From high school dropout to PhD student
So last week I announced that I’d been accepted into a PhD program at UT Austin, and I gave a brief overview of my academic history, notably the fact that I dropped out of high school when I was 14. A lot of people were surprised and curious about this. Even more people told me that they felt seen or inspired, because they too struggled academically despite having greater academic ambition. I’ve hesitated to share these parts of my life in the past, because I felt like I needed to foreground a version of myself that was marketable/brandable, or maybe that I needed to seem as perfect as possible. I’m starting to understand that honesty is more authentic than manufactured confidence, so here’s some honesty.
I wanna start this off by disclosing that I am not a motivational speaker, and I have incredibly low self-worth. I also don’t consider myself to be particularly brilliant or lucky or clever. What I do have is pathological single-mindedness and a refusal to give up on something I’ve decided I want. Judy Hopps from Zootopia says it best:
“He was right about one thing: I don’t know when to quit.”
Drake, 2009
“I don’t ask how hard the work is.” - Luisa, “Encanto”
2003–2006: Adolescence and juvenile delinquency
I’ve always aspired to have a PhD, even before I knew what I wanted to study. I was 16 when I found belly dance, and that’s when everything changed for me. That was the moment that I flew out of monochromatic Kansas and into technicolor Oz—it elucidated my calling in life, and I knew I needed to go to school for dance so that I could stay ensconced in that community physically, spiritually, and professionally. The formula was simple—bachelor’s, master’s, PhD—but the journey was fraught.
I was not a good student. Something about me is that I cannot make myself focus on something when I don’t care about it, and to me, I didn’t care about school. I didn’t understand how learning about the same 6 historical events over and over again, reading shitty old books, and doing long division by hand was relevant to my life, so for the most part, I skipped school and class as often as I could. Somehow I always managed to make it back for theater class, but you wouldn’t catch me doing math homework, or any homework, for that matter.
In my social media post about this, I wrote about how my teachers were ambivalent towards me. Aside from my theater teacher, my teachers thought I was lazy, unmotivated, and unintelligent. I have always struggled with an intense distrust and resentful attitude towards authority, and as an adult, I understand now it’s because the authorities in my life never treated me like I was worth any respect. I have a visceral memory of a teacher screaming at me across the classroom, “Are you ever going to turn in any makeup work?” (Well, I might have, but not anymore, asshole.) It also didn’t help that I was part of the goth and emo clique, and we allegedly caused a not-insignificant amount of mayhem on campus, but I wouldn’t know anything about that.
I wasn’t “too cool for school.” I just didn’t care about school, because school didn’t care about me. I don’t blame my teachers for letting me slip through the cracks. On the outside, I was a juvenile delinquent who could give a shit about education. On the inside, I struggled daily with self-regulation and trying to understand the unwritten rules of social interaction. I still struggle with these things.
2010: Texas community colleges and the itinerant goal posts of developmental math
If you asked me how I got into community college without a high school education, I’d tell you Texas has really weird education laws. All you needed to do in order to go to community college was be 18 years old, so that’s what I did. When you come in without SAT scores and only a loose handful of grade school credits, you have to take placement exams in order to enroll. And if you do poorly enough on those exams, you’re put in developmental classes until you can get up to “college level” classes. I aced all of my placement tests… except math.
Something fun to learn about core class credits in Texas colleges: They change every 2 years, and if the classes you’ve finished aren’t “college level,” they no longer count towards your degree. So as a certifiable gay who can’t do math, I spent years retaking the same developmental courses trying to claw my way into college algebra, but it seemed like any time I thought I was getting close, I’d have move for a new job, or take a semester off to focus on working and saving money. By the time I could go back, the goal posts had been shifted once again, and every time they shifted, I’d have to retake the placement exam and start all over. I probably took 5 or 6 developmental math classes before I was able to finish my 2 college-level math classes. (Still can’t do long division by hand, but who cares? That’s why God made calculators.)
I was also experiencing the crushing loss of my father and the terror of navigating adulthood alone. After he died, my mom sold our childhood home to go take care of her parents, and I had figure out a lot of things on my own: I’d never paid a bill, never had a job, didn’t have a high school education, and the one person who would have helped me couldn’t help me anymore. Having no money management skills and no awareness of my bank accounts caused me to burn through the savings I was given because of years of overdraft fees and moving every year or so for a new job. Instability and precarity make it very challenging to focus on school, but I refused to give up, even though I couldn’t conceive of when this would end.
What’s more, community college is boring. I took dance classes most semesters, but otherwise, it was a slog of core classes: history, English, science, etc. Like I said, I cannot make myself focus on something when I think it’s unimportant. Every so often I could feel myself slipping into the “Why am I even doing this?” head space, feeling like there was no light at the end of this tunnel filled with PEMDAS and “mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell” and “the Boston tea party.” In the end, I dropped in and out of community college for 8 years until I finally had enough credits and stability to transfer to a 4-year university, which I did in 2018.
2018–2020: Speed-running my BA in dance
As part of my entrance to a 4-year program, I had to meet with my advisor to set up a graduation plan. I remember this conversation vividly. As a non-traditional student, my advisor asked what made me decide to transfer to a bachelor’s program before finishing an associate’s, and I said something like, “I think I’ll be able to focus more on school because being in the dance program will make doing my core requirements more bearable.” This was, apparently, the wrong answer.
“Don’t think that you’ll focus more just because you’re here. If you were unfocused before, that’s not going to change.” This barb hurt to hear, but as an ex-delinquent with a history of resisting authority and doing things out of spite, this barb was sort of motivational in a way, though I doubt that’s what she intended. I refused to lose focus, if for no other reason than to prove her wrong. And she was wrong: Being in an environment that I wanted to grow in made the monotony of STEM classes much easier to handle, because I was granted reprieve with my dance program classes. This was also a point in my life where I had a small semblance of financial stability: My spouse had a good job, and I was able to get by working part time as a personal trainer and entertainer while doing a full course load.
I’d spent so much time in and out of community college, desperate to finish something, that I was determined to finish my BA as fast as possible so I could move on to grad school. I took as many credit hours as I could during long semesters, and took my core classes over the short winter and summer breaks so I could finish them faster. It hurt, but I managed to finish in 5 semesters, not including the interstitial ones. And yes, I finished summa cum laude, “with highest honors.”
I immediately started my MA the following semester.
2021–2023: Master? I hardly know ‘er
Doing my master’s was fulfilling, but incredibly lonely. I started in Spring 2021, which I got special permission for since I was already a student in the program, but it meant that I didn’t have a cohort. This loneliness was compounded by the pandemic. For the majority of my master’s, we were on lockdown, and all of my classes were online. I never actually met any of my graduate professors, and only saw my peers in passing.
My home life during this time was somewhat disequilibrating. My spouse and I were struggling with our relationship since lockdown, and as with many marriages, this change to being trapped together 24/7 for multiple years was not good for us. Though we’re still best friends and love each other, we knew that our relationship needed redefinition. This change, though necessary, was still heart breaking.
During my master’s is also when I pursued more treatment for my back pain. At that point, I hadn’t been diagnosed, but since I could now afford to go to the doctor, get physical therapy, and have surgery, I spent a lot of time getting my back addressed. By the end of my penultimate semester, diagnosed with progressive lumbar osteoarthritis that was resistant to treatment, I had to accept that dance would die for me much sooner than I expected… but I still had to finish my thesis, defend, and walk the stage, which I did, cane in hand.
Drake, 2023: Master’s graduation
“If I ever plant anything out in the garden and it doesn’t grow, my first thought is never, ‘oh my god, what a lazy seed’… I wonder what would happen if, when you’re looking around your own life, and you feel like growth isn’t happening quickly enough… if instead of first asking, ‘oh my god, what’s wrong with me?’ you started by asking, ‘I wonder what I need that I’m not getting?’… because you were designed to grow when you have what you need” - Frankie Simmons, TikTok
2023.1: A dream deferred
“What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore—
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over—
like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.
Or does it explode?”
- Langston Hughes, “Harlem”
I didn’t tell my audience that I applied to a PhD program to start Fall 2023, because I was afraid of what would happen if I didn’t get in. In my mind, I wouldn’t just be failing myself, but showing my audience that I was a failure too. I didn’t want to disappoint everyone. I thought, if I got in, it would be a wonderful surprise for my social media, and I could go straight from my MA to my PhD without having to take a break.
If you can’t tell from the heading, I did not get in.
I didn’t want to take a break from school. Recounting my trauma from my 20s and dropping in and out of community college, trying desperately to make progress in my life, the idea of taking a break scared the shit out of me. What if I never get in? What if I lose momentum and don’t want to go back? What if I never make anything of myself? What if I spent the last 13 years in college only to get a degree I can’t do anything with, and I have to go into the workforce where my degrees are irrelevant anyways?
Regardless of my fears, my nightmare had come true, and I had to get a job.
2023–present: The oys and joys of having a break from school
3 months after I graduated, I got a job as an administrative assistant at a rabbinical school, where I still work. The drudgery of a day job combined with the righteous fury of having my dream deferred created a potent cocktail of hyper-ambition. I refused to be here any longer than I had to. The positive part of this break from school was that it was easier to focus on composing my PhD applications, but the stakes felt much higher this time around. I knew if I didn’t get in this time, that I’d be stuck in this dead-end job for another year, and my self-esteem would take a huge hit that would be hard to recover from.
In my mind, everything would be okay on the other side of a PhD: I’d have the education and opportunities I’d always wanted. I’d be finished with school for good. I’d have the reputation and respect I’d worked for, and my inner teenage delinquent could finally be at peace, because we would have once and for all proven to my grade school teachers that they were always wrong about me.
UCLA: Thank you for applying for graduate study at our university.
UC Berkeley: After a holistic and comprehensive review of your application materials,
Northwestern: we regret to inform you that we are unable to offer you admission at this time.
UC Riverside: We appreciate the interest you have shown, and wish you every success in your future endeavors.
These emails all came within days, sometimes hours of each other. They kept me up late at night, and all I could do was toss and turn while I pored over my application materials: Did I submit the wrong writing samples? Was my statement of purpose not purposeful enough? Was my project unclear? Is it true that I’m actually just unintelligent and worthless? What’s the point of living—
UT Austin: We are delighted to inform you that we have recommended you to UT’s Graduate School for admission into the PhD Program in Performance as Public Practice (PPP) in the Department of Theatre and Dance at the University of Texas at Austin.
I wish I could tell my dad.
Drake, 2008
“Everybody has dreams… and as much as you want people to agree and the people around you to be supporting your dreams, it’s not gonna be like that all the time. You’ve gotta do it alone… and when you get the ball rolling people will jump on, but if you don’t believe, nobody else is going to believe. People come along because your belief is so insane and so strong… but following your dreams is a lonely, solitary, scary, dangerous pursuit. You can’t wait for somebody to think you can do it.” - Will Smith, unknown podcast
Now that you know way too much about my life, I want to reiterate that this isn’t an instructive motivational speech. I was dealt a weird deck of cards in life and I made my choices. When talking to my therapist about my PhD program offer (after we both finished jumping for joy), I started recounting this timeline of events, and she stopped me and asked if I was proud of myself for how hard I worked and how determined I was. My answer was hard to put into words: I felt proud of myself, but to me, I never saw what I was doing as particularly “hard working” or especially perseverant. Like I said in the beginning, when I decide that I want something, I get tunnel vision, and the steps to get a PhD were formulaic and logical. I was just solving the formula and navigating the barriers as they appeared. As I’ve demonstrated in this prose, a theme in my life—a motto, really—is the concept of refusal: I refused to let the system beat me. I’d learned through a lifetime of experiences that no one was coming to save me, so I had to figure out how to save myself.
Barrier #1: No high school diploma.
Solution: Go to community college and take placement tests. I’d have to take a bunch of extra classes to catch up, but that’s just what it takes.
Barrier #2: Financial, living, and work instability.
Solution: Be flexible in your class load. Instead of trying to do full time, take 1 or 2 classes at a time as often as you can. It might take longer to finish, but that’s just what it takes.
Barrier #3: Boring core classes make it hard to stay motivated.
Solution: Take major or elective classes at the same time, so you stay interested in finishing the semester. A 4-year university might not accept all your credits if you transfer without a degree, but that’s just what it takes.
Barrier #4: Crippling back pain interrupts everything in life, physically, emotionally, and spiritually.
Solution: Do your best. Some days your best might be more or less productive, creative, or fulfilling, but that’s just what it takes.
Barrier #5: Hundreds of people are applying to PhD programs, and they’ll only admit 3 to 5 people.
Solution: There is no solution. If your materials are in order, it’s in God’s hands: a combination of luck, cosmic timing, and how you compare to students already in the program and others who are applying who are just as plucky and qualified as you are. This is especially hard during economic crises, because everyone wants to go back to school to get an advanced degree to keep up with the education inflation in the workplace. You just have to keep trying, because that’s what it takes.
“I wasn’t working especially hard. I was just doing what it took,” is what I told my therapist. She had to reframe this to me as determination and grit, but to me, it was just doing what had to be done.
To everyone who reached out to me asking how I did it—because they were also looking for a way into the ivory tower for themselves, their children, their friends whose education systems failed them—I can’t promise that this roadmap I drew will lead you anywhere. All I can tell you is that if you really want an education, you can get it. It did require a lot of sacrifice, but there are also some unspoken elements of privilege in between the lines. For example, I don’t have children. I got married very young, so I had financial support to lean on that allowed me the freedom to focus more on school. I’m white, a native English speaker, a citizenship holder, and probably a million other things I could rattle off that made my journey through this easier than it could have been. But here’s what I want to point out: I am not especially lucky, intelligent, hard working, or clever. I don’t say this to tear myself down, but hopefully to unshroud the reputation of perceived exceptionalism that higher education often holds.
If you’re asking my advice, I’d say this:
“There is only one way to eat an elephant: a bite at a time.” - Desmond Tutu
