Penny's Bio

The bed is firm but the mattress gives way to my tired body as I let the weight pull me further down. I have spent year in this very spot watching as the leaves changed color outside my window. I hear their words playing over and over in my mind, “Your scholarly writing needs a LOT of work!” “Don’t go to grad school take some writing courses first.” 

Maybe they were right, maybe not. Either way I walked through the grounds of Ohio State University the very next year head held high, heart full of determination and drive.


Quickly I learned how unique I was filling the seat of a graduate course made up mostly of PhD students and those with 3 or more years of experience under their belts. At 23 years old I was the youngest most inexperienced student in the room and I knew it. Unfortunately so did they. My inexperience did not show in my grades that remained A’s but while my research grew my writing remained incompetent, confusing and unorganized.


As a graduate student I was privileged to spend the summer months abroad in London at London Metropolitan University studying art history. It changed my life. Upon visiting Tate Modern the countries collection of contemporary and modern art, I became lost in wonder and awe. Returning to the states and to my home university my interest grew in the museum and I followed my path of study into the world of academia. Ultimately I hoped to research community engagement in the museum and its impact on education/economy. A grand plan that made everyone very pleased, especially my family of whom I feared failing most.

Confusion and uncertainty consumed me; I had forgotten whom I was and where I was going. So I stopped and looked around taking in my surroundings. There was no one there except myself. I had no support from the department I was studying with, in truth my papers, presentations and ideas were often met with confusion and I was always encouraged to do more research. “The research is done!” I would shout but no one was listening. Not to me, not to my speech lacking all the academic glamour of my seasoned colleagues.


“I give up, there is nothing left in this for me. Nothing no passion, no drive, nothing.” I announced defeated to my parents at the kitchen table. This time there was no objection, no words telling me to do more research or editing. This time my life was in question, not a paper. “I don’t want to fail you,” I mumbled through heavy tears as though the dam I had built years ago were giving way. To my surprise the faces of my loved ones remained the same, filled with the same joy as before. No one was mad, no one disappointed.

“The only one you are disappointing,” she said “is yourself.” The values these loving people instilled in me from the beginning were always to work hard for what I wanted and be happy in it. Why had it taken me so many years to figure that out?

At this point in my life, I do not know if I am a writer. What I do know is this, five years have passed for me and my education still feels incomplete. I came here with good intentions, to help others and provide them with the opportunities that I have had. However, I know now that those goals and achievements do not belong to me, they are someone else’s. I have no pace in them and do not wish to rob others of their chance. Instead I arrive here, hoping for guidance in my own dream. If by the end I find that I am neither writer nor author at least I can be happy with myself knowing that I have overcome fear, objection and disbelief to find passion in life. I tried, that is what matters.