I hiked campus feeling conspicuously alien, not just in age. Who spends the first day of Spring semester walking class to class while miscarrying? I tell myself it is part of the human experience, but men, bless them, seem to have pushed the relevance of this trial to the fringe of existence. My physics course, Life in the Universe, was a mocking reminder that carbon was breaking down inside the black hole that is my uterus. I am the Monolith. It doesn't get much more 2001: A Space Odyssey than that.
Yet, now I am home, mid-readings from the first day's homework, and I am ecstatic.
Oh, how I've missed academia.
The professor of my Literature by Women course gave me permission to write and present on myself for the semester final after I informed her that I'm published. My portfolio may be small, but after reading Joanna Russ's "Anomalousness" I'm further compelled to shamelessly self-promote.
A male peer once told me that my writing was reminiscent of Hemingway. At first I was flattered, because I adore Ernest. Years later, however, I suspect that was his way of cloaking marginalization or condescension. Did you know that most anthologies offer a female representation of only 5 to 8 percent? (Averaged to 7%.)
I intend to add to that canon, as one who as Ms. Russ put it, "is wonderful, but where on earth did she come from?"