Dropping Out, Tuning In
From post-communist Sofia to labor organizing in the ivory tower & back again
Hi folks!
How are you? Greetings from the Mladost megacomplex in Sofia. Mladost 3, to be precise. You need numbers to orient yourself in the endless mass of concrete.
[Mladost, Sofia. A view out of our living room window. Photo by Ani.]
“Mladost” means youth” in Bulgarian. Now, half a century after the district was built, it’s a bit of a joke. People don’t really dream of living here, much less spending their youth here. They just do.
If someone comes to Mladost, it’s a pragmatic move. It’s a chance to have a place of your own – the same as everyone else’s communist-era apartment.
Nobody has a shiny, aspirational image of the microdistrict. But what I’ve found is that nobody minds it much, either. It’s home. This shit’s real.
We’re here because, the year before I turned 30, I quit some things. I’ve always been fascinated by the 1960s countercultures, among other utopian undertakings. So, I had my little moment of “dropping out”.
Today is the one-year anniversary of my officially quitting a PhD program in architectural history in New York. I agonized over it for so long! For months, this Bjork lyric was stuck in my mind: “It’s not meant to be a strife. It’s not meant to be a struggle uphill.”
Finally, I did the thing. YOLO, I thought to myself, and chose to exercise my right to say no. It was scary and it was empowering.
Then, the future was open. On the one hand, it could turn out that I was a “failure” – a fear many in academia have, as conversations with my former colleagues showed. I failed at the PhD and maybe I’d fail at other things, too. I reclaimed my right to do that. On the other hand, I had the chance to do something that really mattered to me and felt true. The third, most realistic option was that I’d neither do something amazing, nor be a failure. I’d just go on. I’d live in Mladost.
That’s something I struggle with, and perhaps you do too: the need to be special, accomplished, and better than everyone else, for fear of being rejected. That’s how “meritocracy” screws even the ones it favors – you’re afraid you’re not good enough, so you always need to do more. “Always be optimizing.” In the academic community, I felt half-accepted, with the constant low-burning threat of exclusion.
When I was deciding to quit, my American father-in-law said to me that ABDs – people like me who finished their PhD coursework, but not their dissertation – were “a dime a dozen”. I took it personally. I thought about it, defiantly. Was I really “a dime a dozen”? I, with my four university degrees. The super-smart girl who completed master’s programs at both Oxbridge and the Ivy League, on full scholarships. I did that! I’d already amassed so much privilege. When was it enough??
I was surrounded by people who had done that and more, who were achieving meteoric feats of performance and still feeling like they were no good. The best minds of my generation, caught up in a race to nowhere. If four degrees had not assured me belonging in some kind of exclusive club, what were the chances the fifth one would? Maybe I was a dime a dozen. Maybe we all were. Ivy League fools.
And if we were “a dime a dozen”, why was that a bad thing? This question is related to one of the best educational experiences I had at Columbia: labor organizing. Next to quitting, this is what I am most proud of doing there.
Some of my colleagues realized we were putting up with endless work fueled by vague promises of a glamorous future never to arrive. So they started organizing. I joined in and became a low-level labor agitator in my department. I did that! The grad students won a court case allowing us to form a union. Then we voted and won. It was national news in the US.
[The Columbia University campus. Photo by Jahsie Ault, @shapeofshape on Unsplash.]
For a while, the union was the welcoming, equitable community I’d always wanted to be a part of. A place I could be myself and contribute to the common good without a constant “struggle uphill”. Or rather, it was a shared, joyful struggle.
It was also laughable. The PhD candidates of Columbia University, who’d chased exclusivity and prestige all our lives, were signing up with the United Auto Workers. Indeed we called ourselves “workers” and the “rank and file”. There was an element of camp to it – voguing the proletariat. But, as with all camp, it was also real. We were hungry for a different possible life, one where we were “a dime a dozen” and found community and strength in that. Where we didn’t have to expend all our energy in being better than the next person, but could support each other.
Our “struggle” didn’t go far enough. I still had to stay in my program, keep my visa, and survive in NYC, so my ability to contribute was limited. Workers from other parts of the university – administrators, nurses – showed up to support us, while not many of us returned the favor by going to their meetings and rallies (some did). My partner, the one with the real working-class job, said he still felt alienated from the campus he worked right next door to. I’d say many of us, even union activists, took our privilege for granted. The Columbia brand legitimized our voices. National newspapers wrote about our activism and demands. Won’t you look at that, the kids in Morningside Heights are unionizing!
One time, my partner – shall we call him B – was coming home from the restaurant he worked at around the corner. We lived in Columbia housing, in one of those buildings with marble-clad hallways. B was wearing a branded T-shirt from work. In the elevator, a Columbia kid was carrying takeout from his restaurant. “Do you like the food?” B asked. “You live here?” the guy responded. The incident helped me realize how tired I was of the stark class differences. I wanted to be somewhere where solidarity was more par for the course.
Hence, Mladost. That’s what we’re looking for here, but the search is far from over.
So, anyway, this is what I learned at Columbia in NYC – the power of organizing and helping each other, and the power of quitting. More next time, as I need to get ready for a (socially distant) party. It’s the one-year anniversary of the taco shack in downtown Sofia where B now works. Yay. With my quitting Columbia anniversary, that makes two occasions to celebrate. I expect craft beers and bean burgers.
I’ll leave you with two questions. First, what are some things you’re holding on to, out of fear or obligation, that you might be better off without? Could quitting be a positive thing for you in some ways?
Second, how can we be better together? We in our dime-a-dozen generation are trying so hard to stay afloat and make a decent and fulfilling life. How can we use our energy for genuine self-expression and to help each other?
That’s my undying utopian dream. Okay, I’m heading to the tacos and veggie burgers. Take care! And until next time.
If you feel a friend may benefit from reading this, please pass it on.
xo Ani