It was the final grade in my final course in my final year of grad school, and the first time I’d been tasked with assigning my own grade. I have always considered myself a dedicated student — attentive to deadlines, contemplative in my reading and thoughtful in my writing, usually the first one in group projects to diplomatically suggest how we might divide the work and a timeline we might like to follow. I had always earned A’s in my courses and on most of my assignments. Okay, I got a B in a research course that felt overly mathematical for my social work brain, so I gave myself a pass.
As I approached that final moment of needing to suggest my final grade to my professor, I was surprisingly perplexed. I considered all the time I’d put into the group assignment that term, all the journal articles I’d devotedly digested and the Angela Davis novel I’d fervidly consumed. Part of me felt confident that I had performed sufficiently and absorbed enough to earn myself that predictable A once again.
However, there was also this little Jiminy Cricket whispering in my ear, reminding me about that 50 page journal article that I merely skimmed, and that week when she’d asked us to spend at least 30 minutes exploring a resource website that I barely looked at, and the chapters in that dry textbook that I altogether skipped. It was natural, according to my peers and even my professor, that we were seeming to lose our momentum. Senioritis was clearly setting in, with the mantra in class discussions about how we all had one foot out the door and motivation felt more and more difficult to muster.
Despite all that justification and validation from the community, there was still this task at hand of assigning myself a grade. After a lengthy and complex session of internal dialogue about all the pros and cons of my options, I finally submitted to the persuasive argument that it was best to undervalue my performance, than to risk skepticism from my professor. After all, no one really cares what your grades are once you graduate, right? I landed on a B+.
But Jiminy Cricket resurfaced recently, to remind me that someone does care about that final grade — me. My concern has shifted from contemplating between that A and B, toward dissecting the process that brought me to that self debasement.
I remember when I was a kid and told my mom about the big office I was going to have one day at the top of a tall building. She teared up, telling me how happy it made her that I had dreams that would have never crossed her mind when she’d been my age. I remember visiting my grandparents and crawling into their bed in the early morning hours while the house still slept. They would shower me with encouraging messages about my abilities and strengths, reminding me to never take those gifts for granted, and that they knew I would do big things.
What happened to that girl with big dreams to do big things from a big office in a big building? I got smaller when a cousin accused me of swinging my hips too much while walking through the mall. I got smaller when another student characterized an essay I’d written as sounding a bit pompous. I got smaller each time I was referred to as “honey” or “sweetie” by a stranger. I got smaller each time I was spoken to condescendingly by a coworker of superior status within the very explicitly hierarchical medical field. I got smaller, and smaller, and smaller.
As I am now tirelessly applying for positions in my field, proudly claiming that advanced degree that I cried and sweat and skipped sleep for over the past three years, I am digging deep to reacquaint myself with that familiar bigger me. I am promoting myself through cover letters and phone calls, networking with others in the field, highlighting my experiences and strengths. It can feel pretty uncomfortable. And it is that discomfort that has gotten me thinking a lot about this spectrum we all live on, especially women, between unapologetically confident and harmfully humble.
I have no solution to this dilemma, and am very much in my own turbulence within it. Maya Angelou said “Each time a woman stands up for herself, she stands up for all women” and Brene Brown said “Courage starts with showing up and letting ourselves be seen.” I say we all make it a little safer for those around us to be their biggest selves, and we just might be surprised at how big we become too.
Jenny Simone Beaudoin believes that words matter. She found Maya Angelou before hitting puberty, and got into journalism when copy was still run through a waxing machine. With a Bachelor’s in Communication and a Master’s in Social Work, Jenny hopes to use her super powers to make the world a little better. And, more importantly, she hopes to help her daughters discover their super powers.
