Fiction: Shitty Research Interest
By Rich Pounder
One of the first things the
director of my PhD program says at orientation is to “push aside” the imposter
syndrome that we “would inevitably develop” in our first year. I took their
advice, entered my first course.
The professor asked a question
about research methodologies. I’m the only one to raise my hand. The readings
were dense. I had to reread a lot. It took hours. “Ah, yes, they call that
dialogical methodology.” “Nope,” she says. “Anyone else?” Everyone else raises
their hand. Dan says, “Actually, that is...” (whatever the fuck he said,
idk).
I go home and tell my wife i need
to drop out, she says, “you’re gonna do great, that was just one thing.” she
spoons me in bed and says, “plus we already paid for 6 months of daycare for
the kids,” she’s probably right. the next class, the professor asks each of us,
one-at-a-time, to tell the class our primary research interest. (wtf? i’m
supposed to know that right now?) i keep hoping something horrible will happen
so i won’t have to go. like i hope there is a fire at least, or something
violent, but far enough away that nothing happens to me, or anyone i care
about, but still close enough that it will cause the professor to have to
cancel class. well, every single time, someone goes, my wishes for something
terrible to happen intensify. one girl says something like “I’m really
interested in the differences in reading outcomes between children from
single-parent households and two-parent households.” another guy was like, “im
interested in how female protagonists are portrayed in russian lit.” i wished i
had skipped class. i could tell her im having a heart attack. but i really have
to commit once i start, or ill look like an asshole. fuck, im gonna look like
an asshole anyway. wait, what looks more asshole-like: pretending to have a
heart attack, or having a shitty research topic that doesn’t make any sense in
front of a bunch of people who actually know what the fuck they’re talking
about? fuck, im sucha dumb fuck, just like all my teachers used to tell me.
they’re right. dad was right. the only reason i enrolled is so i could show
dad, mr. delisle, Principal Denkins, and mr. sobota inches from my face out in
the hallway spitting in my face every time he said “it’s brutal out
there and you won’t make it acting like this,” that im not a dumb fuck.
well...i think having a heart attack is less asshole-like, but only if its
convincing. i cant fake a topic. i can fake a heart attack. just when im about
to grab at my left arm, she gets to me, i notice how fuckin sweaty my pants and
shirt are. i was like, fuck i was too busy thinking about.... fuck... “uh.....”
fuck. “im really interested in how people...learn to write.” she just stared at
me. i grab my chest, fall on the ground and scream, “call an ambulance, ahhh!!!”
i roll around on the floor, i think im doing a pretty decent job, but one
student...some lady, is just staring at me, but like, not in a concerned way.
like she doesnt give a fuck at all. i hear the professor on the phone, “yes, he’s
on the floor, yes, grabbing his arm,” then i realize, holy shit, she’s
answering all these questions are they at least on their way how far is the
hospital from here this is probably going to take like 5 min or maybe longer to
wait and then on the ambulance im gonna have to go through a bunch of tests and
ill have to go along with it i think about pounding my head against the
floor so i can go unconscious and not have to do this in front of all these
people they r all staring at me they wont stop i get up and run out and
dont stop til i get to my car and i just drive home.
I don’t even bother withdrawing. I
just never show up again.
Rich Pounder is a writer based in Philadelphia.
His work appears or is forthcoming in Expat and BULL.