Jackie Tackles the Great Mysteries of the Universe, #2: Knot that poor tree!

Are knots on trees embarrassing? Do the trees try to pretend they aren't there, like pimples?

Perhaps the northern pines, with their low, full branches, make fun of the pimply, adolescent oaks with their bumpy trunks.

Maybe, though, the once-thriving branches represent to the oak trees lost limbs, symbolic of paths not taken. Or perhaps their ill-fated attempts at branching out haunt them as constant reminders of what was, what could be-- a phantom limb of a tree that grew past its initial failures.

I'm not sure how trees really feel about their knotty pasts. I just know that if I had arm nubs lining my abdomen, I probably wouldn't stand as proud as a magnificent oak.

Why I’m quitting grad school to become a Socialite . . .

My mother raised me to be a feminist. My sisters and I weren’t allowed to be cheerleaders (“do sports, don’t pay for uniforms to watch them!” I can hear my dad say), we were told to conduct our future careers independent of what the men in our lives thought, and our first Barbie doll was Business Barbie (her skirt was reversible: business on one side, party on the other).

Social skills weren’t going to get us through life, so they usually took a backseat. Grit, academic success, and athleticism would pave our way out of the muddy prospects obedient women faced.

So don’t tell my mom what I’m about to tell you: My latest forays in academe have taught me that I was born for the world of conversation. . .


As part of my graduate teaching assistantship, I attend weekly meetings with a member of the History Department faculty. We hear how they approach teaching and a professorial lifestyle in general.

Like most things I’ve experienced in my short time on this earth, this class always convinces me of exactly the opposite of its intentions.
Bear with me for these first few long and far-fetched steps. By the end of this post, I’ll have you convinced that I need to drop out of school and marry a politician. . .

The professor who came to speak with us is a perfectionist (I apologize for the redundancy of that last sentence). He told us that every day, when he leaves his classroom, he thinks about what he did wrong in class, and how he could improve on that next time. He explained that this emerged out of his passion for teaching, as it should in ours.

As he explained his self-critical ritual, I realized I’m not nearly that hard on myself when I finish the weekly discussion sections that I lead. I usually just pat myself on the back for the one kid who actually quoted from a book the entire class “read.”

Did this mean I skulked through life in mediocrity? Did it mean that I lacked pride in my work?

Probably. But it got me thinking, what DO I agonize over after completing? My writing? I’m pretty sure you could read through typos in the bolg and see that answer is no. My cooking? Just ask my boyfriend who gets to try all my half-baked experiments for a straightforward negative on that one.

The only parts of my life that I replay over and over in my head, to the minutest detail on the most mundane situation, are my social interactions with other people.

Using my unmathematical, historian-trained sense of logic, I can only determine that this means my true calling must be talking to people.

Some examples of the depths of my commitment (if that's why self-criticism means, as the professor implied) to conservation:

When I send an e-mail and the phrasing is off, just awkward or rude or too straight-forward, I can’t get the blunder out of my head for days.

Or, I’m sure you all can relate to the times you tell a story that was supposed to be short and hilarious, but somehow drags on and on out of your incredibly dull mouth, yet as you look around at the un-amused, vacant stares of the people listening you somehow can’t remember how to hit the brakes.

Those listless stares haunt me before bed as I relive the awful moment and try to figure out what went wrong. When did it become too long? How could I have spruced up the tale? Is a possible retelling in my future or should I scrap that story for good?

Jokes are more of the same. Was it the audience, or is the joke actually not funny? Or perhaps that situation just didn’t lend itself to jokes and I should have stuck with a more serious story? (Note to self: don’t point out word plays when someone is mad at you. The timing tends to not work out. . . .)

These questions replay over and over in my head, questions of why it went wrong in my conversation and how it could go better in the future.

I imagine the professor who spoke with us feels the same way about his teaching. I guess we all have our different callings.


Ultimately, I’ve determined that I must be in the wrong field. I’m thinking my best career move would be to quit grad school and start a career in conversation.

Unfortunately, my mother probably won’t be too happy about me trying to follow both my dreams and my namesake in attempting to become the next Jacqueline Kennedy.

Like I said, maybe we should keep this one a secret. . .