On the Fear of Success

“You're off to Great Places!
Today is your day!
Your mountain is waiting,
So... get on your way!”

― Dr. Seuss, Oh, The Places You'll Go!

           

In school we talk about kids sabotaging their own success.  In the past I have always chalked that up to crazy psychobabble to excuse failure, but as I experienced it myself more deeply than I ever imagined possible last week I think I finally got it.  It happened after a meeting with my ever patient professor who has stood on the sidelines mostly gently prodding me (though sometimes looks of scorn have been just as helpful and even more needed!) towards this goal ten years in the making  - completing all the work necessary to earn the title, Danielle Johnson, PhD.  This title is pretty meaningless in some ways.  I get no raise or promotion at work.  My life will look basically the same on each side of the goal.  I have actually slowly lost courses at MU these past few semesters as the landscape of the department has shifted and changed over a decade.  In fact, I found out last week that I officially have no teaching assignments at MU in the foreseeable future.  So next year – though blissfully less busy will be one marked with a reduction in income and prestige right in conjunction with completion of the biggest academic and professional goal of my life.  As I drove home from the meeting where I learned this news I found my spirit crushed.  I almost burst into tears as I wondered if all this sacrifice – most importantly sacrifices costing my family my time and devotion - has been for nothing. 

            After more careful reflection I wondered if what I was experiencing was less disappointment over my teaching loss and more a true fear of success.  That meeting marked the closest I have ever felt to my goal of actually finishing this graduate program.  Most people quit their jobs while they pursue PhDs and put family plans on hold so they can wrap up the task in three to four years.  I never quit working – maintaining a teaching position at Oakland, giving birth to all three children during different stages of the program, and maintaining status as a graduate teaching and research assistant so I could still experience university life.  I was published multiple times and presented at more conferences than I can count.  I have written close to 1,000 pages all said – the last 250 to be defended and bound later this spring.  I should be proud and inspired, but I mostly feel sad….  I am not sure who I am outside of this goal. 

            What happens when you work TEN years towards one goal and actually reach it?  How often does this happen?  How much of my identity has been caught up in this pursuit?  To what extent will I lose this identity on the other side? Telling someone you are working on a PhD earns admiration (and some “better you than me” taunting).  Saying you are done just sounds like bragging.  Or nostalgic…  Oh yeah – I was a grad student once…  (I keep thinking of that line from Dirty Dancing about going slumming.) 

            As is often the case, I found some comfort talking to my dad this evening.  As he nears retirement he was able to immediately relate to what I am feeling and offered a fitting metaphor.  He said that I am about to stand on top of a mountain that I have been climbing for awhile – and after you get to the top and look around there is really nothing you can do but come back down.  The ascent has been quite a ride – painful and fraught with conflict – but also joyful beyond measure.  I have no idea what the descent will feel like.  I have been shamelessly advertising my celebration (have you marked your calendar for May 21^st yet) with the assumption that I needed people to toast me, but maybe what I really need is people to help me through the grieving process. 

            I guess it’s time to start seeking out new mountains.  That might be the only thing to tamper a genuine fear of success.  I also have to be comfortable with mountains that only can be climbed with intrinsic motivation as the only prize at the top is self-satisfaction of a job well done.  Maybe I have to be okay with small mountains like organizing the clothes drawers of three spoiled little girls born to a mom with a passion for discount kids clothing or swimming laps on a more regular basis. 

            Humans are complex beings able to live out oxymorons like fear of success.  I am blessed to have been able to spend the past ten years learning more about us.  I hope I can use the experiences and knowledge gained along the way – especially the gripping fear I felt last week  - to do what I set out to ten years ago; to be better and do better for all the children I come into contact with – especially the ones who fear the mountain.    

On Moms and the Magic of Christmas and an Apology 30 years in the making...

When I was about Avery’s age I wrote something terrible on a piece of paper and folded it up and shoved it in my bedroom junk drawer.  It said something to the effect of “mom ruins the holidays.”  I am not sure exactly why I wrote it.  I didn’t feel that way all of the time, but that day I must have felt it.  Perhaps she raised her voice as we were fighting in the background while she tried to finish up homemade teacher gift treats.  (I still remember the pride I felt carrying in chocolate covered Oreos for my second grade teacher.)  Maybe she forced me to clean my room as were getting ready to have friends over to exchange gifts and bake roughly 200 hundred dozen cookies.  (When I think of Christmas I think of red tins filled with angel cookies with white lace skirts trimmed with silver balls and secretly dream of my mom surprising me with a batch someday.)  It could have been because despite having bought and wrapped mountains of presents for me in the dead of night I still was complaining about not getting a Cabbage Patch Kid and she pointed out my greediness.  Maybe it was as simple as me not understanding why she wasn’t getting into the magic of the season as much as the rest of us.  I have these very distinct memories of sitting in the dark in the living room with my dad – the glow of turquoise lights from our Christmas tree and the hum of a musical clear glass Christmas tree music box in the background.  It was one of the safest and warmest moments of my childhood, but it didn’t involve my mom.  Where was she anyway?  Why was her joy and excitement for the season not quite as unbridled as ours… 

            Flash forward to my drive to the donut store at 6:30 this morning to buy treats for my advisory class where I found myself in tears as I remembered this cruel note.  I was tired and emotional after a week tackling this to do list:

            Wrap white elephant gifts for three different events

            Plan activities for Girl Scout Christmas Party

            Wrap presents for husband’s family Christmas on Saturday

            Buy food for husband’s family Christmas

            Address 100 Christmas cards

            Pick up stamps for said Christmas cards

Prep gifts for teachers at Ridgeway and EEE in time to deliver them when I go to read a holiday story to Unit A

Shop and cook for party for 50 at my house Friday

Secure sitters for holiday functions

Do laundry nightly so we are ready for our trip this weekend

Pack for trip this weekend
Pick up bananas for class Christmas party

Pick up present for Emma after remembering that even though she doesn’t teach at Ridgeway she should be on our teacher gift list because she teaches our most loveable (read challenging) child in the most dedicated of ways

Clean house for party

This is all in addition to the normal feed kids, bathe kids, go to work, etc, etc….  and the abnormal grade MU finals, shut down classroom for the semester tasks

I feel like most of the holiday to do list falls on me.  I know Sephus will help if I ask him too (he is a wonderfully loving and caring dad and husband), but the initial awareness that it needs doing tends to come from me and the busier I get the more I just do it because who has time to talk about doing it.  This seems to be a universal experience for wives and moms based on conversations with women my age.  Knowing that my friends too are overwhelmed by these activities and the constant burden of bearing the responsibility for all these tasks made me feel suddenly connected to my mother in a deeper way than I have ever felt since starting this adventure called parenting.  It suddenly occurred to me that the reason that my mom could not completely embrace the magic of Christmas with the rest of us was because she WAS the magic of Christmas.  Moms are like the house elves of the holidays toiling tirelessly so that these treats, packages and experiences arrive like a feast before us to make the happiest days of our childhood.  Though we don’t realize it at the time, our apprenticeship into being a mom comes as we watch them each December prepping to one day recreate this joy for our own families even if it means missing out on some of it ourselves. 

One of the most shameful moments of my life came when my mom found the note a few months after I wrote it when I no longer felt that way at all, but I did not know how to apologize or explain what I felt when I did write it.  To this day I have hoped that the memory was simply written off as one of 2 million horrible things your children say to you as you raise them.  I hope to make up for the way I surely made her feel that day with an apology thirty years in the making and a genuine Thank You…   Thank you mom.  I see you now in ways I couldn’t see you then.  Thank you for forgiveness.  Thanks for selfless acts of love.  Thanks for being our magic. 

An open letter to the college girls who hang out at Panera:

As I continue plugging away at my dissertation I spend a lot of time at Panera.  I have quickly learned that this is a favorite hang out for large groups of MU students after a night of partying.  Today I was especially distracted by a large and mouthy group of young ladies and was so relieved to see them leave.  Imagine my disappointment when a new group of almost equal size and identical banter took their place as if this place were an assembly line for pumping out relatively shallow conversations.  I tried to decide if I was becoming an old crotchety B%&@# or if I was even jealous of this time in their life that I lived in some form 15 years ago.  Then I realized that a lot of my judgment comes from an overwhelming desire to raise young girls well in a society that sometimes seems to work against me.  That became my inspiration for penning:

 

An open letter to the college girls who hang out at Panera:

1)   First, do yourself a favor and just enjoy your food.  Bagels are tasty, and they are significantly tastier when you are not discussing the number of calories on each person’s plate.  There is no need to justify your enjoyment by spelling out the amount of spaghetti squash you ate this week with nothing but plain tomato sauce (only 70 calories a serving!!!) or how you skipped all meals since breakfast yesterday.   When your friend comes back with a soufflé don’t say, “I thought you weren’t eating pastries.”  That’s mean and really none of your business. If you are that worried about the calorie count in your meal maybe don’t eat bread for breakfast or choose to have your morning debriefings about your drunken fun last night on a trail near your home and get healthy in a way that doesn’t involve self-hate and abuse. 

2)   Maybe don’t make out with so many guys that you have to duck when a nice looking young man and his dad stop by for their morning breakfast.  It’s not impressive when that moment inspires everyone to share similar stories from the night before.  I assure you “hooking up” with a guy never feels as good as you think it will in the long run.  Meaningful intimacy with someone you really love (married or not) will also help raise your self-confidence in a way that cannot be replaced by feeling wanted for one night by someone who probably would have picked any willing partner with whom he crossed paths.  Your worth is not defined by your ability to attract a partner.  Next time you go out, pretend like your future daughter is hanging out with you, and ask if she would be proud of the guys you are spending time with.  Would she want to call one of them dad?  You don’t have to marry every guy you date in college, but if you cannot say yes to this question then don’t waste your time. 

3)   Spend at least ten minutes of these ongoing meetings talking about things that matter.  Your friendship for each other is so obvious.  Use that friendship to talk about something, ANYTHING other than how drunk you were last night, what clothes/make-up you want to buy today or how little you try in each of your classes.  The older you get the more important and invigorating you will find deep conversations with people whose opinions you respect.  You might as well start practicing now so you can see which of your friends you really want to stay friends with ten or even twenty years from now.  I have a small handful of those friends from college, and they mean the world to me.  Don’t get me wrong, we can toss around a good party story like the rest of them, but we also know some of each other’s deepest fears and wishes, what we love about and worry about when it comes to our families, and which political issues we see eye to eye on and which ones we can bring up when we need to work out some aggression in a safe venue.  These bonds started early and came from our willingness to let down our guards a bit and our refusal to be walking clichés.

4)   I don’t fault you for the things you outwardly value as evidenced by your interactions and conversations you often have at Panera.  I know that so many of these values are instilled by a society that also has some “growing up to do.”  I know that there is more to you than what I see and even more to you than what you are willing to let many of your friends see.  Nurture those parts of yourself.  It makes you who you are and would probably make you a significantly more interesting conversation partner. 

I am sending you this letter not because I was always “above” all that you portrayed today, but because I was a victim of these obsessions at times as well.  Almost all the times I felt like I wasn’t good enough over the years came from conversations like the ones you had this morning among “friends.” Somehow I just decided I didn’t care enough about the things I was supposed to care about to keep pretending like I did.  I am almost 100% comfortable now with the fact that I don’t fit in with groups when they are acting like yours did this morning.  I hope that maybe I can help some of you get there a little faster too.  Most importantly, I hope I can my girls there. 

Sincerely –

The Grouch Who Should Be Writing Her Dissertation

AKA Mother of three future college girls who just might hang out Panera

AKA Danielle Johnson

On What I Mean When I Say I'm a Cubs Fan

When I tell you I’m a Cubs fan I am not trying to tell you I know any of the current players on the team (well except for Arrieta because who doesn’t) or that I tune in regularly to WGN.  And I know that some may say I don’t deserve this win or that I am a fair weather fan, but that’s not true, because being a Cubs fan is about so much more than what happens on the field -  that’s why the loyalty pervades the losses. 

When I tell you I’m a Cubs fan what I’m really telling you is that when I meet someone from Chicago I immediately ask them if they prefer their Italian Beef from Portillo’s or Al’s and that their answer might mean fighting words.  Being a Cubs fan means I will also ask if their favorite pizza is from Gino’s, Giordano’s or Lou Malnati’s, but I know they will more likely mention a family owned joint in a strip mall near their home.  It also means I know that hot dogs aren’t really hot dogs unless they are Vienna Beef and that ribs should come from Carson’s and can’t be eaten without a plastic bib no matter how old you are. And it means I know that heading downtown the second week of July is the stupidest and smartest thing you can ever do.

When I tell you I’m a Cubs fan what I’m really telling you is that I’ve been trapped in a rainforest at Brookfield Zoo, and that I once twisted my ankle running from one slide to another at Magic Waters.  I’m also telling you that the first time I went upside down it was on The Demon, and it was so fun I had to get a Twicket and go back the next day.  I know the joy of waking up in the summer to my parents saying we were headed to Santa’s Village or Kiddie Kingdom.  I’ve zip-lined at Pirate’s Cove and looked for the golden ball in the ball pit at the World’s largest ShowBiz, Chuck-e-Cheese,  Little Caesar’s. 

            When I tell you I’m a Cubs fan what I am really telling you is that I grew up shopping at Gorski’s and Dominick’s and got my prescriptions filled at Jewel-Osco.  When I needed a pop I ran out to White Hen.  I bought my clothes at Marshall Fields and at Christmas time headed to the 7 story one downtown just so I could see their Christmas tree.  When I went to Woodfield Mall I tried to get my mom to make a stop at the fish tanks and the ice skating rink. 

            When I tell you I’m a Cubs fan I am telling you that I spent my Sunday mornings cheering with Pop Warner and my Sunday afternoons in orange and blue.  It means I know every word to the Super Bowl Shuffle - and I call my Mom “Mah” because I knew “Da” was a word way before the Bears Fans legitimized it on Saturday Night Live.  It means I owned a Bulls jacket and Bulls hat because it was the easiest way to start a conversation with the cute boys in class in the late 80’s.  I also know every word to 50 Ways to Beat the Pistons which was featured on BahBahBahBah B!96!

            When I tell you I am a Cubs fan I am also telling you that we had a gymnastics unit in middle school complete with an actual vault.  We never missed school due to snow but sometimes had cold days when the temperatures were so frigid the buses wouldn’t start.  I know the extreme jealousy of looking at an empty seat in elementary and hearing the teacher say that so-and-so was absent because they finally got a ticket to earn their chance at The Grand Prize Game where they could possibly shake Bozo the Clown’s hand and come home with Archway cookies and that weird broccoli pizza.  Field trips meant walking through a beating heart at The Museum of Science and Industry or standing next to Wooly Mammoths at the Field Museum.  One lucky field trip resulted in my very own Cubby Bear that my entire 6^th grade trip adopted as a pet after we went to a game together – each taking turns bringing him home for a sleepover. 

            When I tell you I’m a Cubs fan I am also telling you that nothing was more comforting than the feel of my mom’s flannel nightgown while I laid in her lap Saturday evenings in front of the fire while she read the Tribune or the Daily Herald.  It means knowing what it’s like to fall asleep to the comforting sound of the Metra, which ran in the distance behind my bedroom and split our local tavern from our malt shop.  It means knowing that all rails lead downtown and that plush vinyl green seats are sure to lead to adventure. 

            When I tell you I’m a Cubs fan I am telling you that my first concert was a New Kids on the Block show at Poplar Creek Outdoor Arena.  It means I watched A Christmas Carol at The Goodman Theater and dollar movies in Barrington Square (followed by Garibald’s of course.)  It means I saw the Ringling Brothers at the Rosemont but never could get tickets for a game because, Jordan…

            When I tell you that I am a Cubs fan I am also telling you that I have walked the Miracle Mile and explored Navy Pier.  I know that lakes can have beaches.  I once watched my brother dump a whole box of Garrett’s popcorn on a street corner summoning every pigeon in the Chicago Area to attack us like we were in a Hitchcock movie.  I know what it’s like to hang on to a rail because it was so much more fun than sitting on the L as it thundered over the streets below.  When I watch Sara in her Thor hat slide down the glass windows in Adventures in Baby-sitting I can tell exactly where you are in the architectural boat tour when that building shows up – not too far after the round parking garages famous in so many movie chase scenes and before what I will always call The Sears Tower.  And when I watch Kevin McCallister’s family run frantically through O’Hare or watch Ferris Bueller sing Danke Schoen I think, “I’ve Been There.” 

            So even though I don’t know all the players on the Cubs team right now I grew up with their names in my mouth.  When I still personally knew the joy of the crack of the bat it was Ryne Sandberg and Andre Dawson that my dad would compare me to.  I can tell you that it was Mark Grace who was fined for playing Slip n Slide on 8/8/88 which should have been the first night game in Wrigley history.  I have eaten malts off of wooden spoons while Harry Caray shouted, “Holy Cow.” I was wearing an old pair of oversized Cubs pajamas turned faded t-shirt the night I fell in love with my husband. 

            Most importantly, when I am telling you I’m a Cubs fan I am telling you that summer evenings when I was a kid meant wiffle ball in cul de sacs with our neighbors after dinner or in our backyard after a barbecue where at least some of the players were donning the circular C on hats and t-shirts just because that was our summer wardrobe.  These friends were my family for the first 12 formative years of my life.  This place was my home.  And a part of calling that home will always mean feeling that baseball should be played in pin stripes and that whether I intend it to or not the first words that always comes to my mind after root, root, root are “The Cubbies” for if they don’t win it’s a shame.