As a graduate student, I am rather often assailed by self doubt and utter confusion. This is a documented* affliction: called "Impostor Syndrome", it happens when accomplished people in any field have the inability to accept their accomplishments or competency as legitimate. Basically, it's that little gnome in the back of the grad-student brain that reminds a person to feel like a fake, and that at any moment, they'll be found out as such.
Now, normally I accept these feelings of inadequacy and roll with it. I sublimate the impulses to run away, and try not to be the student who overcompensates via attempts at one-upmanship.° Sometimes it doesn't work.
Today, I was feeling pretty accomplished, and sent a text message to G-face to announce this fact; I did not initially notice the current in the text that undermined my own accomplishment. Her response was both typically apropo, and typically wonderful:
Growing up, my dad had a photocopied poster in his plant. It was a frog in a bird's mouth. You couldn't see most of the frog; just its legs were dangling out the side of the birds mouth and it had its hands around the neck of the bird. The bird looked out from the poster perplexed at the frog's tenacity. Underneath, the caption read, Never Give Up.
The moral of this story is that self-doubt ain't nothin' when you got friends like mine.
Notes:
* Though according to everyone's favorite ill-advised sourcebook, Wikipedia, it's not part of the DSM-IV.
° Also known, in some circles, as "the douchebag."
11 November 2010
06 November 2010
Operation Wall Street.
Last night, Jess L. and I donned semi-professional looking clothing and went to Wall Street for an adventure.
To prep ourselves, we went to a restaurant on St. Marks that offered culinary masterpieces like "Spicy & Tingly Lamb Face," "Spicy Pig Blood Salad," "Lamb Spine," and "Lamb Treasure Soup."*
The food was stunningly delicious, though (to be fair) we weren't bold enough to try the Lamb Face or the Pig Blood.
The goal, then, was to infiltrate a Wall Street bar or two at Happy Hour on a Friday, and see what all the people whose jobs earn them money do on a Friday night. The first place we visited, Jeremy's, had 22 different beers on tap (a welcome change from the 3 beers usually offered in the Bronx), and served said beers in 32 ounce Styrofoam cups.
The class of this joint was unparalleled. Horse Racing and Hockey were on all the flat screens, and very wealthy men were inexplicably playing Keno. All of the acoustic ceiling tiles were decorated, most in two ways: first, with sharpie-scrawls immortalizing drunkenness, and second, with bras. There were no fewer than 100 bras stapled to the ceiling.
It was a remarkable display of new wave feminism: instead of burning the marks of the oppressor, these pioneering women offered their protest by removing and displaying the symbols of the yoke of gender-roles in public. The entire scene was quite moving, and I'm certain none of the brave souls who rid themselves of their bondage had any regrets (or headaches) the next morning.
Jess and I decided to keep all of our clothes with us, because we figured there was enough solidarity tacked overhead already. I guess we're bad feminists.
After our Big Gulps of beer were empty, we moved on to a sharper place called The Pearl.
At this establishment, all the doors were opened for us and our cocktails had fancy names, fancy ingredients, and very fancy pricetags. We sat, acting as though there was nothing odd about a pair like us sitting in a place like that, drinking our pretentiously named, 3/4 sized drinks. The ruse worked, and our demeanors and dress actually caused the man behind the bar to think we wanted (read: could afford) more than one drink.
I always assume that my presence in expensive places will be viewed as suspect, a la Pretty Woman, and that I will be snubbed or denied service because I look, well, poor and out of place (both of which I invariably am in such places). The first time this truly happened, I was sixteen and in San Francisco. The Best Friend and I had walked into what, for us, was a high end establishment (I believe is was a Bebe). Perhaps it was our age, perhaps it was the fact that her hair was blue and mine orange, but we were heartily disdained. I believe we vowed never to shop in a Bebe ever again. I have held to that vow, if only because I still cannot afford it.
But last night, there were no such assumptions made. We fooled the entire Wall Street area. And we learned that brokers and businessmen are no more interesting than the rest of us. They just wear nicer suits to drink out of Styrofoam and play Keno.
Notes:
* There were a few moments of deliberation regarding what part of the Lamb qualified as treasure. We decided that, as there were children present, we probably shouldn't deliberate too much.
To prep ourselves, we went to a restaurant on St. Marks that offered culinary masterpieces like "Spicy & Tingly Lamb Face," "Spicy Pig Blood Salad," "Lamb Spine," and "Lamb Treasure Soup."*
 |
| Lest you think I am at all joking. |
The goal, then, was to infiltrate a Wall Street bar or two at Happy Hour on a Friday, and see what all the people whose jobs earn them money do on a Friday night. The first place we visited, Jeremy's, had 22 different beers on tap (a welcome change from the 3 beers usually offered in the Bronx), and served said beers in 32 ounce Styrofoam cups.
The class of this joint was unparalleled. Horse Racing and Hockey were on all the flat screens, and very wealthy men were inexplicably playing Keno. All of the acoustic ceiling tiles were decorated, most in two ways: first, with sharpie-scrawls immortalizing drunkenness, and second, with bras. There were no fewer than 100 bras stapled to the ceiling.
It was a remarkable display of new wave feminism: instead of burning the marks of the oppressor, these pioneering women offered their protest by removing and displaying the symbols of the yoke of gender-roles in public. The entire scene was quite moving, and I'm certain none of the brave souls who rid themselves of their bondage had any regrets (or headaches) the next morning.
Jess and I decided to keep all of our clothes with us, because we figured there was enough solidarity tacked overhead already. I guess we're bad feminists.
After our Big Gulps of beer were empty, we moved on to a sharper place called The Pearl.
 |
| Near Williams Street. |
At this establishment, all the doors were opened for us and our cocktails had fancy names, fancy ingredients, and very fancy pricetags. We sat, acting as though there was nothing odd about a pair like us sitting in a place like that, drinking our pretentiously named, 3/4 sized drinks. The ruse worked, and our demeanors and dress actually caused the man behind the bar to think we wanted (read: could afford) more than one drink.
I always assume that my presence in expensive places will be viewed as suspect, a la Pretty Woman, and that I will be snubbed or denied service because I look, well, poor and out of place (both of which I invariably am in such places). The first time this truly happened, I was sixteen and in San Francisco. The Best Friend and I had walked into what, for us, was a high end establishment (I believe is was a Bebe). Perhaps it was our age, perhaps it was the fact that her hair was blue and mine orange, but we were heartily disdained. I believe we vowed never to shop in a Bebe ever again. I have held to that vow, if only because I still cannot afford it.
But last night, there were no such assumptions made. We fooled the entire Wall Street area. And we learned that brokers and businessmen are no more interesting than the rest of us. They just wear nicer suits to drink out of Styrofoam and play Keno.
Notes:
* There were a few moments of deliberation regarding what part of the Lamb qualified as treasure. We decided that, as there were children present, we probably shouldn't deliberate too much.
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