Brunch At The End, No Furlough For Now

There's no furlough...at least for now.   A judge issued a restraining order against it, and there will be a hearing on the 26th.


So it was business as usual at the college. Some classes met for the last time yesterday; others will meet for the last time on Monday or Tuesday.  Then the final exams begin.  This is the time of year when students you haven't seen in weeks come out of the woodwork and the stories  grow longer by the second.  Maybe it seems that way because I got so little sleep last night.


Yesterday there was a brunch for the English majors and minors who are graduating.  In a way, it was bittersweet:  I'm happy for them because they're graduating, but I'm also a bit sad the see them go.  One young woman, who was presenting the research she did as her honors project, was a student of mine during her--and my--first semester at the college.  Another student, in talking about the work she did, said that all she would miss about the college are the department and her professors.


Then there was Joan, a Haitian woman who did some fine research on the poetry of Leopold Senghor.  She took the hip-hop course I taught last year.  Last semester, I saw her in the hallway one afternoon, looking exasperated.  "You look upset," I said.


"That man is driving me crazy!"


"Typical guy.  What's his problem?"


"I can't figure him out."


"Well, you know, guys are simple." (Who would know better, right?)  


"Not him"


"Oh, dear."


"So tell me about him."


The man to whom she was referring was William Butler Yeats.  At the end of our conversation, she exclaimed, "I've got to have a talk with that man."


She's been accepted into a master's-Ph.D. program.  I have mixed feelings about that.  She may well have a successful career as an academic.  She has the commitment to scholarship and the intelligence she'll need.  I just hope the experience doesn't destroy her love of literature, as it does to so many other graduate students.   That's one of the things that made the course I took last year such a dreadful experience:  None of those students seemed to have any love of literature.  Most of the young professors I've seen don't have it, either.  In fact, I daresay that some of them, and my fellow students in that class, hate it.


I really wouldn't want to see Joan lose her passion for poetry and other kinds of expressive language.  I also wouldn't want her to become the petty, vindictive kind of person too many academicians are.  You could see some of those kinds of people on display at the brunch.  Predictably, they are parts of cliques, and will remain in them as long as those little, watered-down fraternities and sororities suit their purposes.  


And, I am reluctant to encourage any student, no matter how intelligent or talented, to pursue graduate studies in literature because the job market is so dismal.  Even during the so-called "good times," there have been hundreds or even thousands of applicants for every new position in any English or literature department.  I said as much to Jonathan, who's a bit socially awkward but who is, at least, achieving what he is on his intelligence and talent rather than on subterfuge.  He is quickly becoming one of the exceptions.


Another example of the petty politics that runs the department and college was evident at the beginning of the brunch.  At the department meeting the other day, a new chair was voted in.  She defeated the incumbent chair, who was supposed to host the brunch.  She had a "commitment" develop at the last minute, so the deputy chair stepped in.  


It was a good time and place to be a student.  I hung out with them after the presentations and speeches.  They, and the food--fried chicken and corn on the cob, along with some sides that I skipped--were the best reasons to be at that brunch.

Singing for Every Tatter

An aged man is but a paltry thing,

A tattered coat upon a stick, unless

Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing

For every tatter in its mortal dress.

Well, we know one thing about William Butler Yeats: He never wrote any ads for cosmetic surgeons!

So why am I thinking of this verse from his "Sailing to Byzantium"? Well, right now I am feeling those "tatters" in my "mortal dress." Actually, I might be feeling flab more than tatters: After all, it's been nearly three months since I've engaged in any meaningful (for me, anyway) physical activity.

That is why things that used to be so routine leave me exhausted. Such is the case now. All I did was my biannual switch-out. Some time around each equinox, I pack one season's clothes and accessories and unpack the other's. In this case, of course, it meant putting away my linen suit and dresses, my shorts and tank-tops and those wispy cotton skirts and tops, and taking out long-sleeved sweaters and blouses and my corduroy pants and wool skirts.

John, Millie's husband, was a huge help: He took me to the storage space I rent and did all of the lifting I would have done otherwise. Everyone should know at least one couple like them!

Still, just the packing and unpacking were as arduous as those climbs up the Alps and Pyrenees and Sierra Nevadas were on my bike. Well, I take that back: At least here, I'm at sea level, so oxygen (0r lack thereof) is not a problem.

What's odd is that I really don't mind feeling so tired: I guess you could say that it is a minor milestone for me.

I'll confess something: I've done a bit of shopping. And I'd forgotten how many articles of clothing I still had! Then again, at least a few things will wear out or end up in the Hour Children thrift shop before I make my next "swap." So, I guess it evens out.

But, as Nick, I never imagined I would have so much clothing as I have now! In fact, I think I have even more now than I did when I had two wardrobes (one for me and one for him).

So what am I going to do? I don't know. Right now, I'm laughing at the situation. I mean, what else can I do? I'd always wanted to be a woman, but who knew that I would become, in the words of Carol (Marci's partner), "such a woman" ?

Actually, Carol is not the only one who's called me that. And she's also not the only one to say it with exasperated affection, such as one feels for someone who is doing, for better or worse, the inevitable.

If I'd known that my current life--even with moments of fatigue like the ones I've experienced today--was inevitable, I would have....Oh, what can you do about the inevitable?

Well, I'll tell you what you can do: As long as it's not tragic, embrace it. I don't know how many times Bruce and other people have advised me to do exactly that. I wonder whether he or they knew that a moment like this was inevitable.

Sing, and louder sing, for every tatter in your mortal dress...Now there's advice Dr. Phil or Dr. Joyce Brothers would never give you.

And I'm tattered only for now. Hopefully, a good night's sleep will help me mend a bit.