Pernicious memories from grad school

Why doesn't it die?

I'm tired right now. I think I'm getting a cold. I tutored a student for about 5 hours today in microeconomics. He did a fantastic job; I'm so proud of him right now. I wouldn't be surprised if his semester GPA ends up at least a full point higher. I worked on some revisions for this pdf guide for AP Physics C - Mechanics. I tried, and failed, to complete some statistical analysis looking at whether students really did run out of time on the third free response question. (I'll reexamine Turkey's test tomorrow if I think it's worth it. Right now it looks like the score for the first problem is significantly higher than the other two, but there is no significant difference between the second and third questions.)

And all of a sudden, the image comes flooding back from grad school. It's a story I don't think I told anyone else -- I try really, really hard not to speak ill of specific people from my professional past. But it bothers me enough to write it.

I think my mother and (future) stepfather had come to Cornell to visit. By then, my mental health was deteriorating... it was probably early 2007. There was snow on the ground. I reluctantly took them to Space Sciences. At that point, I hadn't stopped showing up to work, but I think it was clear by then that things weren't working out.

Just in front of the building, I saw my advisor rushing outward. I called to him. He looked up quickly, and kept on walking.

Maybe he didn't recognize me. Maybe he was busy.  I've invented a hundred different reasonable explanations why he didn't acknowledge my presence, or the presence of my family.

But right then, and right now, it's hard to hang onto that.

I don't remember if I took them into the building after that. If I did, it was for a very quick tour. Another grad student from my year and in my research group expressed some surprise that she hadn't had a chance to meet my parents when they were in town.

Several months later, another grad student, also in my year and in my research group, had his father (and possibly other relatives) come into town for a visit. My advisor talked with them, and they sat in the conference room for a lunch talk.

And then, as now, I couldn't help feeling resentment. I tried to think of a hundred reasons why this happened this way with them and why it worked out differently with my family. My mental health was bad, so I couldn't play host. The dad had a PhD, and therefore knew better how academia worked. His family just cared more about what he did, and where he worked.

Anything to avoid thinking that it was directly related to the fact that he was just a better grad student than I was.

Because that's the weird thing about depression. You start seeing things that could be innocuous, but add up to a giant conspiracy against your happiness. I brought in research money into the group with the NSF; neither of the other students had that, at the time. But they got the computer workstations, while I spent time alone in an empty computer lab. They got offices on the same floor as my advisor, while I remained in an office three floors up. They got to go to AAS, and so did I-- but only admission was covered, not my airfare.

Was this their fault? Or his? Not really. I could've asked about getting a second floor office, but I didn't. (Besides, I treasured my officemates -- they helped me keep what sanity and human-ness I had left.) I could've asked for more things. I could've transferred groups if it really was a problem. But at that point I had embraced the giant bullseye I imagined on my back.

He tried, I think, to be a good advisor. Maybe it was cultural/class -- his father had been a prominent diplomat, and on his wall hung proudly an invitation to a dinner with the Prime Minister. I think he tried to reach out to me, and I pushed him away, telling him that he already had one baby to take care of; he didn't need another.

So why do I still feel this pain? Why does it go away for a long period, and resurface? Why, after all the work I've done to rebuild my mind, my ego, to give myself perspective and distance, to generate new priorities?

Why do I still feel such pain? Not hatred, nor desire for another chance. But just pain?

Sleep will probably make me feel better. But I guess some have expressed questions as far as my time there. This is another peek. Were I a stronger or better man, I would've buried this along with the other bodies in my psychological backyard.

But it returns, unsummoned. And I have no way to deal with this, right now, other than to write, and hope, by writing, I can wake up unburdened by it.

Not boyfriend material

I'm not boyfriend material.

Before you contest this, let me emphasize that I'm not boyfriend material now. Maybe, I will be in the future. Maybe I'll have the capacity and the interest to be an outstanding partner. It'd be too much a product of depressed thinking to assume my state is static and inevitable. It's not, and I know this-- at least on an analytical level, if not an emotional one.

But I really am not, not now, or for the near foreseeable future.

Here's why.

I don't have a job. This is used as a screen by most middle-class women in America. While on paper many might think that there are many out of work due to the general economic malaise, and not because of some specific fault of character or intelligence of the person, in practice many women have confided in me that it is an automatic deal-breaker. In practice, it's probably a deal-breaker for someone of my attractiveness level, but not necessarily automatic in general. And those who know me reasonably well would probably conclude that my unemployment is due to more structural concerns, and therefore an accurate red flag.

I'm still depressed. I imagine it is difficult to be in a relationship with a depressed individual, even if the individual seems, or is, less depressed with company. Most people I engage in conversation don't comment on an aura of general sadness that follows me around, probably because it dissipates momentarily with good conversation, or because I'm reasonably good at hiding it, or because people are less perceptive than they think. But being in a reasonably close relationship with someone will probably reveal the nature and scope of depression eventually, making it difficult on the partner. And while it is difficult to continue a relationship with a depressed individual, it's generally crazy to even consider starting one with someone openly depressed. Why bother starting with someone operating at half capacity, even if, arguably, being half there is to still be superior to many other men they've dated?

I've never been boyfriend material. I still remember, to my shame, a girl in high school explaining, matter-of-factly, that I'm the kind of guy they like to marry, not date. Harsh, but accurate, especially because I was way more of a doormat/counselor in high school than I am now. I think I also valued words more than I should have -- I remember giving my backwards dance date (Sadie Hawkins, for older folks) a poem. Why? Because I wrote poems back then. It wasn't good, but it was original and specific to the person. Anyway, at this point, words have continued to desert me, so I don't think I could even muster sophisticated, elegant compliments or whisper eternal truths into a beloved's ear, even if I had the motivation.

Most importantly, I don't think I crave companionship. I desire it abstractly. But, perhaps as part of the depression, I don't seek some sort of completion of myself. It makes sense -- a person who, at some level, believes he is broken and unfixable won't seek repair through someone else. (However, I know plenty of people with non-depression neuroses that do precisely that -- try, and largely fail, to complete their lives and fix problems in their own psyche through relationships.)

Now, you might be asking, why would I even consider dating now? Well, a counselor once pointed out that certain things can only be worked on within a relationship. Fixing oneself to prepare for better and more relationships of all natures looks good on paper, but there is a limit to which a person can do this independently, or even with the structure provided by counseling.

But what has held me back, at some level, for ages, is the chronic fear of mental illness, and the desire to protect a partner from that. It kept me from long-term relationships when it was a neurotic fear. It sure as hell will keep me from them now that, arguably, the fear itself paradoxically led to a distinctly sourced, but still difficult, chronic depression. The same belief -- now intellectually registered as faulty, though emotionally still present -- caused me at an early age to decide not to have children. To make it crystal clear, I didn't want to be the kind of father to kids that my father was to me.

I'm not good boyfriend material, but not for the reasons I believed when I was a teenager, though partly due to actions and beliefs born from that time.

This is both depressing and liberating. It is depressing because, despite the philosophical arguments I have with myself, I remain emotionally hidebound to a crippling belief -- that I am somehow damaged beyond repair, destined to be mentally ill forever. It is a belief that has crippled me socially, professionally, and intellectually. And the persistence of the belief may be reason enough to, again, spare anyone from having to share this hell.

It is liberating in that, by not caring about it, even on an abstract level, I feel a bit more free to be imperfect. While my family and friends still have to deal with whatever the hell is keeping me from realizing some vague and poorly characterized potential, I will at least rest easy that I won't subject a close person to this hell for the duration of a relationship or marriage. (Even that sounds depressing, but if you can wrap your head around it, it is finding freedom from a fear by embracing the reality of its existence and materialization. Often, the fear of something is worse than the thing itself.)

Hopefully, this will free up energy to become a better friend. We do need better friends in our lives, especially friends that aren't trying to get into our pants. I suppose some of us need that, too, though there are plenty of other people willing and able to do that job. I'll defer to their expertise and enthusiasm.

My dad taught me a little bit about being poor

The story of my father is long, but interesting. I'm truncating it here - it deserves several posts.

My father worked as a mechanical engineer for about ten years for Hughes aircraft in California. He was grateful for the opportunity - jobs on Maui, where he grew up, were almost nonexistent, even for, and perhaps especially for, a college graduate. (He was an insurance policy salesman for a few months after graduation.) The new job meant $900 a week - about a 400% raise from what he was expected to earn in five more years at his old job.

He was charismatic and competent, and got to work on satellites -- including Marisat and some secret military projects that, bless him, he still feels are secret and won't talk about. (I doubt any of the projects are operational, or classified, but I don't press him about it.)

He fell in love, married, bought a house, a car, a ridiculously expensive fishing boat he rarely used, and occasionally bought classic cars he started to fix, but usually ended up selling for a loss. He hosted dinners, and was well-liked.

He was also bipolar.

He began to have problems in high school and college. But they didn't come to a head until he was around 32. He started missing work. At some point, he began using drugs - a lot of them. He once handed me a list of two pages, double-column, of all the drugs he had used. No doubt some barbiturates probably were repeats under different names - but it included angel dust, cocaine, heroin, and things called yellow jackets and little bennies.

It was during this time that my mom became pregnant. They had tried for nearly ten years, and finally, during this time of crisis, they were successful.

Meanwhile, my dad lost his job. He was admitted to just about every mental health hospital in Southern California. At one facility, he told my mom he met Brian Wilson. She thought it was a schizophrenic delusion, until she stopped by and saw that it was, indeed, Brian Wilson of The Beach Boys.

Eventually, my mom decided, reluctantly, to get a divorce. It's kind of tragic -- I think if I hadn't been born, she might've been tempted to stick it out. I think sometimes she still regrets it -- even though I've told her she made the right choice, and even her traditional Japenese parents supported her. Divorce is always at least sort of sad -- but it's quite sad when the parents still love each other.

We moved into my grandparents' house for a few years. He lived with his sister for a while. But it was too much to manage a man with unmanaged bipolar disorder. He lived in his own apartment, but that didn't work out well.

Eventually, he found some stability in a series of board and care facilities, large group homes, sometimes numbering about a hundred mentally disabled adults.

I visited him every other weekend. Sometimes he was a scary nut. Other times, he was lethargic and barely responsive.

Due to frequent visits at these large institutions, I learned patience and tolerance of aberrant behavior, which, oddly enough, served me very well at Havery Mudd College, and, I believe, in life at large.


The rooms were small, with musty air, but they were clean. He always had a roommate - some of whom were really creepy.

I remember Ed, a schizophrenic with a knack for guitar. Once, we walked in, and he had only a hand towel over his genitals, as he giggled having whatever conversation/experience he was having in his own head.

Believe it or not, I liked Ed overall, even if I was reluctant to shake his hand after that.

He was better than Tom, who was always drunk and/or angry.


He was always broke, and dependent on Social Security Disability payments for rent, and Medicare-Medicaid for treatment/medication.

Dad spent what spending money he got from his sister and my mom on cigarettes. Everyone smoked there - I probably inhaled tons of secondhand smoke, but I was honestly more worried about my dad busting out his (fake, but I didn't know at the time) kung fu during his manic episodes. He'd buy the cheapest, nastiest cigarettes available. He quit periodically -- sometimes because he ran out, and sometimes because he promised me. It's from him that I learned about clove cigarettes, that extremely rare luxury -- they were expensive, incredibly bad for your health, and wonderfully aromatic.

He outlived three girlfriends, all of whom died of lung cancer. Two were in their mid-fifties, and one was in her late-thirties.

For a man who loved food, I was surprised how he adjusted to the kind of boring food. When he moved from one of these large facilities to a smaller halfway house, he was treated to home cooking. He still didn't have any money, but he was happier. We would go to Taco Bell, or Winchell's, where he would relish unlimited refills and enjoy a beef Meximelt, or a glazed donut, courtesy of Mom.

Those who know me may be surprised to know that my dad is an eternal optimist. Every time he moved, he said, "This is the best place! The FOOD is amazing!" Every time. He was either a liar, delusional, or an optimist. Over the last decade, his medication balance got reasonably good, and so I'm willing to conclude that it was optimism. He was definitely not a liar, at least not a habitual one.

He is currently living in a larger facility in Long Beach, an odd mix of mental institution and retirement home.

Through the years, he'd been hospitalized many, many times -- and not just for mental health reasons. There were many of those -- unpleasant rants, either in person or over the phone, were something that was painful, but eventually expected. I was surprised -- after many years of relative calm, he called in October 2008 to tell me I was a horrible son, that he was a four-star general Aztec emperor, etc. Even at the age of 26, I admit, I cried, but I managed to keep my voice calm, and tell myself that this was not my father talking, this was The Disease.

He almost died many times. But because it happened so frequently, I eventually got used to visiting him in a hospital. Apparently he has a very strong heart, one which has saved his life multiple times.

There were good times, too. He taught me gin rummy. He had an interesting (read: vulgar) sense of humor. I'm lucky -- many sons can't poke fun at their fathers like I can.

We almost lost him last year from kidney failure. My relationship with him, even as death approached, has always been a conflicting set of emotions.

But it was only today, as I was picking up a hot-n-ready $5 pizza for our lunch, that I realized he taught me about poverty.

***

As long as I can remember, he was always poor. He didn't have money for gifts; his sister would send me a bit of birthday and Christmas money. I don't know when or how I understood this, but I did, and didn't ask him for stuff, even as I was spoiled rotten by my maternal grandfather. Mom never asked him to help with anything, including college -- and how would he have helped anyway? Asked his sister?

I think it was hard for him to take bits of spending money from my mom, and, for many reasons, hard for my mom to give it.

He'd borrow money. He'd borrow from Peter to pay Paul. A couple times, he borrowed money from me; much later, his sister would find out and yell at him. He'd apologize, and give me the money that his sister gave him to pay  me back.

My mom and I remember only one time when my dad was scared. We were at Winchell's, and he approached a tough-looking guy. He told him that he would return his $20 as soon as he could. Later, he asked my mom for that money. At the time, he lived in a neighborhood where getting beat up, badly, over $20 was pretty likely.

He wasn't a saint, and, even in his poverty, would sometimes use what he had recklessly. At one point, he got admitted to the hospital for a ridiculously high blood pressure - it was something like 220/180. I'm not joking. He claimed it was caffeine -- later on, I found out he had bought meth from a dealer somewhere in the neighborhood.

He never wanted to walk in the park down the block. I don't remember if he had been jumped, or harassed. We'd go by car from Norwalk to Cerritos to nice parks.

Meanwhile, I lived a relatively comfortable middle-class life. My mom was a public school teacher, and therefore not at all rich, but it was just the two of us. I never went hungry; I always had clothes to wear; I always had shoes. It wasn't extravagant, but it was comfortable. Hell, I even had a NES and, a couple years after it came out, a SNES. We never owned a computer until some time in high school, and to my everlasting shame and regret, it was a Macintosh Performa.

So I wasn't poor.

My dad was.

But he didn't starve. He had adequate medical care. He was able to live with some dignity - once he accepted he was never going to be an aerospace engineer ever again. He had fantasies of going back, even after Hughes got absorbed and resold and redundancied and everything else during the passing decades.

He was dependent on Social Security, Medicare, and Medicaid (in California, Medi-Cal).

He's a flawed man, even ignoring his bipolar disorder. And, to be honest, I don't know if he's an example of what's wrong with the social safety net in this country, or what's right.

The only thing I do know for certain is that, without exaggeration, he would've been homeless, and ultimately dead, without those programs.

It's not because his family didn't love him enough to house him -- his sister, a schizophrenic, lived with my grandparents her entire adult life.

I believe that because, without the luck we had with treatment and facilities, he would've found some way to disappear and die.

Had he continued to live in his apartment, he would've had an overdose, or done something that would've gotten him shot by a drug dealer, or a cop. Even at his sister's house, he was unsupervised during the day; I don't know if he did run off during that time, but he definitely engaged in self-destructive behavior including drugs, alcohol, and reckless driving. (He once zig-zagged on the freeway with toddler me in the backseat. Perhaps fortunately, I thought it was a game at the time.)

So I can say, with a measure of confidence, that my dad would've died decades ago without that safety net.

***

I'm writing this mostly because I want to. He's an interesting person, and, quite frankly, it helps me to process my emotions and thoughts in written form.

There's a part that's also writing this because I've seen many criticize welfare, Medicaid, and other programs designed to help the poor. Most do not cite any numbers, and some cite numbers without context, e.g., the number of people on food stamps does go up during a recession. It's designed to do that: that shows the program is doing its job, regardless of whether you think it should be doing it or not.

He's not a "welfare queen". But he's as close as it comes in my personal experience. And so, it's tough for me to disentangle conversation about the poor, and about welfare, from these thoughts about my dad.

In my volunteering in college, I've met homeless people who would drink chunks of their Social Security checks and buy electronics. I met homeless kids for whom homelessness was, at least part, an ideology -- quasi-hippies/anarchists, sharing and creating cheaply made magazines containing their literature. I cleaned human shit out of a food pantry, which means someone -- assuming it was a client, not a volunteer -- decided taking a shit in the storeroom was a good idea. I met two guys who were, in retrospect, probably doing a drug deal, whom I cluelessly interrupted, offered sandwiches to, and left alone to their meal, realizing at some point that one held an almost-but-not-quite-concealed blade in his hand the whole time.

I know poor people who seem so helpless and hapless that I sometimes want to scream at them and hit them and tell them to get their shit together, because they have kids and grandkids who depend upon them. I know friends whose parents worked in sweatshops, in the United States, and never forgot it as they went off to college, got good jobs, and participated actively in public service. I met illegal immigrant, the occasional homeless woman, and a de facto leader in the group at Pomona that showed up at the HMC graduation in an old, but clean, suit -- not for me, but perhaps just to wish the graduates well.

Being poor is simple and complicated.

It restricts opportunity, which can be simplifying. It's complicated, because there are multiple stories, multiple reasons, and multiple outcomes.

Anecdotes don't lend themselves well to analysis, even as they reveal things about the people we meet, and ourselves. But they do inform our values.

I admit -- my support of these programs are a product of the distillation of these experiences, and not based upon statistics of efficiency, fraud rates, longitudinal progress, or anything that's really needed to analyze poverty programs objectively.

But that's not how we decide whether we think something is good or not. We don't start from the statistics -we start from principles, formed by our experiences, our learning, and our environment. I think its the same for the critics of these programs.

It comes down to a moral assumption about certain things:

Do the poor deserve it?

Does it lend itself to abuse or dependence?

Can the country afford it?

I think that anyone claiming, one way or another, that their views on these programs don't rest upon some assumptions on these questions, based on our personal feelings, is not being completely honest. Objective metrics inform whether something works or doesn't - but our values determine the definition of "works" or "doesn't".

Maybe in the coming days, I'll investigate the statistics of these programs - how much they cost; the detected rate of fraud; the specific conditions that must be met; the proportion of funds, if any, that go to illegal immigrants. I suppose these are things I should know, as someone who has, in the past, advocated for the poor, and who continues to believe that the measure of our nation is in part based on how we care for the most vulnerable of our people.

For those who care, I do ask that you consider that, in my case, there is a real person who I care about in these figures.

Based on what I've said, maybe he's part of the problem. Maybe I should feel guilty for having had help taking care of my dad.

If it makes you feel better, I do have guilt.

But I'm also glad that they, and he, continue.