I have nothing queer to say as of late, life as a berliniamsburg hipster douchebag (lies, i live in harlem) has kept me so busy i’ve dropped my finger off the pulse of the map. Foreign affairs? Public sphere? Ahmadinejads? Background noise, rly. Currently drafting the umpteenth…erm, draft of my PhD Statement of Porpoise. Much like the story of my life, the writing is not going well. Friends continue to urge me to play the racial card — you know, just to get in, snare funding, then later after you are fully vested switch to something different. I hate that approach but with all the sneaky minorities out there taking up prime slots with sad life stories about immigration, loss of the homeland, death, moms and dads working in saw mills, siblings sold into prostitution, unfelicitous amputations, debilitating crises of normative affect, their oh-so earth shattering discovery of diasporic literature at age 4 (an awakening contemporaneous with the death of Math and Science), I cannot help but wonder if I should play the game that way. Which brings me to my question. Have you ever played the game that way? If so, can you pull some strings for me does it still bother you now that you are ginormous and successful?
(sidenote: you’d think nobody gives a rat’s ass about the humanities these days. while you are correct, rumor has it that Cornell fielded something like 500 apps for comp.lit last year for something like 6 spots. christ.)
In any case, I am still here and queer and according to my SoP, 100% AZN and ready to wage war on reprezentation… in the rarefied air of a steadily collapsing bubble.
