You Can’t Plan Happiness

During the summer of 2008, I attended a summer program at Brown University. It took me a few days to adjust to the atmosphere, make friends, and embrace all the freedom I was given. Once everything fell into place, I grew to absolutely love the campus and the city of Providence, Rhode Island.

When I came home, I decided that Brown would be my first choice for my undergraduate education. The application involved approximately three essays. The first essay was rather short, around 250 words, and asked the applicant why Brown was the right choice for him/her. In my opinion, I wrote one of the best pieces I have ever written. I impressed myself by including metaphors and analogies that not only displayed my desire to attend Brown but also were somewhat amusing, which I thought would be a nice relief to the reader after going through thousands of similar essays.

One of the other essays I included was more of a standard essay that I used for multiple college applications. A few days before the deadline, I submitted my application online.

In accordance with my pessimistic quality, I poured over my submitted application only to realize that I submitted an incomplete/unrevised version of the standard essay. I quickly picked up the phone and called the Admissions Office; while holding back tears, I explained my predicament. The staff member told me I could mail a hard copy of the correct version of my essay but he/she could not guarantee that it would be matched up to my application and replace the unfinished version.

Much to my dismay, I learned a few months later that I was not accepted to Brown University. I did not know what to do. My plan had been to attend Brown – I even told an alumnus interviewer for another, rather prestigious, school that I would choose Brown over her alma mater, which I am sure resulted in the placing of my name on that school’s wait-list.

Long story short, a few days before May 1^st (the deadline to accept a college’s admission offer) I fell in love with Berkeley and felt confident in my decision to attend its Molecular and Cell Biology program.

In September of my freshman year, I attended a seminar relating to the College of Letters and Sciences’ On the Same Page Program, which was about gene sequencing and the statistics related to certain genes.

During the presentation, I learned about Dr. Urnov, a Berkeley faculty member, who was involved in gene therapy experimentation. I sat up straighter and said to my friend, “I need to meet him.” It took me about a month to muster up the courage to send Dr. Urnov an email, and I was ecstatic that not only did he reply to my email but that he also wanted to meet me.

I met with Dr. Urnov in his office at Sangamo Biosciences (which just so happens to be the original office for Pixar – AWESOME!) and handed him a copy of my resume as well as a copy of the evaluation my teacher at Brown wrote.

He poured over the evaluation and saw the instructor’s signature at the bottom. “You know Donna?” he asked. It took me a minute to realize he was referring to my teacher at Brown who I knew better as Dr. Lizotte and replied, “yes.” He smiled and said they attended graduate school together at Brown. I was in shock.

Dr. Urnov graciously offered to drive me back to the Berkeley campus after our meeting. During the car ride we spoke about Brown and Providence. He mentioned that although he received an excellent education at Brown, he felt that the relatively small town of Providence did not provide an accurate worldview. Then, he looked me in the eye and said, “You made the right choice to attend Cal over Brown.” I smiled. I did not feel it was necessary to share the struggle I experienced in my rejection from Brown. All that mattered was that I had found my place.

Why I Consider Myself an Honorary Aggie

My grandfather is a class of 1943 Aggie. Yes…WHOOP! I attended my first football game when I was in Kindergarten, and since I diagnosed myself with ‘sensitive ears,’ I sobbed every time the cannon was fired. A&M slaughtered whoever their opponent was.

Fast forward a couple of months and it was Christmas season. I was hoping with my whole being that Santa Claus would bring me a goldfish. I was so happy to wake up Christmas morning to find that my wish had been granted. Goldie floated in a classic round bowl on the coffee table in the living room as my parents carefully guarded him/her? from our Golden Retriever, Belle, who seemed to think this gift was actually for her.

Fast forward a few months more to the summer. My sister had a friend over at the house. Of course Goldie was one of the attractions that had to be shown off. I made sure to supervise this interaction. In case you didn’t know I was INCREDIBLY shy when I was little….like it was debilitating. Anyways, Megan’s guest took great interest in Goldie. She asked if she could feed it, and I granted her permission. The young girl began to dump teaspoon-sized portions of fish food into the bowl to my utter horror. I didn’t know how to stop this madness. Then, to my great shock, she picked Goldie up! I don’t remember exactly what I did. I’m pretty sure I just ran to my mom in tears. About eight hours later Goldie was upside-down at the surface of the water. His/her? stomach was bulging from the excess food.

That night I was supposed to spend the night at my grandparents’s house. When dusk began to fall, and the sorrow of my great loss began to manifest itself within my soul, I began crying and sought solace in my grandfather. He hoisted me up onto his lap and began to tell me a story. It was the story of the first Reveille. I learned that she was just a mutt, but that the young men of A&M adopted her and loved her dearly. I learned what great joy this dog brought to these Aggies. My grandfather then began to tear up as he recounted the end of Reveille’s life and how sad all of his classmates were to lose her. He made a point of telling me that just because she was physically gone, she had made an impression on him, and he was sure this was true of every single other Aggie, and that was what truly mattered. 

On Religion

Wrote this awhile ago - felt like it was appropriate to post with all the stir about a new Pope.

It is difficult for me to maintain and continue to practice the religion in which I was brought up in as a Conservative Reformed Episcopalian because I think if I was born to a different family or grew up in a different area or region of the world, there is a good chance I would be brought up with a different religion; maybe even a religion that contradicts the religion I have grown up with.

I am disgusted by how little people, including me, know about religion in general and specifically the one they practice.

I was confirmed when I was in the third grade. Yes, this was an unusually young age for Confirmation but there were extenuating circumstances. A girl a year older than me asked what church I went to when she learned I was to be confirmed. Then she asked what type of church it was, as in what denomination. Here I was about to be confirmed and I didn't even know what denomination my church belonged to. Yes, I could recite the 10 Commandments and the Nicene Creed, but I was completely unaware of the difference between Catholicism and Protestantism and the many different faiths that fell under the Protestantism category. To continue with this idea of lack of knowledge regarding religion:  During the summer of 2006 I participated in a trip to Spain, France, and Italy as a part of the People to People Student Ambassadors Program, founded by Eisenhower. My delegation was composed of 3 smaller groups:  mine from the DFW area, 1 from Midland, TX, and 1 from either North or South Carolina. Yes, I should learn what discriminates the one state from the other. Anyways, each time we switched hotels, we got a new roomate. My first roomate was from N/S Carolina. We began asking each other questions to get to know one another. She quickly volunteered the information that she was a Baptist. By this time I had come to be a more learned individual since my confirmation, so I was able to confidently tell her that I was a Reformed Episcopalian. My roomate gave me a quizzical look and asked "Is that like being Jewish?" I sighed and began relating the information I knew about Christianity and its denominations. I truly began to question my roomate's intelligence when I made the connection that I had been wearing the sterling silver cross necklace I had bought for myself earlier that year.

Enough about the disappointments I have in society's lack of knowledge. A recent event caused me to come to the conclusion that God has either forgotten or mistaken my name - sort of like when Harry tells Charlotte in Sex and the City that God must have forgotten their address because they were having difficulty adopting a child. The church I have attended since I was born has a group of ladies who knit together prayer shawls for those going through a difficult time and/or illness. Word finally made its way to the head of this organization that I have been dealing with a serious illness for nearly two years. Out of kindness, this elderly woman put together a package for me including a beautiful, blue, hand-made prayer shawl. I smiled when I received the package at home from my mother. Later that night I began to feel sad and lonely so I went to get the prayer shawl, thinking it would comfort me. I lifted the shawl and found a card at the bottom of the bag. It was a standard card with a message stating the shawl's hopeful purpose. At the top of the card, there was a blank space - it was filled in with "Erin Dione." Suddenly my sorrow became anger :  "How could God screw up my name?! Again!" I wasn't calmed down until I woke up my mother and told her the situation. The other time God messed up my name was incidentally when I was confirmed. My priest whispered my name into the Bishop's ear and instead of "Erin Lynn" the Bishop simply heard and repeated "Carolyn." Thus, Carolyn was confirmed as a Conservative Episcopalian. Months later, I shared with my mother the distraught I felt in being confirmed with the wrong name. By this time, the priest I had grown up with in the church had retired, and our church had the privilege of acquiring a Bishop. My mom had become pretty familiar with this new man and brought my trouble to him. He didn't quite know what to do, so he consulted his Archbishop. This resulted in a private Re-Confirmation ceremony of Erin Lynn.

I guess I will simply wait and see what happens next.

A Magical Moment

            You know those moments when something you have dreamed of manifests itself in front of your eyes? The moment I desired was neither clear nor specific, but I had worked all my life to get to it. For as long as I could remember, I wanted to excel academically and be in the presence of the great scholars who I admired.

            It happened during my short-lived Spring Semester at Berkeley. I was taking a European History class, which delightfully surprised me in how much I enjoyed it.

            One of my most beloved spots on campus is the North Reading Room inside Doe Library. It is everything a students needs to be inspired:  Ornate decorations, gilded crown molding, and abundant natural light. Another feature of this great space is the list of names of significant authors throughout history that borders the walls.

            I had some spare time between classes, so I decided to tackle some assigned reading from The Prince. I looked up from where I was sitting to get a brief break and my eyes caught Machiavelli’s name.

            I smiled. Time seemed to stop. My surroundings became a bit blurry. I got a warm feeling inside. THIS is what I had worked so hard for. THIS moment to immerse myself in great knowledge and meet one of the great scholars of our time.

No Valentine For This Ginger

Twenty years now and no real valentine. I’m not complaining. My dad is and always has been my valentine, with the exception of the year I was in Berkeley:  Not going to lie that was kind of disappointing. Anyways, I have always been satisfied with the card and candy or stuffed animal that my dad left for me at the kitchen table.

My Junior year of high school I was working on a charity event after school and my crush of multiple years just so happened to ask me who my valentine was. I kind of sheepishly answered, “my dad.” He burst into chuckles and started telling a buddy of his how funny it was that this girl had her dad as a valentine.

So guys, if you aren’t going to go out of your way to make tomorrow special for a girl, at the very least don’t do something to make this celebration of love any worse for her.

Title Explanation

There have been many questions and controversy surrounding the title I chose for my blog:  “I Lost My Boots In Berkeley.” I first stated that the title is true both literally and figuratively. I quickly learned that this led to many mis-interpretations. So, now that this blog is nearly a month old with almost 300 pageviews (THANK YOU!), I am going to attempt to steer all my readers/followers in the correct direction for interpretation and understanding. Obviously, the literal meaning is that my precious pair of cowboy boots was lost in shipping during the move from Berkeley to back home, in Carrollton. They were special to me because a dear family friend had given them to me after she was no longer able to use them. They were worn in just the right amount:  Not too much, not too little, and they fit pretty well. Plus, they had a history, a story, to accompany them. I was absolutely devastated when I learned that one of the three large boxes my mom and I shipped did not make it to its destination. I felt I had lost who I was mentally, personally, and emotionally, and now that a significant portion of my physical belongings were lost, I didn’t even have material things to use as a crutch. Even more unfortunate was that this box also contained all of my schoolwork and Cal gear, making it almost as if I never completed a semester at Berkeley (relatively successfully) let alone attempted a second semester. In my very confused and distraught mind, my college experience seemed simply like a whispy image, a memory that I couldn’t bring any real manifestation to.

Now to tackle the confusing and controversial figurative meaning of the title. I meant it to come off as losing my mind, my personality, my being, what I had thought made me, me. No, it has nothing to do with the phrase “knocking boots;” and no, I have no intentions of trying to be the next Carrie Bradshaw.

I chose not to listen to those who suggested to change the title because I fell in love with it, and if you know me, you know that if I have my mind, or even more dangerous, heart, set on something, I will do everything in my power to make it happen.

Originally, I wanted to have a title based off of Robert Frost’s poem, “The Road Not Taken” because it was introduced to me by a teacher who had a great significance on my education and who I admire as a person to this day. Well, it turns out that I was far from the first person to want to use Frost’s title for inspiration. Basically every domain related to roads not taken, ironically, had been taken. Then, one day while I wasn’t directly thinking about blog titles, the idea of “I Lost My Boots In Berkeley” came to me, and I was head over heels! (Punny, I know.)

I would like to thank Tess, Keith, Carolyn, and Jean for supporting and sometimes pushing me to start this blog.

I realize it probably would have been more appropriate to share this piece as my first post, but in case you haven’t noticed I am no longer devoted to “doing things the way they are supposed to be done.”

Unnecessary Complexity

I was going through some of the work I did in high school and came across this poem I wrote about poetry for my Sophomore English class. It made me smile, and I hope it brings you a similar reaction.

What makes a poem great?
It has to be confusing and commence debate
Heaven forbid it makes sense
It's entertaining to the author,
At the reader's expense
Who are these authors?
The great ones are on some kind of drug
They don't have any real job; they're nothing but a big lug
A poem does not convey any real thought
Try searching for one and you will end up distraught
If you think about it, poets are conceited
They write about themselves, leaving everyone else cheated
The only benefit I can see
Would be if you want to leave this world for awhile, and just flee