Curious

In your mid-twenties curiosity garners few accolades. In fact, with the exception of that narrow window between ages three and ten, curiosity carries a connotation about as noble as that of a yenta. This is a shame because it’s hard to posit maturation if you don’t embrace inquiry.

When I first met P. I had forgotten curiosity’s claims to virtue in my pursuit of more socially-prized ambitions. The eighteen-year-old P. rebutted my complaints of lethargy with a compassionate quip: “Boredom is a sign of immaturity.” Despite his impish intent, that little quip affected my humdrum perspective on life and I began to entertain a new attitude: there were always more questions to ask, options to explore, assumptions to evaluate.

Fast-forward five years. I’ve finished a post-graduate degree in English and have had to put the next one on hold. My current agenda proves more flexible and, consequently, much less disciplined. The queue fills with more than enough to satisfy: morning jogs, a husband (P.), God, a job, and twenty unread books. Yet a slipping hold on curiosity has an ironic way of dulling it all. It’s been too easy to squelch the spirit of inquiry these past few months. For the first time in twenty years, I face a September without the joy of classroom lectures, tests, and endless book lists. I’m just beginning to realize how daunting curiosity can become when it’s not prescribed in a syllabus or resurrected by classroom dialogue.

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INTERESTS:

class culture, literature and material culture, transatlanticism, transnationalism, globalization, cultural memory (fear/trauma, authenticity, nostalgia)

realism, neo-realism, neo neo-realism, magic(al) realism