Not Just Any Cohort...

When looking up the term Cohort, Merriam-Webster’s expert definitions provide the following: 

1. Companion, colleague. “A few of their…cohorts decided to form a company”-Burt Hochberg

2. Band, group. “A cohort of supporters”

3. A group of warriors or soldiers.

There are, of course, other definitions, but the above three describe exactly what has been developing my academic and artistic emotions these past eight years. It’s odd how someone as extroverted and collaborative as I am finds showing dependence on a cohort to be a sign of weakness. To be sure, it’s due to my nature, not my nurture. It’s because of my self-imposed definition of masculinity: don’t show weakness; make excuses rather than give reasons (reasons=vulnerability), and just don’t cry, bro.

I’ve had many cohorts, if going by MW’s definitions, but only two that fit those three chosen descriptions. Two who effortlessly became These Two Cohorts of My Life. Two where I can safely and confidently say my life was “A” before being with them and then my life was “B” after being with them. This doesn’t happen often and, much like inflation, you usually don’t know it’s happening till after it’s begun and has taken effect; but thank God I was keen enough to have recognized, in real-time, that these were “the good times” we often look back on. 

My senior year of high school I vividly remember being in my IB English class, being hit with the realization that I better know what I want to do as a career so I can major in that in college. I came up with: City Parks and Recreation (that’s my Bachelor’s degree), Firefighting (did a year in a program and got politely dismissed), and Teaching (Hi, I’m a high school theatre teacher). These three journeys entered my mind in a flash with confidence, enthusiasm, and action in how to achieve them. With teaching, though, I knew it wasn’t a Plan B, but just another possibility. I also knew if I were to teach I would want to teach high school and then, when ready, teach collegiately. This has not changed, and I graduated in 2006.

An MFA in Playwriting seemed like an eventual, down-the-road achievement while a teaching credential was more urgent. I fell in love with my teaching cohort. San Francisco State University was a humbling institution, but I thrived…mostly. I made nice with my professors and instructors, one of whom simply became a third grandma to me (I love both of my grandmothers, but having a third who connects me to a job ain’t a bad thing either). But that cohort. There was a season of massive fires in the Bay Area and one day our classes were cancelled due to air quality. It was near Christmas time but the weather was nice. We all decided, almost instinctively and like we’d been waiting for an excuse to hang out outside of class time, to go to a nearby bar and just hang out. We barely drank because we just couldn’t stop socializing. We talked about teaching, what brought us to teaching, music, theatre, sports, our romantic situations, life stories, people we’ve lost. Very personal connections were made by happenstance and a natural longing to bond. Later that month I hosted a Christmas party and the majority of the cohort were invited. It is a vulnerable thing to host a party and invite people you’ve never hosted because what if they all collectively text each other and decide you’re lame. You’re not that cool. Your personal stories aren’t that compelling. And they just don’t show up. But they did. And dressed in Christmas-theme! And they bonded with my non-cohort friends! We laughed, we took photos, we chatted, we shared more stories, we joked around, we bonded. But, just like that classes-cancelled day which started the bond, another out-of-our-control event tore me from them.

I was unaware that one subtest I’d yet to pass but was working towards getting passed would keep me from returning. I was dismissed from my student teaching site, dismissed from my cohort, and could not continue in the program until I passed that one subtest. I’ve never been depressed, but I’ve felt humiliation. I was humiliated. A rug I assumed was secure was suddenly pulled from under me. My safety net and confidence in academia and ensuring I as a man just got the job done was tarnished. My name, my reputation, my enthusiasm were all squashed. I didn’t tell a single member of my cohort. No texts, no jokes, no sharing, nothing. I’d only spent one semester with these peers, these fellow student-teachers, these people, and yet it felt like a lifetime. They were my cohort, people I knew too much about but also couldn’t wait to know more about. People I valued above my own success; we weren’t competing for future teaching contracts but supporting each other in getting those contracts. This wasn’t just another cohort; they were my cohort. 

The first day of spring semester starts and I’m not there. Day two rolls by, and I’m not there. I start getting texts. “Hey, we miss you! Where you at?” “Hey, man! Why haven’t you been here?” “Hey, Marc! Two days in, you coming to class? Hope to see you soon and hope you’re okay!” I began texting back and admitting to what happened. I was humiliated, embarrassed, but not by their response. By me. I had failed. And then I broke bro code; I cried. That’s not my idea of masculinity. I was there to win, to achieve, and I had lost. I told them the reasons, not excuses. That vulnerability was humbling. But it happened. I hated that I couldn’t make it to the finish line with my team, my supporters. My soldiers. My cohort. That was my cohort. 

My MFA (yes, in Playwriting) program is thrilling. As much as I knew it would eventually happen, it didn’t hit me till the day before I met my cohort that I may not fit in. Upon first meeting, I don't present as a “typical writer of plays.” The author/podcaster/brilliant person who is Liz Plank often says that men tend to go on dates hoping they’ll like the woman while women tend to go on dates hoping the guy will like them. I went into this “first date” with my cohort hoping they would like me. Not very masculine. My cohort consisted of seven other writers. By day one I knew I was in the right place. By day two I knew I was with the right people. Not because it took that long for me to, as the kids say, “suss them out,” but because the cohort made it clear to me that I was accepted. They liked me. I knew it was kismet when one member said, “Hey, just so you know, we like you. You’re good with us.” and I responded, true to myself, “Oh, great, Thank you! But…what if I don’t like you?” The acceptance-based convo tension was broken, we laughed, we bonded, and I immediately dreaded the end of our first week of residency. It was only day two, of seven, and I already missed these people. 

In line with Merriam-Webster, we decided to form a company, because of our writing. We chose a genre, chose to make grad school work in our lives, chose to travel, and chose to put our writing out there to be workshopped, exposed, to be vulnerable. No excuses, only reasons. Emotions were in abundance. On the fourth day of residency I had, what the kids say, “a crash out” in the middle of a workshop session! I had to hit the fitness room hard that day to get my emotions out, but not before sending a group chat thanking my cohort for being so cool and making space for a bro to feel feelings. They responded in kind, because they’re soldiers: we’re all going through the same writer’s battle of self-doubt, imposter syndrome, and artistic waves of motivation and despondency. And, even after spending hours together all day every day in lectures, meetings, and workshops, we found natural reasons to hang out after, like true theatre kids do; like we’d been waiting for an excuse to hang out outside of our class time. At the time of this essay’s publishing, it’s been 18 days since we all last saw each other. Not a day has gone by without a text shared between us, whether one-on-one, or in the group chat. They're not just another cohort, they're my cohort.

My only fear going into these two cohorts was that I’d not be accepted for just being me. I have no issue code-switching and even muting certain traits in the effort of making friends or being cordial; ya know, like one often does on a first date. I won’t compromise who I am, but I can certainly taper myself. I am a Gemini, max-extrovert, after all; I’m an exhausting person to be around! But these cohorts got full-blown, unapologetic me. And I was accepted. They're giving me a stellar Life B while still appreciating my Life A. 

With the start of a new school year, I'm ready to take my experience as a grad student into my classroom. I'm reminded of how that first day of school feels again, and will use that towards empathizing with my incoming students. Now, forgive me for being a selfish teacher but, as the flight attendants advise, I'm putting on my own mask before helping others. This is about me and my cohorts. I absolutely, unapologetically, full-blown love my cohorts. I still find myself mourning not finishing with my first teaching cohort because I’m missing out on what I assume would’ve been an amazing Life B with them. I can’t change that. But, I’m in the beginning of this MFA cohort and I’m so happy I get two more years to grow, learn, and love on these artists. These peers. These soldiers I get to go through the writing trenches with. Emotions will be expressed. No excuses, only reasons; “Hi, Vulnerability! My name is Marc. Let's get to know each other.” Crying is allowed, bro. I’m with people who make me feel safe and confident that whatever happens next will be worth the work. Not every person gets a cohort like mine so I’ll check my privilege right here: I’m #blessed. Finding comfort in my cohorts is not a reality I take lightly so to any of my cohort members: Thank You. Thank you for being my fellow soldiers, for being warriors, and for being a company who chose to band together. I wouldn’t have it any other way.