Of Cats, Bathrooms and Fears

I am afraid of a lot of things. I’m scared of most animals, especially puppies. For some reason, baby animals seem to scare me more than their full-grown selves. I have several stories about the silly things I did as a child to avoid dogs. I stopped visiting one of my favorite aunts because I was terrified of her huge brown dog. He was just so big and he loved jumping up on people. I always felt like he would jump up at me, knock me down and maul me. Then there were my grandmother’s cats. It felt like she had a million. I was very young at the time, so my memories of these cats are slightly sketchy, and I probably exaggerate, but there must have been at least 20 of them, all different renderings of black and white, from the one with a black body, but a white stomach, and white feet, to the completely black one.

I remember walking into the bathroom once and finding one of the cats sitting on the edge of the bath. I froze in the doorway, unsure what to do. I couldn’t turn back. Mother had told me to go bath! But I couldn’t move any closer to the creature. It looked up at me, down at the tub and then back at me, and I knew it was thinking, “This silly child wants to take a bath, but I don’t want to move.” So it continued eyeing me as if to say, “I dare you to try and move me. Ndiedze!”

I could have spent an eternity standing in that doorway, paralyzed between two fears: fear of what my mother might do to me if I returned without taking a bath, and fear of this cat that I was sure would scratch my eyes out if I got any closer. But then my mother came up to me and told me to stop blocking the door. I got out of her way, and she walked up to the tub with the bucket of hot water. She hardly gave the cat a second look as she nudged it away. I quickly got as far away from the door as I could as the cat slunk out of the bathroom.

I spent most of my first semester of grad school feeling like that six year old girl, terrified by what was in front of me but knowing I couldn’t turn back because I have to make this MFA thing work. And I spent my time hanging back on the edges waiting for someone to tell me I was in the right place. I can’t tell you how many times I said to myself “What am I doing here?” What is this crazy, awkward, weird girl from Harare who can’t write about anything except Zimbabwe doing in freaking Wyoming? The answer is I’m trying to become a better writer and waiting for someone to tell me I’m worthy isn’t going to make that happen.

So much of grad school is standing up and saying I want it. I want that research grant. I want that award. I want to present at that conference. I want to do that major research project that terrifies me. None of these things are going to fall in my lap. No one will seek me out for these things. I have to pursue them despite worrying that I’m not qualified for such things.

I’ve been staring warily at all these opportunities, eyeing them like they are that black cat waiting to scratch my eyes out because I’m not good enough. But who am I to decide that I’m not good enough? Who am I to decide that someone else is more deserving? Who am I to count myself out?

So my motto this year is “It’s not my job to count myself out” or as Mindy Kaling puts it, “Why the fuck not me?”

Life is too short to spend any moment of it being held hostage by fears, especially by the fear that you might fail. Life is hard enough without having to cotend with you being the roadblock in your own way. Leave the job of deciding you’re not good enough to someone else. Your job is to try.

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