foreigner. A very unwelcome foreigner in a country where she has been told, “The foreigners took our jobs!!”.

She started looking at teaching fellowships. That was when the truth hit her. Every teaching fellowship she tried applying for specifically mentioned that they require citizens and permanent residents only. They would not sponsor her visa. Desperate, she emailed them, each and every institution, asking if they ever made exceptions for doctorate degree holders. None of the answers came as affirmatives.

There was a clear disconnect between theory and practice. In theory, she was always told by different people, at different point of time that America was in dire need of good science and math teachers who were passionate about teaching. That was when she started to think that she would be a great fit in the setting. Even her professors assured her that visa sponsorship should not be an issue. Clearly, she now knew better.

Her thoughts were mostly sad as she waited for the next bus in the rain. She realized that she did not qualify even for an interview. To deny someone the right to employment by denying them the right to be interviewed, not because of lack of credentials or enthusiasm, but because of the lack of paperwork produced as a result of a random event of being born in the United States was perhaps the ultimate example of social injustice. While America embraced international students with open arms (statistics say so, not I), they were equally reluctant in creating job opportunities for them. No one had taken a look at her academic achievements that she had so painstakingly put in her resume. She was rejected - Just like that. It was an alienating experience. She was neither into chip making, nor into programming, occupations that highly commanded visa sponsorships. She was just an ordinary human being and all she wanted to do was teach. For the first time, thoughts of going back to India seriously occurred to her. Strangely, it was a freeing, emancipating thought. Not that there were any better jobs in India, but she would at least not feel like a foreigner, an intruder. True, millions of people immigrated and embraced this country as their own. Then how could she explain the chilliness, the hostility of the situation she was facing? Certainly there was no pride in living the life of a second class citizen from a third world country, trying to fit in a first world nation. Her ideals were conflicted. She had always wanted to excel at what she did, so that she would be in demand for the quality of her work, no matter where she lived. She wanted to be so good in what she did that the job would come looking for her, rather than the other way around. Clearly, she could have all the respect she wanted, as soon as she could produce proof of citizenship.

Various thoughts and incidents from the past flashed in front of her. She remembered the woman in her late thirties she had met at the Zumba class who had beamed in pride, “Why do I need to work? My husband is a professor. I have married well.” She thought of her friend, whose husband had applied for their green card the moment she married and stepped into the country. None of these women had trouble finding legal residency in the country, and were happily and proudly unemployed. However, when some people actually wanted to work and make a difference, they were denied the opportunity because they had probably not married well. Where was social justice in this God?

She remembered a scene out of a movie she had watched in her teens. The big ship was sinking, and the affluent people left in their lifeboats one by one. Clearly, she was staying onboard, sinking with the ship. After all, she was a second class citizen from a third world country, trying to fit in.

sunshine

5 Years !

Sometime earlier this month, I celebrated the completion of my 5 years of stay in the U.S. It meant a lot to me, since I have always considered moving to the U.S. as the biggest “good decision” I have made for personal reasons. It hasn’t been a smooth joy ride, I assure you, and it still isn’t. Things went wrong during the first few years, and I was never hopeful that I would be able to make it. I had to give up a lot, especially the security of a sheltered life, of a secure job, of the prospects of being gainfully married and raising a family. I was singly driven by my desire to pursue graduate school, and to establish myself as an academician. It became challenging and increasingly hard for me to keep myself rooted here (opting out of the PhD program in 2008, job layoff in 2009, resuming PhD in 2010, etc.). However, here I am, and here I was celebrating my 5 years of stay by taking a journey down the memory lane and remembering all the happy and not-so-happy moments that defined the latter half of my twenties.

Incidentally, I was out of town the day I completed 5 years. I was attending a conference, not presenting though. Academic daddy was invited to be there, and since he was traveling, he sent me instead. This was a huge privilege, much bigger than presenting at a conference, because in this case, someone revered in the field gave up his chance so that I could replace him temporarily and do the same kind of work that he was expected to do. I was expected to listen to the talks, evaluate the kind of research that was being done in the field, and prepare a synthesis report. This would not only give me a chance to network and meet the people in the field, but also train me in synthesizing information and making sense of them.

A quick scanning around the room revealed that as expected, I was perhaps the only “Indian-from-India” in the room, if you know what I meant. The conference started, people began to present their work, mostly in the field of developing education and bettering the school educational systems for scientific workforce development so that more students were motivated to continue into college. There was one spokesperson who got up on stage to present. I don’t remember the affiliation, but I remember listening to an impressive talk. The person had some great ideas, and was very enthusiastic about it. The person breezed through the presentation slides, and there was this last bullet point on the last slide that seemed somewhat odd, but did not register anything right away. I am not sure if I had read that point, or perhaps I was beginning to, but before I did, the person repeated what was written in the last slide.

“And hopefully this way, we will be able to stop the foreigners taking up our jobs.”

The crowd clapped and applauded. However, I sat there stone faced. You see, I had never once fooled myself into believing that this country is mine, and has embraced me lovingly. I was always reminded of the fact that I am here as long as I had my visa validated, for which, I had to struggle, compete, learn, and produce superior quality work. I had already faced the consequences of losing a job and thereby ending up without a visa (you get deported, what else?). Although I live here, I always knew I never belonged here, not only for the color of my skin or my Indian accented English, but because of the fact that I am a foreigner, and will always be one. But to be a foreigner sitting amidst a group of natives animatedly discussing strategies about how to keep the foreigners at bay was not necessarily the best conversation to hear. This country has given me a lot, taught me a lot of values. However, I believe that I have given this country at least a little bit in return, and I am not just referring to the taxes. I have given this country my hard work, my ideas, my skills, and my expertise. Look at the irony, on one hand, I was sitting there as the representative of my advisor, trying to become an expert in my field, trying to become “one of them” to help their children continue into college. On the other hand, I was also a foreigner and although this person never realized there was at least one foreigner in the room listening to the conversation, I was listening. I did not know then which side of the argument I was in.

That single incident, ironically on the 5^th anniversary of my entry into the US, changed the way I perceive things. It’s been a month almost, and memories of that initial awkwardness still remains fresh. Academic daddy, who is best known for his honesty and bluntness, listened to me recount this in pain, and told me somewhat impassively, “You get established for your skills, the value you bring into a group, and not because of who you are or what country you belong to. If you become a good researcher and have all the combined skills that most people in this field do not have, if you are the best in statistics and can analyze any large scale data set, America will value you. You can either sit and lament about what happened, or fiercely try to establish yourself in the field.”

Advice taken with respect daddy, but not without knowing that perhaps I would never be able to estrange myself from the things I felt at that point, being referred to as an outcast “who is taking our jobs away”.

On a different note, I had to fill out an expense sheet and a tax form by the end of it, listing my expenses. The lady at the conference counter looked at me and said harmlessly, “Oh, I am sure you do not need a tax form.”

Having known her for the last 3 days of the conference, I smiled and almost nodded a yes, assuming she knows best, but decided to confirm again. “You sure?”

“Uh, do international employees pay taxes?”

“Sure ma’am, I do pay my full share of taxes, I assure you”, I said as I helped myself to a form. “Surely us foreigners might be a potential threat who take up the jobs that your children rightly deserved, but we at least pay our taxes”, I thought with bitterness as I grabbed my form and left the conference venue.

sunshine