In my new job as a grant writer, I sit at a desk, in front of a computer. Next to me, I have a phone with my very own extension. The only people I talk to all day with any regularity are my two colleagues, L1 and L2, and our supervisor. Sometimes I run into other people in the hallway and say hello, or chat a little longer, especially in the case of the woman who I knew first as a mom in the classroom I worked in last year. It’s wonderful, glorious, quiet, and the only stressors are the ones that come with any due-date-centric job.
Another wonderful perk is that I get chances to go back to my old site and visit, as I round up quotes for the newsletter, take pictures for the annual report, or prowl the hallways for spelling errors in case the governor drops by. A couple times I’ve made special trips over there to do those things and also to make sure I saw certain kids who left an impression on me, in particular the girl who was so upset when I left that she could barely speak on my last day.
A necessary digression: In junior year, Roommate J and I went to see an Off Broadway play called The Pride. It starred Hugh Dancy (the reason I was there), Ben Whishaw (the reason Roommate J was there), and Andrea Riseborough (the reason I’m telling this story at all). Riseborough’s character didn’t have the most stage time, but what time she did have was endlessly appropriated by her friend (Whishaw’s character) and his problems. From the time that we saw the play, Roommate J took to exclaiming, “The Pride, The Pride!” in tones of doom, whenever I was about to devote a chunk of my time to anyone else’s personal problems. She did it when I called certain friends on the phone. She did it when I would read Facebook statuses that got me concerned. It was actually a pretty helpful formulation, when you think about it, because it refers to something concrete but it also warns of a waft of hubris in the room: as if I could be so proud as to think that I could singlehandedly fix another human being. Mostly, though, it was hilarious. It was a sight to behold: Roommate J grasping her face and intoning, “The Pride, The Pride!” while writhing around in her chair as I tried to carry on a normal phone conversation without laughing. I took her point, but I always laughed it off, too. I wasn’t trying to save anyone; I didn’t think I could, or should, or that there weren’t others, better-qualified others, with the same idea.
Well, dear readers, The Pride lives on. I think about it whenever I pass one of these gas stations, for instance.
I mean, seriously, what is that about?
Most recently, though, The Pride lived on when I e-mailed Roommate J to update her on my life and let slip that I worried about the kids I left behind and thought I should visit them more. Her reply went like this (excerpt from an actual e-mail):
Obligatory:THE PRIIIIDE THE PRIIIIIDE
I cracked up when I opened it (at work, at my glorious desk, at lunch hour, where people treat you like an adult and acknowledge that you will be checking all your e-mails). This time, though, it actually put me in check. I had been tying myself in knots over a chat I had with M, who called me and, in the midst of a separate conversation, mentioned that this girl, the one who couldn’t say goodbye to me, had been really withdrawn and depressed recently. And had been grilling my coworker, the one with a kid in that classroom, about how often she saw me and what my office was like and whether I liked it there.
Getting Roommate J’s e-mail was a nice reality check. I was in that girl’s life for all of ten months. I’m not responsible for her happiness, and I don’t know all the factors leading to her depression (which was noticeable before I was even on the scene). I can drop by and cheer her up (and I did), but I can’t expect that to be the solution, and I can’t beat myself up about leaving when it was so clearly the right decision for me. Nor, layer #2 of The Pride reminds me, should I have such a high opinion of myself that I think I am the only solution.
I can, however, go back and volunteer once a week in the evening program. I did so last night, and it felt good: to be back, to be making a commitment to show my face regularly, and to know that, whenever I wanted, I could walk out the door.
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