I’ve returned from the land of my youth, and I’m still a part of the warm Wesleyan fold.  The spring committee inquisition, as it turns out, is far more low key than the one in the fall.  Thus, I had only to answer one “sacramental theology” question and the rest were just checking to make sure I hadn’t taken up ritual murders.  My mentor had warned me that there might be questions about sacraments, and I was prepared.

“So, you know about sacraments, right?” My long-suffering mentor asked.

“Oh sure.  All seven of them!”

“Uh . . .”

“Ha ha, just kidding.  I know Methodists only have two.  Oh, well, three if you count bapticonfucharist.”

“Adrienne . . .”

“No, really, just kidding.  HA!  Is this thing on?  But seriously folks . . .”

Honestly, how can they not want ALL THIS?

Speaking of “all this,” I am beginning the long, arduous process of moving my belongings out of my childhood home to my dorm apartment.  Among the items I retrieved this trip was a “dossier” my father compiled of pretty much everything I’ve ever produced in my life until about age 21.  I will have to put my early writings here because truly they are Pulitzer material.  However, along with literary gold is photo documentation of what I like to call my “unfortunate period.” Or, alternatively, “my youth.” I look at these pictures with a mixture of amusement and a burning desire to put my face in my hands and scream.  My favorite one, shown below, comes from my 8th grade “diploma,” a certificate given to me because I had made it to the ninth grade and didn’t have to take time off to have a baby.  My favorite part about it is the embossed words, “The Look of Success” above my eighth grade pose from picture day.

I would like to point out my large red glasses, a look that I thought truly flattered me.  Also good to note is the look on my face, one that confidently screams, “I AM a winner.”

I started my career in Student Affairs as a Resident Assistant in 1997.  I applied on the last day and wasn’t sure I’d really take the job.  But my hobby is accumulating part time jobs, so adding a position that included free room seemed like the thing to do.  None of the cool kids were doing it.  So I knew it was for me.

Peter was my resident.  Did I ever mention that?  You’re not supposed to date your residents because you will break up and it will be an awkward power differential and it will destroy the community on your floor.  I’ve tried to tell him this for the last eleven years, but he refuses to listen to reason.

When I came to graduate school, I stayed a Resident Assistant because a) The School of Theology orientation, or as affectionately remember it, “out come the freaks,” convinced me I’d have no friends in my classes; b) I moved to a large city from scenic Pennsylvania and was afraid to leave my room for months; and c) dude, free room. 

I married my former resident Peter and they moved us to the Nicest Residence Hall Known To Humanity (TM).  We will never live anywhere like that apartment again, for all it’s 750,000 dollarly appraised value.  By now I couldn’t leave residence life.  It was what I did.  But with all good things, my time at my former employer began to wane.  It got back to me that bosses I thought were my friends kept saying I had a terrible attitude and should just leave, as I had been there too long.

The irony is that I had a great attitude and only ever begged to help make things better.  But when you dare question those above you, (and everyone is above you when you are merely an RA), you’re labeled as a threat to the team.  An instigator. 

So off to another pasture I went.  It’s more rustic here, my happy home with frolicking mice and many-segmented friends.  I am a Resident Director, which means I am afforded slightly more authority than an RA, with a disproportionate amount of hate directed my way.  I don’t mind.  All I want is for students to remain alive under my watch.  Alive and, ideally, happy. 

An odd thing has happened though.  I was in this place at such a time that many people left.  And I was the only one left sitting around, twiddling her thumbs, thinking of creative ways to program around sock puppets.  “Adrienne shall lead us,” those above me said.  “Really, what else has she to do?”

And the People in Power, they had a point.  Since the Committee Who Controls My Academic Fate need time to render their comments about my dissertation prospectus in an oil painting (I don’t know what else would take three plus weeks), I really don’t have anything else to do. So, due to this series of unfortunate, er, fortunate, events I am at the moment a Director of Residence Life. 

And it’s an odd thing.  Being a “Director.” Being a “Mid-level Administrator.” Because I have to get up at a respectable hour and dress like a grown-up and answer the phone without singing the collected works of Barry Manilow.  The buck stops here.  Mostly because the buck is lost and wanted to find the registrar but gave up because it’s in the administration building?  What?  Can’t this office just take care of it? We pay 36,000 dollars to be here, just take the buck and make it stop because I am not going to yet another office despite what it says in the student handbook in large, bold face type, thank you very much.

And I thought that this job would mean, as the bard sayeth, “Mo’ money, mo’ problems.” But resident Peter usefully pointed out that this differs from what would have been my fate had I ignored the dearth in staffing, “no money, mo’ problems.” An asset to my first floor community, that one.

So off to work I go.  To try to figure out the great mysteries of room changes and seek enlightenment through parent contact. 

Or maybe to hide under my desk. 

We’ll see how the day goes.