Numbers

In a longitudinal study looking at doctoral completion surveys from 1990 to 2000, the percentage of Ph.D. graduates, broken down into ethnic categories, is as follow:

• Chicana/o - 23%
• Native American 19%.

(Obviously I didn't take enough notes; I just jotted down the numbers that stood out to me the most...)

It should be noted that the overall percentage of Ph.D. graduates who had attended community college is at 10%*.

In an education study, a percentage like 19% - when corresponding to Native Americans - is a HUGE number. Usually, when this population is represented in studies, we're talking about admissions or retention rates; these are usually single-digit figures, and sometimes they may even hover below 1%. With that said, these numbers point to the fact that community colleges play a hugely underappreciated role in the educational trajectories of students of color. 

I've always considered myself an ally to the transfer struggle, but I'm only realizing now how much of a struggle it really is. For instance, there's a gaping hole in the literature as far as the transfer experience is concerned. I'm probably not the right person to delve into these issues deeper, but I'm glad that so many of our students in AAP are taking up this duty.

*Data taken from Daniel Solorzano's presentation, "Critical Issues Along California's Postsecondary Education Pipeline"

the holy lightning stone and the caffeine-soaked fleece

I'm looking for a holy grail, a light bulb, a philosopher's stone or some other sort of trite metaphor for inspiration. Maybe I need to retreat to the mountains. Stand under a heavy waterfall and promise - to no one in particular - that I'll find the inspiration to be inspired...someday. Would it take an extended train ride along the English countryside? (Hey it worked for Rowling) Or maybe I should throw a tea party for myself and my closest writer friends (if I had any) and we could transition naturally from gossiping over finger sandwiches to writing the greatest thriller novels of all time.

Should I beat the morning rush at the closest cafe and plop myself on the seat closest to an outlet? Maybe I could plug in my laptop and just...let the magic happen. Coffee combined with dim lighting, slow jazz, and a humming orchestra of latte machines and idle chatter make up a mecca of productivity. Right?

Or maybe what I really need is a pep talk. Some rah-rah-sis-boom-bah to hype myself up. But for what? For a tortuous commute? Endless spreadsheets reconciling payroll ledger after payroll ledger? This must be my passion, because why else would I be doing it? Not for the money. Please. Not for the pats in the back I get for a job well done (never happens). And especially not for the backhanded compliments from someone who looks like a perpetually angry, chewy piece of rotten mochi. (Fuck you very. Fuck you so much.)

Like I said, I'm looking for the holy grail. Or like the golden fleece or something. But at my current state I likely won't find shit because I don't know what I'm looking for and I keep making shitty excuses (by way of poorly inserted parentheticals) in my prose. Also non-sequiturs. Might as well call it a night.

3.11

"Japan memorialized the more than 190,000 people who were killed one year ago when a magnitude-9.0 earthquake struck the northeastern coast and triggered a devastating tsunami that crippled the Fukushima Dai-ichi nuclear plant. Emperor Akihito led millions of citizens in a minute's silence at a ceremony in Tokyo's National Theatre...

According to official data, more than 340,000 people are still living in temporary homes. The quake struck at 2:46 pm on March 11 last year and triggered a tsunami that was 128 feet tall at its highest point, laying waste to entire towns as it came ashore." (Bloomberg News)

Heavy Boots

The air is crisp, a light wind passes, yet this heaviness separates you from me.

It is as if we are cramming the entirety of two years in the blink of an eye. I had so much to say, and expected so much to hear from you. In my mind our meeting would be less talking and more spilling. Maybe an overflowing of the things that we abruptly stopped sharing after a while.

The silence isn't as comfortable as it used to be. Before, a sigh would suffice to vault us into completely different fits of musings, giggles, or maybe even both. This time the silence lingers. It's like both of us are waiting for the other to break it. It's like we're waiting for something from yesterday to whisk us away from the reality of the now.

You speak to me of your dreams, your gripes, your vulnerabilities, and your loneliness. For a moment I am lost. To be frank, I had forgotten what it was like to be a friend to you. For you to so eagerly spill reminds me of my role, and how I had abandoned it. To me, there is no point of return. I'm terribly sorry.

Intermixed with conversations about the future, you take us back to the past. You speak so fondly of a different me who lived in a time and space where it was okay to call things retarded and gay, where ethnic studies was a joke, where we thought we were better than everyone else, and where reputation and grades meant everything.

My skin crawls when you describe something as "retarded," but I hold my tongue. Why is it that this happens to me so often?

To reciprocate, I speak to you of my own plans. Asian Am. SF State. Ethnic Studies. (You even ask me if I'm involved with Pillipinos still. Why are you chuckling?) I am everything I was not when you knew me. I am what we made fun of. I am what we thought was immature and unimportant.

You, you're still the same. The same passions and dreams, the same competitive drive, the same vulnerability, the same loneliness. You haven't changed a bit. I recognize you, as if from a former life.

We grow silent again, and as soon as our meeting has started it's over. We hug goodbye, and I wonder if it's heartfelt, the "Keep in touch" that I hear myself utter. For the hour that we sat so close, I don't think I've ever felt so far from you.

(Finally,) Direction

Hi. If anyone's even reading this (and I think there are a few of yall out there because I can see how many page views I get on a daily basis.), first of all thank you. Secondly, you'll be relieved to hear that I'm dropping my usual pretentious tone for this post because I'm just so freaking excited to have a plan. A plan.

So working at the Graduate Mentoring office at UCLA is like a double-edged sword. I surround myself with amazing folks working towards their Ph.D's, so grad school is always on my mind. The flip side to this, though, is that I feel so inadequate so much of the time. Yeah I got my BA from Cal, but really what am I gonna do with just that?

Grad students, and sometimes even undergrads (those who got their lives planned out and are waiting on acceptance letters from Oxford, NYU, Berkeley, etc.) ask me all the time, "So what do you wanna do?" And my response is always this gross cop-out of "I don't know yet." It makes me cringe, hearing these words come out of my mouth because I know what I want; I just don't know how to get there.

So I had another one of these conversations yesterday and it was different because I was honest about my insecurities. I said I want a Ph.D. in Pil Studies, to which they laughed. I sat their confused for a second. These people don't know my community's terms. Okay, Pilipino Studies then. Wtf they probably thought I meant pill studies. Anyway.

They were trying to convince me to go back to Cal for grad school, but I told them straight up there's no way in hell I'm getting in.

"Why?"

"Because it's competitive."

"Yeah, so?"

"And because I have no research experience."

"So get an MA."

Ugh. Like that. Like it's the most obvious thing in the world and everybody knows about it. Do an MA program, write a thesis, build on research experience, develop relationships with faculty, then apply for Ph.D. programs. Basically do all the shit I didn't have the forethought to do in college.

It's so simple.

I bitch so much about work, but damn I guess I really am in the right place.