The Windy Day

By Amanda Kimball

Every month or so in the fall, there is a windy ay in Davis. For one 24-hour period the wind tears through this town with a force so opposed to the stability of typical daily life in Davis, that I have become accustomed to calling it The Windy Day. Throughout the summer, the sun beats down on the land and this little town offers no resistance to it,
passively accepting its fate, melting into liquid, boiling away, allowing the sun to scorch whatever is left in the earth.

On The Windy Day, something rises from deep within the heart of Davis and refuses to be settled. It shakes the leaves and races wildly past the rows of houses like a tireless child unfettered by parents or the rules of propriety. At moments it seems to rustle all the trees simultaneously in a way that you can feel in your bones like the drum roll for some grand natural event about to occur.

I like the The Windy Day. It reminds me that something is alive and awake underneath the surface of this town. It sends me back to childhood when Winnie-the-Pooh  hummed as he plodded along, “It’s a  hiddle-dee piddle-dee dustery blustery day.” The Windy Day is confined to one part of the year. The late summer when the heat has worn out the last little bit of energy any resident tried to cling to. It portends that even while the heat is still to be endured, cooler weather will be coming soon. It was this  time of year when I arrived  in town. I stepped off the bus in front of my new home, as yet unseen, with two suitcases, a backpack, and my cat. I came to be part of academia with hopes of finding adventure in the little town of Davis.

I am young, but not so young as to make career moves on a whim. Graduate school was an achievement I had worked long and hard for. Davis may not have been the best school nor even the favorite among my options, but after careful deliberation it seemed to be the right one for me. So to Davis I came, to study economics. I rose every Monday through Friday for class, and every Saturday and  Sunday morning to head directly to Shields library. I packed myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich to take to campus and made light-hearted jokes, with the undergraduates that I taught, about the poverty  of being in graduate school.

My best friend in the program had mentally checked out in the first month. My jogging partner left as well to be unemployed in Africa with his girlfriend. A few others left to spend time with their children. Another left to  pursue history instead of economics. Each time someone left I wondered how they could have been so unprepared for such a big career move. In the end it was I who was unprepared for  the future. I was the one who finished the year still believing that I had what it takes, and that that would be enough. In this program, the path to becoming an economist involves a five-hour exam. The exam can be taken two times, but no more.

This is how the news was delivered to me. The Chair of the program sent a message asking what were my plans. I responded. He sent another message. I had failed the test a second time. Would I stop by his office  this afternoon. I sat and I listened. Amanda was the kind of student to whom a research topic would come easily. Amanda was the kind of student whose research would go quickly. Amanda had good grades in  the program. Amanda was dedicated to the cause of getting a PhD. The Chair wanted her to stay. Unprecedented. Rare opportunity. Extra work load. Loss of funding. Third try on the  exam. The words that I actually heard were ones that he never actually spoke: I failed.

Even now, when I go to the economics department to check my e-mail, I relive the experience. Inevitably someone tells me how much I belong in that program and how sad they are to see me go. Someone  with just as much power to change the past as I have. And it doesn’t matter anymore that I had a panic attack during the test. Or that I have never before panicked during a test. Or that I was one of the best students in the class. Or that I didn’t study enough. Or that I had been accepted at better schools. Or that the test was unfair. Or that more than half of the students had failed. Or that the department would get more funding this year because it had accepted a large incoming class and retained a small second-year class. Or that I was a student they had not intended to weed out.

What is done is done.  Not many people get this far. I know that. I will fly back to Davis next spring and take the test a third time. But this year-long experience has parched my insides. It has stolen every morsel of motivation I once clung to. I have worked too hard and too long to accept stagnation. Now something deep inside me wakes and refuses to settle.

The boy I met in Davis had come to town for graduate school,  just like me, but he had stayed for ten years. The woman who rented me the room seemed to have lived right in that house for the entirely of her 70-odd years. It turns out that I don’t have the staying power that they do for Davis, California. And in the end, I am glad to be the windy type and not the stagnant type. Yes, it is that time of year again. The sun has scorched the earth for  another summer. The fall wind comes sporadically to remind us that cooler weather is around the corner. And it is on The Windy Day that I sit down on a bench in the front yard under the rustling leaves to write the story  of how I blew through Davis and was off again one year later. Another move across the country, sooner than originally planned. Richmond,  Virginia. Again armed with dreams of a successful career and hopes of finding adventure under the surface of another little town.