On my way out, I have embraced acceptance.
I struggled and fought to achieve the end I wished to see, without considering, that perhaps, the universe created a design better for everyone, including me. Letting go of what I had drawn out, I thought, why not just try to accept what is and then, maybe I'll see what could be. A thought that enfolded me like molasses until my soul saw the world's lovely imperfections and began to declare, 'Mhmm, the answer was always right there.'
The source of my Langston Hughes, Rumi-swirled and Thich Nhat Hanh-peppered mood is the U.Va. bureaucracy - a prevalent force native to our area with harmful mental, emotional and physical effects, especially when experienced in large quantities. Nevertheless, I feel everyone should try it because it gives a truthful vision on the life hereafter.
For the past three weeks, I have had to ingest this bureaucracy against free will simply because of my desire to stay next semester as a full-time student. But according to the University policy, the University can only ration a second-year transfer student like myself six semesters.
Now, I am no Oliver Twist and I would never have asked for more if it wasn't for a melancholy night when I wasn't satisfied with my present and its possibly depressing future. I asked myself, "What am I really meant to do?," and my guru Ed's words - another tale for another column - drummed in my ear: "You are meant to do what life has been preparing you to do. Look back in your past."
... And then my Mufasa disappeared into the African sky, leaving a Simba vulnerable and all alone in the vast Serengeti. Anyway, I went through my old journals, projects, writings and the thread of inspiring memories and moments, and I wondered why I had wasted my time as an Economics major. Though late, it was still possible to take classes in my interests and have a second major. But the measly part-time option that U.Va. permitted only allowed me to take two classes. So, Oliver Twist asked permission to receive more and got the expected beating these past three weeks - I petitioned, they denied, I appealed, they refused. But the beating allowed me to feel the dynamics between people and power.
People are influenced by external factors - I do not know if it is the position or the business attire but suddenly, people act powerful and important - a scene similar to the West Wing. It is as if they are keeping world order intact, battling terrorists and making crucial decisions; one would not be able to tell that their main activities actually involve efficient resource use - or budget cuts - academic policies and funding. Whether it be the status or the suit, this power allows them to be moody. Their thought process must go like this: If I have power, I can afford to have mood swings because you are there to pay for it. Your future depends on my yes and my no - not any higher power and definitely, not you. So, rub my tummy the right way.
The difficulty of rubbing tummies is proportional to how much you value your dignity. But a sage who teaches me the nuances of Persian poetry gave me a parable that I must have missed on Animal Planet: When a wolf is preparing to kill another wolf, the victim instinctively lays on its back, allowing the other open access to kill him. But when the other sees this action, he backs away. Sometimes, you must be like that wolf and lay back. Your surrender lets you live.
Although I did the required surrendering, the cost of self-preservation became burdensome when I had to constantly say "sorry" to soothe a certain power to get the necessary signatures and forms approved. It was belittling. I made this person's job easier by being organized, completing forms beforehand and taking a Gandhian approach to the caustic remarks and rude attitudes. Then I changed my perspective - I needed to apologize, not ask for forgiveness. From its Greek roots, an "apology" means to defend one's self. To defend rather than to ask for forgiveness comforts my soul because I have control - and I didn't do anything wrong anyway. So for those who cringe at saying, "I'm sorry," just say "I apologize." They will never know - or suspect - the difference.
But throughout my suffering, I did meet a few messiahs: the Garret Hall secretary who smiled at every form I asked for and handed in; a professor who gave the much-needed witty and kind support; my new friend, the department assistant, who provided the guidance and the Kleenex box; the professors that wrote me recommendations; and those who let glimpses of humanity shine through their formal masks.
As the impact of dealing with all this red tape wears off, you realize that no matter who and what you encounter, you have the control to keep yourself sane, and that no matter what the decision they make, you still have choices.
And like that, in my last semester here, I am going to go out in peace.
So peace out.
Tanzima's column runs biweekly Fridays. She can be reached at t.chowdhury@cavalierdaily.com.
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