On Burning Bridges

Although I haven't spoken much about my recent graduate school experience on this blog yet, it was a real learning experience, full of hellacious come-to-Jesus moments that caused me to question my intention, my experience, and my talent beyond belief. And as much as I learned from it, I mostly go through every day trying to forget that it ever happened. When I think of those two years, I think of my students, and I think of the classes I was involved in TA'ing, and I try not to remember the many negatives. Because the truth is, my graduate program made me question the fundamental goodness of people more than anything I've ever been involved in.

I have been so blessed to go through life with most all of my teachers, at the very least, not gunning for me to fail, not trying to tear me down at every turn. And at the most, I have had truly spectacular teachers who opened my eyes and challenged me to be my best. I was certainly pushed, but I was also supported. Every now and then I have this fleeting thought of "They were just trying to see if you could make it, to make you stronger in the process," and then I think of the experiences of my fellow classmates, my friend who almost didn't get her degree because the then-director was upset and offended that she got pregnant during the program. And I think of another woman who was berated so severely in the program's writing class (and told that she never should have made it through college, let alone grad school, for her poor writing skills) that she started crying--a grown and very successful woman who had not come to this program to write. When I think of those women, I simply can not be grateful for that part of my graduate experience. I want nothing more than for the program to fail.

One of my close friends and I have discussed writing letters to the dean, trying to get the program defunded, leaving flaming piles of dog shit on the doorstep of one of the professors. My friend, Chris, though (who was smart enough to quit the program after the first year) was saying to me the other day how he's realized he should try to keep some measure of civility up with this professor and not burn all his bridges. And I totally understand why you would do that. I even think it's a smart thing to do. But with this woman and the other woman who made my life such hell, I can't even entertain the idea. Because they made me so immensely miserable and non-productive that I spent months in bed, in tears. I lost a huge amount of confidence in this program. If I hadn't had free counseling and access to anti-depressants for the second year, I don't know how I would have made it through. I don't think I would have.

The sad thing is that it's not just the bridges that I want to burn. Part of me wants to burn the projects that I did there. Even when I love them, even when I'm so proud of the photos I took. Because I can't look at them without thinking of how degraded I was, of how much they wanted me to fail. To the point where a few of us don't even want to publish our work or associate ourselves with the program because we don't want them to get credit. I know that my project is good. I know I could get it published. But not only do I not want to look at it, I don't want them to be associated with my success. And to do that, I can't allow myself to succeed. Silly and sad? I know it is. But when my love for documentary photography has been almost entirely squelched by two horrendously petty and cruel people, I can't help but want to bury what I've got left as far away from them as possible.