Two months is a lot of time to feel a bit of this, a bit of that.

Thoughts on starting and being in grad school.

Dea, Philadelphia, October 4th.

I have a lot of feelings about being in grad school. For several months now, I kept telling myself that I will write about them here when I’ve managed to find the words to articulate these emotions in the best way possible, but just this afternoon I had a nagging thought in the back of my head that said, “You will regret not writing this down now.” So here they are; raw pieces of all that I’ve been feeling. 

I.

It’s been exactly 2 months since I moved to Philadelphia and I haven’t done the things I thought I’d be doing at this point: having book club meetings with all the new friends I’m making in my program, being involved in a cultural group on campus, going to open mic nights around the city. Instead, I am currently trying to calm down a sinus flare and considering going to therapy.

II.

The other week I was reading Chanel Miller’s Know My Name and I can’t remember the last time I cried because of a book. (This is a tangent, but yesterday, I started reading Crying in H Mart by Michelle Zauner, and I learned that I’ve grown up into someone who’s easily moved to tears by memoirs.) It wasn’t just the weight of the topic that made me feel first, angry at the world, and second, relieved that an author with a powerful voice out there is echoing my biggest fears as a woman. It was also the way she writes and brings her readers to a certain level of understanding and compassion for what we should be fighting for as a society, by allowing us to peek into her most painful memories and emotions—I don’t know if I’ve seen anything as courageous. I admire that a lot. I hope one day I have the strength to be that honest with, and forgiving of, myself too. 

III.

I miss doing spoken poetry a lot. The last time I went to an open mic event was in 2018, and I read a poem about Jakarta, how it’s a big bad city that sucks the personality and life out of 22-year-olds who had known nothing but school their whole lives. This Wednesday, the writers’ house on campus is having an open mic. Maybe I’ll come and read a poem about Jakarta again, but this time it’ll be about how I miss it and how, deep down, I wish I wasn’t trying so hard to run away from it.

IV. 

My first two weeks in the US were spent with my parents. They helped me move in, my mother unpacked my luggages for me, and after that, we went on what basically was my father’s very own friendship tour. We traveled to Princeton to see a friend of his, then Boston to see another, and then New York because, uh, it’s New York (where my dad also met a couple of other friends), and eventually DC. My mum discovered strip malls and discounted stores. My dad did his morning jog around the National Mall. They smiled a lot. 

In my family, I’m the first child out of four, which means that I’ve never really had the privilege of my parents’ full attention. And I don’t think I ever asked for it either. Having those two weeks of only-child privileges, like getting my parents to buy me the most trivial things without a second thought, having my dad drive us to New Jersey to pick up a table I bought off Facebook Marketplace—it made me realise that while I was busy trying to live my life thinking the only way I could ever make my parents proud would be to get into a good grad school, all they’d wanted all along was more time to spend with me. 

V.

I’m actually finding it hard to make friends with the people in my batch. And I’m not saying this in a quirky, “I’m antisocial and I hate people” way, but in a genuine, “I don’t think I’m connecting with as many people as I would like” sense. I met a couple of wonderful girls whom I like to make sure I sit next to during classes, but I can’t bring myself to fake enjoy parties and nights out at the bar, so I just don’t go. And the thing that surprises me is that I’m not too bothered by the fact that I simply do not know people, because I never see them.

At first I told myself that it’s probably my particular approach to friendship that unfortunately just doesn’t work here, and that’s totally fine, but then my brain started supplying me with accusations of 'maybe you’re the problem'. And then my brain decides to spiral further, because at this point, anxiety has caught up to me and is having its own share of fun.

Personally, I always knew that doing my Master’s on a scholarship was not going to be the end-all be-all, but honestly now that I’m going through it, I feel cheated that it’s not. Am I not living my dreams? Isn’t living your dreams supposed to give you the fulfillment you’ve been longing for? Why do I feel dreaded by thoughts of not making enough friends and also job-hunting? Oh my gooood, where the fuck am I gonna end up after I graduate? 

I went through a terrible week where I woke up every morning fully convinced that I will have a hard time finding a job out of school because the Indonesians at Harvard and Stanford are going to get all the jobs I want, because they’re smarter and cooler than I am, they come from Harvard and Stanford, and then I proceeded to cry myself to sleep not because I’m at neither of those schools, but because I couldn’t believe I had the power to conjure up these thoughts. They’re so ungrateful, so vile. I do not want to be a vile person. 

VI.

Two years ago, I had the unbelievable privilege to go on Umrah (for my non-Muslim friends: it’s a pilgrimage to Mecca) with my best friend. We cried next to each other many times during the journey, but at one point I also prayed for a very superficial thing: I prayed to celebrate a birthday in New York. I didn’t dare to wish for a deadline. 

This year, August 29th fell on a Sunday and I got on a bus to New York with my two housemates. We shared a delicious chocolate babka, felt full from ramen, saw Monet’s water lilies at MoMA, and walked through The High Line in the gloomy weather. It’s one of those days that I couldn’t really fathom until we were on the bus back home to Philly that same evening and I was secretly tearing up in my seat, trying very hard to not let my housemates see me cry, because how wonderful is life, really? And why were there times where I took it for granted? 

VII.

I have always known this, and I try to express it when I can: I wouldn’t be here without the kindness of others. It’s only through the kindness of others that my effort and hardwork will ever amount to anything, because as much as we’d like to, none of us live in isolation. 

At the start of the semester, I tried getting into an elective class at the business school, but it’s a well-known fact around campus that it’s almost impossible to get into their classes if you’re not a business student. I shot my shot anyway, and as expected, received an email from the MBA office telling me that I was unsuccessful in getting off the waitlist. The thing is, the administrative office makes these decisions, not the professor who teaches the class. 

The professor told me through email that I should try for his class again in the second half of the semester (it’s a half-term class). I said, okay! He replied with, “I want to help you. Stay in touch with me in two weeks.” 

I still don’t know what’s going to happen. All I know is that it’s not his decision to make, so I might still not be able to get in, but being told that he, a distinguished professor, wants to help me, a stubborn non-MBA student from Indonesia, made me feel embarrassed—when was the last time I reached out to someone to say I wanted to help them? 

VIII.

Before my parents left for the airport, my mum gave me a card in which she’d written, “You are braver than you believe & loved more than you know.” 

My mission for the next year is to believe her. Perhaps that will be enough.