The Ending in the Beginning: Part I

The purpose of this blog is to document my new life in Denver, Colorado, and my quest to become more truly myself, and more truly Dauntless than ever. This will be explained in future posts. But first things first.

The beginning of one thing inevitably means the ending of another. Some of these endings are less dramatic than others: the beginning of a life simply means the end of said life not existing. The beginning of a school year means the end of the summer. The beginning of Summer means the end of Spring. Sometimes, however, the ending ushered in by a new beginning is so dramatic that the ending itself deserves attention. This is one such case. In fact, the ending is so important, that it needs a series of posts to fully explain.

I moved to Cape Girardeau, Missouri, in January, of 2011. My residence here was never intended to be permanent. The plan was to earn my M.A. in history, and then move on to another university in another city and state for my Ph.D. I intended to be here for two, maybe two-and-a-half years. My, how plans can change. Nearly five years later, I am still here, and only just now have definite plans to move. But not for a Ph.D. program. More on that later.

In November, of 2010, I was living with the Holmes family in my hometown of Cincinnati, Ohio. Despite being armed with a newly minted college degree, and the submission of over 600 employment applications, the only employment I had managed to find in six months was 9 hours a week nannying a 6th grader. $90 a week only goes so far. So imagine how pleased I was when I received a Facebook message from Dr. Wayne Bowen, a former history professor at my alma matter, Ouachita Baptist University. He was now the chair of the history department at Southeast Missouri State University, in Cape Girardeau. We spoke on the phone that night, and he told me he had found me a graduate assistantship that would cover my tuition, fees, and pay me a small stipend each semester for four semesters, while I worked on my Master's in history. Two days later, I jumped in my car, and drove out to visit Cape Girardeau, Missouri. By Thanksgiving, less than a week later, I was making my plans to move. I even had a thesis advisor already.

I began my Master's in January, and I loved my time as a graduate student. No, really. It was intense, for sure. And there were times I wanted to strangle my professors, but the department was awesome, and I was making some great friends. Not to mention, I rediscovered a childhood friend from Cincinnati, who was now living in Cape Girardeau: Krissy (now know as Kris). 

As a graduate student, I learned to be more confident in my own opinions and interpretations- something that had been suppressed during my family's tenure in the Advanced Training Institute (ATI), when I was ages 13-22 (though that's another story for another blog). Professors encouraged me to challenge them if I disagreed with them. They challenged me to figure out why I held my opinions. Instead of being someone who had learned to be timid, despite a very bold personality, I was finally finding myself able to become more, well, myself. I grew more as a person and an individual in my 2.5 years in grad school than I had in the entire previous 15 years before that. I was finally starting to thrive. 

Due to some unexpected health issues, my graduation was pushed from December of 2012, to August of 2013, but I graduated with several awards, and a GPA north of 3.9. Writing my thesis (in the 7 weeks before it was due, which I do not recommend to anyone unless you actually like stomach ulcers) was one of the biggest growing experiences of my life. Identifying and solving problems, learning how to do what has to be done no matter what kind of personal crises may arise, and dealing with an advisor who takes sadistic pleasure in marking up your drafts (I'm mostly joking here...mostly), and realizing that an awful lot rests on you actually finishing and passing this big final project, well, I matured a lot. But finally, I passed my defense, handed in my final draft, and received the approval of the Graduate School. Despite a number of health and personal crises (including the death of a very beloved friend and classmate), I had finally completed my Master's Degree in history, with a specialization in African American history, just shy of my 30th birthday. The plan had been to go right on to a Ph.D. program. But out of 10 applications, all 10 got rejected. So I adjusted and stayed in Cape.

To be continued in Part II