The time I didn’t go to grad school
“Have you tried matrimony?"
Since I am a masochist (or maybe just curious), I register for the admitted-student open house for the only graduate program I applied to. I’ve already decided I will not be attending in the fall.
Tuition for the full-time, two-year program at the elite East Coast university (let’s call it “Phlegm”): $125,000.
Total merit scholarship received: $5,000.
A week before the open house, I sit across from the department chair and beg for money, as she stares at me quizzically behind chic, thick-rimmed glasses.
“Nice to meet you, Laura.”
“It’s Lauren. We actually had a meeting about six months ago, before I applied.”
“I thought you looked familiar. You’re here from out of town?”
This is not a surprise meeting. We have been emailing back and forth for weeks.
“No. I live here. I used to work at the university…”
“Oh. Right. Right.”
She continues to stare, so I jump into my questions.
“How does anyone afford $100,00 tuition? Especially when we’re encouraged not to work during the program?”
“Many students take out loans.”
“Do you recommend I do that?”
“No.”
“This program is totally inaccessible for students like me.”
“We value diversity.”
“You do?”
“Some applicants didn’t get any funding at all.”
“What is $5,000 going to cover? A textbook?”
She blinks twice and folds her hands on the table. I list my credentials: A 3.95 undergraduate GPA. 10 years of well-rounded work experience. A commitment to social justice and the city of Philadelphia.
“Have you looked into Rutgers?”
At the open house, I am surrounded by bright-eyed twenty-somethings. They are scribbling down notes, rattling off resume bullet points, and exchanging Instagram handles. A gaggle of smiling girls surrounds a good-looking professor who studies economic development planning. “I’m really interested in urban agriculture, but also transportation. I really can’t choose,” one of them tells him. I swear she is batting her eyelashes.
I am certainly the oldest prospective student in the room. And why is everyone from the Midwest?
A thin blonde girl, who is at least a foot taller than me, asks if I tried negotiating for more funding.
“I tried. How about you?”
“Yeah. They were pretty open to it. I’m still in the process of negotiating.”
I raise an eyebrow. A flash of heat strikes my body.
“Really? How much did they offer you from the start?”
“30,000.”
My mouth drops open. I scan her white, able-bodied frame, searching for an explanation. Is she part Cherokee? Does she suffer from a rare genetic disease? Maybe she is some kind of wunderkind?
I probe her for information. She is 24. From a small town in Kansas. Works in the membership department at her local public radio station and is surprised she was admitted to Phlegm. She is friendly and sweet and believes in “financial transparency.” I can’t look her in the eye without seeing $30,000 — four zeros — floating above her privileged, chosen head.
At lunch, I accidentally sit next to a professor who I once matched with on Bumble. My inner conspiracy theorist wonders if he made the scholarship decisions and intentionally stiffed me.
We go around the table and introduce ourselves; “I’m Lauren,” I say, “and I’m too poor to go to grad school.” I intend for it to sound light-hearted and funny; but it comes out bitter and flat. Nobody laughs.
The faculty hold office hours in the afternoon. I meet with a professor whose work I’ve been following for years. He is kind and smart and seems genuinely interested in my ideas. Other admitted students trickle in, and a lively conversation ensues. For an hour, I cosplay Graduate Student.
I throw my welcome packet in a trash can on my walk home.
During my weekly writing workshop, we are instructed to write about “an enemy.” I scribble down a few paragraphs about Phlegm and read it aloud. Everyone chuckles.
When I get home, I write more. Seeing the words typed out on the page brings me relief. I open Instagram, where there is a different sort of rejection waiting for me in my DMs.
I write more words, words, words.
Come watch me do stand-up! Next show is July 11th at the Painted Mug in South Philly, with a bunch of other funny ladies and queer people.