Adventures in Rejection: And Then I Lost My Job

Picture it: 29 April, overcast skies, nearing the end of the academic year. My boss asks me for a meeting. He's never very forthcoming with information, so I don't know what the meeting is about, but I text a friend and say, "I have a feeling I'm going to come out frustrated at best, jobless at worst." My friend thinks I am joking when I say this, but I encounter the same situation every year.

Since the beginning of my time working at this job, my contract has never been guaranteed for renewal. Each April, I have to alert my parents to the possibility that they might need to come to North Carolina and help me move out. They're used to it by now, and they have been super-supportive throughout every contract scare. This time, though, it's no false alarm.

My boss and the head of our business office sit me down and inform me, as gently as possible, that they will not be rehiring me for the coming school year. While I'm not shocked, I can't hold back the tears, and now I'm crying in front of two senior administrators. If ever there was a "fuck my life" moment, this is it. 

You may have noticed something by this point in the post: it's not a traditional "Adventures in Rejection" entry. But stick with me, because it is about rejection, after a fashion.

Within twelve hours of receiving the news, I started packing. Before a week had passed, I signed up for new health insurance (sidebar: healthcare.gov is surprisingly easy to use, and I'm very grateful for the healthcare marketplace). Within ten days, I had filled out a change of address form, set a moving date, and informed relevant colleagues and business contacts of my departure. Sure, my apartment was a mess while I sorted and organized everything. Of course I had moments of despair. But overall, the experience has been educational.

See, rejection--no matter the kind--teaches you a few things, both about the world and about yourself. Would I have chosen to lose my job? Absolutely not. But I would never choose to have an anxiety disorder, either, yet having one has opened my eyes in unexpected ways in spite of the fact that part of my brain has rejected me. And I hate getting dumped, but every break up has helped me grow because I examine the rejection for clues to my personality and what I can do to improve myself.

I don't recommend getting laid off (as if anyone ever has a choice in the matter). It's a horrible experience. But in the event that you do find yourself jobless, believe me: it's better to take it one step at a time and look for the silver lining, difficult though that may be to do. Rejection isn't permanent.

-Cate-

What YA Reading?

So. Word on the street is that adults who read young adult (YA) books should be ashamed of themselves.

I know that this is old news by now, but I wrote the bulk of my summer blog posts months ahead of time to accommodate my ever-evolving situation, which is why I'm just now getting around to addressing the recent furor over this assertion. My friend Rachel Heston-Davis did a bang-up job of responding to Ruth Graham's article, as have many others. But of course I feel the need to add my voice to the dissenting crowd, because that's how I roll.

A stack of (mostly) YA books).

A friend and former professor of mine shared an article about the lack of discussion surrounding male YA readers (and, to an extent, authors). It's a quick yet illuminating read about true YA demographics. My friend, however, noted that she "Couldn't help wishing, though, that the male YA writer quoted in the article hadn't said he might not read YA if he didn't write it" because she was "Not sure that helped sell the concept." Below you'll find my response to her, as well as some comments I made when I first read Graham's screed (note: I've edited this since I spoke with my friend for clarity as well as the sake of redacting personal information).

***

Things I Said When I Had a Strong Gut Reaction to Ruth Graham Slamming My People
1) Tuck Everlasting is not YA. It's a children's novel. Neither is The Westing Game. It's a middle-grade novel. Freaking look into it.
2) As a matter of fact, the quality of YA fiction HAS improved greatly over the last 20 years.
3) Go read Inexcusable and tell me again that there's no such thing as moral ambiguity in YA fiction.
4) How is it not a good thing when adults take teenagers seriously and are able to connect with them through shared reading experiences?

The Luxe, the first book in one of my all-time favorite YA series.

Things I Said When I Read The "Dudes" Article

To an extent, I understand people who say they wouldn't read the genre if they weren't writing in it, since part of the process of writing a certain genre involves knowing it (current trends, past masters, et cetera) and NOT reading it would open them up to read other things/work on other projects, but at the same time, I come from the school of "read everything. Read it now," since I think you can find influences everywhere. Which is to say that I understand your frustration with someone making that declaration.

Even before I switched from fiction to writing for young people (WFYP) in grad school, I would occasionally read something from that group (mostly revisiting YA titles, and occasionally middle grade stuff, that I'd enjoyed when I was in that age range), but I will readily admit that I read more YA/middle grade stuff now than I did before, both because I want to know what's going on in that world and because I had some great professors whose work I'll read whenever I can get my hands on it.

With two of my WFYP homies (Elizabeth and Jamie) after our graduation.

One of the things that bothers me more about these conversations--and honestly not just because I dislike John Green--is the fact that the same big-ticket authors keep coming up as examples of what adult YA readers are (or should be, or should not be) reading, particularly Green, Rainbow Rowell, and Suzanne Collins, much though I may love The Hunger Games. Maybe I'm more sensitive to it because I personally know or am acquainted with some YA authors who deserve to be read, or am familiar with works by authors who are sort of on the margins.

I'm thinking here of Jack Gantos (who has had an interesting life and wrote an incredible novel, Desire Lines, which deals with homophobia and bullying), Sara Farizan (who is helping add some diversity to the genre, being both Persian-American and part of the LGBTQ community), Chris Lynch (he maybe kicked my ass a little--okay, a lot--in grad school, but why more people don't read and take to heart Inexcusable [which I will take any opportunity to plug] is beyond me), and even someone like Cherie Bennett (her Sunset Island series is akin to the Sweet Valley High books, which some people dismiss but I firmly believe have a place in the literary world, since they're fun and have a wide appeal).

Gantos' phenomenal work.

I will say that I appreciate people highlighting the fact that dudes read--and write!--YA and middle-grade books, not just ladies. There was a weird disparity between our faculty and our student body during my time at Lesley; out of eight profs across two years, four were male, but I only knew one guy who was a student (Scott Weems, who, interestingly enough, actually had his PhD in cognitive neuroscience before he came to Lesley for his MFA in WFYP and then went on to publish a non-fiction book about humor and why we laugh, going back to his neuroscience roots), although there have been a few other men whose time didn't overlap with mine. They're underrepresented in YA almost as much as women are in literary fiction, people like Green, Scott Westerfeld, and David Levithan aside.

 Dr. Weems, a seriously nice guy.

It also bugs me that YA authors are simultaneously held to the same and different standards than other authors. You can't sit there and tell me that YA is crap because it's not "literary" enough (which is patently bullshit) and also say that it shouldn't appeal to adults (or else that adults shouldn't find it appealing). That's like saying that a high schooler can't appreciate Steinbeck or Faulkner or that most vaunted of titles, To Kill a Mockingbird. Why SHOULDN'T adults appreciate YA? Not to get all Whitney Houston here, but the children are our future. Let's go ahead and take them--and what they read--at least a little bit seriously. Besides which, does rallying against the adults reading YA also mean that no adult should be writing it? Because every YA author I know, and most of the authors I can think of, is at least in the mid-20s age range, if not older. I'll return to the example of Chris Lynch, who is in his 50s and is a grandfather. Should this disqualify him from penning another YA novel?

 My favorite YA person named Christopher, with the possible exception of Crutcher.

This is all very frustrating to me on a general level. Rachel [mentioned above] in particular has been very vocal, both on Facebook and her blog, and she and I are forever sharing articles back and forth, or else one of us is commenting on whatever the other posts. I actually have an anecdote from my last semester of school that kind of sums up how I feel about all of this: our entire cohort (about 32 of us) had a meeting one morning to discuss student and faculty graduation speakers. Everyone had the opportunity to offer up names, and the other WFYP ladies asked me to recommend Tony Abbott as the faculty representative. Before I got a chance to do so, however, one of the Writing for Stage and Screen students piped up and said, "I want to nominate [one of the WSS profs], because I feel like the WSS people are really disregarded in the program." There were two problems with this declaration. 1) The WSS people were the rock stars of the program. 2) NO ONE (and I mean freaking no one) took WFYP seriously at all except for those of us who were pouring our heart and soul into it.

And that battle rages on today. YA is dismissed by certain critics because it's not "worthy" of adult attention. It's kind of a tunnel vision effect, I guess: you only appreciate what you think belongs on your path. But that's the way you miss out on some pretty awesome stuff.

So now that I've written a manifesto, I'm gong to go take a nap, and maybe read some YA.

-Cate-

Images of The Luxe and Desire Lines via Barnes & Noble.
Image of Dr. Weems via his website.
Image of Chris Lynch via Lesley University.
Images of stacked books and badass ladies via my own Instagram feed.

In Loving Memory of CW, a Beautiful Soul

Last month, the morning I left North Carolina, I woke to a text message from my friend Charlie informing me that a guy we had known and loved in high school was dead. After the initial moment of disbelief, I was immediately numb, because I knew in my gut what had happened.

In your 20s, you don't have to go to many funerals for your peers. It's a perk of being young(ish), I suppose. When you DO have to attend one, it's usually due to one of three possibilities: 1) the person has met an untimely death through a freak occurrence, like a car accident or a sudden illness; 2) the person has overdosed on drugs, which is an unfortunate but likely possibility for some people; or the worst of them all, 3) the person has committed suicide.

When I was 17, entering my last semester of high school, AW killed himself, the first suicide I ever encountered. His death tore our school apart: some of us were on his side, while others were vicious toward him and his family. I was friends with his brother, CW, and I was devastated for him. He worked so hard to survive the situation, and the turnout at the funeral heartened me--many others cared, too, and would help CW any way they could. When he made it through the first year after his brother's death, I let out a sigh of relief. The hard part was over.

Except it wasn't. He was the one mentioned in Charlie's text.

Even through the early-morning haze clouding my mind, the realization came to me, though I tried to convince myself otherwise: CW had followed in AW's footsteps and taken his own life. Two days later, I had confirmation of this, and I think my brain stopped functioning for a few minutes, not wanting to accept the answer.

Because CW was only 26. He had a beautiful son and wife, was still very much his own person, and--judging from the huge crowd at the funeral home--was so, so adored. I don't mean to romanticize him when I say this, but to me, he was an aspirational figure; I wanted to be as strong and non-judgmental and cool as he was, and I thought he would always be around, not as some vague teenage memory but a living, walking, talking person I might randomly encounter one day at the grocery store or in a restaurant.

I have said it before and I will say it again a million times, if I have to: if you're thinking of killing yourself, please get help immediately. Call a suicide hotline. Speak with a friend. Take yourself to the emergency room. E-mail me (cateismilesaway@gmail.com), if you can't face people you think might not understand you or your situation. We all want you here with us. I promise. And we're all just a few seconds away.

Be safe. Be well. Be strong.

-Cate-

The Poet Laurie Ate

So. A thing happened in North Carolina last week.

In the course of normal state business, NC Governor Pat McCrory (no relation to Helen, as far as I know, and all the better for her) was called upon to appoint a Poet Laureate to follow in the very able and completely awesome steps of Joseph Bathanti.

He's just a regular Joe. (GET IT?)

Governor McCrory made his decision, choosing Valerie Macon of Fuquay-Varina as Bathanti's successor. There's a problem, though: McCrory made his decision without following recommended guidelines set forth by the North Carolina Arts Council or taking official nominations. It would seem that he saw fit to move ahead without guidance on this matter, and the NCAC has supported this action. (Bathanti was named Poet Laureate by McCrory's immediate predecessor, Bev Perdue.)

There are four upcoming inductees into the North Carolina Literary Hall of Fame, any of whom would have made an excellent choice for Poet Laureate (full disclosure: I know one of them personally and have met two of the others). As Ed Southern, Executive Director of the North Carolina Writers' Network--to which I belong--points out, "[I]f any of them had been appointed poet laureate in such a sudden and apparently arbitrary way, we would be right to object" to them, as well. Southern is correct, and that's the rub of it: the arbitrary nature of this situation does not agree with any of us, regardless of the merit of the poet's work.

Ron Bayes: poet, homeboy, soon-to-be NC Literary Hall of Famer.

However, as Dannye Powell of the Charlotte Observer points out in an article published on 14 July (link above), Macon, who is a State employee, has been misrepresented as a compelling choice. Macon has neither served as the Gilbert-Chappell Distinguished Poet--she was a student poet, as I was once upon a time--nor been properly nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Moreover, her two collections of poetry have been self-published; while self-publishing is far less stigmatized than it used to be, it is still regarded warily by the poetry world.

Given McCrory's disregard for the citizens of North Carolina, as evidenced by his terrible comments about liberal arts education and questionable approaches to reforming public education, I'm not surprised by this move on his part. I do think, though, that he has waded into dangerous territory. As funding decreases for the arts and humanities across the nation, more and more writers face financial and societal difficulty; few people--aside from other poets--take poetry seriously. 

But as a friend of a friend of mine pointed out on Facebook, North Carolina poets are in a tough spot now. If they protest too loudly, McCrory may take the opportunity to dismantle the Poet Laureate program altogether by way of teaching "jealous" poets a lesson. If that sounds like extreme logic to you, you've clearly never been on the wrong end of an arts/humanities budget cut or faced loud criticism over your choice of major.

We writers tend to huddle together as a result of living under fire. And I would love to have supported Valerie Macon, if I felt she had the experience necessary to serve as Poet Laureate. (She herself does not appear to have any faith in her own abilities, as she resigned from the post less than a week after the announcement.) As it is, I cannot do that. It makes me sad to see North Carolina writers put into the position of having to reject their Poet Laureate, too, because the position is vitally important. I hope that McCrory is able to see the error of his ways and that Macon will have the grace to admit her lack of qualifications and reach out for help, which would no doubt create some goodwill among other writers in the state. 

-Cate-

Images via my own Instagram feed and St. Andrews University.

On Ink and Emotional Trauma

The day after I got my third tattoo, I realized something. This was a complicated epiphany, since it linked back to an issue I'd been having recently. A girl I knew was cutting herself on the regular, and a mutual friend of ours asked me if I could explain the impulse to self-mutilate to him. I told him that although I had never--and would never--cut, I understood that she felt the need to release her emotional trauma through physical pain. As I suffered from the aftershocks of my latest expedition to the parlor, gently cleaning my wrist and trying not to accidentally scrape at the raw skin there, it hit me: I was a cutter.

This isn't the literal truth, of course. But I've been marking time--and emotional pain--with my tattoos. Each of the three coincides with a traumatic event (or series of events) in my life. 

***

2006 

 
I am 20. I have just gotten my first tattoo, done my by cousin Scott Morrison at N2Skin in Farmington Hills, Michigan. (Scott is now at Avatar in Clarkston, Michigan.)

It is on my right foot and says, "Feet fail me not." One of two things usually happens when people see it: 1) they say, "Oh, that's so sweet!" as if the sentiment isn't deadly serious, which it is to me (more on that in a minute) or 2) they say, "Where do I know that from? It sounds so familiar." (Answer: here.)

One time, a guy at the Wal-Mart auto center sees my tattoo while I wait for an oil change. He looks from my foot to my face, then back to my foot, then asks, "Why would you do a thing like that?" I want to punch this dude. But because I don't feel like getting arrested, I simply say, "It felt right."

And it did. This phrase was chosen for dual purposes. First, it is a reminder to myself: when life trips me up, I have to keep moving. Second, it is a not-so-obvious homage to my hometown, since I can't quite bring myself to get the standard "D" tattoo opted for by so many of my compatriots from southeastern Michigan.

The first purpose is the most important. My significant other has broken up with me on our anniversary. I am crushed, spending my days moping abut the house when I'm not working part-time as an intern at a masonry magazine (bricks and shit, not old men who allegedly hide treasure). Right now, more than anything, I need something real, tangible, telling me that I will survive the experience. And that's how I end up putting needle to flesh the first time.

***

2012

I am 26. I have just gotten my second tattoo, done by Joe Almquist at Blue Flame in Raleigh, North Carolina. 

In the past four months, I have managed to finish grad school while simultaneously suffering through a mental breakdown. Nothing has been easy for me recently. While I would like to have Scott tattoo me again--he's family, after all--the urge to do something is too strong, and on a weekend trip to visit my friend at her parents' house in the Triangle, I turn to her and say, "Wanna go get a tattoo?"

She won't let anyone touch her with a needle, but that's okay. I don't need her to alter the canvas of her skin, I just need her to go with me. Before we leave, I make sure I have a picture of the four-leaf clover necklace I bought myself as a graduation gift, because this is what I want: a bit of good luck.

Since I started my graduate studies, I've lost two of my three dogs (the first was put down shortly before I matriculated) and my nephew, endured some very bad and scary times at work, seen my mental health deteriorate, watched my aunt battle ovarian cancer, and had so many crises of confidence it's verging on absurd.

When I walk into Blue Flame, I know the experience is going to be incredible. There's a jackalope skull on the wall, and I couldn't ask for a better sign than that, since I want so much to believe in the jackalope. Joe puts me yet more at ease by cracking a joke: “This is my first day on the job, and I totally fucked up on the guy who came in before you.” His professional humor is what I need, and I laugh heartily for the first time in days.

***

2014 

I am almost 28. I have just gotten my third tattoo, done by Alice Underdahl at Valhalla in Southern Pines, North Carolina.

Because it would be too much to ask that I have a normal, quiet, stable life, the tempest continues to rage. My job security is never certain, I'm struggling to get my work published, I've been through a string of sort-of relationships that have torn me up, my grandmother is constantly ill, my aunt has succumbed to the scourge of cancer, my mother is stretched so thin it's difficult to watch, and my depression and anxiety are worsening.

Since the death of my nephew in 2010, a niece and another nephew have arrived. My brother and his wife say they're through having kids. Because I don't want children of my own, these three are my surrogates and the only unconditional thing I have. Everything I do, I do because I'm trying to impress them, and that includes making attempts at getting my life in order. So I've chosen my third--and possibly last--tattoo: their first initials, on my left wrist where their presence will be duly noted from the start of each day to the end of it.

Alice is the nicest artist you could hope to have. She is cheerful and funny, and she lets me ramble about my other two pieces while the needle whirs. When I explain the significance of these three letters, she actually thanks me for letting her be part of the process. It's all I can do not to cry in the shop.

When I leave, I feel calmer, better, stronger. 

***

Some people choose their tattoos because the art is interesting or intriguing. My choices always arise after much deliberation and personal strife. Maybe this is because I'm a writer: I have a compulsion to chronicle things, fictional or otherwise. Or maybe it's because I want to remember that I'm still standing in spite of whatever it is that's trying to knock me down, whether it's my own brain or life in general. Either way, I have scarred myself, but I have no regrets.

However, not everyone finds this to be the best strategy for dealing with their pain. If you or someone you know is suffering from self-mutilation (whether it's cutting, wrist-banging, or something else), please seek help. There are less dangerous and harmful coping solutions available to all of us, and I recommend you check out what the Mayo Clinic has to say about the practice of self-injury if you need a good resource. You can even talk to me if you want: I'm always available via e-mail at cateismilesaway@gmail.com

Stay strong.

-Cate-

On Subversion

I would like to preface this post by saying that I don't necessarily advocate that everyone follow the process I've taken, nor do I think it's the best course for myself; it's just that sometimes shit happens. Hope we're all on the same page.

I hate being told what to do. It's a character flaw, one I'm not even trying to remedy. But it's also a genetic trait, so if I wanted to change--I'm not saying I do, but if I did--it would be kind of difficult. Thanks for that, Mom and Dad.

So sometimes I just do what I want. Does that make me a terrible person? No, because I'm not on a crime spree of any sort, and you're welcome for that, world. I would be the most dysfunctional criminal in the history of ever, which means that you would all suffer greatly. Think of me as Loki, but with less flair.

While I have been known to go off on personal rampages, which often means throwing things around, this isn't what I mean by doing what I want. It's more that I take on projects and see them through without, ahem, having permission to do so. Or I give advice that might not be sanctioned by my superiors. There is a good reason for this.

Subterfuge is one thing--that would be bad, deceptive, et cetera. What I'm talking about here is subversion in a tame sense, not the kind that overthrows governments or whatever. Think of it as circumvention: I'm bypassing certain strictures in order to create a more perfect something--not a union (that phrase is already taken, I think), but perhaps a more perfect, or at least more effective, me. Hell, some people believe I'm weird anyway. Why not keep going and prove myself incredible, too, by subverting everyone's notion of who/how I am or should be?

-Cate-

The Shape of Home

We could find it in a snowstorm: the shape of home.

This is the literal truth. When that white precipitation falls and we bundle into our winter wares, our covered hands resemble our state. Perhaps you've noticed this, too, not because you're from Michigan but because people from Michigan are notorious for using their own hands as maps.

Back when cartography was an inexact science, Michigan didn't look the way it does now--at least, not on paper. The top of the Lower Peninsula wasn't round enough, the Upper Peninsula belonged to Wisconsin, the bodies of water were exaggerated. But we can see those shapes now and still get it.

We always know we're looking at home, even when the map isn't quite right. The mitten may be malformed, the lakes too large, the areas labeled with tribal names instead of county lines, but there they are: our pleasant peninsulas.

-Cate-

All images via the British Library's Flickr stream, which is basically the greatest thing ever to happen to picture libraries on the Internet.