Postcard from San Diego
I started off my sophomore year by fighting a bat.
So the day before classes start, I’m there in the dorm living room talking to my new roommate. It’s another sunny (as promised) San Diego day when that supposedly nocturnal, flying rodent careened into the dorm. At first I thought it was a sparrow, but birds aren’t so hairy. Anyway, the bat flies around the living room for a minute, then glides down the hallway, into my room, and mysteriously disappears. Anxiously, I lifted up the covers, awaiting a jumpscare that never came. The bat wasn’t in the closet, underneath my desk, and wasn’t tucked in. It disappeared.
And it stayed disappeared for another seven hours until my roommate looked up towards the air vent and saw two eyes staring back at him. So we called someone useless who was supposed to be useful before deciding, screw it, it’s a 2 on 1, let’s take care of it ourselves. So we unscrewed the vent and used a broom to coax it out. The bat flies out the other side and attaches itself to the cupboards. The bat clings to the wooden corner like its favorite superhero, Spider Man. I grab the broom and open the door, politely suggesting that this winged dog leave the premises. Instead, the bat flew in a counter clockwise circle for the next thirty minutes. Or at least it felt that long. A couple random girls stopped by and supported us from the hallway—by screaming. Eventually my roommate gets the idea to take out the screen doors from the windows, which we use to corner it until it decides to leave through the window. But this bat is stubborn. I lose patience and decide to use my weapon bat the bat away. Then my roommate bats the bat, then I bat the bat, and we play a little tennis rally until that asshole finally leaves. Go ahead, call PETA on me. Just remember who saved you all from another pandemic.
That’s about as interesting as my sophomore year gets. Sorry. Go read something else if you want. Honestly (he said, in his “nonfiction” piece) I saw a boring semester coming from the outset.
Over the first two years of college, I lived in a suite with three other roommates. San Buenaventura was boujee like that. But the larger space made things feel more empty.
I had seven different roommates over four semesters. You’d think that batting the bat away (can you tell I love this phrase?) would be an odd yet effective bonding ritual for me and that one roommate. That turned out to be the most we ever hung out together. Come next semester and he was gone. Or “studying abroad,” you pick. The next roommate arrived and left about the same, only without any bats. A revolving door of roommates since freshman year.
Mostly, I was lucky. First off, it’s a suite, you get your own room. Two of the roommates I met my very first semester remain my best friends to this day. But then, as soon as I move back into my dorm, one of them tells me he’s not coming back to college. I lay down in my bed. Damn it. I look to my left. There’s muffled giggles behind the wall. Two of my best friends, both in love.
Good for them. I’ll be third wheel again, I said, halfway waded into the Pacific Ocean. The three of us are at the beach. The two of them relax on the sand while I’m swimming in the water like I’m their unattended child. The water is cold to everyone but me. The cold reminds me of home. I am an unanchored ship. No. I’m shipwrecked. No, not that either. I’m a glass bottle drifting at sea with a message inside that I cannot read. During the car ride back, I am completely silent. I look to my right. I watch the sunset over the waters. Damn it. No one’s favorite, once again. This is just like high school all over again, but with prettier scenery.
They say you are most like the person you hang out with most. Sophomore year, I think I was most like my desk lamp.
***
One of the first things I noticed about San Diego was the often cloudless sky. Not one white smudge on that blue canvas. Nothing but blue. Grandma always points out that I pointed that out. That out of all the beauty of San Diego, I would manufacture a flaw. It makes me sound like a whiny child, which I am, but no one seemed to understand what I wanted to express. Looking up into that perfect blue sky filled me with a sense of awe. The scale of the planet, the boundless expanse of space, the sheer verticality; the sublime is the mother of beauty and terror.
How could I not feel ominous? How could I not feel like something so seemingly perfect must have a hidden downside? The simple answer is that I grew up around clouds my whole life.
I think my grandma knew I always longed for home. I hope she never took that personally. I always enjoyed watching the hot air balloons sail by.
***
I don’t mean to mope. And I’m not complaining about my friends, I’m just selfish. Admittedly, I was a bit depressed, but then I got busy and that really ate into my regular moping hours. The problem was that I was lost. Sadness fades—or it becomes tolerable—but not having direction, not having a compass.
So, in search of a compass, I went to find some compass points. Compass points, you ask? I would be happy to explain. All USD undergraduate students must attain Compass Points in order to complete the Career Readiness Program (CRP). Students accumulate points by attending different career related events; “Compass” points referring to the events specifically pertaining to the College of Arts and Sciences. I worked for the Career Development Center at USD—cool people call it CDev—as an intern to help pay for my degree. So I had to explain compass points a lot. If people didn’t get it the first time I’d just say: “just go to events if you want to graduate.”
I always thought it was ironic, me working at Career Dev; I was guiding others to a treasure I couldn’t possess. (Only kidding, I just wanted to say that line just now.) I was never that broken up about not knowing. College is the place people go to figure themselves out, after all. And I always figured I’d figure it out, eventually. But how long is “eventually” exactly?
Enough rambling. I was searching for a career, for direction. Law school came to mind first.
There was a Law Student Alumni Q&A panel in which I did not ask any Q’s and hoped the A’s would magically appear. One student asked the panel: “what was your undergraduate GPA?” There was a collection of laughs. I was one of them, albeit muted, because I would have worded it like “what is the lowest GPA you can have and still get into law school?” Most of them had good GPAs—surprise, surprise. But the guy at the end had a 2 something GPA. I forget what number followed the 2 but that hardly matters. Starting with a 2 and getting into law school seemed crazy. He gave us his life story up until the present, where he said he worked with the government. The bottom line was, he kept working and doors opened. Ah, I get it, I said to myself: it’s not just “work hard,” it’s also “get lucky” too.
That Q&A panel felt like a lot of them. Their stories’ hinge on the phrase “and then” instead of “because” or “therefore.” A series of euphemisms for “I have no fucking clue.” They treat their career as something they stumbled upon; something they discovered when they weren’t looking for it. Their advice feels more like a confession.
There was time for one last question, and one girl asked this: “have you ever had imposter syndrome and, if so, how did you deal with it?” My head perked up. Honestly, I forget what the people on the panel said. But I remember my poli sci teacher, who had organized the event, jumped in like he’d been waiting for someone to ask that question all day. He explained how he had felt out of place when he first came to USD. That everyone was ahead of him, that everyone else seemed to belong. And then the next day came, and then the next month, and the next year. And after some time, some hard work, and some belief, he finally felt like he fit in.
In a word, his answer was: eventually.
Later that day, I went back to my dorm and I asked my desk lamp if it had any advice. It replied, “stop talking to your desk lamp, schizo.”
***
San Diego is a mixture of everything. Architecture that mimics colonial Spain. Palm trees that originate from Arabia. And next to it all is In-N-Out Burger. So whose is it? The best answer: it belongs to the Kumeyaay nation. At the beginning of most USD ceremonies, a speaker comes out to give the Native American tribe a one minute land acknowledgement before going right back to not giving a fuck.
***
Speaking of public speaking, it’s not about what you say, it’s about how you say it (you know, I ought to post that horseshit on LinkedIn). Anyway, I decided in the months prior it’d be a good idea to take a public speaking class. Also, I thought I had a knack for it. I’d been doing public speaking forever (former middle school body president, by the way). How hard could it be?
One day we did this exercise where we would stand in front of the class and recite the thesis of our upcoming speeches from memory. It was only a few sentences, but the rules were: no stuttering, no nervous gestures, and no “uh’s” or “um’s.” If you did any of those, you had to start over. Turns out, “uh’s” and “um’s” are staples of my speech. I was up there for a half an hour. Or at least it felt that long.
It was hard. The class was great, the professor was great, my classmates were great. In previous presentations, I’d always winged it. The truth is that there’s no difference, but many of my classmates and I agreed that the class made things worse, somehow.
What helped me later on in the course was the realization that the audience was rooting for me. My classmates were going through the exact same problems as I was, the same pressure, the same anxiety, the same feelings of inadequacy. We all wanted each other to succeed. One of my classmates noticed that when other people got up to speak, I’d start nodding my head like a madman in an attempt to encourage them.
I’d actually go as far to suggest almost every audience wants the speaker to do well. Not out of good will, but because no one wants to cringe at an awkward speech. An painfully awkward speech can be just as painful for the audience as it is for the speaker.
For some people, the best part about writing is that a writer is only as good as their readers. For some people. I hate it. What if you suck at reading? Then what? Imagine how that would damage my legacy as a writer. Think of me, damn it!
I want to control the way I am read. Down to every sentence. Every word. Periods. Commas, even. If I could pluck your vocal cords like guitar strings, I would. I might seem really relaxed or just plain lazy, but I only act like that. I can fool you with as many colloquialisms and curses as I like, but deep down my desire is to control you. To play you like my instrument.
With writing, our voices can be transmuted remotely yet intimately. Writers can be heard across any distance. Writers can be heard throughout time. All while feeling right across from you. Listen, reader. I want you to hear me on the page. Hear me from next door or across town; hear me a thousand miles away as though I were in your ear. Hear me from next week, next year, next decade; hear me speak centuries before your now. Hear me as if I were still alive.
But I’m getting ahead of myself here. I didn’t discover any of this yet. I did not yet know how obsessed I was.
In the meantime, I had to take an accounting class. I was considering getting a marketing degree. So, as much as I was enthused to finally take a marketing class, the accounting course was required. Accounting is like folding clothes. Accounting is like reading the terms and conditions. Accounting is like the Water Temple in Ocarina of Time. It’s not difficult, it’s tedious. There’s a million ways to screw up and when you do screw up you know you did. Both sides always, always even out to zero. So after I would work through thirty steps or so, I’d look at the non zero ending and want to cry. My grade was good enough to pass but it made me want to C a therapist.
That said, I actually learned things in the accounting class. The marketing class was a total dud. I know, I know, I only took the one course and only the one professor and I’m also a dumbass, but seriously, just go watch ads on TV. I got more from the gecko than I did there.
***
When I walked to class, I would often keep my head down, eyes peeled for lizards. I remember when I saw my first “odd shaped rock thingy.” At first they make you jump, at which point they jump and scurry away. Other times they just hold still. Other times, if you’re lucky, you’ll watch them do push ups. I didn’t believe it either. Someone explained the reason behind the push ups. I forget the explanation.
Sometimes things are better without the explanation. Sometimes things are just the way they are. And the time you spend wasting. So I’d look at all those wacky San Diego plants assuming they’d come from another planet. It’s really no wonder that Dr. Seuss lived in San Diego. If you squint, the palm trees look like truffula trees.
***
Not a lawyer. Not a marketer, exactly. Definitely not an accountant. A public speaker? In the right context, maybe. The class I’d enjoyed the most in the fall semester was an English class, so I figured I should stick to what I’m good at. Plus, I’d always had the feeling I was gonna be an English major whether I liked it or not. Whether my wallet liked it or not.
Then I stumbled upon a path. It was bound to happen, eventually.
I met two professors who couldn’t be more different. Two years later a friend of mine and I will agree that after taking both Brad’s class and Irene’s class has ruined our ability to write normal essays.
I’ll start with Brad. I got an extensive email a few days before the first class from him detailing the work required of those who take the class. He says it’s gonna be 200 pages of reading a week, 10 essays, pop quizzes, all that terrifying stuff. It almost sounded cliche. Turns out it was a hoax. A hoax to thin out the numbers of the class. He spends the first twenty or thirty minutes of the first day shooting the shit with people as introductions. When he sees my long hair, goatee, and finds out that I’m from the greater SeaTac area, he asks me:
“Ah, so you’re a stoner, then?”
I knew I was home.
If some of you are wondering what the hell is wrong with this guy, then 1) the same thing that’s wrong with me, and 2) the class wasn’t a joke. That class, and the next two classes I took from him got me comfortable writing the way I wanted to. It’s part of the reason I write like I’m talking. Because I am. Everytime I type I’m mouthing the words.
The other class was called “Critical Reading.” Polar opposite.
Irene had some idiosyncrasies. She’s under five feet, has a soft voice, but she sure as hell commands the room. For our weekly assignments, she asks us to write a two paged, single spaced, piece without any indentations. And, at the end, we “abandon.” Whenever we get to the third page of the google doc, we are to stop immediately. I know, right? Some real woke BS if you ask me.
In the first week, we went around the room and did formal introductions. I say my name is Anthony Sharkey, I’m a sophomore—she tells me to speak up—MY NAME IS ANTHONY SHARKEY, I’M A SOPHOMORE, AND I FIGHT BATS. I wish. Instead I revealed, in a slightly louder voice than before, that I was an English major who doesn’t read very often. Piling on, I was late that day, so I had taken the last seat, which was five feet next to her. Upon hearing this oxymoronic information (minus the oxy) she turns slowly, looks at me, and this was our conversation:
“So you’re an English major?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“And you don’t read.”
“Well, yeah, I guess.”
“…”
She stared at me, blankly and silently, for almost thirty seconds before moving on. Or at least it felt that long.
Nailed that one, didn’t I? And I also nailed it when I didn’t get my first assignment done in time, and then nailed it a record three times when I forgot to print the next one out. So the rest of the semester seemed like it was going to be an uphill battle.
What gave me hope was this: Every now and then, it would come up that Brad was once a student in Irene’s class. Irene always mentioned that she never saw him becoming an English professor.
She assigned us a presentation on James Baldwin where we essentially had free range to talk about his work. And Baldwin, man, what a writer. Intelligent, sharp, and most important of all, vulnerable. So I talked about what I liked for five or ten minutes.
Irene loved it. A lot. She praised it herself before she asked the class to tell me what they liked about my presentation. I completed the redemption arc that semester. She even mentioned how good it was during the next class, which, at that point I was like okay now don’t lay it on thick. But mostly it made me feel good about myself. And continuing that momentum the point that the term myself came to mean more than it had previously.
I wondered if it was the public speaking that helped me. Or maybe it was the marketing. Definitely, not the accounting. Finally I decided that the reason I did well was because I just liked it. I like writing. And I liked the people that liked writing. Again, there wasn’t much socializing in Irene’s class, but some of my closest friends were actually sitting on opposite sides of the room. I just didn’t know it yet. I’m getting really annoyed with this word, but things do get better, eventually.
***
It took me a long time to randomly stumble upon something I think I’d already known, but here we are. Or at least it felt like a long time. Maybe I’m lucky it only took that much time. Memories are funny. I only remember moments. All the dead time disappears. Only the feeling of boredom lasts. Otherwise, everything happens at once.
The one thing I remember vividly—besides the bat, of course—was another moment in the kitchen. I was making some of my world famous spaghetti, stirring with one hand and scrolling on the other. Usually I’d listen to music, but that day I wanted to find a YouTube video to pass the time instead. Then I see it. “11 Writers: Advice to the Young.” Not sure what to expect, I hit click and started listening. The video was a series of clips taken from different interviews with famous authors I hadn’t read yet because that was a thing I was getting back into. Anyway, I’m listening and I’m listening and eventually there’s this one old guy who looks dead in the face and gray in the eyes. I will never forget his advice as long as I live. He said quit.
Seriously. He said “talk yourself out of it if you can.” What? “Because you’re probably not going to be very good at it.” What?? I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I became so entranced by it that I didn’t notice the paper towel I’d lit on fire. I pulled the burning piece from underneath the pot and smacked the corner to put it out. The other fire raged on.
The man continues on with his advice. To lay out the likely life of a writer, one where their partner won’t support them, they’ll have a drinking problem, their kids will frustrate them, and that they won’t get any money doing it. “So, find something better,” he says. Listening to that felt like I was getting sentenced.
Turns out, the guy’s name is Richard Ford, author of Independence Day. Not just some old guy, he’s someone who’d done it. He’d reached the peak of the mountain. And after seeing the view, that’s what he said. Don’t do it. I had never heard that before. I listened to it again. I listened to it another time.
The guy told me not to be a writer. And I never wanted it more.