I intended to write about last Friday last weekend when the wound was still open and fresh. Of course, that is far too dramatic for what actually happened. Instead, life life-ed, and I didn’t get around to it. The whole thing tidied itself by Monday afternoon at 12:43. I think this timing is (as usual) better than my timing.
It is my goal to share as much of my shame in my public writing as possible. I should write more about this, and I will. However, for the sake of completing today’s mission with time to head to the Savannah Book Festival, that is a project for another day.
My search for a PhD program was one of those things that I decided at the beginning to share in its fullness – if I got all scathing rejections, I would not hide them. I would parade them as prominently as I did my graduation (ok, almost as prominently). Then, I got to applying.
The application deadlines were the beginning of December. I thought decisions would start to arrive later this month. Candidates have until April to make a decision in the case of multiple offers. While I desperately wanted an offer, I was afraid of multiple offers.
I am notorious for getting in my own way and making emotional decisions that often are not in my best interest. Multiple offers seemed like just such a situation. I ought to go to the University of Tennessee. The program is located in Knoxville. Cormac McCarthy grew up in Knoxville. My favorite McCarthy work, Suttree, is set there. The community culture acknowledges him. One of the most respected McCarthy scholars, Dr. Bill Hardwig, is a professor at UTK. It should be a no-brainer.
However, Dr. Hardwig advised me to apply to multiple programs. If he had his way, there would be no question – but he does not always get his way. PhD programs are curious things. It is my understanding that the UTK program usually gets around 200 applicants and admits somewhere around 10 candidates a year; this year, it was seven. The University of Georgia accepts about 15. The average I have seen hovers under 10%. The odds are tough. There is no way to guarantee a seat. It is possible that a candidate can have an outstanding application and simply not be a fit for the program. To put it another way, I can do all the things, and if there isn’t a 20th Century American Literature position available in the 2025 cohort, I am not getting an offer.
So, I applied to other schools. I created an 8-hour driving distance radius and applied. UGA was a no-brainer. The Research Triangle has always fascinated me, and some folks I admire very much have matriculated there. Ole Miss has a Faulkner scholar, Jay Watson, who studies McCarthy, not to mention two of my favorite people, Beth Ann Fennelly and Tom Franklin, are professors there.
I hit submit, and the question became inevitable: Which one would you choose? This is an impossible question. I couldn’t even begin to wrap my brain around it. Primarily, I could not imagine a world where I got five offers. Professionally, just playing with the idea felt greedy, indulgent, and full of hubris. It was uncomfortable.
Personally, the pull between UGA and UTK was real. I love my husband. Outside of my work, we spend very little time apart. We enjoy each other. I love my family, my friends, my life. There is a real shame that settles in when you feel like you would choose to be 7 hours away when the opportunity to be half that distance is available. It feels selfish and ungrateful. It feels like abandonment. It was so overwhelming that I started to question whether I should pursue any of it. Maybe this was never a good idea, and this little fantasy of mine should just reach its natural end with my graduation in May.
So, I prayed. And I don’t just mean I talked to God. I mean, I hit my knees, in Church, and called a full meeting of the Father, Son, Holy Spirit, the Blessed Mother, and all the angels and saints.
This is a thing I cannot do. I cannot choose.Thank you for bringing me this far, and now I give it all up. If I am not supposed to go, let them all reject me. I do not have the strength to end this journey if doors are still opening. If I am supposed to go, let there be only one. I do not trust my ability to discern the right choice.
I did not ask. I begged. One could say I demanded. However it is classified, I meant it. I am pretty serious about placing my prayer life in more passive “please, but I get it if it is a no.” This was not that. I had to have this one.
And then, I let it go. I didn’t entertain the question anymore. The polite answer became, “let’s hope there’s at least one.” And that was that.
I didn’t expect to hear from anyone until February. It was a surprise when Duke’s decision came on the last day of January. It was my first decision and my first rejection. I was devastated. Yes, I know what I said in my prayer. Yes, I meant it. No, it does not change the fact that my immediate reaction was hurt. That shit stung. We may not always like to dance, but it is a different feeling to not be able to dance.
I told Mike. His first words were, “Good. I really didn’t want you going there anyway.” I did not take that well. I should have, but I was too far up in my own feelings to hear the gift. What I wanted him to say was what Kobi said, “Fuck Duke.” I wanted indignant offense. I wanted a “how could they.” What I got was “good.”
I try very hard not to say hurtful things to my husband. I can apologize, and he can forgive – but I can’t unsay, and he can’t unhear. So, I closed my eyes and prayed.
I know this is what I asked for. Thank you for the rejection. I suppose I should have added a request for grace in the hurt. But here we are. I still mean it, and I thank you for honoring it. Please don’t let it hurt for long.
It was then Mike’s response became a gift. Until that moment, I had no idea that he was uncomfortable with the idea of Duke. If that had been the only offer, I still would not know it as he would have never said. I would have celebrated the win he didn’t want and moved to a place he didn’t want me to be, and I would have been none the wiser. Thank you. Thank you for the rejection. It didn’t sting anymore.
The following Monday, the first Monday of February, still far earlier than I expected, I received an offer from the University of Tennessee. More than a “yes,” the financial portion suggests it was an enthusiastic yes. I cried hard, Mike got dust in his eye, and I had to talk him out of buying a blue tick hound right that second.
I responded with appreciation; I had until April 15th to decide. In fact, I was encouraged to wait if I felt that was in my best interest. Tuesday, I just enjoyed the high. Wednesday, I discussed the offer with people I trusted to know about these things. The consensus was this was one of the best offers they had seen. It demonstrated a respect for the PhD candidate in general and for my work in particular. Thursday, I signed the acceptance, scanned it into my computer, crafted the email, and sat in my office, unable to push send. Three other decisions had not come in yet. What if they were better? What if I was making a wrong decision?
There wouldn’t be a decision to make. There would be only one – the right one. There was already one rejection, which demonstrated the possibility of the wrong choice that I feared. Now, there was one offer that treated me and my work with dignity. Waiting to see what others said was nothing more than ego and masochism.
I hit send and started looking for an apartment. Y’all, that’s gonna be a whole other prayer session.
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