After depleting the generous supply of gift certificates bestowed my fiancé’s parents, I could only afford a half-hour with Randall every other week. He gave me plenty of material to practice independently, but I missed our regular interaction and his insightful comments that sporadically resulted in measurable improvement. Randall often stayed on the ice after completing a lesson with Stephanie or another skater. Sympathetic to my financial situation, he offered occasional pointers by demonstrating technique and asking me to give it a try. Sometimes Randall and I mirrored each other, performing scratch spins in the middle of the misshapen rink. I may have superficially matched Randall’s movements entering the spin, but rotated in slow motion compared to his example. However, skating beside a person who performed world-class spins encouraged me to skate beyond my comfort zone, pushing harder into moves, improving my positions, and focusing on maintaining a strong center.
Instead of trying to mimic Randall, I may have been better served by learning from Stephanie’s work ethic. She divided her time between all of her skills, though none of them were exemplary, she made progress in spins, jumps and footwork. While Stephanie landed her first flips, loops and lutzes; I spun like a top, always striving to go faster. Helen, the skating nurse, developed the half-flip she learned years before into a full-rotation jump while improving her basic spins. Helen focused on the flip with almost the same intensity that I devoted to spinning. She caught her free blade on every landing, stepping to the correct edge and twisting her ankle in the process. Single-minded and numb to pain and frustration, Helen jumped for hours and weeks. Every time we met she warmed up with hideous stroking, ballet jumps and half-flips. Someone had once told Helen to bend her knees while stroking. Unfortunately, Helen translated this advice into propelling herself around the rink with her backside protruding. She did not straighten after each push, but continued to squat, leaning forward to counterbalance her sizable derriere. Yet Helen finally succeeded with her single flip jump. When she landed cleanly on one foot, cutting a wild edge, she threw her arms above her head and hollered in triumph. Stephanie, Gina and I congratulated her.
Although other skaters made progress around me, I remained uninfluenced by their activities. I did not consider trying a flip or half-flip and had abandoned my silly ballet jump the previous fall, but other adult skaters did admire my scratch spin and incorrectly edged backspin. While they distributed practice time over a variety of skills, I concentrated solely on spinning. My spins may have been the best among the rink’s adult contingent, but my other skills ranked near the bottom. When I became bored with spinning, instead of working on jumps, I merely tried a sit spin, still unable to descend below a squat reminiscent of Helen’s unsightly forward strokes. My spirals remained strong, but restricted in direction of travel. I occasionally threw in a waltz jump or salchow out of guilt and a buried desire to improve as a jumper. Feelings of fear encountered during my first waltz and salchow attempts on ice caused me to doubt my ability to learn the full assortment of single jumps. I still dreamed of doing an axel someday, but “someday” had nearly vanished on the distant horizon.
Conscious of my unsuccessful sit spin attempts, Randall suggested I practice “shoot-the-duck” glides down the length of the rink to build muscle strength and balance in a seated position. He glided cheerfully the full length of the long, skinny Arctic Circle demonstrating the exercise. To convince me of its value, Randall executed a sit spin only inches from the ice. As I mentally swore to practice this ridiculous trick if it could yield such desirable results, Randall swept his new free leg in a wide arc transitioning to a backward sit spin, equally close to the ice.
“On both feet, Kate,” he warned.
I agreed and dutifully “shot the duck” during every session.
The Arctic Circle closed in May, after the conclusion of the spring semester. I felt tears forming in the corners of my eyes as I sought the privacy of my car following the last session. Although I had plenty of work to complete before giving my research results to Dr. Butler, I would have preferred to continue skating regularly. My spins had improved. The center became more consistent and my speed increased. Although the scratch spin lacked finesse, I was making progress. Meanwhile, Stephanie practiced exercises leading up to the coveted axel and Helen transferred her jumping enthusiasm to the toe loop, salchow and loop.
I did not skate that summer and went back to California for a brief visit with my father for the first time in over two years. Neil left Lawrence for the entire month of June, and I channeled my energy and free time into achieving my educational goal.
Dr. Clive Butler had a week to read my results report, yet he appeared to still be studying it when I entered his office for our appointment. The professor peered over the document as I sat down in one of the guest chairs. Butler took off his glasses and unceremoniously tossed them onto the desk.
“This is good work, Katherine.”
I smiled, deeply pleased with myself. If I had to miss skating, I might as well do ‘good work’ on something else. “I’ll write it up then.”
Butler held up the manuscript. “You already wrote it up just fine, Katherine.”
“The dissertation. I’ll compile the dissertation.”
A befuddled look passed over the man’s face. “Yes, do keep your dissertation files up to date,” he offered.
My advisor and I seemed to have a problem communicating. “I’ll put the dissertation together and we can schedule my last exam,” I clarified.
Butler’s brow furrowed, still unable to comprehend my intentions. After a moment of silent confusion, he put his hands on the desktop and leaned over toward me launching into one of his narratives. “You have done well with this research project, Katherine … so far. This is a good beginning, but it is not an entire doctoral study. There are several unanswered questions, and you have not fully explored your hypothesis. Nor have you proposed a model for consumer response to safety claims attached to children’s sleepwear under the circumstances outlined in this report. I see at least another year -- year and a half -- of work here.”
My face began to redden, partially from humiliation but primarily from anger. Obviously, I did not understand the scope of a doctoral research project, nor had my advisor bothered to explain it to me. I thought I could finish these experiments and be on my merry way. Instead, I had completed a preliminary study. But I did not know that, having never undertaken such an academic endeavor before. Dr. Perez had been almost motherly as she guided me through my master’s project, while Butler insisted that a doctorate is an independent research degree, which I interpreted to mean, ‘Leave me alone and do your own work. Knock on the door when you have something worth discussing’.
Aside from ignorance about the requirements for a doctor of philosophy diploma, I was incensed with Dr. Butler about the falsehoods he used to seduce me into his research group.
“When I considered joining this group, you said a doctorate takes about three years,” I almost whined, unable to believe this nightmarish situation. When I asked him about time required to complete the degree, I meant from start to finish, beginning with the semester I entered the Carolina Tech program. Now I was uncertain if he had misunderstood my question and answered based on the average time required to perform the actual research, not including coursework and examinations.
“Well, Katherine, some students may be able to finish in three years, under exceptional circumstances. Maybe if the individual had taken his courses previously or was employed in the consumer science field…”
Dr. Butler continued to outline extraordinary conditions that might lead to a three-year course of study, but his words droned senselessly in my mind, causing a vacant feeling of shock and disappointment to develop into a splitting headache. Of course, I was not an exceptional case and could not hope to finish in three years, as this man had led me to believe a year-and-a-half before.
“I never promised you anything,” he concluded flatly.
Yet, I was not convinced. As a new faculty member, he was eager to accumulate students, receive grant funding and publish scientific research. All of these accomplishments would lead to a tenured professorship. Dr. Butler might have said anything to a graduate student to convince him or her to join his program. Butler’s attitude and behavior indicated that he was not the most honest or straightforward person. He tended to strut around the building, cornering people with tales of his achievements before joining the faculty and his recent professional conquests. Butler could make an off-hand, vague promise to an unworldly young student like me and I could never call him on it. Since I did not have a written commitment or a witness, Butler simply claimed that he never spoke those words. Perhaps the entire incident was an unfortunate misunderstanding, but I planned my life around a three-year timetable. Neil decided to finish his Master of Science degree the same semester so we could move on together, as a married couple.
Maybe I only heard what I wanted to hear. I was tired of school, tired of being poor and anxious to get married. I longed for skating lessons, new clothes and decent furniture. At twenty-five years old, I wanted the financial freedom and self-respect accompanying independent adulthood. I did not know how to tell Neil that I would not be graduating in December.
I left Dr. Butler’s office bewildered and struggling not to cry. Like a ghost, I passed through the halls wordlessly avoiding eye contact with anyone. I did not want to stop to chat, and I especially did not want to tell anyone what had just happened with my advisor. They might think I was the fool for believing such a blatant exaggeration. I despised Dr. Butler for misleading me and treating me like an indentured servant. He could have been absolutely frank from the beginning about his expectations. I would have probably joined his group anyway because his background interested me. However, an aggressive ladder-climber like Butler could not take chances. He needed students to work on his projects if he hoped to pass his tenure review. I was merely a casualty of his ambition.
The Arctic Circle had not reopened, but I sat in its parking lot with my head on the steering wheel of my car. Tears poured down my checks and dropped to the dirty low-pile carpet surrounding the accelerator, brake and clutch pedals. I was furious with Butler, but also with myself for being so gullible. I should have asked for a second opinion from another faculty member, but I wanted to work with Clive Butler, the fashion guru. He had also feigned interest in my bridal project, but convinced me to do this boring flame-retardant study. Of course, my lust for ice time made me particularly easy to sway.
All I wanted to do was skate. A couple of hours on the ice would make me feel better. I started the car, drove home to pick up my skates and merged onto the freeway for Atlanta. There had to be an ice rink in Atlanta. The last thing I needed was to see Neil or share the devastating news with my friends and family. I could not fathom returning to campus the next day and taking my consumer research to the next level. I had to heal from this agony and regain perspective. The ice would help me to do that.
I drove for over two hours to Atlanta, Georgia; where I stopped at a gas station to look at a phone book and find a rink to call. Yes, they had a session. There was a God, and that afternoon he felt sorry for me.
My fifth semester as a doctoral student passed in a flurry of research work and ice time. Whenever I was not skating, I focused on completing my experiments, planning to present the results to Dr. Butler during the summer. That would fulfill my obligation to the university for my degree. Then I could become a respected member of the academic community as a professor with my own students and research projects. I kept the bridal consumer study, my original motivation to pursue further education in consumer science, in the back of my mind; but my ideas had expanded to include studies involving figure skaters as a consumer population. While deriving no personal satisfaction from my advisor’s children’s sleepwear grant project, I learned research skills that would be utilized during my career to explore more interesting topics. So I persevered with the enthusiasm of a vocational technology student learning to change spark plugs. Daydreams about leaving a satisfying day of professorship for the rink sustained me during hours of graduate school monotony. Once gainfully employed, I could afford more lessons and advance more rapidly as a skater.
Chapter 23 posted 1/17/01
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