I should be done by now

So this is my FIFTH year of my PhD. I honestly did not expect to be here. At least, I expected to have finished by now. I have to also be honest in saying I am not done, and I should be done. Now I know what you’re thinking, oh but who says you SHOULD be anything. Well I do. This has been going on too long. I’m over it. It needs to be done.

There is some part of me, though, that kind of doesn’t want it to be done. Once it’s done, that’s scary. It means I have to actually, like, get a proper job. Or something. I have to earn more money anyway, otherwise we’ll never buy a house. And seriously, I need to get into a career that I actually enjoy. Yes, at 43 years old I’m still thinking about how to enjoy my work.

I have never once known what I’m doing in life. Never. I kind of coast along, get swept along. Things just happen to me. Even the PhD, it was like, oh, so I’m doing a PhD now, righto. I don’t feel like I really decided to do it. It kind of just occurred. Every now and then I have this sort of crisis about it: why the hell am I doing this? Why? I mean, I’m not hugely passionate about Italian; I’m only really vaguely interested, let’s face it. I always say to my classes that there’s no shame in studying Italian just because you really love pasta. And there is truth in that, but you don’t do a PhD for that reason!

So the journey of this PhD – and I wish I’d documented it better but that’s life – has certainly headed in the right direction as I’ve gone along. I just read my first post about my PhD from back in September 2017 and I can at least say that I’ve found a way to turn things toward the topic that interests me. I began working on the theme of exile in literature of Italian immigrants from a particular region of Italy that was ceded to Yugoslavia after the war. It was a good starting point because those people really were exiled in the sense that they either had to leave their homes or change their identities. I did my first year (2017) of coursework, essentially another MA really, and then second year was focused on Comprehensive exams (known affectionately as Comps). Once you pass your comps, you become a PhD Candidate, instead of a PhD Student. I did not know this and was told by a professor after he noticed I’d referred to myself as a Candidate in my email signature. <squirm>

Once I passed Comps, I realised I was expected to satisfy a language requirement. The program wasn’t very well explained to me, or perhaps I didn’t really pay attention, but it was a bit haphazardly organised so I didn’t quite realise what I was supposed to be doing. I was kind of floating about wondering when I was going to start writing this thesis and how the hell I’d begin. Thankfully I already had a supervisor sorted out, and he was (still is!) extremely helpful and kind to me in my vague confusion. So third year became all about the language requirements. I had to show a reading knowledge of a third language (I begrudgingly chose French, my most hated yet the most useful language). I did an awesome half course with a hilarious doctoral candidate from the French Department teaching it who made it fun and relatively easy so I passed the course, thank goodness. I also had to do Latin. There were a few options for that, Medieval Latin I think through the Renaissance studies department, then religious Latin offered through the Department of Religion (the easiest), and “proper” Latin, from the Classics Department. I chose the latter, purely because I could handle the schedule and still be home as much as possible with the kids. It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. Latin is super hard! And the amount of grammar we had to memorise in just one course was absolutely crazy. I didn’t think I was going to pass, frankly, mainly because I couldn’t remember all those million different combinations of conjugations and declensions etc. It was hideous. But by some miracle I actually passed both first year courses, so my language requirements were done, thank goodness. I technically should have done the language stuff in second year with Comps, but I didn’t, which meant I didn’t have as much time to work on beginning my thesis in third year. Which means, although I did some work, I didn’t do as much as I could/should have. And so by fourth year I was essentially trying to write an entire thesis in the space of a year. Which is not totally unachievable but it’s pretty silly.

Writing your whole PhD thesis in a year is only possible if you’re really clear on your topic and you’ve done all your reading and lots of the research. I didn’t have any of those things. I am the world’s slowest reader, firstly, and in Italian I completely suck. I knew my topic but because I hadn’t researched I hadn’t actually explored the topic properly. You can have the best idea in the world but it will change and grow and deepen and be refined through reading and research, that is just the nature of the beast. So of course that happened. Which meant I really had no chance whatsoever of getting my thesis done by the end of my fourth year. I extended my study permit for another year, took the fifth year funding option, and kept plugging along. Now let’s put this in chronological perspective: the end of my third year fell just after the first of the pandemic lockdowns in March 2020. I taught the last two weeks online and it was crazy weird. I didn’t know it then, but there was no way in hell I was going to finish after that fourth year because two weeks to flatten the curve became… well, you know. Kids were online learning (bloody stupid nightmare that I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy), I was trying to get into a solid writing habit (impossible with constant distractions, no peace, being at home 24/7, lack of discipline and focus anyway), and I was trying to refine my topic.

When I think back, I realise just how crazy it was to even consider finishing by the end of that fourth year, but of course I didn’t know just how challenging coping with the pandemic response would actually be. I am a home body and an introvert. My idea of bliss is being removed from society for a long time. I like writing and reading and thinking. So you’d think I’d do really well in lockdown. But in reality it just doesn’t happen in the way you expect. I didn’t start climbing the walls like Mr Chewbacca and the other extroverts, but I found it impossible separate myself off from what what happening in the world around me and other people’s responses to it. So, suffice it to say, I did not do the work I needed to do in fourth year.

I did actually get into a good writing habit for a while there. I joined a writing group and I wrote a lot in a short space of time. I had weekly meetings with my supervisor and things were chugging along despite the madness going on around me. I actually didn’t do to badly there. For a while. Then spring came, and summer, and we had to try and escape, despite the restrictions. All this effort to try and feel normal in a world gone mad just put me right off track. And getting back on was so much easier said than done.

This fifth year has been pretty difficult. I have gotten work done and made slow progress, and I at least know my thesis structure and can see the light at the end of the tunnel. But I can’t just sit down and write. I can’t. I will do literally anything (including writing lengthy blog posts for a blog I haven’t looked at in four years) to avoid writing. It’s horrible. What a process to have to go through. I feel like I can do it but I just don’t actually do it. Why am I like this?

The paths we take

I wanted to write from a very young age. My mum describes sitting opposite me at the table and glancing across to find I was copying out the newspaper headlines at age 3. I couldn’t read or write and no attempt had been made to teach me (in fact my mum actively opposed overintellectualising me in the early years), yet I wanted to write. I liked words. From about age seven or eight I began to write little stories. I never finished anything. But I had to write. At age ten I was given a diary, essentially just a blank notebook, for Christmas and I began to write daily. It was nothing special or particularly clever. In fact it was downright rubbish. But I just had this urge to write down what was happening. There were two urges: one, to write fantasy stories based on dreams or fairy tales; and two, to document things, facts, experiences. I always had this strong sense of the truth, and I felt that if I were able to represent it, document it in writing, it would be clear and remembered. I always liked history, especially social history and biography. I liked to prove the existence of fate and destiny by documenting serendipitous moments. I sometimes gave my stories to my mum to read and she never gave any really constructive criticism. She would praise everything and then correct the spelling or grammar.

When I got to high school, things changed. My urge to write never went away but high school was when teachers began to have an effect on me and I became disheartened. One teacher was more concerned about my messy cursive than the substance of my story, which really hurt me. Another teacher in about year 9 told me my writing was very clichéd and then proceeded to reveal casually that she’d shown my story to her daughter who agreed with her! I was so upset about that but I didn’t know I could tell her it wasn’t okay with me that she’d shown my story to someone else to gather criticism. I began to really feel like my work was no good. I knew it was no good. Not being able to finish anything was becoming a bigger problem. I wanted to enter writing competitions but I could never get a story finished in time. I still wrote, though. I wrote and wrote and wrote. Lots of diary entries of course, but some stories and little ideas, character sketches, all sorts of things. I went through phases where I’d buy a new exercise book, usually the thickest one I could find in the shop, and then go through and number the pages and separate them out into chapters of equal length. I’d write the chapter headings and the table of contents to match and then I’d write maybe a page of the story and never finish it.

I didn’t do particularly well in English to begin with and my parents were a bit confused about this given how much I wrote and how many books I read. But I always had this sort of immaturity. So instead of reading a new, harder book, often I’d go back and read The BFG or Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland for the hundredth time. I was comfortable there, but I wasn’t really stretching my literary mind. I knew that reading anything and everything was necessary for writing well but there was a lot I couldn’t understand. And I hated most classic literature and poetry for this reason. It was in year 11 that I finally ended up with a great English teacher. His name was Alex (we called our teachers by the their first names some of the time towards the end of high school) and he was just an all around good man who knew a lot about writing and books and how to bring out the best in his students. He told me the simple old piece of advice: just write what you know. This would have caused some to roll their eyes, but I was such a naïve little 16-year-old, I was delighted that someone had finally suggested that and given me permission to not think of anything in particular. I remember what I wrote for him, that first piece. It was a series of short pieces about my grandparents, three little moments of interaction between them. They were just my grandparents but to an outsider they were interesting and I think I instinctively knew this. I got my first A in English that year. I ensured I always enrolled in his classes for the rest of my time at school.

Of course, because of the way university entrance scores were counted (probably still are done this way), I needed to have decent grades across the board, even in subjects like maths and science, which I absolutely loathed. In Textiles, Photography, even Music, I got As. But in maths I barely scraped by with Ds. I think I got Cs and Ds in science too. I just wasn’t interested and didn’t care to apply myself. It had no relevance to me. I wish I’d never bothered with maths (it wasn’t compulsory either!) and I will never force my kids to do subjects they aren’t interested in at that age. If I’d done only what I liked, I would have done a language and art instead and I would have gotten better marks across the board. The arts subjects didn’t score as high as the maths and science of course, but if I’d been able to get As and Bs I would have had a respectable score of 65 at least and I’d have been a candidate for university. But it didn’t happen that way. My score was something like 52, not enough even for the lowest ranking course (something like nursing – no idea why you don’t need a good grade to become a nurse but that’s how it was). Anyway I was slightly disappointed but I took it all in my stride. My dad was really upset. But what could he do? There were still options of course, I didn’t have to go to university. As it happened, it all worked out as it should.

Despite not planning to apply, my best friend and I went down to the university open day. It just so happened that the art school there was actually part of the university and they had an open day as well. We cruised around looking at the cool art and I came across the Textiles department. It was fate. I ended up speaking to the teachers there and I decided to apply on the spot. Of course, I needed a portfolio, which would be difficult given I hadn’t actually done Art in year 11 and 12, but I did do Textiles and was pretty good at it. The teachers warned me: this is not a fashion course, right? I knew. So I scraped together what I had. Drawing from when I was younger, random sketches from Design class, bits and pieces, literally any drawing or painting I had done that was any good. I made a portfolio and I applied. I wasn’t super confident, especially when I found out that this particular art school was one of the most prestigious in Australia. I waited. Nothing. Finally a letter arrived saying I was one of a handful of candidates placed on a waiting list in case anyone dropped out. There had apparently been hundreds of applicants for only about 6 or 7 spots in the program. There was hope. Not long before the program was due to begin and I was already looking at other options, I got the call: I had a place! I was thrilled. My dad was still disappointed. My mum was glad of course as she is a creative person too.

Anyway, during this time I was still writing of course but I was not pursuing a career in writing. I could have made other applications, I could have pursued it, but those criticisms of my work growing up had really had an impact on me. I didn’t think I was any good and I put it all out of my mind and jumped into the art. It was short-lived. I lasted the first year in the program, realised I didn’t want to become a starving artist, and requested a transfer. I was fortunate: because the art school was a part of the university, I didn’t have to apply to do a straight degree. All I had to do was request a transfer of programs, from a BA (Visual) to a BA. So there I was, finally admitted to university, crappy score and all. I had to choose my courses.

To be continued…

Now we live in Canada

It’s been over two months since we got back to Canada. Only two months! It feels much longer. And It’s been a long time since I’ve written a blog post. I tend to do this thing where I have something I want to write about but not enough time to finish and publish an entire post, so I write half a post and leave it in draft with the intention to go back to it. But then a few days later I get another idea and I still haven’t got time to finish it, so I draft that one up and leave it sitting there. I’m up to about twenty posts sitting in drafts and I don’t want to just publish them in any old order. I want them to retain the date I originally wrote them, or at least began writing them. Anyway. I have trouble finishing things generally but I’m getting better.

So what’s happened over the last couple of months? So much! The kids have settled in at school and daycare (except we have to call it ‘school’ or Thumper gets angry). The Dude is learning French at school, in the French Immersion program which basically means he’ll be doing school entirely in French for the next three years. It’s quite cool actually and I’m relieved to see he’s coping with it easily and not finding it hard or frustrating. Thumper will probably be fine with French too – she already claims she speaks French although her skills begin with ‘bonjour’ and end with a slightly garbled version of Frere Jacques. We’ve had both the Dude’s teacher and Thumper’s daycare lady comment on how clever our kids are on multiple occasions and while I already knew this, it’s nice to hear as it makes me worry less, that they won’t struggle and be left behind their peers.

Thumper has also started ballet which she is completely in love with, and both of them are doing skating lessons which Thumper also adores. The Dude is a bit hot and cold about the skating. A lot of the time he is reluctant to go to his lesson, but once he’s done he’s really happy and excited about how much he’s improving. I hate to push my kids into any activity they don’t want to do but I do love skating and I know they’ll be happier having learnt as kids. I’m glad at least both are enthusiastic about doing and learning new things.

As for me, I’m now a teacher officially. It’s an emotional roller coaster, to be honest. One lesson will go really well and I’ll leave feeling satisfied that I taught the students something. Other lessons feel like a hard slog, and like I’m just talking but not really teaching as such. And it doesn’t help that my Italian isn’t really up to scratch. Like I can teach it, it’s a beginner’s course, but there is so much I just don’t know off hand and I make so many mistakes! I try to be honest and friendly, I figure at least if they know I’m a real person they will realise they need to put in the work if they want to succeed, that there’s no magic formula and no one is perfect.

My PhD is still really non-existent, in the sense that I still haven’t even had a first meeting with my supervisor, although at least I know who it is. I certainly don’t have any certainties around my topic. I know it’s going to be something about immigration, diaspora, cultural identity, but I still have this niggling desire to be involved in some kind of analysis, like philological work. I want to explore texts to their most basic levels, pull them apart and analyse them to within an inch of their lives. I want to come to conclusions about the fundamental meaning of those texts. And the texts I’m interested in are autobiographical texts, diaries. I want to uncover the innermost workings and reveal something profound about cultural identity through philological analysis of diaries. I have no idea how I’ll do this. But at the moment, this is where my thinking is heading.

Me the teacher

When I first decided to apply for this PhD and even after being accepted into the program, I didn’t really think much about becoming a teacher. Apparently that’s what you are as a PhD candidate, though, whether you like it or not. A teacher.

I think I have it in me to teach. I know I’m a pretty good communicator and I know stuff and like to explain it to people. Most people aren’t really that keen for an impromptu grammar lesson but I often subject Mr Chewbacca to my two minute lectures about Latin derivation, especially if he’s foolish enough to ask why a word is written a certain way or whatever.

The constantly changing goal posts

We have bought most of what we need to feel established in the house in Whitby. I found a recliner chair near downtown Toronto matching one Mr Chewbacca had bought and he found our old coffee machine is great condition in Mississauga. He wasn’t up for another exhausting solo drive and I had volunteered to go this time. But then we realised we’d only be 15 minutes from our old stomping ground in Oakville and, if we left early enough, we could go to Grug’s Sunset for a late breakfast and then skating at the place we used to go, and even finish off with a play at our old splashpad (which incidentally beats the one near our house here hands down).

So off we went, skating and splashpadding gear and kids in tow. Driving downtown was fairly smooth and the street where we picked up the chair was gorgeous. We crammed it in and drove on, meeting a lovely family in their gorgeous home in an unexpectedly leafy and tranquil street in Mississauga. We couldn’t find a Tim’s to stop at on the way so we held on and drove through to Grug’s, the first place we ate breakfast in Oakville in 2015. We went so often in those early weeks that all the staff and managers got to know us. This one particular beautiful, maternal lady, Mrs P I’ll call her, always welcomed us and gave us incredible service and kindness. She and the staff at Sunset Grill (we call it Grug’s Sunset as the Dude called it that when we first went) made our terrifying first transition just that bit more bearable. We ventures in today and were disappointed as, although we were greeted with a smile and knew the service was still of an exceptional standard, we saw none of the staff we’d known. But then there she was. She hugged us and the kids and was just as kind and lovely as she’d always been. She said she knew we’d come back. We had to break the news and tell her we were living 75km away now.

As we drove away Mr C and I didn’t even have to say anything. We knew we were both wishing we’d just returned to Oakville, despite the cost.

We had an hour before skating began so we drove up to Lions Valley and the kids played. It was beautiful and more peaceful than I remember. We then drove to the community centre for the public skating session. Thumper has been desperate to get on the ice and both kids were so excited. I knew it’d be a challenge as she clearly thinks she’ll be able to just skate straight away. She can easily walk around in skates so that’s something. But skating is a whole other thing! At just a few days past three, she is about as young as you start skating, even by Canadian standards I think.

Dude was amazing, he took about ten minutes to warm up and get used to it again and then he was off going round all by himself. Thumper at first couldn’t really even stand up. I let her grab one of the frames they have available in the learners’ area, and she couldn’t really do anything but slip and wriggle about on the ice. It was interesting though, she didn’t get angry and frustrated immediately. She laughed and kept trying. After about 20 minutes, she could pull herself up to standing. Then she managed to stand and let go of the frame. I watched her carefully pushing out her feet to try and mimic the movement needed to skate. The progress was visible by the minute, it was quite something. After an hour, she actually stood, let go, and skated or shuffled a few steps quite gracefully before falling. She didn’t even really want me helping. I tried to line up the frame at the right angle for her to grab on but she didn’t want that, she had her own ideas about how she’d use the frame. She then pushed it away and wanted me to skate with her but only holding one hand! And she actually did this! The session was only an hour and a half total, and she had a couple of extreme meltdowns during that time. But overall, I think she enjoyed it and she’ll be a great skater in no time. It was exhausting dealing with her but that’s just how it is generally with her, especially since three has arrived.

After skating we went through our old Tim’s drive thru and to the splashpad. The Dude recognised everything and it was so great to see him really enjoying being there. He even made a friend! Thumper, who has recently toilet trained herself for wee but not poo, rushed up asking for a nappy but it was too late, the poo came and we had to get her cleaned up. It was fine but she didn’t like that happening.

Anyway, they had so much fun and we loved being back in Oakville and kept remarking to each other how much we wish we’d gone back there. We noticed a house for sale on the corner of our old street and looked up the asking price out of curiosity. $825k. Totally unaffordable. The market may never recover from its inflation.

Time will tell as we have a year here in Whitby but I feel like we may end up back in Oakville. It’ll depend on a few things, like how well Dude deals with school, especially if we put him in French Immersion. I can’t believe that yet again we’re already talking about moving. We are yet again proven crazy!

Back to reality

Here we are, back in the land of affordable but sub-par coffee. Back to no draining board, driving on the other side, fruit flies, milk in bags, unfinished construction, compost bins, expensive cheese, weird chip flavours, high fructose corn syrup, green grass, seasonal traditions, consignment stores, cheques, great service. Gone are the $5 lattes, the scorching sun, the brown, the cheap mobile plans, direct debits, knowing my way around, playground toilets, fresh seafood.

It’s been easier to feel at home as we knew what to expect. But also hard because it’s proving problematic being in this new place which is just slightly too working class.

One week

Every time we tell people we’re a few days in, they’re like, wow, that’s impressive! But we’ve done this better. Tonight is the first time we’re sleeping in our own beds!

The arrival

Unlike our previous Canadian adventure, we’d made sure our flight arrived into Toronto in plenty of time to get through immigration and apply on the spot for our social insurance numbers. Standing in line at the airport is nothing compared to standing in line at Service Canada.

So we landed at about 5pm, one fairly hyper almost three year old and absolutely shattered and sleep-deprived six year old in tow. There were so many innovative uses for bags along the way – as pillows, seats, stepping stools, you name it. The Dude was really not coping and would sit and start to fall asleep at every opportunity. The little one, have slept most of the last leg, was a bit more chipper and amusing everyone she went along with questions about planes and bags and dogs and nail polish.

Our visas were expertly and swiftly issued by a lovely lady who suggested we might like to apply for PR after a year as, with the right money, we’d be eligible apparently. Then we made our way around the corner to get our SINs. After a delightful conversation with an extremely helpful guy, we waited in line again with numerous other families and individuals. After what seemed like an eternity, mine was issued but Mr Chewbacca had a more complicated case so we’d have to go to Service Canada later. Frustrating!

We then went to collect our dozen luggage pieces, hoping they hadn’t been sent to unclaimed baggage already which, miraculously, were all there! No lost bags! Finally we found a way of getting everything on two luggage carts, while we wore our large packs and Dude pushed the stroller with a car seat in it. He was a trooper, despite being so tired.

As we went through Customs, we were told we needed to stand in yet another line because we had unaccompanied goods to follow! Huh?! I swear we didn’t do this last time. I found the obscure counter following the directions given and was immediately told to “wait at the blue clock”. The who and what now? I found this mysterious area and proceeded to stand in confusion with a few others. As the kids began to bicker again I just lost it. I’d had enough. I went back to the counter and explained what was going on. Mr C was also shattered and began to question why we had to declare anything and the guy behind the counter was like, “sir, don’t made trouble for Customs”!

The departure

So here we are, at a hotel next to Sydney airport, ready to fly to Toronto in the morning. It’s been a stressful and intense last few weeks. I thought I’d document how it all went down as I’ve been so insanely busy I haven’t had time.

Originally we thought we’d have the Dude finishing up at school at the end of term two, just make a clean break, but because we were still in two minds about whether this was really a smart move, we hadn’t finalised our plans by 30 June when he finished so we let him go back for a few weeks of term three. It was good because he’d just have been bored and under foot if we’d kept him home but it also made leaving a little harder as he was really getting into school and his friends. His teacher told me there were even some tears from some of the kids in his class. We’ll really miss the school and his teacher and friends.

Our second au pair also finished up the day he finished school, although she caught a bus to Sydney the day after. She was with us only about three or four months but it felt like longer, yet again we got a really lovely person staying and caring for the kids. She had Thumper eating broccoli with a knife and fork, she taught the kids some French words and she just dealt with them so well. I was really happy to leave them with her as she would do everything to avoid just watching tv and would always encourage playing outside or playing games. We had a lovely dinner with her and our previous au pair who has ended up coming back to Canberra for a few months until her visa is up. I can’t say enough positive things about hosting an au pair and it’s not just about the ease of childcare. It’s so much more than that. I only hope we can get someone great when we get to Canada.

I unexpectedly finished up at work on 30 June and I did go for a few interviews with a view to getting something else for a month or longer if we decided to stay but it soon became clear that we were actually going so I suddenly needed to ramp up preparations. Although the lack of money wasn’t great it was a blessing in disguise that I wasn’t at work because it meant I had enough time to organise the move. Mr Chewbacca and I tend to be pretty good at sharing the load and we certainly recognise the different strengths and weaknesses we each have. We know he’s good at finding the best deal for hotels and insurance and anything involving talking to people on the phone but apparently I’m good at general organising, the packing and selling of our stuff online.

There’s something about the packing and selling that I quite like. The bits involving interaction with others and dealing with money I really don’t like. The making of lists, coordinating listings and timing and inventories and that sort of thing is actually quite enjoyable for me. I listed all our stuff online about two weeks before leaving the house. Because we’ve done this before and we have a tighter budget this time, we made the difficult yet practical decision to sell everything worth anything and take the bare minimum of necessities and stuff with high sentimental value.

Here we go again

It's happening for real: we're going back to Canada. This time feels a little more final. I think that's because it's for longer and we are unlikely to return unless there's some problem with visas or finances.

We agonised over this, it was incredibly painful making the decision to go because we're not getting any younger and we really just want to settle somewhere. Something about staying in Australia just feels like a mistake, like we're selling ourselves short. It's definitely the easy way out, to stay. We'd always be relatively comfortable money-wise. Maybe I'd do a library and archiving course and settle into some comfortable job with books. The kids would go to school and we'd just keep going, enjoying just being together and growing up as a family. We'd get a dog. Buy a house on a big block and put a trampoline and a cubby house out the back. Crank up the air con at Christmas and have a roast. Pay a fortune for a weekend at the snow in July. Buy a shiny new Subaru and go on road trips to the central coast to see our best friends in the whole world. We'd have a very different life from what we'll have in Canada. But I think going is the right choice, as hard as it will be financially.

Last night I had my doubts. I suddenly felt really vulnerable. The Dude had his first dental checkup in four years yesterday and he has a myriad of tooth decay, it's terrifying! Thumper also has some decay I think but I've booked her to get checked before we go. The dental work is free here. Not so in Canada. That's scary.

It's going to be okay. This is right. Our kids will be glad we did this. We'll be glad too. It's going to be just fine. And breathe.