Women

"I just hope that you miss me a little when I'm gone" -Drake

I've been reading articles upon articles with a dictionary by my side so I can understand more than just the jest of things. It's routine... back to the basement of Miller Library, surrounded by books. I've discovered the Maya Angelou section. I kick my shoes off, and lift both my legs onto the chair opposite of me. I am, no doubt, a dork. Especially considering how quiet Miller is on many Saturday nights.

Three weeks into the school year and I'm already seeing kids sprinting to class at 8:59 a.m. and reading homework assignments at breakfast and lunch. In previous years it would have been stressful; today it seems to be a fact of life. My head is buried in books about the Vietnam War and political economy (a branch of anthro. that focuses on the resistance of marginalized groups), and I have nothing to complain about.

I'm the girl that walks around campus with a brown knitted sweater jacket (shawl?) with no buttons. I wrap it around my body and wear it as much as possible. I'm the girl who goes to parties and no longer thinks about wanting to hook up or getting drunk to get relaxed or dancing with strange men. They're for experience and used as temporary bandages for loneliness and insecurity. Freshmen and sophomore years are for being humbled like that, but I've been in love a few times, in lust a few times, and I know what matters.

So I dig my nose into war movies that I cry over, brought about eight shirts to college, (I'm not quite the fashionista I used to be), and from time to time, I ask some agnostic power to protect the people I love and to protect my heart.

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I spend a majority of my time in class doing participant observations of my two radically different (yet equally admirable) anthropology professors.

Catherine Besteman is beautiful to Winifred Tate's pretty. Professor Besteman, who I've mentioned in the past, is a strong quick witted woman and the obvious choice as Chair of the anthropology department. She is introspective, experienced, fashionable, strong... a woman I admire, to be sure, and easy to talk to. But her knowledge still creates an air of intimidation. I can only guess that she was a feisty blond who majored in something like Biology.

Winifred Tate, however, is a woman I empathize with and see myself as. She looks like the average pretty woman with 2 little ones. Her eyes glow underneath her glasses and she has beautiful black hair. Professor Tate is not feisty; she is cute. She is relate-able; I can imagine her flaws. Her sentences aren't as quickly spoken as Professor Besteman's. I can tell that she spends some time preparing for class and she says um every once in a while, then smiles. Sometimes the students respond; and sometimes they become disengaged but she keeps trucking because the woman knows her stuff. She's worked hard to be where she is.

Everyone admires Catherine Besteman but Winifred Tate is so beautiful in that she is human. She is who I can relate to when I feel unsure, when I speak, when I write, when I think. I dropped her class last year, feeling paralyzed sitting in a room full of white liberals who believe that their intellectuality alone will change the world. They wore flip flops and carried nalgenes; I wanted to vomit and Professor Tate did not lead conversation with this homogeneous group in the way I wanted. But now I think, she must've been terrified too, pulling those teeth. And I try to think after all of my education and research, being the shy, introspective person that I am, who's full thoughts don't form quickly into decipherable sentences, but a person who is knowledgeable, strong, and wants to circulate knowledge... how would I react in her shoes? I'm Winifred Tate not Catherine Besteman.
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I've had the same mentee and mentor for 3 years. And these are the people that keep me going here because I learn an equal amount of things and the same things from both. Talks with my Colby mother releases stress and teaches me confidence, patience, love, and the process of growing. Watching my mentee grow into a teenager and developing a relationship with him teaches me patience, reinforces my sense of purpose, and puts in front of me this undeniable love, passion, and joy that a child has. He gives some joy to me, and I (hopefully) to him, as we read or swing on the playground.