This is true in more ways than one. The whole country is in mourning, but for those of us in academic, that everyday walk through these hallowed halls we know, this could have happened at any campus, this could have happened at our campus. This has been a rough week, and as most people I am filled with unbearable sadness, a tightness in my chest that cuts off my breath. I look at the pictures on the news, the faces of the dead and I see my colleagues, my students, my campus. And while I have never met any of these people, I know them, I see them everyday, I could tell you about all of them. They are the people I see crossing the quad everyday, the kids in my classes with those beautiful smiles are hallmarks of youth, these people with such bright futures that the world is hurt without them. I am sad because of how I know this has affected me and every other person who spends a vast amount of time on a college campus, I have been walking around looking at random students, wondering if any of them could just snap. I have had to stop in the middle of teaching to catch my breath as I look over my students, thinking about how devastated I would be to lose any of them. I have sat in class thinking about the best way to barricade the door, where to put my students so they would be safe from gunfire, if we could get out the windows and how high is too high to jump. I don’t want to think about these things, because it both takes away my fantasy of the ivory tower, but also because I know the answers. Our doors open out, you can’t barricade them, the widows don’t open far enough for people to get out, I would have to break them, and the eighth floor is too high to jump. But mostly I have been thinking about my role as teacher, would I be able swim through the fear and stand up for my students like the brave and courageous Liviu Librescu. Here is a man who has seen the worst that humanity has to offer when he lived through the Holocaust, and instead of letting it break him, he stood up, he became all that he should never had had to be. He is in all aspects, a heroic and brave, brave man. Would I be able to do the same? I know that technically our students are adults, but ask any of us and we would tell you that doesn’t matter much, they are our students and we feel it in our bones, we are responsible for them. I care about my students as people and as scholars, we all do, otherwise we would do something else. We are here to share our knowledge and for every one we complain about there are ten that make this job worthwhile. The worst part of this is of course that we never know, I hope that I would be able to stand for them, but you will never know your mettle until you’re tested, all we can do is hope we would be courageous in the face of danger. But for now all I can do is hope that I would be the kind of person I would want to be, and I will cry as I look at the victims, all those bright futures gone, those empty classrooms and offices where students and professors should be, as I see the people I know in their faces, their smiles. There is a lot to discuss about security on campus, and what we can do when we come across students in desperate need of help. But all of that will come later, after we say goodbye to the young and the old, those who will always walk among us even when they are gone. Later, maybe tomorrow we can discuss what can be done, but today all we can say is that we are all Hokies.

Perspective Change. So I guess distance and an amazing pep talk by the resident poet can do wonders for a person’s spirit. And a trip out of town for some sight seeing and hotel sex (oops was that too much?). Plus I got a lead on another job, a better job and it will be ironic justice if I land the same kind of job that I was up for here. But right now I am both in job limbo and end of the semester hell. We still have about four weeks left, but students are starting to get antsy, especially if they are on the border of failure. My favorite one right now is a student who has managed to miss more classes then she has been at. And yet her assignments still find their way into my box. What’s hysterical is that they are often there by the time I return from the class she was supposed to be in. So during our class she can stop by and drop stuff off, but can not actually come to class. Of course she will fail; she has far bypassed the absences allowed in my syllabus and her papers are all F’s because she has not been to class to learn how to write them. And yet I know that she will be one of the ones who will make the end of the semester hard. She will come and yell, will and try to complain to my boss, which will be interesting since the chair is much more of a hard ass then I am. And the bright side of my week is having to pay the government a butt-load of money because they didn’t take enough out during the year. Bastards. But the strange thing here is that I had to call the IRS, they were prompt, polite and helpful; maybe they have changed. Who knows, but I was given a reprieve today to just work, which in and of itself seems funny to me.

I was complaining to my hubby that we had to clean the house (because it’s a pigsty) this weekend, but I also had work to do and I desperately needed some dissertation time. His solution, he would clean the house and I could work. It seemed like a good idea, and I am grateful, but then I got pissy. Why the hell am I grateful that he will clean the house he lives in? We usually do it together, but I have often done it alone, so why the hell can’t he? Well, all I can say is even the feminist is sometimes blind sided by her own allegiance to gender ideology.

When I have days, weeks, months like this I hear that Under Pressure song playing along in my head. It seems to fit my mood and I am lucky that when that pinging starts I know it is not Vanilla Ice. I am trying to finish my dissertation, grade a pile of papers and tests and running around getting ready for a conference, for some reason I feel clean underwear is important to take with me. But mostly I am feeling devastated and nervous. I applied for the job that I am currently filling in for and what do you know, I was not asked for a campus interview. I am putting on a brave face of course and trying to get on with it, but I have to admit that vacillate between being sad beyond measure and pissed as hell. I have worked my ass off for these people; I have done everything in my power to be a good colleague. I know that I am a good teacher, I have the highest evaluations in the department, I am working on being a good scholar, this year I had an article published and presented at a national conference. I have volunteered and worked on committees, set up presentations for prospective students and taught an extra class. Now part of this is me, I like my job and I always strive to be the best at whatever I do, so I will always go the extra mile. But I also thought that if I showed my dedication it would be rewarded. I had no reason to think otherwise, I have always been rewarded for a job well done. But this time nothing I have done seems to have mattered at all. It makes me mad and if I was the kind of person who would take to their bed for weeks I would be there now. But I’m not. I am also pissed off beyond belief.

I was given a phone interview, but not asked to a second interview on campus. Of course this was never told to me by the chair or anyone else on the hiring committee. No I read about it on the list serve when they announced the visits. One would have though that professional courtesy would have prompted one of these people to get the hell off their asses and walk ten feet down the hall to let me know. But I guess I asked too much. And the pissed off part of me says that they can all fuck off. If they don’t want me their loss and I will find someone who appreciated me and all that I can offer. I don’t want to go to any more meetings; I don’t want to do anything at all. Of course I still am because it is just not in me to ignore my responsibilities. But I will admit that I am being a brat when I can and my sunny disposition and energy? That is gone as well; if they don’t want to hire me then they forfeit the joy of me for the rest of the semester. I am sad because I like it here, I like most of the people and I like the students a lot.

I am also embarrassed. What the hell did I do? What more could I have done? Is my career over before it has even begun? I don’t know and I don’t know that I have all the answers now. But eventually the Irish in me will win out and I will thumb my nose at the whole place and more on, because the one thing that I am not is a quitter.

Hell. That is where I am right now, and I think hell is an apropos description of day 3 at a University with no copiers. None. Nada. Not one copier on the whole of campus is in working order. In our building we had three, one by one they fell; not surprisingly because when one broke, everyone moved to one of other two, and when the second one broke, well you know the story. Now repeat that throughout campus and you will see the rippling effect this has had.

I shouldn’t say that no copiers work, I should say that no copiers available to faculty work. It seems that there are copiers available to administration that still work, but we can not use them. Although by now the restless mob is talking about sending all the copying to the presidents office and then see what happens.

You might be asking, as I myself was just a few days ago, why when the first of the copiers broke, did no one call a repairman to fix it? This would seem the next logical step, except as it turns out we have called and the people will not come. Why? It seems the University has an outstanding bill with Xerox and until we pay it we get no help. This seems reasonable and good business practice and it seems if we would just pay the bill then all would be well. But I guess that tug of war has been going on for the last couple of months. As it turns out no one has been here for routine maintenance in six months because we have not paid the bill.

Worse, of course is the awful rhetoric that administration is using to justify the problem. Are you ready for this? The highers ups say that the maintenance people are willing to come out here and fix the machines, it the accounting department at Xerox who will not let them. So it’s really the accounting departments fault and not ours. Yah, try to follow that logic. At a meeting someone asked why we just don’t pay the damn bill and get the copiers fixed so that we can, you know, teach class and go one with our jobs. “But you don’t understand,” was the reply, “it’s the accounting department who will not let the people come out here.”

Stunned Silence. I don’t even know where to start pointing out the fallacies here. My head hurts from the way in which they are trying to step around this. But they can’t side step too long because things are getting desperate. One faculty member already took it upon himself to head over to some copy place and then sent the receipt with a request for reimbursement to the administration. The people who are not as bloody brilliant as that guy are starting to panic. We have no access to put stuff on faculty pages, so we are very dependant on the copiers. I know that a lot of us can do a mambo for a few days, but eventually we will need copies! I don’t know how the hell faculty and staff are expected to do their jobs when we have no tools, and the students are starting to get cranky too, so there is no telling where this will go. I myself will be writing a letter to the union, lets see what happens then.

So I have spent the last few weeks coming back and back to a self-reflexive-ness that just goes round and round and won’t leave me alone. But I too fast, it is the beginning that you want.
So part of my reading during the week, of course, are a variety of blogs that are predictable and eccentric. One of said places I visit daily is Bitch PhD. I don’t comment (I rarely do) but I like her, whoever she is. She is funny, erudite and radical, my favorite combination. But a few weeks ago I found myself sitting slack jawed in front of the laptop. Bitch was writing about Plan B … and her boyfriend. At first I was confused, and I kept going back into the entry trying to make some sense. Wasn’t see married? Maybe I misread that and she is not, or maybe this is a guest writer? I looked some more and of course found the whole story. Bitch had an open marriage.

This bothered me. Why? I don’t know, set the stage.

I would have to quit reading the damn thing, except I didn’t know why yet. Was it because she was someone I thought was cool and then that was changed because I found out something I didn’t like? And why the hell should I care what someone else does with their sex life, it’s not my business.

And it was here that I sat, the parts of myself taking sides. I was vexed and irritated. And of course did what any academic does, delve into that feeling and wonder around in the complexities. Why? Because I am a narcissistic, over education, occasionally pretentious and guilt ridden working class Catholic girl, but aren’t we all?
Finally my husband gave me the impetus, “You know this is your problem not hers right?” Busted by a Marxist. Yes, yes, yes. My problem in more ways than one. I get pissy when someone tells me I’ll lucky that my husband cooks, but I think someone who has a husband and a kid and still sleeps with other people is slutty. Why? Because I know it would not work for me? Maybe I’m lazy, or comfortable; if I had a hotel room for a weekend of wining and dining I would be there with my husband. I know I am jealous and over sensitive so why would I want to put myself through something like that. Or maybe I’m a prude (see the Catholic girl remark above). Or maybe I have a different definition of marriage. I know that if Bitch wasn’t married I would not have blinked twice, no matter how many boyfriends there were. Married is different, I’ve lived with men before and I have been married for three years, its different. And the fact that it is different is what people are fighting about.

But then not everyone has that same definition. I know that some women I know think I am a bad wife, I don’t cook, I don’t clean and I deal with the money. My husband and I decided a long time ago that we would do what worked for us, screw every one else and what they thought. And that was Bitch’s point, if I can simplify, that people should be left alone to what works for them.

That was my conclusion, but it still didn’t make me happy. But this again was my problem. Why the hell did I think that I could deal with my complex and divergent feelings by deconstructing them? I can’t find conclusions when I do this with a book, I certainly can’t find any when I am dealing with my own ideologies. So I have divergent feelings constructed by societal and culture hegemony? And birds go tweet. There is no conclusion, there is no simplification, I am sure as shit lucky that I am at least partically aware of an able to analyze my own situatedness, most people don’t care to try.

So thanks Bitch for making me do some personal analysis, it’s irritating but educational.

For some reason I have yet to fathom, the school keeps letting students into classes, in week 2. Usually this I not too much of a problem, I haven’t done anything earth shattering that would require special instruction, but it does mean that I have to carry around extra syllabus far more than I would like to. My bag is not that big after you stuff in a grade book, text and folder not to mention the fact that the damn thing is more to look pretty than to be functional.

So a new student came to class on Monday, I gave here a syllabus and told her to read it over and come to my office or email me with questions. She showed up in my office this morning. I came in and she was sitting on the floor in front of my door. “I was wondering when you were coming in,” she said. I should have known at that moment that this was going to go down hill. My office hours are not only on the front page of the syllabus, but my schedule is also posted on the office door, in neon green. I pointed this out to her, but she did not seem phased. “Abandon hope all ye who enter here” I though as I went through the door.

She had two problems she said, and I knew that I was screwed. First, my syllabus said that all work had to be typed on a computer or word processor. I must have given here a strange look at this point because truthfully I was thinking that not one professor in the whole damn school would accept a paper that is handwritten. Her computer, it seemed, was broken and she could not afford to fix it. I pointed out that there are a myriad of computer labs on campus and she should use one of those. “But that would take me so long! And besides, I have three kids.” What I felt like saying is, “I don’t care.” Look I am not a heartless bitch, well sometimes I am, but that is not the point. I feel for those who come to school with children at home, I really do. But I don’t see how that should matter at all in their class work unless there was an emergency with the children. Honestly I would expect that anyone who has signed up for classes would already have a plan about the three small children. Not to mention the fact that because we are a large commuter school, the majority of our students are non traditional, meaning that again a majority of them are not 18 and they also have families. Which means? You’re nothing special.

She did not like my advice that she plan ahead and give herself plenty of time to complete assignments, work in small stretches and so forth. Than came the second problem. “It says here that you do not accept late work.” “Yes,” I said expecting that she would ask about some problem with a future absence. “So what should I do then?” she asked. I was dumbfounded. “What do you means?” “Well what should I do about late work then?” The obvious answer here is of course not to turn work in late, but that answer did not seem to make her happy. And the semester is off to a roaring start.

So right after the road trip everywhere that was my Christmas, we set off for places unknown, well unknown to us, Philadelphia and the MLA convention. I had never been and I was excited at the prospect of meeting other academic and hearing some first rate scholarship, all cutting edge and stuff. Also I would see some grad school friends who I have not seen in awhile. After all that is what conferences are for right, to meet up with some friends. So I guess my expectations were high for a good and intellectually stimulating time. I know, I know, most people with previous MLA experience are currently shaking their heads and muttering “Oh silly, silly girl.” And, well, you were right. I had a luncheon on my first day and as the saying goes, it all went downhill from there. I have never been in a place that was at once so pretentious and desperate.

Of course I expected the desperation from the scads of candidates that are there of course to interview, but I did not expect the overwhelming aura that would permeate every corner of the hotel, even the lady’s room. I would probably appreciate their poor lot in life if I had actually interviewed at MLA, but going with a full time job creates a bit of distance. I will also say that I am also very, very, very glad that I did not have to interview anyone there. Let’s just say that a day cooped up with colleagues and crazy interviewee’s can drive people crazy and lead them to drink many beers. But this also means fun for the friends who get to listen to the stories.

I did learn that if you really want to freak people out you should take off your name tag any time that you are not actually attending a panel. It seems that at MLA everyone wears their name tag everywhere, to dinner, to the hotel bar, to lunch and to sightsee. I do not see why we feel the obligation to stay tagged once we escape our wood paneled cages. But it seems to be the one way that people can decide if they would like to enter a conversation with you. If you are from an interesting school, or a chair or coordinator of something, then you would be worth a full on conversation, if not, well expect that people will soon fly. One of my friends has done very well in the two years he has been out of school and was appointed a coordinator of general education. He likes his job and those of us that know him think that he is brilliant and sweet and we are glad for his success. But at the MLA, he was like a limping gazelle. Poor guy, he could not take ten steps before he would be assaulted by people who wanted a job. He soon adopted by no name tag rule as well.

But the pretension is what got me. One night as well drank into the wee hours at the hotel bar our group grew large, as sometimes happens. Friends from grad school brought over colleagues, or people they knew from other jobs ect. Most people were, if not fun and interesting, at least harmless, but some were so outrageously obnoxious and irritating that they were lucky we were all drinking. These were the people who wanted to make sure that you knew where they went to school and where they teach now, how much they get paid, how much they have published, how little they teach and on and on. I love these people; I would like to see them come teach at my school, with underprivileged and ill-prepared students. You know a place where you might be able to help someone. Better yet let them stay where they are, we don’t need or want them.