Out of My League

I've been finding life to be a bit busy of late. This is due, in large part, to the new degree program I started this semester at USC. I decided to try taking two courses at the same time. When I was working on my masters degree I never took more than one class in a semester. Classes require a weekly drive downtown after a full day of teaching, getting home just as the kids are climbing into bed, and a good deal of reading, researching, and writing on the weekends. One class is very doabe. Two, I'm finding, is quite a lot.

I don't mind too much, though. I love the readings and often enjoy the discussions that take place afterward . Even the assignments aren't so bad. The professors work hard to avoid assigning busy work and I always feel proud when putting the final touches on a paper.

The classes I'm taking look, so far, to be more challenging than the ones I took in the masters program. There's a whole lot more reading each week and the language in the texts is more multi-syllabic than I'm used to. I have to read very slowly at times and often I go back to reread sections because I haven't a clue what I just read.

I've found I can't read any of the books from my qualitative research course before going to bed. Not that I don't enjoy them but once the clock reaches 10:00 I can't make it more than a page or two without falling asleep. The words start floating around the page and nothing makes sense. On weekend mornings I wake up, reach down for these same books, and try to get ten or fifteen pages read before starting the day. Suddenly it all makes sense again.

I'm relieved by this because my first day of class had me wondering if maybe I wasn't fit for this program.

Class started on a Monday at 4:30. This is less than ideal because we have faculty meetings at school on Monday afternoons and I have to duck out after only ten or fifteen minutes to make it to class on time. I left even earlier for the first class because I needed to stop by the bookstore to pick up my texts. I had ordered them online earlier in the day and when I walked into the bookstore I knew I was in trouble. The line for textbooks was about forty deep.

I asked the girl in front of me for the time and she told me it was 4:10. Ugh, I was either going to be late or have to drive back down later in the week to try the line again. I opted to wait it out and get the books. After twenty-five minutes of inching toward the help desk I found out they didn't have my books ready.

"Sometimes we don't have the books in stock," the kid behind the kiosk explained.

"How can you not have them in stock?" I asked. "This is the university bookstore and the professors tell you which books to order."

"Sorry," he said. "You'll have to come back in a couple of days."

Dejected I walked to class. The class was in Wardlaw College, just across the street from the Horseshoe. I've had a number of other classes in this building yet still get lost every time I'm in there. This time was no different. I pulled a scrap of paper out of my pocket to find the room number. 2740, it read. I walked around looking at signs and door numbers and couldn't figure out if I was getting closer or further away. A professor came walking around the corner and spotted me for the deer in the headlights that I was.

"Do you need help?" she asked.

"Yeah," I said. "I can't find this room. It's number 2740."

She looked at me with a puzzled look.

"Are you sure it's 2740?" she asked. "There aren't any numbers that high on this floor."

As she looked at my slip of paper another professor ducked her head out into the hall.

"It's 274-O," she said. "The letter O, not zero."

One of them walked me to my class and wished me luck. It was like being five all over again.

When I walked into the classroom it looked as though every seat was filled. Everyone was turned to another person talking with great focus. A few people were even jotting some things down. As many of them turned to look at me, I walked up the center aisle looking for a seat. I was regretting my decision to stay in line at the bookstore.

I found a seat at a table in the second row. As I sat down two women looked over at me and said hello.

"Hey," I returned.

One's name was Selina and the other I didn't catch. It was something really long that I had never heard before. They asked me a few questions and I made small talk about the bookstore, teaching, and my family. I assumed we were just spending a few moments getting to know one another while the professor prepared something. I didn't take this time seriously at all.

"Okay," the professor said, walking to the front of the room. "Now we'll go around and you can introduce your new classmates to the rest of us. Tell us their name, their program, where they are in their coursework, and other interesting things that we might all like to know about them."

Oh shit!

Some people like to joke that I'm not a good listener. As much as I hate to admit it I think they're probably right. At this very moment I KNEW they were right. I looked over at Selina's notebook and saw that she had written notes about the other lady and about me as well. I looked down in front of me and saw nothing. No notes. Nothing.

The first few people to share provided nothing short of a full biography of their partner. My heart sank. I didn't have the books I needed for class, I walked in really late, and now I wasn't going to be able to complete the first minor task set before me. Faced with failure I did what anyone would do.

I cheated.

I began looking over at the notebook of the woman whose name I couldn't remember and copying down the things she had written about Selina. I was only able to get a few things down before Selina raised her hand and volunteered  our group to go next. Though my introduction of her was less than stellar no one yelled at me so I felt it all came out pretty good. Considering.

After introductions Dr. Jay launched into a lecture on qualitative research. I wasn't sure if this was the type of stuff I should be writing down or not. I looked around and saw that many of the others were scribbling away in their notebooks and binders. I reached into my bookbag and realized I hadn't brought a notebook. I didn't have a single piece of paper. This wasn't like being five years old anymore. At five years old your mom makes sure you have the supplies you need. No, this was like high school. Only being an airhead isn't quite so cute in the eyes of other students when they're forty year-old professionals holding multiple degrees. Asking for paper at this point wasn't going to be cute or endearing. It was going to be embarrassing.

I dug through every pocked of my bookbag hoping for something. Anything. Finally, I found a tiny pad of paper in the side pocket. The type you might expect a small police officer to use to jot down the details of a home burglary, I flipped open the cover and began writing. I was able to fit maybe five words on each line. I looked ridiculous hunched over this miniscule thing.

Many classes begin with a dumbed-down introduction to what you're going to study. Dr. Jay must have skipped this part. She launched into discussions of epistemology, internal scripts, content analysis, and clarification on the fact that "higher occurrence doesn't necessarily signal greater importance." I wanted to raise my hand and say, "HUH?" but I couldn't because everyone else was nodding their heads in agreement and even offering ideas and reactions from time to time. Knowing I had nothing to contribute I lowered my head and tried my best not to look dumb.

Can the others tell, I wondered.

It wasn't until my drive home that I realized most of the students in the class are at the end of their program. They've had a number of other research courses and are preparing to write dissertations. Only one or two others are like me, at the very beginning with little to no experience with research. I couldn't tell you which ones they were, though. They weren't escorted to class by a surrogate mom or taking eighty-nine pages of microscopic notes.