Cs Get Degrees

But They Don't Make You Feel Good About Yourself

I just received my first-ever C, a shock after breezing through eight years of great grades. Balancing five classes, family responsibility, and my other commitments has been challenging, so a subpar grade was inevitable. Still, it stung.

Initially, I was pissed. But then I remembered I wrote the paper while visiting someone in the hospital and was under immense stress. As I read my professor's feedback, I realized he was right. I reread my paper and realized it was indeed worthy of a C. Critical literary theory isn't my forte, and I should have requested an extension instead of rushing through it. That grade lit a fire under my ass; I spent three hours rewriting it and sent it to the Writing Center for feedback. I asked my professor for a regrade, but he declined. However, his insights helped me understand what’s expected in this type of paper, so I’ll give him props for that. I wanted to do better even if it wasn’t going to move the needle at all.

I haven’t had many classes that require critical analysis, especially since the last eight years were filled with creative writing and other general requirements. As I catch up on my English major obligations, I’m faced with a lot of reading and writing in this genre. Despite being a bit disheveled, I take my work seriously. So, when I fail, boy, do I give myself a hard time over it. The great thing about being post menopausal, is instead of beating myself up about it, I’m giving myself space to feel rotten about it.

In pottery class, I often criticize each piece that comes out of the kiln. My teacher reminded me that I get out of my work what I put into it. If I constantly judge and bellow obscenities into their very porous skin, they will become challises of evil serving up curses and toxic bile to all who drink from them. She didn’t say those exact words, but that’s what I took away. It made me think of how, in Mexican culture, love is expressed through food, and that love imbues the meals—same same with pottery.

After that, every time she caught me spouting, “God, this is so ugly,” I’d see her side-eye and immediately begin stroking the side of the pottery, whispering sweet nothings into its bowl like I LOVE YOU, YOU ARE THE MOST GORGEOUS VESSEL IN THE UNIVERSE, and COULD YOU BE MORE FUNCTIONAL!?! It felt spiritually better to be putting good vibes into the world, even if my heart wanted to throw them all in the trash.

I’m not much better at drawing, but I am getting better. It’s easy to see that. The more time you put into something, the more you’ll get out of it. Every time I draw, it is better than the last, as with most things. This is why, right before school started, I bought two western shirts, two denim shirts at Walmart, and two pairs of pants from Eileen Fisher. I wash and rotate these out without fail every day. There is no time to waste on bullshit like wardrobe. There are not enough hours in the day to do the essential things, so frivolity has to be kept to a minimum.

When I’m not going to school or working on a project, I need that extra time to go to my family and friends, especially as I move into the time of year when remembering my mom is essential. Since her passing a few years ago on October 26, my sisters and I have set up an ofrenda for Día de los Muertos. Each year, I include her favorite things: caviar, Carr’s crackers, Perrier or Pellegrino, smoked oysters, and personal mementos like her childhood duck-shaped piggy bank and art my sister made from her fingerprints. It helps to remember the good things. When she spent her last year incapacitated, unable to move or stay awake, hooked up to a feeding tube and waiting around to die, she was unable to eat or drink anything. But still, my sisters and I—when the doctor’s weren’t looking—would put sparkling water on a sponge, and she would suck on it with gusto. I can’t imagine what it must have been like to live an entire year dying of thirst. This doesn’t on the surface sound like a good memory but it is. Even through all that awfulness, she still loved the things she loved.

The truth is my mother always wanted to live, even when she couldn’t any more.

Now, I’m not sure how I segued from a C into the darkest year of my life, but there it is. The truth is I am overwhelmed. Not in a horrible way, just in a too much going on way. Christmas can’t get here fast enough. So in order to get from here to the holidays without burning out, I am going to start talking to myself more kindly. Today, I am off to the coast on an oceanography field trip, and I plan on looking out into the Gulf and forgiving her for the hurricanes she’s been sending that have disrupted my son’s school year and left death and destruction in her wake; it’s not her fault. It’s us and our goddamn global warming. Just like it’s not the teacher’s fault I got a C, it’s mine. And, I’m OK with that.

But I won’t say all this to the Gulf. I’ll thank her for being the only oceanlike body of water within driving distance. I’ll send love to my sisters and my son far away. I’ll remember all my husband has done to help me be there standing by the water, learning about sea creatures and tides. I will put my toes into the sand and remind myself I don’t always have to be perfect. I will say a few words to my mother and thank her for every good thing she ever told me about myself.

Then I’ll try and convince myself all those things are true.