Sunday, March 09, 2008

The Big Question

For the one or two people out in the world who actually read this thing, I'm sure you believe me to have fallen off the edge of the known world. I suppose, in a manner of speaking, that is precisely what I have done.

I'm already 2/3 of the way through my first year at Stanford, and the first days on The Farm seem like a very long time ago. Our first adventure was just getting me here, driving two vehicles, and my husband white with stress from trying to drive in Bay Area traffic. Once we got on campus, getting into my little place was smooth sailing--no red tape, no worries. The main obstacle was not knowing where anything was in the boxes (I couldn't find my underwear for three days) and trying to figure out how to get around on campus.

They gave me a great little apartment in an eight-story mid-rise. I have a wonderful view on the seventh floor (I took the picture above from my balcony.) This is grad student world, lots of serious (grim?) students, so although the walk to main campus is kind of long (about a mile), it is pretty peaceful.

First day here, Brian and I took my bike over to get a permit. It's a really old bike with no visible serial number, so a helpful lady brought out her engraver to give me one. She asked if I was a student. When I told her yes, I was an undergraduate transfer, she straightened up and looked me in the eye.

"There are only twenty of you this year," she said. I agreed, yes, just twenty. "Are you on the football team?" That was a good one. "You must have a hell of a transcript." I smile, thinking of my many C's in math, the many classes I had to withdraw from, leaving W's on the paperwork. I think of the 380 in math on the SAT. "I don't know," I say. "They seem to want me."

This interlude is what I have come to call "The Question." It has been asked by lots of folks. It boils down to: "What are you doing here?" I've been asked if I was a parent of a Stanford student, if I am a grad student, a fellow of some sort, a PhD candidate, or a professor. Or on the football team. I'm often asked (wink wink nudge nudge) whether I go to frat parties or have joined a sorority. I'd like to show up at a frat party sometime with a video camera--can you say "harsh my buzz??"

A young classmate approached me after class one day, asking about how I ended up at Stanford. After some chatting, he asked if he could do a story for the Stanford Daily. His name is Luke, he's decided to be a creative writing major, he did a great job on the story, and you can read it here:

Luke's super article in the Stanford Daily.

I had plenty of occasion for self doubt in the first quarter. I spend a lot of time alone, and I miss my husband so much it makes my skin hurt. But often during intense and daunting discussions about research papers or close reading of 19th century literature, I would become overwhelmed with gratitude. Just to be here, at one of the most esteemed universities in the world--well, need I say more? Now it has been six months, and I still tread lightly through the arcades, thinking about all the ones who went before and all the ones who will come after. I am still amazed to be here. On a daily basis, I remind myself: Carla--remember this. Hold this moment in your memory, because it is one of the high points of your life.

I have made connections in the creative writing department with faculty (Elizabeth Tallent is one of my professors, and Tobias Wolff is my academic advisor!)
I spent these two quarters being mentored by current and former Wallace Stegner Fellows Shimon Tanaka, Andrew Altschul, Molly Antopol, and Josh Tyree. Andrew's novel comes out next month, and watch for the rest of those names--they'll be big in the future, I guarantee it. I've also met many wonderful aspiring student writers, have written several short stories and have begun work on a novel. Funny thing, when you tell people at Stanford that you intend to write a novel, they just pat you on the back and say "Great!" They believe you. I'm starting to believe me, too.