I had a dream about school that wasn't a nightmare
I had a dream about getting a PhD last night, and it wasn’t a bad dream.
After having done two master’s degrees, an MA in history and an MBA in international business, I said no fucking way I was ever going back to school. I’ve had plenty school dreams since then, none of them fun. I showed up for a math exam not knowing the formulas, or an English exam asking me to describe character motivations for a book I never read. I failed the midterm and would have to really kick ass on the final but I was so busy why don’t I drop out why am I taking another fucking undergraduate degree that’s stupid I should drop out why am I not allowed to drop out fuck school I hate school.
Outside of dreamland, I said I would never do a PhD, although during my master’s in history that was the plan. I got kick ass grades and aced my thesis and got one of those coveted TA positions and all that. I could have gotten into a good PhD program and gone on to be a history professor like I wanted. But I gave it up for love.
My wife was doing her family medicine residency and never said a word, but I realized me getting a PhD and becoming a prof would involve a lot of moving around, asking her to uproot her practice and leave behind a family that she was very close with. So I said fuck it and got an MBA instead and I’m pretty damn happy about the way all those things worked out.
But now I’m 52 and the kids are grown and so, yeah, it could maybe work. The last two books I wrote were on par with a PhD dissertation; I doubt I’d struggle with that part. And perhaps I could go to a fancy school and be all snooty saying I got my PhD from Harvard. I’m not sure Harvard would consider me their kind of guy, though. My frequent use of “motherfucker” might make them balk.
Now the idea is no longer impossible. Perhaps five years from now my wife might be ready for a new adventure in a new place and I could split my time afterward between teaching and writing sweary history books. Probably not, but it’s no longer and impossibility.
Because I always admired the designation. I wanted to be Dr. James Fell, history professor, and I have no plans to either die or retire soon . . .
I was flunking out of school when I met my wife. She was a straight A student, and I hadn’t figured my thing out yet. Then I took a military history class with an awesome professor who was so entertaining and I said oh so this is my thing. I took as many history courses as I was allowed, including pleading my way into a graduate level one when I wasn’t even a graduate student, and sucked up to the right people and got into a master’s program that had 19 spots for 300 applicants. Only nine finished the program. Okay that was all pretty braggy I guess I’m trying to assure you I’m not some Wall Street Journal only got a BA and calls women with doctorates “kiddo” brainless troglodyte kind of history writer. Thanks for the money.
The thing I liked the most was telling the stories, and I think that’s why I did well. Sure the learning part was cool, but what drove my passion was taking what I’d learned and then turning around and transforming myriad bits of information into a compelling tale, just like that first history prof of mine did. In my thesis defense the first one on my committee to speak said, “I really enjoyed reading this.” It took the months of stress to that point and lowered it a notch.
Yes, I got drunk off my ass immediately afterward.
Last April 17 I was on a bike ride pondering my next book and not at all excited about any of the ideas I had, and that’s when the shit went down column popped into my head and I began it the next day. I haven’t written about fitness or behavior change since. It was one of those “holy shit moments” I wrote an entire book about. I was done with that stuff; history is my future.
So if one day, I expect at least five years from now, I announce I’m doing a PhD in history, don’t be completely surprised. Then my wife and I can be Dr. and Dr. Fell. Although if you’re having a heart attack, don’t look at me.