The semester is over and I'm actually really sad. Relieved, of course, but being the geek that I am, the highlights of my life this semester were attending classes. In particular, the theory class on Wednesday nights always left me feeling both euphoric and exhausted. And, by contrast, the poetry-writing class gave me the outlet I needed to play with the theory. Now that the semester is done, it’s a bit of a downer, though I’m looking forward to the summer semester (more writing and the honours paper). *sigh*
Also, Graham and I have spent the past month or so looking for a place to live because we are sick of living in the burbs, and because we found out G. is staying at SFU to complete his PHD . See, we figured if he is definitely going to be in the greater Vancouver area for the next two years min. we might as well move somewhere closer to the city. I feel good about this, despite the frustration of packing shit up and rushing to get everything moved in on the first of May (at which time, hopefully, the current tenants of the new place will be outta there). I do hate moving. I counted, tonight, how many times I've moved in my life (for anyone who knows my family, you can laugh now). This move will be #28. Crazy. I'm not even 25 years old yet! I've probably got the number slightly incorrect because I only counted the 15 places I vaguely remember living in when I was really young--amazingly, all of those places are within Hamilton.
There is a part of me that really despises moving--mostly linked to the childhood-dramas of picking up and moving just as soon as I started to make friends in a neighbourhood (not to mention the packing, the unpacking, the feeling of fluctuation until you have your space set up). But there is also something necessary about it--to uproot yourself and start again somewhere. It's really alluring, actually. Tabula Rasa. Uproot and start again. Yet, living in Hamilton my whole life, and moving within that steel town ain't like a friggin blank slate at all. You run into people you were good friends with--people you lost touch with when you moved, again—and embarrass yourself at giving reasons you never called.
Anywho, I have both cheers and jeers for staying in Van. for G’s PHD. Cheers because I really do love this city, and I want to stay here long-term. Jeers, because I don’t like the idea of tying myself down to this locale—especially considering the prospects of graduate school elsewhere. That is, the prospects of Grad School in Ontario are just more appealing to me (bigger province = more grad programs). Specifically, McMaster’s Cultural/Critical Theory MA program, and if G. were studying there, it would just make my going there so much easier. It’s not to say that I can’t go without him—and, indeed, I won’t give up the possibility just because it might mean we would be apart. But my leaving would certainly defy expectations of family and some friends, since the institution of marriage (as some people understand it) binds two people together. The expectation would be that I would find something for myself where he is—and, let’s be honest—how fair is that? (WARNING: late-night ranting ahead). I mean, I already feel like I gave up something of what I wanted in moving away from Nanaimo to Vancouver so he could pursue his MA, and again I already feel a little pressure to tailor my life’s direction to his. Sure, I can defy that and do whatever the f*ck I want, but that also creates familial tensions and then I’m struck with the need to explain my choices to his parents, mine, etc., etc. Argh. This shit has been nagging at me for months now. This abstract social role of ‘wife’ that I’ve signed myself up for has been continually rubbing me the wrong way lately. And I’m not so sure what to do with that.
