DREAM DEFERRED

I saw the rejection letter and, naturally, a poem recited through my mind. I hadn’t read it in years, but always knew it by heart:

What happens to a dream deferred?

When we studied Harlem Renaissance literature in 8^th grade, I memorized this poem by Langston Hughes in just a few days. Something about the undeniable music in his words struck a soul chord. Hughes became one of my new friends, like many dead writers whose words I resonated with: Poe, Dickinson, Frost. I read and re-read Hughes’ poetry in my school textbooks, one of the many artists whose creations carried me through my childhood loneliness.

I was born a reader and a writer. As a toddler, I found pleasure in organizing my VCR tapes into alphabetical order, building my literary knowledge with Hooked on Phonics, and keeping my eyes busy reading thousands of pages. In 2^nd grade, I was taken out of class to do my reading lessons at the next grade level, and later was devouring college-level books by the time I started middle school.

Words were always my thing. I equally loved music and art—always finding myself incorporating all three into my life however I could.

Despite being academically advanced, I almost didn’t finish high school. I was extremely depressed and excessively bullied. What comfort I found in the words of passed-on artists, I could not find amongst my peers.

One morning during junior year, I woke up and declared I would never walk back into that school and was dropping out. Thankfully, after some convincing, I finished my last year and a half online and received my high school diploma.

I always struggled to imagine future career endeavors even though I had creative interests in music and art and writing. Lacking an early formation of individual identity, my strongest urge after high school was to get away from home, so that was my ultimate goal.

I always wanted to study music, but we couldn’t afford my dream school out-of-state. Instead, I enrolled at a community college three hours away that had a music composition concentration. Then, I got really sick and had to come home. The music dream deferred. Then I decided to go away again to study drawing. Then, again, I got sick and had to come home. The art dream deferred too.

Does it dry up, like a raisin in the sun?

After a string of mental and physical crises, I was getting older, nearly 21, and realized I needed to make a practical decision to work towards a stable life. I stayed home, enrolled in our local community college, and decided to focus on writing. I figured that at least with a degree in English, I could get a job as a teacher.

At the end of my first semester, one of my writing professors told me: “You know, you could do my job. You would be really good at it.” Taking that to heart, I continued with English as my definitive major. Seven years after graduating high school, I finally finished my bachelor’s degree and had a new goal.

I was going to become a professor.

It was a perfect plan, right? I could make a reliable income doing something that I had always loved—talking about books and words.

I was accepted into the master’s program at the same institution where I completed my bachelor’s. I had only been there for a couple of years and was surrounded by a community that made me incredibly happy. I felt accepted, encouraged, wanted—for the first time in my life.

Or so I was for some time.

***

By the time I finished my master’s, I was certain about continuing onto a Ph.D. It was really the only option if I wanted to become a professor; it’s nearly impossible to hold the job title without a doctorate.

What was even better was that my academic work was fulfilling me personally. My thesis was the seed of a project I intended to develop into a book focusing on the importance of personal storytelling in disability studies. I recognized through my own experiences that the writers who had always spoken to me were those that struggled through hardships and found solace in artistic expression. I wanted to contribute something both intellectual and creative that reflected my experiences in a way that could ideally help others.

I applied to Ph.D. programs at the height of COVID. Vaccines were just rolling out and I was strictly quarantining while on multiple immunosuppressive medications. Uncertain about how my future would play out in both health and career, I still felt I should apply to some of my dream schools.

My top choices were Ole Miss and LSU, which both had programs where my work on disability and Southern literature would be supported and celebrated. I also applied to the school where I finished my first two degrees.

Or fester like a sore—And then run?

I was accepted to Ole Miss and LSU. Shocked to even get one acceptance, I was excited but concerned. Would these schools support the COVID precautions that would keep me safe, especially if I were going to have to relocate and move away from my support systems? After many conversations, the answer was no. People were returning to the classroom, and it would be too difficult to justify COVID accommodations, such as remote attendance or masking, given the political climate.

But, to my surprise, my current school offered to make it work for me. I had been integrated into the community there, and I do believe many of them genuinely wanted me to succeed. I went forward with continuing my Ph.D. at that school, somewhat disappointed to defer more dreams, but at least it was going to work out in the best way possible for me.

It only took a couple of toxic people to poison the whole thing.

***

Does it stink like rotting meat?

The short version of the long, overdramatic tale is that I got fucked over. I worked too hard and expected I would be rewarded instead of punished. I was too open with my business. And I trusted people I shouldn’t have trusted.

I then found out that my boss had given the job to the other student who had originally been offered half of the position to share with me. She had significantly less experience than I did, but was still going to take on the role. Then, my boss asked if I wanted to be her assistant.

Fury screeching inside of me, I emailed my boss to ask why I had never been offered the full position. He admitted in writing that it was because I had a disability accommodation that allowed me to work remotely during COVID.

In case you didn’t know, that’s fucking illegal.

I vented about this injustice to the wrong person, someone who was once a close friend. She circulated that information before I was ready to disclose it by directly contacting my academic advisor without my permission. As such, my advisor was required to report the situation to the university. When the university’s department of Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion finally got someone to talk to me after weeks, they were dismissive and defended my boss’s actions.

I decided to take a leave of absence from my program. I had worked too hard for too long to take that kind of disrespect. I also wondered how I was going to continue writing a dissertation about disability at a university that did not support disabled students. Consulting various people in my life, I realized that disappearing from my program without a trace was not enough. After a lifetime of successive betrayals, I needed to finally stand up for myself and no longer allow people to bully me without care.

I hired a lawyer. I sued my boss and the school.

And I won—federal laws protected by the ADA and EEOC had been broken.

Or crust and sugar over—like a syrupy sweet?

***

After almost a year of justifying the wrong that had been done to me, the school offered a settlement. I could have fought for more, but it would have meant at least two years fighting in court with my boss and the university lawyers. I didn’t need that kind of stress and I was ready to move on. When I signed the paperwork, I realized one of the conditions was that I would never be able to work at the university again.

That solidified the decision to leave my program entirely. Most Ph.D. programs cover tuition in exchange for employment, so technically I could have stayed enrolled, but I would have had to finish paying for my degree out of pocket or with excessive loans.

And on a deeper level, I didn’t want to give them my time or energy anymore.

My payout wasn’t as much as I would have liked, but it did give me a year of rest and relaxation. I really had the opportunity to heal over that year. I spent so much time in solitude, finding pleasure in singing and swimming and sleeping and long hot, days. I read for enjoyment for the first time in years. I also worked through immense grief. Along with quite literally losing everything, I had been deeply betrayed by people who I thought cared about me. I worked my ass off for almost seven years just to watch my dream evaporate right in front of me.

Maybe it just sags like a heavy load.

I spent the following year out of the academy entirely. I helped care for my grandmother with dementia and continued to endure my necessary period of solitary healing. As Mimi started to get worse, I knew I had to do something for income. I was hired by a well-paying tutoring company, but it wouldn’t fully cover the bills.

So, I applied for adjunct professor positions. Adjuncting is part-time contract work, but at least I could be in an environment I enjoy. With that and tutoring, I could sustain myself temporarily.

In the fall of 2024, I got a job at a university only 15 minutes from my house. I was immediately in my element again. My first year back in the university classroom filled me with so much inspiration. My students made my impact clear, flooding my Rate My Professor page with 5-star reviews and comments that made me cry. I knew I was doing what I was supposed to do again.

One day during winter break, when I was deep-cleaning my home office, I found an astrology workbook Mimi had given me when I was younger. Flipping through the pages teaching about the natal birth chart, I stopped on the page teaching about the 10^th house—which represents career and public image.

In green colored pencil, 6-year-old me wrote: Dr. A. N. George, Ph.D.

I have no idea how I even knew what that was, but clearly the desire had been within me from my earliest years.

I decided I would try again. I would apply to finish my Ph.D.

Not wanting to uproot the little stability I had just rebuilt, I applied to the only college in the area that would allow me to finish what I started. Starting the daunting process all over again, I carefully crafted a personal statement, requested convincing letters of recommendation, and of course, neatly polished a writing sample that showcased my strongest skills.

I waited months and months for an answer, the future path of my life hanging in the worst kind of limbo.

Or does it explode?

***

When I saw the rejection letter, the first thing I heard in my head was a poem I knew by heart but hadn’t read in years:

What happens to a dream deferred?

I exploded.

I cried for days. I beat myself up and told myself I wasn’t good enough and how foolish could I be to think that I would get in. I hated myself for not applying to more schools. And most of all, I hated my asshole of a boss and every person at my old school who contributed to the problem or abandoned me by not sticking up for me when I had been done wrong.

It has been about six months since I received the rejection. And with it came a massive death of my identity. The dream of finishing my doctorate, becoming a full-time professor, and establishing myself as a disabled scholar had now exploded. I had already decided when I applied that if it didn’t work out, I was going to take a break from pursuing academia for a while.

Maybe that isn’t a wise decision—maybe I am limiting myself or giving up.

But through these months, I’ve found some strange relief in letting go of that dream. I probably would have found a way to hate all the bullshit that comes with a tenured professorship—years of service and bureaucracy and publish or perish and endless classes and hundreds of students to devote all of my energy to. I won’t say I’ll never finish, but for now, this dream, too, is deferred.

I’ve gone back to music and art. I sing every day, and I actually like the sound of my voice. I bought my dream piano and have been slowly learning to play it. I wrote my first song and started many others. I often spend my evenings painting or collaging or drawing. I put my unfinished dissertation aside and went back to writing my memoir, letting the ink on the pages embody the many difficult experiences I’ve kept locked inside for decades.

I would have been a good professor. And I am a good professor, but perhaps I’m not destined to be one thing in this life. Perhaps I am meant to experience many things. I can be a writer, a musician, and artist.

I can be everything and anything I want to be.

Though many of my dreams are deferred, it will never be too late to return to them.

Now, I dream of a softer life—where I work enough to pay for what I need to survive in this capitalist hell but still have enough time to do the real work I’ve been forced into since this whole uprooting. That work is profitable only to me. I am reclaiming my life, going back to the true origins of my personal joy.

I don’t know what my future holds. But I also know my story isn’t unique. Society makes us feel as if we must choose one thing to be in this life. We often tie our entire identity to our professions, equating our worth with income or status. I’m now trying focus more on the process of becoming rather than the production or outcome. In my never-ending quest for growth, I’ve tried to reframe my mindset to find the blessings in my situation. I may have put aside a certain part of my identity, but I am rediscovering my truest, most authentic self.

And who knows where that will lead me now.