The letter.

A letter arrived on Monday. A very important letter. This letter held a tantalizing hint of my possible future (well, future summer at least).

Towards the beginning of January, I was feverishly working on an application for a summer internship that I have dreamt of holding since I was a freshman. The position in question is at The Cloisters (http://www.metmuseum.org/Works_Of_Art/the_cloisters), the medieval branch of The Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City. Every year, about 600 students apply for one of the 8 (paid) 9-week summer intern positions the museum gives out. About 10% of all applicants are invited to have an in-person interview at the museum as the final step in the application process. Needless to say, competition is fierce.

I finally decided to apply this year after three years of skirting the issue (partially because of a fear of rejection and partially because I kept finding other ways to fill my summers that, incidentally, also did not involve potential rejection). I updated my CV, I secured letters of recommendation from my professors (including one professor with whom I’ve worked very closely over the last several years and who held the internship when he was an undergraduate), I listed my relevant art history classes, and described my language skills. All that was left was the personal statement. A measly 500 words.

I’ve written hundreds of 500-word papers in my life. It should have been a piece of cake. I struggled with that silly little thing for a week (well, months, actually, if you count the years that I kept putting off applying...it was only a week if you start counting from when I first saved a Word document for it). I wanted the internship so badly and I felt like I was so right for the position that I was completely paralyzed when it came to writing in 500 words how I would “benefit from the experience.”

With two days to spare, I finished my personal statement, threw it in a manilla envelope with the rest of my paperwork, and dashed off to the Tempe post office (aka the 4th Level of Hell) to send my wee packet off to Fort Tryon Park, New York, New York.

I tried not to think too much about my application after that. It had been such an incredible emotional strain that I really did feel as if a weight had been lifted from me as soon as Dana (the one vaguely friendly postal employee in all of Tempe) took the envelope from me (and proceeded to throw it rather carelessly in the oversized laundry hamper of a postal bin behind her). I had felt so much pressure in applying for the internship. Not in a bad way, of course. My family, friends, and professors had been nothing but supportive. However, that almost made it worse. Rather than dealing with the stress-filled emotional powder-keg that was the Cloisters Summer Internship Program, I found it much easier to ignore it entirely.

I didn’t get very far.

About a week ago, I had resigned myself to never hearing back from The Cloisters and chalked up my whole stressful trial to “at least I got some practical application experience.” I even applied to a different summer internship (also in New York: Christie’s, the auction house...chosen mostly because I could meet the deadline and didn’t need to go begging about for more letters of recommendation). For the first time in a very long time, my summer plans were completely up in the air.

Fast-forward to Monday afternoon. I was walking in the door after a long day at school (Ok, not really all that long: my morning class had been cancelled so I only had two classes that day) and talking on my cell phone with Mom. I think she was reading her Costco list to me...I don’t really recall (sorry Mom!)...because as soon as I walked in the door, fought off the puppies, and glanced over to check the mail all laid out on the trunk in the entryway, I saw it. The letter. Granted, at that point it was still just a letter rather than the letter. As soon as I saw The Cloisters stamp on the envelope, my mind started spinning. It was a thin envelope (generally thought to be a bad sign...especially when coming from colleges or banks) so I immediately figured it was either:
Thanks for applying, this confirms the receipt of all your application materials. OR...
Thanks for applying, try again next year.

Despite my rather pessimistic appraisal of my situation, my hands were shaking as I tore open the end of the envelope and I still barely registered a word my mom said. Scanning the first few lines quickly, I felt my heart speed up. I quickly read the first paragraph at least three more times before uttering a naughty word and immediately bursting into big girly tears. Mom, concern in her voice, seemed unflustered by my rather abrupt interruption of her grocery list-ing and Joe (roommate’s boyfriend and only other person in the house at this point) came dashing into the dining room where I was crying like a wussy. Both asked what was wrong and all I could gasp out was “I *gasp* have an *sob* interview at The *urk* Cloisters *snot*.”

Now, Mom and I are planning our Spring Break excursion to the Big Apple and I’m trying not to think too hard about it, for fear of more excessive snot-letting. I mention time and time again how sometimes I simply can’t believe my life. I am so lucky and blessed and I often find myself shaking my head wondering how I got where I am. This is definitely one of those head-shaking times. Little North Idaho gal is about to go to New York City for the first time where she will interview with the staff of The Cloisters for a highly-competitive summer position in a branch of The Metropolitan Museum of Art and one of the world’s most highly regarded collections of medieval art. I know that my chances of actually winning an internship are slimmer than ever, but even getting this far was so much more than I ever expected. I feel validated and I feel hopeful and, more than anything, I feel completely overwhelmed with it all. But at least I’m going to New York!