I'm a fake

Since I started talking about psychology last entry, I thought I'd stick with it for one more week and talk about impostor syndrome. Every time I feel like I've take a step forward in my aspirations in life, I get a sudden attack of this mental malady. When I was in acting school, my first semester scene study teacher, the infamous Nicholas Martin-Smith, said that some people are afraid of failure (me) and, even worse, some people are afraid of success (me too as it turns out). I didn't really understand what he meant by that second bit, but years later it dawned on me exactly what that meant. I just like to call it by its fancy name.

I'm not stranger to impostor syndrome. It happened back when I was first asked to evaluate translations for the ¿What's in a Nombre? edition of phati'tude literary magazine and then again when I was asked to be the head translator for Jesus Papoleto Melendez's ¡Hey Yo / Yo Soy! 40 Years of Nuyorican Street Poetry for 2Leaf Press. I can remember thinking, quite vividly in the latter case, "It hasn't even been a year since I graduated. What do I know? Why are they even listening to me? Why do they have any confidence at all? I'm still a student!" Of course, what I didn't pay attention to was the other voice in my head that tried to say, "Because you graduated valedictorian of your class of a giant college in the City University of New York system. Because you came highly recommended by the head of Hunter College's translation program. Because you know you're going to work with that poetry for hours to make sure its translations are perfect." But of course, that voice never gets any airtime.

Why do I even let that voice think it's in charge?... It ain't Meryl!

So here I am now, chosen as a Fulbright English Teaching Assistant, and as I hear more and more about my potential responsibilities, I feel it. You see, that "assistant" part has a varying degree of weight. Some people end up running a conversation club, and others end up teaching full classes; it just depends on what the university--in my case the Pontifica Universidad Javeriana--wants to do with you. It's a private university, and I am told that that increases the likelihood of being less of an assistant and more of an independent teacher of my own classes. On one hand, this is great! It's what I want: the more independent the experience, the better. One of the reasons I applied for this fellowship was to let it be a test run for teaching in a university setting. On the other hand, independence is always a scary thing. Implicit in independence is the potential to be lost and confused (yet to find yourself), to be unsure (yet to gain self-reliance), to fail (yet to have a chance at success that is completely of your own making).

There's a lone of thought that always pops up in impostor syndrome. It's what defines it: "Why do they believe in me?" "Why do they listen to me?" "Why do they think I'm of any use?" And it's thought that impostor syndrome occurs from an inability to internalize accomplishments. I'm not sure how one goes about doing that really. What does it mean to internalize an accomplishment? That my identity and the accomplishment are somehow entwined? Maybe that makes sense to you, dear reader, but I can hardly wrap my mind around that beyond that other than what the words mean. However, I do know this: In the end, questions like those actually insult the person or people who have chosen to work with you. The idea that I've some how tricked someone says that they're gullible, stupid, inattentive, or some combination thereof, and I know I don't believe that. When I confront these implications, I can't help but to see how illogical it is.

Sidenote: I love the phrase "reductio ad absurdum" and
try to fit that little gem in whenever I can.

Reductio ad absurdum: I can't both think that these people are as qualified as I do and that I can pull a fast one on them. By seeing that what I'm thinking can't be true, my head gives my heart a helping hand out of the black morass that they wandered in to, and I'll push those voices back into the dark corner they came from. Until next time. Again and again until the time that I can greet them as an old frenemy who has just stopped in town for a visit.

Alternate woes

Before I get into it, some thanks are definitely in order. As far as I see it, this was a group effort between me and so many other people. So super special, confetti-in-the-air thanks are owed to:

• 

  Nothing says confetti like Rip Taylor
  and a mariachi guitar player

  Gabrielle David, 2Leaf Press' publisher; Maria Cornelio and Adrian Izquierdo, my former translation professors; and Michael Jackson, my coworker and friend, for writing wonderful, amazing letters of recommendation;
• Myrna Evans, Hunter's Fulbright advisor, for guiding me along the way from beginning to end;
• Nick Lazor, a good friend, all-around smart guy, and Spanish language and culture enthusiast, for being the final eye on my essays;
• John Nolan, a friend who has pushed me from the very beginning to get out of my soul-sucking night job and find one that will really excite me; Rene Ugarte, venezulano extraordinaire whose patience with me knows no bounds; Susan Trowbridge, the Colombian aunt of Cheryl Trowbridge-Miller (who is the paternal grandmother of my niece); and Amy Obermeyer, a friend and comparative literature PhD student at New York University doing some really cool research concerning the relationship between Japan and Latin America (ask her about it sometime), for giving me challenging practice interviews in English and Spanish, which proved to be ample preparation;
• and of course Jesse Hicks, my boyfriend, who deserves a special beyond the call of duty sort of mention because he had to live with me and bare my neuroses over the six month waiting period. This goes double for the week that I hung in alternate limbo.

I couldn't have done it without all these people's help and the emotional support of a lot of friends, family, and even strangers sent to me by fate who would say a strange comment here and there that inspired me to stay hopeful. And I did stay pretty hopeful... until I got the email notifying me of my placement status.

I was in the middle of San Loco in the East Village drinking a Modelo after a very satisfying and very large burrito with guacamole when my phone flashed with an incoming email. Before I could even open it, the big "A" in the subject line had slapped me in the face with their decision: Alternate. The burrito nearly made its escape from my stomach on to the table and down Saint Marks Place right then and there. After six month of waiting since turning in my application, there was the answer. Out of the blue. Right there. One minute waiting, the next minute: Pow! Right in the kisser!

Footage of me in
the San Loco bathroom

I told Jesse, and I think he might have been more shocked than I was. I excused myself to the bathroom where I promptly started to imitate Shelley Duvall in The Shining. In a moment of desperation, I prayed to anyone who would hear me, “Please let me get it!! Please let me get it!!” As a Buddhist, I had written off prayer, at least in the sense of a sort petition, as something that increases your attachment to desire rather than frees you from it. I think I changed my mind that day. Sometimes you need to say something out loud to whomever or whatever will listen in order to really let it go. These little daily lessons. They come to us suddenly like that. Just as suddenly as watching all your dreams potentially fall through, like that slow-motion moment right before the glass of red wine you bumped falls on the white carpet.

By the time I had left the bathroom, I had pulled myself together. I don't think anyone had noticed the harrowing freak-out I had in the bathroom, but I was still undeniably upset. Jesse suggested a taxi home, and uncharacteristically, I gave in pretty easily. Unfortunately, it was around five o'clock, and if you've been running late at five o'clock in Manhattan, you know that's the time you will have to elbow an old lady for a cab, if you can even find one at all. And we didn't. I rode the hour home doing my best not to cry on the street, at the ticket machine, on the subway platform, on the train, anywhere with foreign eyes. I made it home with most of my remaining dignity and fell asleep and slept for twelve hours.

I called out of my graveyard shift job proofreading financial documents. I was in no mood for that. I was in no mood for French class the next day. I was in no mood for anything. It was Depression City, USA, population one, no trespassing allowed. Wednesday my loan repayment plan was denied. Friday I got sick with the flu and had to call out of more work. It was an all-around bad week.

This sums it up well.

So imagine my surprise when only a day and a week later, it all changed around! I was, once again, stunned. Since I woke up late for French class then had the gym and work directly after, it was only mid-document, at about 3:30 a.m., listening to Imagine Dragons' “On Top of the World,” that my eyes misted over because I realized my dream had in fact come true.

Why do I write all of this you ask? Because sometimes alternates do get selected. And sometimes your dreams do come true when you least expect them to. And I wanted to remind you all of that. It's the least I could do.