Minor Grief

I've been pretty lucky. I've not yet had to deal with the death of someone close, my health is first-rate, and my rent is usually paid on time. And I'm thankful. Things that worry me are pretty inconsequential; they're first-world problems. But I've been grieving a little lately, and it's on my mind.

Almost three years ago, today, I received rejection letters from three top-tier PhD programs in philosophy. Having just finished grad school, aced the GREs, and served as one of only two department TAs, I was certain I'd be admitted. 

I wasn't. 

I didn't talk about it. I couldn't. It was shameful and embarrassing. When I called to find out why they didn't admit me, each school said the same thing, "We hated your writing sample." I had written an Aesthetics essay on the morality of humor. I could have sent my work on Kant, Hegel, or Heidegger, but I wanted them to see me, how I wrote, in my voice. 

Fast forward three years and I'm living in Chicago which, ironically, is where one of the schools I'd applied to is located. After a year and a half of studying improv and trying to make my life as a performer, I wasn't chosen to be part of the newly formed house ensemble.

I was at work when I found out. The email hit me in the stomach, falsely leading with "congratulations" and catching me with the "unable to accept..." I have no poker face. My face broadcasts emotions like a fifteen year-old's Twitter timeline. You could dock a boat with the knot in my stomach. 

Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance in two days.  

The frustrating thing about rejection is that it makes us look at ourselves. It politely asks if we're properly suited for the given task. It reminds us that we have no destiny. It asks us if we are strong enough to try again. 

I am a philosopher and an improvisor. They just don't know it yet.