This year, in May, I faced a brutal academic review. It felt like a scene ripped from a literary version of Fight Club, minus Brad Pitt and plus a very sharp-witted academic named Helen. To be fair, I had it coming. My thesis, a constantly evolving beast in early-modern drama that somehow mutated into a printing project, was… unfinished. Worse, it dared to challenge some long-held beliefs in my field, and the guardians of those beliefs were not amused. The academic equivalent of a beatdown concluded with a clear message: “Next draft, or you’re out.” Politely phrased, of course, this being Britain.
My spirits plummeted. Disappointment and anxiety became my constant companions as I started planning a trip to Dublin, then a long summer back in America, hoping somehow to salvage everything. And eventually, things did turn around. But the journey was far from straightforward, a winding path I never could have predicted. Consider this my “what I did this summer” story, hoping it makes up for my recent silence, and perhaps resonates with anyone who’s ever felt academically lost, soundtracked by the raw energy of Social Distortion Songs.
Summer began with a flicker of hope. A new thesis outline emerged, and I dove in. Half a chapter materialized in a week, and I started daydreaming of a swift transition from “struggling Ph.D. student” to “man of leisure.” After an inspiring R.E.M. rehearsal in Dublin, I returned stateside in July, heading to San Francisco for Smashing Pumpkins shows with my friend Julie and Dianna. {More on those here.} I packed my chapter drafts, intending to polish them off in the evenings. But, as they say, best-laid plans often go astray.
The initial momentum faded. A few days of downtime morphed into an obsessive spiral about the writing quality. Would it be good enough? Another academic battle on the horizon? Would I ever achieve “full Ph.D. student” status, escaping the dreaded “baby-Ph.D.” label? {Upgrade is crucial in the British system; without it, program over.} My grip on ideas and sources loosened, and I felt lost in a fog of uncertainty. Paralyzed, I kept postponing the draft, promising myself “next week.” Each week brought new distractions, pushing the looming deadline further away.
Mid-August arrived, and I was in deep trouble. Visiting Dianna in Michigan, stress transformed me into the worst houseguest imaginable. Everything grated on my nerves. Every imperfection, real or imagined, loomed as a monumental obstacle to happiness. In short, I was a tyrannical, impossible-to-please presence. Returning home in September, I decided on a final two-week stand. Finish the draft, or quit. It had to end, one way or another, in triumph or total collapse. This mess, I realized, was entirely self-inflicted. My procrastination had landed me right back where I was in high school. Mediocre grades, few prospects. It took immense luck, kindness, and the guidance of loved ones, especially Julie, to get me back on track, to college, Oxford, Cambridge, away from a difficult family situation.
Stuck again, I questioned everything. How had I let things unravel? How could I squander such an opportunity? All because of a few thousand words I essentially knew how to write, but fear of imperfection held me captive. Indecision became my defining trait. Michigan, Massachusetts, New York, Vermont, New Hampshire – aimless drives, trying to reconcile myself with a bleak future.
Then, a small voice inside me began to roar. A primal scream against my own apathy. I thought of sacrifices made for education – relationships, friendships, life itself, time with my dying father – and, as often happens, music intervened. Social Distortion’s Sex, Love and Rock ‘n’ Roll album shuffled to “Angel’s Wings.” A lyric hit me with force: “How many times have you asked yourself / Is this the hand of fate now that I’ve been dealt? / You’re so disillusioned this can’t be real / And you can’t stand now the way you feel… / I don’t care what they say / I won’t live or die that way…” Like a switch flipped in my melodramatic heart, I knew: win or go home. Win or die trying. My painstakingly built life hung in the balance. Get up, dust myself off, and fight. Choice time. Pass the buck, or face the truth. And the real truth was…
Years ago, after a break, I committed to university. I devoured coursework, aced challenging classes, won awards. From UMass to Oxford, work quality soared. I could meet any academic challenge head-on. Willpower compensated for past academic gaps. Cambridge followed, a first-class dissertation {American equivalent: “Wow!”}. I even mastered “when to go out” and “when to stay in,” à la David Bowie. Things were good. Then Ph.D. program rejections hit, a return to teaching at UMass, my father’s death, more rejections. Job-like despair. Foolishness. Lost. The May academic beating felt like confirmation of “peaking.” No other explanation. (Sometimes, in weak moments, I still think this.) Success at York felt like luck, not talent. My dissertation felt like a ticking time bomb. The May review felt inevitable, deserved. I surrendered. But this summer, Social Distortion songs, particularly “Angel’s Wings,” became my unexpected academic anthem, revealing my self-sabotaging prophecy.
So, I fought back. The chapter finished within days of this realization. I focused on Dianna, Julie’s wedding, investing in real life, atoning for my stressed-out self. The chapter went to my supervisor. Waiting. Back in York, the news: success. Work needed, yes, but upgrade on track (December – fingers crossed!). I’m okay. Seeing the Ph.D. as a challenge, not the measure of my worth. That, win or lose, is the biggest lesson of this three-year journey.
The song, “Angel’s Wings,” greeted me as I left my supervisor’s office. “I triumphed in the face of adversity / and I became the man I never thought I’d be / And now my biggest challenge a thing called love / I guess I’m not as tough as I thought I was…” The album arrived the day of the academic beating. The verse then felt bitter. Now, it fits. Learning self-love, love for my work, for those around me… that is the biggest challenge. I took the hit, I’m over it. It doesn’t define me. Not through denial, but through a simple truth: we’re all winners and losers. And underpinning “strike while the iron is hot” is knowing life is finite. Reflecting on summer’s darkness, the hurt caused to loved ones, I refuse to live or die that way.
So, friends, I’m back. Dusting off the storytelling part of my brain. We’ll improve as we go. The site will grow again (help welcome!). Yes, this was a self-centered summer story, but others will follow. (Julie’s wedding music arrangements are coming.) YouTube offers listening options: a bizarre anime version and a sappy acoustic one (video sappy, not song…). {Former has perfect audio, latter interesting variant. Click if you dare!} See you soon!
