Moving forward.

I have spent much of this summer fretting.  I've fretted over whether or not I'll ever finish the first year paper ("exam").  I've fretted over whether I'm actually any good at this "scholar" thing. I've very seriously contemplated quitting.  I thought carefully about my other options--teaching in Texas for my wonderful mentor, going back to the school district I came from, teaching overseas for a year, teaching at the community college level.  I sat on our couch and sobbed while my roommate offered the only advice she could.

I decided to go back to my roots.  To remember why I do what I do.  To listen to the words, the stories of my past and somehow connect them to my mission to give rural Southern students every possible resource they might need.  To remember that I'm driven not by some abstract intellectual goal but by the faces of my students, the voices of my family, and the stories of who I am and where I come from.

So I went home, ostensibly for a week-long visit with my parents and grandparents.  I had a good visit, then I left on a Tuesday, made it 8 hours into an 11 hour drive back north, and got a call that changed my present reality.  My grandfather was dying.  I made a U-turn and pointed my nose back South.

I spent an emotionally draining day at my grandfather's deathbed, and another six days trying in vain to pick up the pieces he left behind.  I am sorely grieved, there is no doubt about that.  My PaPa ran the race. He fought the fight.  But he leaves behind shoes no one else can fill and a void in our family's tapestry.  I'm looking down the barrel of a long, hard year with more to do than feels strictly do-able.  But I'm going to move forward as best I can.  I'm probably also going to write about my PaPa, who was so proud to have a future PhD in the family he could hardly stand it.  This is for you, Pop.