MY POETRY WEEK

While on a public computer, one early Saturday afternoon at the Botany library, I sighted a widget-sized ad for a poetry-writing workshop given by the New Zealand poet-extraordinaire, Robert Sullivan. A former lecturer at the University of Hawaii, Sullivan is known by at least one of his former students as a “good teacher”. In local Hawaii speak, this compliment translates into one who possess the teaching techniques that help student overcome their fear of writing, and to develop a writing finesse reflective of the student’s perspective of his/her place in the world. Since this student’s utterance of Sullivan’s effective teaching capabilities, I made a mental note to take a free workshop with him if the opportunity ever came up. Ten years later, Sullivan and I met again, though clandestinely, through this ad inviting seasoned and budding writers to attend. In the second week of February, on a hot and dry Tuesday afternoon, I did just that.

The workshop, held in the Clendon library, was attended by about 20 people. Admittedly, I thought it would be more of a one-way lecture, with Sullivan doing most of the talking. Happily, it turned out to be very interactive, with the workshop participants doing a lot of writing and sharing of their creativity. Although the pressure of producing poetic works triggered minor heart palpitations, I really enjoyed hearing the writings of others in my group, lovingly putting together words and paragraphs according to the shadows of their lives. I discovered that free-writing under such conditions can elicit raw emotion from some, but for me, only strips of thoughts to be pared down or enhanced at a later time:

A Sonnet for a Snail

They like it best after a rainstorm,

Coming out in droves to drink

The dew drops that cling to leaves;

Stroke their shell, and they move to the next leaf;

Tap their feelers and they abscond within, without losing their grip.

Peace

Boats bobbing up and down

To the placid rhythm of

Waves lapping onto shore.

Only emotion endures;

Make it new.

         After this very relaxing outing in the companion of other writers, I was brought back down to earth by a message about my research proposal. It was suggested that I make changes to the literature review section, which were along the lines of making it longer rather than concise and brief, highlighting only the central concepts, and the development of the theory in relation to the gaps in the literature. Instead, the suggested changes were like the others before it – changes that did not really make improvements, but rather took away from the focus of my study. With the exception of the feedback from the education consultant and two resilience theory specialists, whose comments helped to reinforce the boundaries around my study in order to make clear what it can accomplish rather than not, the suggestions given by my committee regarding my research proposal have merely caused my provisional year to stall, with the feedback causing a circular, regressive motion rather than moving forward in progress.

          As I have always done over the last five months, I read the feedback carefully, prepared to make the necessary changes in order to pass my provisional year, only to learn what I already knew given my experience with this committee since writing the first draft of my proposal. The feedback failed to greatly improve my proposal. And so, the back and forth continues.

          To make it worse, a worker in the Student Learning Services is implying failure of my provisional year if I do not make the changes. Funny, I thought I had been doing that all along, which is the reason I pursued input from a 3^rd party, from the education consultant, who suggested the opposite of what my committee had suggested – to make it less wordy and more concise rather than wordier. I am inclined to agree with the education consultant. I have written two research proposals, which were approved, and with the resulting theses having been published in peer-reviewed journals and in an academic book after having been reviewed by peers. Hence, the attitude towards my research proposal is confounding, causing me to wonder if there is an underlying animosity towards me.

          In light of such difficulties, I consulted the student charter and discovered that my instincts about my committee’s responsibility were correct after all. The university and thus my committee is held with the responsibility of ensuring that students are:

2.5. Provide an academic environment in which students can be stimulated to reach a high level of intellectual attainment;

2.10. Provide an environment free from harassment and discrimination, consistent with the Human Rights Act of 1993 and University’s Harassment Policy . . .;

2.13. Provide educational opportunities;

3.1. Endeavour to act in the best interests of students through wide consultation (AUSA responsibility).

          Rather, in my efforts to resolve my concerns about the circular feedback, I have been relatively ignored. My experience with research and resulting publications indicate that I know to recognize the points of analysis that enhance the central thesis and those that are better left as footnotes. The rule of thumb in academic writing is not to trail away on tangents, but at the same time, to also know when to elaborate. After years of researching, I would say that I have also developed the ability to recognize research manageability and to carry out research. My record has been duly documented on my cv and on my professional profile, all of which are verifiable. This experience has enabled me to complete 4 draft chapters of my PhD thesis, the research proposal, and surveys and interviews. I have contacted the relevant people in the research sites, letting them know that I will be conducting my fieldwork there.

          Unfortunately for me, I have been spending much time seeking out legal assistance to advocate for me, rather than preparing for my fieldwork. This fact is even more unfortunate since I have already paid for this upcoming semester, the one in which I had hoped to spend in the field. Hence, the loans continue to rack up and be used inefficiently by my current university. If any readers out there have any suggestions for how I can overcoming this very trying situation, please contact me.

TRYING TO OVERCOME NEEDLESS WORRIES

       After five months of writing and revising my research proposal, accepting and incorporating the suggestions of my supervisors, it still had not been approved. I was concerned mainly because the suggestions I had been given had not been a tremendous help to my research proposal, but had rather turned it into a clunky document that took the reader down too many digressions and began to lose its focus as the reader progressed towards the close of the proposal. I had become concerned because the conversations with my supervisors went nowhere; they asserted that key elements were missing from my research proposal, and if revised, they claimed, would clarify parts of my research proposal. However, upon reviewing these criticisms each time they were issued, I became convinced that the contents that they had claimed were absent were in fact not, as these elements were written in the proposal in black and white. This process went back and forth for five months, with me returning to it and re-reading the “problems”, only to find that the key information were actually present in the research proposal.

I began to worry, as this doctorate process was beginning to feel more like a political game, especially after I was instructed by one of my supervisors that sometimes we have to play the game. I wasn’t sure then what he meant, and when I asked him what the game was, he didn’t respond. Even now, I’m still not one hundred percent sure that my instinct is right, but when the comment was made, I thought of the doctorate student from India, about whom I had learned from a fellow student while I was at Massey, who had arrived in New Zealand to commence a PhD in the sciences. His PhD thesis was taken away from him by another person, who had published the exact same findings based on the exact same research design as the one he had worked on for three years. Although he was given six months to re-do the experiment, any good researcher knows that it takes longer to re-do and re-design another experiment. Therefore, though the offer was a kind gesture, it was unrealistic. I suspect, however, that his supervisors already knew this. Later, I was told that doctorate students on scholarship cannot discuss their research with others outside of the committee, which merely adds to the suspicion that the student’s research was likely stolen by an academic on the student’s committee, who had not yet earned a PhD, or possibly given to a favored student at the university.

This revelation worried me. Adding to this concern is my gut instinct that the former supervisor I had escaped from at Massey is here at Auckland influencing people on my committee, a professional friendship considered to be an unfavorable situation for the student. University bylaws at both Massey and Auckland, and the University of Auckland Student Charter, protect doctorate students from such misconduct, so the fact that the incident involving the Indian doctorate student at Massey even occurred tells me that perhaps politics plays a much stronger role in guiding academic staff’s behavior than academic integrity. It may even override the feeling of responsibility to one’s role as a tutor of sorts.

In the end, my concerns caused me to seek another perspective regarding my research proposal. I discussed my research proposal with another academic at the Student Learning Services, after which I expressed that the current state of my research is not where I want it to be and does not reflect the work I like to produce. He suggested that I re-write it and submit it to him. Thereafter, in the same way that I had approached the rewriting of my literature review, I had to push away the suggestions of my committee (very much like the way I had discarded the instructions given by my primary supervisor at Massey on writing the literature review) and spent the next three days re-working the entire proposal from the very beginning.

My concerns about the safety of my research and writings are of the degree that I’ve decided to copyright all the chapters I’ve written to date and, along with the research proposal, post them on my professional profile (http://nz.linkedin.com/in/camilletuasonmata) as “works-in-progress” so the ownership over them is made clear. My research would not be considered to be highly commercial. Rather, it is designed to support food system planning in the long run. however, the design is original and the content (after reading countless literature) is original, which meets the PhD thesis requirements at the University of Auckland. These may be good enough reasons for someone who wants to poach my thesis, and posting the chapters I've completed in the provisional year is a good enough reason to “save” my thesis from someone who has not yet earned a PhD. I’ve discovered since commencing my PhD studies in New Zealand that some departments, if not most, still employ individuals with less than a doctorate. I still don't know if my suspicions about my situation are accurate, but if you think about the US$35,000 investment I’ve made into this PhD education, thus far, and the events of my life – or rather coping with the profound disappointments and closed doors in the course of my adult life, which have led me to this place – than you would understand my reasons for being so protective of my academic work. 

            After the revelation about the Indian international student and my experiences with the politics over my progress in the provisional year, I now understand why universities in other countries are reluctant to hire anyone, who has not earned a PhD.

I smile at the irony of my situation when I think about John Wood’s stated reasons for starting the girl’s scholarship at Room to Read. He argued that girls have the least chance of getting an education in developing countries. Those girls living in developing countries are colored. Funny enough, here in New Zealand, I’m finding that as a woman of color, I’m fighting to protect my right to be treated fairly and to have my work assessed objectively. So, although the door at these universities opened to give me a fair opportunity to pursue a career in applied research, a career path that chose me rather than the other way around, I’m struggling to make sure that I circumvent the politics, focus on studying, and stay in.

The meeting at SLS was Monday, two weeks ago. The following Saturday, I decided to walk through farmland and conservation areas to Whitford Village, one of those blink-and-you’ll-miss-it kind of towns, to get my balance back. The village occupies a vernacular at a round-a-bout on Whitford Road. By the time I arrived at this place, the café, Brickworks, was about to close. So, feeling famished, I asked if she could sell me a sandwich and a flat white to go. She agreed, after which I sat on a cement wall not far from the dog guarding a quaint antique shop, who kept me company for a little while until the owner came to claim him.

Afterwards, I stopped into the Pohatukua Reserve at the edge of the village, sat down on a bench, and watched the birds before heading back to civilization. For the return route, I chose a hidden path that wound its way along the Turanga Creek and met up with Wades Road, which led me to a sign for an olive farm located a bit farther down the road. It was a nice day, hot with a gentle breeze, with nice people being careful to not frighten me as I walked, gingerly, along the narrow road. I took some photographs to share. 

BUCKLANDS BEACH: THE EDGE OF THE EARTH

On Friday, two days after Christmas, I took a break from reading my academic books and opted for the biography of Wallis Simpson, Duchess of Windsor, instead. I borrowed this book from the Botany Branch of the Auckland libraries because I was curious about how she wandered into the path of an English Royal, King Edward VIII, who was forced to abdicate the Crown because she was considered unfit to be Queen. Although I hadn’t advanced far into the book, I understand that she comes from a distant line of Royals, who arrived in New England. It got me thinking about the life trails down which our ancestors’ wander, which oftentimes push their scions off what would have been their normal paths, to venture into a new life over which we have no control. Our histories, indeed.

After several hours of reading about Wallis Simpson, I helped myself to two glasses of pinot gris, a light and airy variety from the Five Flax wine corporation, on sale at Pak N’ Save. Believing that the lightness of the flavor meant it was also light in alcohol content, I was soon proven to be wrong. I became sleepy halfway through the second glass, decided to take a snooze, and woke up with a touchy hangover. A headache that throbbed in the middle of my forehead informed me that I should have probably spent the rest of the afternoon in bed, but I ignored this warning and opted to go on one of my solitary long walks to reach the edge of the earth: Bucklands Beach. I was hung over in the middle of the afternoon, but I couldn’t ignore the sun, which blazed against the blue, blue sky, calling to me through my bedroom window to come out and play. I could hear the riroriro tweeting outside, but I couldn’t avert my eyes from the bright blue sky. I imagined this glorious display was a different scene from New England, where my family is boarded away indoors, safely tucked away from the grey, snowy days of December winter. Friday was the perfect day to walk.

Bucklands Beach is actually not very far from Burswood. It’s only about 9 km, which translates to almost 5 miles in the American metric system. It was the same distance from Sunderland, Massachusetts to Hadley, the next farming town over. On the map, Bucklands is a discreet peninsula that juts out into the ocean and, I soon discovered, is also part of a string of interconnected beaches (Eastern and Half Moon Bay) that can be walked if one stays along the coastline. Bucklands can also be reached by crossing the Bucklands Beach Road.

After walking the same linear road for about half an hour, Bucklands Beach Road eventually trailed gently to the left, where soon-after I came upon a sign for the Bucklands Beach Reserve. Believing this trail would take me directly to my destination, I followed the concrete footpath. Just beyond, I found the long staircase. In the distance, I sighted water. I had arrived, I thought. A short distance further, I was along the esplanade and could see people bobbing in the water or riding their speed boats. It was beautiful and I became even more entranced at the sight of the cascading cliff to the right.

A quick reading of the history of this 8 kilometer place by the ocean on Wikipedia reveals that Bucklands Beach shares a farm history with Sunderland, and was the site for European and Maori contact. The Maoris, the Ngaiti iwi, populated this area as early as the 1400s until 1790, and farmed ferns. Wikipedia also claims that the area bore evidence of hangi, underground ovens used by Maoris for cooking. Eventually, this area was bought by European settlers with a combination of needed goods, crops, and cash.

My visit to Eastern Beaches was prolonged by my usual flat white coffee break at Rattai Thai Restaurant. The dinner meal was entirely too luxurious for me, but the easy conversation with the staff at the restaurant and the ocean side view from the table by the door let me forget that I was on a student budget. I could see the Waiheke Ferry cruising by and I deduced after a brief exploration of the Bucklands Beach coastline that the Half Moon Bay Marina is just yonder, the two places connected by a raised ramp that hugs the side of a high cliff. From my vantage point, I could see the boats and the café, where I had enjoyed a pastry and coffee not too many months ago.

The walk back wasn’t as long, but the sun was slowly descending and the air recovering from the heat infusing the afternoon air only a few hours before had turned into a slight chill. Back in my room, I immediately hopped to it, again, meaning back to the grind and finished off the section of the Jeffrey Riedinger book that I was so desperate to complete. Alas. Success.

The path leading to Eastern Beach; the start of the Bucklands Beach Reserve

A not-so-gentle descent to the east of the Edge of the Earth

Neighborhood just a stone's throw from Eastern Beach

Cliff-side scene of Eastern Beach

Boats moored at Bucklands Beach. Half Moon Bay Marina is just across the water.

Bucklands Beach with an unsightly drainage pipe. What goes through there?

More moored sail boats at the edge of Bucklands Beach.

Beach front property at Bucklands Beach.

Gentle street scene at Eastern Beaches. 

SUMMER IN BURSWOOD

Single-legged birdhouse, a quiet contemplation in still waters,

Hidden by bull rush grasses, visible only to the enquiring pedestrian;

Single-legged birdhouse providing refuge to the riroriro;

Who swoops in from the left, and ascends up high,

Above igneous rocks that yield to carpets of wild Yarrows.

With strings of high-pitched mating calls, announcing her arrival,

Riroriro flirts spontaneously with the tuis and korimakos;

Wings flap furiously, blurred comingling of grey, yellow, and black feathers, 

As they vie for the other’s affection.

Camille Tuason Mata, Manukau, New Zealand 

(c) 2013

Birdhouse in standing water 

Drainage catchment for urban storm water runoff

Run-off catchment 

Household landscaping 

Canal that's part of the urban storm water run-off system 

This water system runs throughout Burswood Subdivision 

Riroriro bird

SECRET GARDEN

A few steps beyond, across gentle undulations of manicured lawn grass,

A sharp precipice overlooks a sonorous symphony of native jungle,

Bursting with revelations of green, brown, orange flora, distinguished by names unfamiliar;

In the armpit of this rapture, a discreet path is cradled,

Scrupulously guarded by the stout lemon tree, its yellow bounties

Pungent after-thoughts in the winsome breeze;

This path, each step guided by lavenders and water lilies,

Descends into the shadows of foliage, winding along the edge of a bog;

This path enters a secret garden, a somnambulistic space undeterred

By place or time, silence broken only by the melodies of bird calls,

And the gentle humming of mosquitoes;

Single, purple ti leaf plant, a punctilious presence in the biomass,

Feijoa tree on its last breath, prefacing the screened canvas of climbing beans,

Threatening to erupt across the vertical wall;

Οver-sized courgettes, discreetly nesting in the soil,

Obscured by the fuzzy leaves of its host, in this secret garden.   

Camille Tuason Mata

Copyright (c) 2013

Manukau, New Zealand

Genteel butterfly clinging on for dear life against the harsh wind

Native plant - I tried finding the species name, but couldn't. Anyone?

Lemon tree standing guard

Bog winding its way through the Burswood subdivision

Metal screen of purple beans threatening to overtake the fence

Beans up close

The wooden bench from where I listen to the musical symphony of birds, insects, and rustling leaves.

"MONTHUS HORRIBILUS"

Queen Elizabeth christened 1992 as her “annus horribilus.” That is what November represented for me, my “monthus horribilus,” the reason I couldn’t blog even when I wanted to. What was appearing to look like a smooth transition into my fieldwork turned out to be, disappointingly, a month of navigating through the red tape, attempting to interpret the language with the aid of an advocate at the international students office in order to answer questions about the required length of the doctoral program and the time I am able to submit my PhD thesis. What appeared to be settled before I even re-applied to transfer turned out to be saturated with question marks. Although the statutes clearly state that the provisional year is allowed flexibility, I presume to take into account the different circumstances of PhD students, I’m discovering somewhat unsettlingly that there’s much that is taken for granted because transparency isn’t always honored here. Or, perhaps it is, and there are individuals who just want to make life difficult for others because they can.

A former classmate once complained to me that he never understands what’s in wait for him in New Zealand, as he is later often told the opposite of what was agreed upon at the time of discussion. I sympathized with him then, as I sympathize with myself now, mainly because I’ve prepared as much as I can for my fieldwork. At this juncture, nothing more needs to be done and nothing more can be written until the data is collected from the field. I use my experience from previous fieldwork expeditions to guide me on the design of my research, the instruments for data collection, and the identification of my participants. Based on the work I’ve produced in this first year of study, I have all the information I need to begin sending out letters informing the relevant people at the research site that I’m coming to do my field research.

Of course, if the administration at Massey University had followed the guidelines and assisted me with another supervisor, who actually possessed the doctorate qualification required to supervise a PhD student, I wouldn’t be spending the last part of October and the entire month of November fighting for the right to graduate within a reasonable amount of time at my current university. I can’t help but feel that the incentive to keep me here longer is driven by the fact that I’m funded entirely by loans, with the exception of some research funds to off-set the cost of study. Personally, I feel that the administrative and academic staff should be more knowledgeable about the regulations so that students worry only about producing the academic standards expected of them to pass the PhD examination.  

In the meantime, I go for walks to release some of this anxiety, paid for four sessions of acupuncture treatment to re-align my chi energy and help me to cope with the bureaucrats, and tend to the garden I’ve created in a small block in the back of the house. After four days of rain, with the sun peeking out from behind the clouds on occasion, the vegetables look drunk from all the water. I’ve had to harvest the Chinese vegetables early – they don’t seem to grow well in clay soil – but the tomatoes and silver beets look very healthy. They won’t be ready until late summer.  

THE INTERREGNUM

Dare I Say

How magnificent are your peaks in dusk’s shadow

‘Neath an endless horizon of grey powder, a pregnant interlude

Of anticipation, the promise of a late afternoon shower.

How I heard the musical call of lovebirds, through the window

A symphony of teasing and placating, discernible in the din of silence,

While I, a shadow of concentration, welcomes the distraction.

How grains of red dust, set a swirl by this long, enduring African heat

Came to me while on a morning coffee run; this rabid, elongated cone   

Of a tornado coursed through me, grainy traces of its ravages nesting in my air passages, my hair.

How deeply the cool, Savannah rainy season, in the balmy evening air,

Fills my lungs, a sweet after-taste of earthworms and bluish thunder, 

As I stand below a black canopy of star dust, glowing as far away as the eyes can see.

Dare I Say

How you saved me one evening, with an easy conversation,

During an overnight stay in the outskirts of Lilongwe, like two friends from years past,

Features obscured only by the mosquito net, trading questions about our past, our future.  

Camille Tuason Mata

Manukau, Auckland, New Zealand, © 2013