I usually work at home on Mondays and Wednesdays, but the last week of classes is always special, meaning dotted with extra meetings. So I went to campus for a debriefing session regarding our capstone sequence, wherein American Studies majors plan and execute their senior projects. It was a thoughtful, fairly productive meeting, to I contributed two "fucks" and one "we've been diddled". A clear sign that it's time to turn in my chalk.
So I headed to the coffee shop to get my daily story done -- not my best, but the goal is a daily writing habit, not the Nobel prize for literature. and now, the week behind me, and nothing between me and sweet freedom but a pile of grading, one more meeting and two commencement ceremonies, it's time for a beer. Meet my new best friend, Chester Copperpot.
0 Comments
The Poem
I ache to hold you, To absorb your grief, To make it well. I held you in the wordless night , My fingers tracing each tiny ear, Wiping your tears and gathering up your frayed ends. My eyes meeting yours and diving deep within. Too big now to snuggle close, I listen for one little sigh. The Story His face said it all. Instead of his usual blank expression, a well-practiced mask of macho indifference, his eyes were red and his lips alternately compressed and trembled. "It's over. She left me. For good this time." And he looked away, stepping away from me, before I could even raise my arms to embrace him. When he was not quite two, we had lost his lovey, a battered gray bunny, left behind at a motel and out of reach. I had held him and rocked him as he sobbed himself to sleep for one night after another. Two hours the first night, then shorter and shorter, until bedtime was just a snuggle and a sigh. But a lost bunny is not a broken heart, and all the rocking in my power would not make things well again. My response: Gah! The poem is a piece of one I wrote several years ago and promptly forgot, until I found it in an old file. If it had been typed, and not handwritten and dated, I would have thought I had copied from a book. I have absolutely no memory of writing it, or what it was about. So it seemed a good candidate for today's prompt, to use a poem for inspiration. But this is not a good story, and I am not so keen on the poem, either. This day was the toughest one: my last day of classes. I fell in love with teaching from my first day in the classroom, despite having avoided teaching up to that point. So walking away from the classroom was hard. Hell, even thinking about it was hard. The day was made easier by an unexpected email from my first office mate, now an emeritus professor himself, wanting to meet for coffee. He ended up hanging around for part of my 12:30 class, and entertaining them with a couple of stories while I ran around setting up and solving technical issues. Thanks, Vince. The student projects were satisfyingly good, even though the stupid classroom had more of its stupid audio problems. I would love to take a blowtorch to Tawes 0328; they need to start from scratch and do it right. in my last last class, we did a simple mind mapping exercise while I played my "encouraging" playlist and they polished off the rest of my baked goodies. I wanted no part of a farewell speech or a formal good-bye, so I told them that when they finished uploading their mind maos, they were free to go. After a while, it was just Natasha, Eliece, and Dawson, then just Eliece and Dawson. And me. Dawson has been reading this blog and asked if he could suggest a topic. Here's part of what he asked: What are three things I learned about myself by being a professor?
1. Like a shark that needs motion to breathe (or so I hear), I need teaching to learn. Most of what I have learned about writing and about research I have learned by teaching students to write and to do research. I worry about how I will learn "on my own" without my students. 2. I have good instincts, and can usually trust them. When I started teaching, I would script everything, absolutely convinced that if I didn't plan every phrase and every question, I would fail. But my best work has been improvisational, whether in a class discussion or mentoring a student one-on-one. 3. I once aspired to be a great lecturer. In fact, I thought you had to be a terrific speechifyer to be a professor. But that wasn't me, and never will be. I swear, the prompts get worse every day. But the typo (?) makes it all worth while. Your company sends you to meet a costumer at their house. It’s a standard, nice neighborhood. You ring and ring but nobody answers. The door is ajar, and you enter, calling aloud. All is in order in the living room apart from an overturned potted plant on the expensive-looking rug… "Hello, hello?!" I shouted louder and louder as I walked into the foyer. It was more than a bit creepy, between the slightly open front door and the immaculately clean living room. I was supposed to meet the famously reclusive Nanalee Wendy Ross, to discuss the costume designs for my next Broadway show, but she was nowhere to be seen. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a slight movement to my right, and turned just in time to see a large cactus in a terra cotta pot begin to teeter, then sway, and finally crash to the floor. Dirt spilled across the rare kilim.
I began to back out of the room, then turned and head for the door. "Wait!!" a high-pitched voice called after me. I froze, and then looked. The cactus was upright, waving one spiny arm at me. It was Nanalee Wendy Ross herself, and I knew this would be the collaboration of a lifetime. Yesterday was the next-to-last day of classes, and the day of my retirement party. I cleverly designed the last few classes to be either showcases (student presentations) or optional workshops, to save my energy to deal with the students who need extra attention and TLC at the end of the semester. This spring there seemed to be a bumper crop of students who have been sick, overworked, or otherwise not at their best. Frankly, the whole world seems to be in a constant state of trauma, so I just keep listening to my "Encouragement" playlist and humming along. It's just long enough to get me from home to campus, and then I listen to bits and pieces as I walk between buildings and rooms. Always on shuffle, but it seems to know which tunes I need in what order. The retirement party was such great fun. There were students and colleagues there from my days in Textiles and Consumer Economics, including Camy, who had been in my very first classes in 1976-77. There was a Costume Society buddy I swear I had not seen in a decade or more. My favorite co-teacher. My first office mate. The Irish Band I helped found over 25 years ago came and did a couple of tunes, and I sang a solo (sort of) on Parting Class with new, retirement-appropriate lyrics. A few people got up and said nice things about me. The waiter congratulated me on retiring early, because he thought I was in my 50s. They gave me two growlers of beer, a gift certificate for more beer, and a very generous donation toward my next Amtrak journey. If they know me so well, the nice things they said must have been true! And my kids were there, being all grown-up and wonderful. Then it was all weird, because I had to wake up this morning and do professor work because I am not actually retired yet. But between stints of professoring, I made brownies and cookies for my classes. That will make the Last Day of Classes a little sweeter.
The Prompt: Write a story about what happens when a nun in a wimple, a man in cowboy hat and boots, and a bartender with a handlebar mustache wearing a red and white polka-dot bow tie meet in a tavern on a rainy night.
Let's back up. The gender restrictions in this prompt are tying me in knots. My girlhood dream was to grow up and be a cowboy. I have known many lady bartenders in my day, none with handlebar mustaches (that I can remember). And in our freshman year production of Marat/Sade (it was the 60s) the role of the nuns was played by two men, one of them a six-footer with luxurious chest hair. So a little re-casting is in order. The Regent bar is conveniently located between two theaters: an old vaudeville house, now home to the local professional company, and the much-newer concrete cube that houses the Syracuse University Drama department. Before and after performances, the Regent is packed with theater goers, a mix of students attending the university shows, and well-dressed patrons of the more traditional fare at the appropriately-named Regent Theater. In the hours between the opening and closing curtain, though, the bar is nearly empty, except for the bartender and whichever actors wander in to kill time between scenes. In the years before cell phones, it was the assistant stage managers' job to retrieve actors from the bar in time for their entrance. On this particular night, both shows were about to close and it was pouring rain outside. The audiences had dwindled to a hardy few, and the cast and crew of each production were already looking forward to the night party and a few days off. Donna, the bartender, wearily dried the last of the glassware from the evening rush, when in strode a tall nun in full traditional habit. "Hey, Mike", Donna said. "How's it going?" "Lousy," complained the nun, removing his wimple and laying it on the bar. "The audience is comatose and we are all sleepwalking through the script. Probably the only zombie production of Marat/Sade ever, complete with a zombie audience. Give me a scotch in the rocks." "In a tea cup?" Donna grinned. Mike laughed at the old punchline, and nodded. "Howdy!" A voice boomed from the doorway. Mike and Donna turned to welcome a cowboy in gaudy rodeo finery, his spurs jingling as he strode to the bar and settled his ten-gallon hat next to Mike's wimple. "Intermission already?" Donna asked, as she drew opened a bottle of Genesee cream ale and poured it into a glass. "We're galloping tonight; can't wait to be done with this piece of crap." "Watch your language, Dick. There's a lady present", said Mike. "Two ladies", snickered Donna, winking at Mike. "The worst thing is that all I do in the last act is stand and watch the mayhem", Mike complained. "Yeah, at least you might be reacting -- a little facial twitching even. I get knocked out in a bar fight and spend the rest of the show on the floor." "God, I would give anything to spend a few minutes lying down right about now," Donna shook her head wearily. "I could use a rest before the rush." Dick eyed her up and down. "You're about my size, Donna. How would you like to make your show biz debut tonight?" Donna's eyes popped. "You're kidding, right?" "Naw! All you have to do is walk through the saloon doors, get hit over the head with a breakaway chair and collapse on the floor. Skip the curtain call, and you'd be back here before the first customer." "W-e-l-l", Donna said thoughtfully. It was pretty tempting. "But what if someone comes in the bar in the meantime? I can't just close up." Mike chuckled. "I've tended bar during summer breaks. And it would beat going back to zombie Marat/Sade." He turned to Dick, "That is, if you think you might be feeling a temporary vocation, Sister." Minutes later, they looked at themselves in the mirror behind the bar. A cowboy with curly red hair and great cleavage. A nun with a handlebar mustache, wearing a habit about six inches too long. A tall guy in his undershirt. "Not quite right", said Donna. "Mike looks nothing like a bartender." "Here", said Dick, painfully peeling off his fake mustache. "There's probably enough adhesive on it to stick for a while." "Better", nodded Donna, "But take this." She rummaged under the bar and brought out a large red and white bow tie. "Some clown left it here. Literally." They all laughed until their knees were week. Suddenly, the door opened and the two assistant stage managers rushed in, practically on top of each other. "You're on!" They yelled, simultaneously, then stood and gaped at the three strange figures. Dick, Mike and Donna looked at each other and smiled. "It's showtime!" "Can you keep a secret?"
"Of course!" "Peter and I have decided to start a family. We're expecting a baby in September." "That's great news!" "I had to tell somebody. And you're my very best friend. But keep it up it under wraps for now." "OK. Mum's the word." She had every intention of keeping her promise. But this was the hardest secret she had ever been entrusted with. And it just got harder and harder to stay quiet. It seemed like every day she came close to blurting it out. They could be in the middle of planning an event for next fall or someone would mention the number of office pregnancies that year -- now up to three, not including Susan's. After two days she found herself fidgeting and looking away during these conversations. After four days she was grinding her teeth during meetings. Her coffee consumption doubled. Exactly a week after Susan had shared her news, the secret could no longer be contained. The department social committee was picking dates for the office picnic. "Well what about the Saturday after Labor Day. Everybody will be back by then, and the weather is usually nice." There were murmurs of agreement around the table. "And we can ask Susan if we can have it at her house again." "Well -- uh uh uh -- I think uh uh --", she said trying desperately to think of an innocent reason to suggest another location. Every eye was in her face, which was turning very red. "Er -- I think they expect -- uh -- I mean plan to -- Susan and Peter might be busy in September." "Really?" She nodded. "Uh huh." They weren't going to get any more out of her. "What-- is Susan pregnant?" She busied herself with her notepad, trying not to react. "She is, isn't she?" "Well, yes." She admitted. "B-b-but it's a secret." "Not anymore," A gleeful voice whooped. She sighed, realizing she would have to warn Susan that the cat was out of the bag. "Susan, I'm sorry. I tried so hard not to let on." "That's OK, sweetie," Susan said with a hug. "Now everyone knows, and I only had to tell one person. I knew you couldn't keep a secret like this for more than a week. " My plan was to savor this last semester, but of course life got in the way, as it always does. First there was pneumonia, then catching up from pneumonia, then spring break, then catching up from spring break, then the Popular Culture Association conference, then catching up. Now it's the last week of classes, and I am determined to be attentive each day.
On Mondays I usually work at home, but today we had a faculty meeting, so I did some correspondence and editing in the morning, then hopped on the UM shuttle, arriving a bit after the meeting had started. Such is the bus commuter life. I also did a quick draft of today's story, which I will post anon. My very first faculty meeting was January, 1975, at the University of Rhode Island. I was a lowly master's student, and graduate students usually did not attend faculty meetings. But because I had full responsibility for a course, instead of assisting with one, they decided I should come to the meetings. The initial experience was not unlike running into your teacher in the locker room at the local gym for the first time. All their authority was stripped away, as they called each other by their first names and chatted about their families and their weekends. I can't remember saying anything in the first meeting, or ever, in the three semesters I taught at URI. but I enjoyed the meetings, or at least can't remember disliking them. The faculty meetings in the Textiles and Consumer Economics department at the University of Maryland, in contrast, were brutal. In the first place, they were on Friday afternoons, and they lasted two or three hours. The only good thing was that we repaired afterwards as a body to Happy Hour in the old tavern across the street. But our meetings were usually substantive and often contentious, so Happy Hour was necessary. I believe we met every other week, the day paychecks came out. So if you wanted your paycheck that day, you had to show up. (I pause for a prayer of gratitude for direct deposit.) Since 1993, I have been in the American Studies department, a kinder, gentler culture when it comes to meetings. They have been few and far between, nearly always genial, and the advent of wifi has made it possible to multitask during discussions. Today was my last faculty meeting, or as I like to think if it, my LAST. FACULTY. MEETING. EVER. I like my department, and I like my colleagues. They are a smart, friendly bunch. I look forward to future meetings, but meetings with no agendas except good conversation.
|
Archives
January 2023
Categories
All
|