April 16

This has been yet another grueling week of grading. The dire warnings Briggs made against missing the deadline for turning in the book reviews this past Tuesday worked pretty well. All but five students turned in their papers that day either during Briggs’s lecture in the morning or during my office hours that afternoon. Of those five, three came in on the Wednesday with different excuses (“My computer went bust and I had to write the paper all over again on a friend’s,” “My printer wouldn’t work,” and “I was sick). None of these problems would have delayed these papers if the students had written them ahead of time instead of right before the deadline, of course. I checked with Briggs about them, and he told me just to accept them without penalty.

The fourth late paper came in on Thursday with a form from the Charles University athletic department saying that the student was a member of the basketball team who had been at an away game. Briggs had told me in advance that, annoying as they may be, these forms are meant to encourage exempting student athletes from any penalties for lateness. The fifth late paper still hasn’t come in yet. I have no idea why.

Grading these papers was easier than grading the midterms. The midterms were all written by hand, and so I had to struggle through a lot of truly dreadful handwriting. By contrast, the papers were all prepared on computers, and so reading them was no problem.

That said, however, the papers turned out to be far more disappointing than the midterms. Since the midterms were written in class and by hand, it was understandable that many of them contained spelling mistakes and poor grammar. That the papers were filled with similar errors, though, was not. Unlike an in-class exam, the students presumably had the time to reread and revise their papers. The spell check feature that comes with word processing programs make spelling mistakes particularly easy to avoid, but most students apparently don’t bother to use them. Perhaps it doesn’t occur to them that they are capable of making such mistakes.

The content of most papers was pretty disappointing too. Although Briggs had repeatedly warned students against just describing what was in the book they chose to review, this is exactly what most of them did. Those who did this, I assume, were those who didn’t come to class to hear Briggs repeatedly say, “Don’t describe! Analyze!” I had no choice but to give these papers low grades. I fully expect that once they get them back, a lot of these students will come to complain, saying, “Nobody told me this wasn’t what I was supposed to do!” The behavior of undergrads, I am learning, is highly predictable.

As with the midterms, there were some students who wrote really good papers. These were a pleasure to read. Three of the papers, though, seemed too good. The students who wrote them, I suspected, had each plagiarized somebody else’s work. They just didn’t read like something an undergrad would write. My suspicions increased when I noted that all three had done poorly on the midterm. One of them, I am sorry to say, was the African-American male who had had differences with Danielle last fall.

As everyone reading this already knows, I am incredibly sensitive to racial issues. Thus, I fully realized that I had to tread very carefully here. Not knowing how to proceed, I went to Briggs to ask for guidance. He shook his head in dismay when I told him about my suspicions. “This is a problem, Jonathan. Unfortunately, it is all too common a problem.”

He then outlined the university’s procedure for dealing with cheating. The person who made the discovery (in these three cases, me) must fill out a set of forms (which Briggs had several copies of right there) and file them with the student judicial affairs office as soon as possible. This office would then convene the honor code committee, which was composed entirely of students, to consider the matter. If the committee deemed the evidence to be sufficient, notice would then be sent to the student that he or she was being accused of cheating.

The student would then be called upon to respond to the charge. If the student pleaded guilty, and if he or she had no previous record of an honor code violation, then the committee would usually hand down a relatively minor punishment such as an “F” for the assignment, or even just order the student to redo the assignment honestly. If the student pleaded not guilty, however, then the committee would hold a hearing at which the accuser (me) and the student must each present their side of the story. Each could call witnesses, “just like a real trial.” A student who pleaded innocent but was found guilty would, at minimum, receive an “F” for the class, and might even be suspended for a semester. And if he or she had a previous record of honor code violations, the student could even be expelled altogether.

“But, Jonathan,” Briggs warned, “the burden of proof is on the accuser. It is not good enough to suspect that a student plagiarized. You’ve got to find the original source from which he or she copied from. Often, you can do so by typing just one sentence into Google. But if that doesn’t come up with anything, then it’s usually pretty hard to find the original source.”

I told him that I was prepared to hunt around on the internet to see if I could find the original sources for the papers I suspected were plagiarized. I also handed him copies of the three papers in question in case he recognized or wished to do any searching for the original sources himself.

It appeared to me that Briggs blanched when he saw who had written the papers. “There are very sensitive issues involved here, as you well know,” he said, clearly with regard to the paper by the African-American student. “You can’t afford to make any mistakes here. If you can’t find the words written here already in print somewhere else, then you can’t file a plagiarism charge.

“And in any case that you can’t do this,” he continued, “you must grade the paper as if the student really did write it even though you suspect otherwise. Do you understand?”

I assured him that I was aware of the complicated issues involved, and that I wouldn’t file a plagiarism charge unless I could prove it. I expressed my hope that the honor code committee would be especially sensitive in dealing with a student of color found guilty of plagiarism. I insisted, though, that it was my duty to report to the committee any student whom I could prove had cheated, regardless of his or her race, religion, or sexual orientation.

“Quite right, Jonathan, quite right!” Briggs commented. “I’ll take a look at these papers myself, of course, but it just so happens that I’m incredibly busy over the next week. I’m afraid you’re going to have to bear the burden of searching for proof of plagiarism.”

He then let me know that it was time for me to leave by thanking me for bringing this matter to his attention. I don’t think, however, that he was really thankful that I had done so.

So in addition to hours and hours of grading this past week, I also spent time entering various sentences from the three suspicious papers into Google. I wasn’t able (so far) to find a matching source in two of the suspicious cases, but I did find one in the case of the African-American student almost immediately.

I clearly had no choice but to go ahead and file the plagiarism charge against him, complete with a copy of his exam and of the review he copied from, with the student judicial affairs office yesterday (Thursday). It really, really pained me to have to do this to a minority student, but I had no choice.

I told the secretary in the student judicial affairs office that this matter needed to be dealt with very sensitively because the student accused was African-American. But the secretary, who was black herself, didn’t seem to care. “We treat everyone equally here,” she said, and then abruptly returned to her work. I thought she would appreciate my racial sensitivity, but somehow she didn’t. Maybe she was just busy.

I haven’t been able to find original sources for the other two suspicious papers yet, but I will work on this over the weekend. I hope I succeed since I will otherwise have to give each of these papers an “A.”

There’s one other thing I should mention: Shivvy did something amazing on her paper. She too chose to review Briggs’s old book. What she did, though, was cite the most critical things I had said about it in both my senior thesis and paper for Saltz, and then present an argument as to how my argument was wrong while Briggs’s was right. Very clever, but very annoying.

I was just going to give her a “B+” at first. That’s certainly all she deserved. But then I remembered how she showed the midterm I gave her a “B+” on to Briggs, who then raised her grade. I didn’t want her showing this paper to Briggs, since he would then see my critical remarks about him (some of which she blew way out of proportion in her commentary). So I decided I’d better give her an “A.” That way, she’d have no reason to show it to him. [I’d better delete this entire paragraph before allowing anyone else to read this.]

Before I forget: although Shivvy handed in her book review, she hasn’t yet given me back either my senior thesis or the paper I wrote for Saltz. I must remind her to do so.

April 9

Another week, another scandal! And this one I witnessed myself!

It all happened on Monday afternoon. Craig, Lisa, and I had come back to the office together from Asquith’s graduate methodology class, as usual. Lisa had just given her presentation about how to design a research project for testing various feminist theories of international relations. It had been a tough session since Asquith clearly didn’t like the project. Lisa was really bummed out, and we were trying to cheer her up with some light-hearted suggestions. Craig proposed that Asquith would have been more receptive to a research project that sought to test the validity of various gay theories of international relations—provided that his was the one she concluded was right. I suggested that if nothing else, she could write a paper for Prof. DeKlerk’s feminist theory class on how making the presentation in Prof. Asquith’s class made her feel alienated. Although we didn’t succeed in cheering up Lisa (who really doesn’t have a sense of humor), we did amuse ourselves.

Lisa was in the midst of ranting to us about how feminists like her were discriminated against just as much by homosexual males as by heterosexual ones, when in through our door walked a truly good looking lady with shoulder-length auburn hair whom I had never seen before. It is not at all unusual, of course, to encounter beautiful women on college campuses. But unlike most such creatures who usually wear pretty casual (if not downright ratty) clothes, this one was wearing what was obviously a very well tailored suit and lots of jewelry, including a substantial diamond ring along with a wedding ring.

“You did it, babe!” she said, addressing Craig. “You’re in!” She then pulled a manila envelope out of her pocketbook, walked over to Craig’s desk, and handed it to him. Craig appeared as surprised as Lisa and I were. He pulled the contents of the envelope half way out and then pushed them back in. Craig stood up, and the two of them threw themselves into each other’s arms with a mutual cry of joy. They then began a long, intense kiss which gave every indication that Craig and this married woman were already very, very familiar with each other.

It was just at this point that Professor Asquith walked into the room. I don’t know why he chose this particular moment. Maybe he wanted to say something to Lisa about her presentation. Or maybe he wanted to hit on Craig again. Or maybe he had heard the noise in the hall and was just curious about what was going on. Whatever it was, he never told us. He probably forgot himself.

“What the hell is going on here?” Asquith roared.

This quickly put a stop to Craig and the red-head. “We were kissing!” the woman said pertly. “What’s it to you?”

Asquith spluttered in anger at this. “I wasn’t talking to you, young lady. You obviously don’t know who I am. What is the meaning of this, Craig?”

“We were indeed kissing,” Craig answered blithely. He wasn’t cowed by Asquith at all.

“But I thought you were gay!” exclaimed Asquith, his voice revealing a deep sense of betrayal.

“Did you?” Craig asked flippantly. “Well…you were wrong!”

“Very wrong!” the red-head added suggestively, and then laughed.

Asquith paused for a moment. There was real anger in his voice when he next spoke. “You’ve been passing yourself off as gay, haven’t you?” he demanded. “You did it when you interviewed here last year so that I would push to get you admitted and funded, didn’t you?”

“Now, Professor Asquith,” said Craig in a more serious tone. “I never once said I was gay. If that’s what you thought, then that was an erroneous assumption on your part.”

“Besides,” said the woman, “I’m sure a potential student’s sexual orientation would never influence you as to whether or not he or she should be admitted.”

“You’ve made a fool of me!” Asquith cried.

“It seems to me that you’ve made one of yourself,” said the red-head demurely.

“I don’t know who you are, young woman,” said Asquith, regaining control of himself, “but let me tell you, Craig, that what is obviously a sexual relationship between a male TA and a female student is a very serious matter.”

“Oh, I think it’s okay,” said the red-head. “I’m his wife.”

Asquith was dumbfounded by this. “I think it’s time I introduced you, dear” said Craig. “Professor Asquith, Lisa, Jonathan: this is my wife, Lee.”

So this was the person who wrote that poem I found in Craig’s desk! Since I also thought that Craig was gay, it never occurred to me that Lee could be a woman’s name.

“Well, imitating a gay person is a serious offense, as far as I’m concerned. And, I think it’s only fair to say,” Asquith said in an evil tone, “that your doing so is highly likely to affect the faculty’s decision about whether to continue your funding next year.”

“Oh, the funding won’t be necessary,” responded Craig. “I won’t be coming back. Lee had just come here to tell me that I’ve just been admitted to the Kennedy School at Harvard.”

“I don’t believe this!” Asquith spluttered. He finally left, defeated.

Once he was out of the room, Craig and Lee burst out laughing. “From now on, my dear,” Lee said to Craig, “you are going to wear that wedding ring!”

“Yes, ma’am!” Craig and Lee then invited Lisa and me to join them for a drink to celebrate Craig’s good fortune. Lisa declined (she probably wanted to go tell Prof. DeKlerk all about what had just happened here—as well as suggest my idea for a paper to her), but I went along.

When we were seated quite comfortably with drinks, Craig and Lee both told me the whole story. They had been in the same class together at the University of Pennsylvania, where they both graduated from last spring, and then gotten married last summer. Lee had gotten accepted into the Charles University Law School last spring, and was just finishing up the first year there now. Craig had not been certain whether he wanted to get a Master of Public Policy (M.P.P.) or a Ph.D. in political science. He had applied to both types of program. But since Lee had gotten into law school here at Charles, and since they were about to get married and, obviously, wanted to live together, this narrowed down the grad schools that Craig could attend to those in the greater Boston area. He had gotten into several public policy programs in other parts of the country, but was turned down by the one at Harvard—the only one he really wanted to go to in this region.

By this time, Craig had decided he really was more interested in an M.P.P. than a Ph.D. He could have, of course, just moved to Cambridge with Lee, applied to the Kennedy School this past fall, and simply worked before starting (assuming he’d been admitted) this coming fall. He had a strong financial incentive, though, for getting into a grad program this past fall: he owed a large amount in student loans which he would have had to start repaying if he did not go to grad school, but could postpone if he did.

He still had not heard from the program here at Charles after he was turned down by Harvard last year. So he asked if he could come up for an interview last spring. It was just a fluke that the department office sent him to Prof. Asquith to be interviewed. Almost as soon as he sat down in his office, Craig said, Asquith started bemoaning the fact that the program lacked diversity since it didn’t have many gay students any more. It dawned on Craig that Asquith might well help him get admitted and funded if Asquith thought he was gay. So Craig played along. And it worked!

Once he’d started here last fall, Craig wanted to keep Asquith at arms length, but had to continue this little charade since he needed to keep on his good side to keep his funding. Besides, he didn’t know if he’d get into the Kennedy School until today.

Staying away from Asquith wasn’t so difficult last fall when all the incoming grad students were on fellowship. Craig, as I recalled, just didn’t come to campus all that much. It turns out he was working 30 hours a week in addition to collecting his fellowship stipend. This semester, though, being a TA kept him on campus—and close to Asquith—much more than he cared for.

He was glad to be leaving Charles, but being here was not a total loss. Indeed, he thought applying to the Kennedy School program as a grad student from Charles may have made the difference in getting him in. He was certain that he would get a high paying job coming out of this particular master’s program at Harvard—much higher paying, he assured me, than any job he’d get with a Ph.D. in political science from anywhere.

This surprised me. How could someone with a master’s degree earn more than someone with a doctorate? Could he possibly be right? I just assumed it would be the other way around.

Lee told me that the two of them would now both be finished in two years. Until then, they would take out more student loans during the school year. She had lined up a high paying job for this coming summer, and (with Craig in the Kennedy School) they would both probably have good jobs the following summer, so they wouldn’t be too strapped.

All I could say was that I was shocked that Craig could have started one grad program with the intention of applying to another one immediately.

He, in turn, expressed surprise at learning that I had not done likewise. He thought that everyone did, and that everyone should—just for their own protection in case things didn’t work out in the program they were in, as it hadn’t for him here at Charles.

The whole episode just amazed me, and everybody else who heard about it—which, of course, was everybody. Almost everyone, including me, agreed with Asquith: it’s highly unethical to pass yourself off as gay just for your own personal material benefit. I have to admit, though, that I was glad the scandal broke when it did since it distracted everyone from the Brendan Cohen fiasco as well as my connection to him. Michael was so eager to hear my first hand account of the conversation among Asquith, Craig, and Lee that even he stopped being nasty toward me.

April 2

This has been yet another annoying week. It has not been nearly as bad as the previous one, mercifully enough, but it has been annoying nonetheless.

First, there was a long, ranting e-mail message from Brendan Cohen on Monday. He denounced me for repaying everything he had supposedly done for me with sheer ingratitude. He even had the nerve to blame me for how badly his talk at Charles went! He said that if only I had told him what was in Briggs’s new book, he could have adjusted his presentation accordingly. How pathetic! I just deleted the message without bothering to reply to it. I also deleted him from my list of e-mail contact list since I have no reason to contact him again.

Second, Michael has been openly hostile to me ever since Brendan’s ill-fated presentation. “So that was the best of Barstow?” he asked sarcastically the first time I saw him afterward. And whenever he’s seen me since then, he asks, “And how’s our boy from Barstow doing?” I’m not sure if he means Cohen or me. Once he said, “Jeez! You really didn’t have much of an education there at Barstow, did you? You were quite lucky to get in to Charles, weren’t you?” I couldn’t really respond in kind by disparaging where he had done his undergraduate work since he had done it right here at Charles. Michael’s open hostility is an ominous sign. It shows that he doesn’t see me as important enough to bother with being polite to.

Third, this African-American student (whose name I am not mentioning) is really proving to be something of a trial. Let me explain. During his lecture section this past Tuesday, Briggs reminded the undergrads that the 5-10 page critical book review they were to write for his course was due in two weeks and gave dire warnings about how papers would be marked down by one letter grade for each day late. He then reminded them that the list they were to choose a book from to review was on the syllabus. “And remember,” Briggs thundered, “I want analysis, not description. Don’t tell me what the book said. I’ve read it already myself. Tell me why the book’s argument is right or wrong. And I’ll give you a little hint: it’s probably wrong! Except, of course, for my book.” I knew that Briggs was joking, but I think the students (the third of them or so that were there) took him seriously.

Anyway, this one African-American male student comes to my office hours that same afternoon all in a stew over the critical book review, saying that he’s never written one before and demanding to know how he’s supposed to read an entire book and write a paper about it all in just two weeks. I reminded him that this requirement and its due date were listed on the syllabus he received at the beginning of the semester, and that he should have selected a book to review long before now. He responded angrily, declaring that my saying this implied that he was somehow an inferior student because he was black. I calmed him down by saying that he surely wasn’t the only one who hadn’t begun this project yet; procrastination was an equal opportunity problem among students.

He asked me what book he should choose and what he should say about it. This was up to him, I responded. He kept asking what sort of arguments Briggs would like to hear about the different books on the list. I replied that I doubted Briggs would be reading many of these reviews, if any; I was the one who graded them. So then, of course, he wanted to know what I wanted him to say. Finally, I told him that a good way to start thinking of what to say about a book was to see what others had said about it in previously published reviews. This idea appealed to him and he finally went away—after taking up over 45 minutes of my time!

But just as he left, in walked the week’s fourth annoyance: Shivvy. At first she railed against me for having treated such an obvious loser as the person who just left with such kid gloves, making her wait so long to see me in the process. “You wouldn’t have treated him so gently if he’d been white! Admit it!” she said. I told her to lower her voice before the black student or anybody else overheard her uttering something so provocative. She just doesn’t know any limits.

“Well actually, Mr. Vining,” she said with mock respect, “I came here to talk about the book review myself. What with that interesting presentation we had last week by that gentleman from Cal State Barstow (I think you know who I mean?)I thought I might do one on the Briggs book myself.” Briggs had indeed put his previous book on the list for students to choose from.

I told her that she was free to choose that or any other book on the list to review. “Yes, I’m aware of that, Mr. Vining,” she responded. “What I came to ask you is this: could I borrow that senior thesis you wrote last year, and also the paper you did for Professor Saltz at Harvard last semester? It would really help me organize my thoughts if I could.”

At first I said no, but she finally talked me into it with the argument that she really missed our intellectual intercourse (“as well as other types”) from last semester, and that if I really wanted her to believe that I hadn’t thrown her over but was serious about getting back with her at the end of the semester, I wouldn’t deny her this small request. We agreed that she would come over to my apartment on Thursday evening to pick up the two papers to save her the trouble of printing them out if I e-mailed them to her.

She looked at her watch. “Only ten minutes!” she said. “You were very efficient with me, Mr. Vining.” I let this pass without comment. She made as if to leave, but then said (in a way I was certain afterward she had rehearsed), “Oh, by the way: I went to see Professor Briggs about the midterm you gave me the “B+” on. He’s agreed to raise it to an “A-.”

This really pissed me off. “Why?” I practically shouted.

Shivvy shrugged. “You’ll just have to ask him, I guess. But don’t feel bad. This was the first time you've graded anything. It’s understandable that you made a mistake. I don’t hold it against you.”

And this leads me to the week’s fifth annoyance: Briggs. As soon as she had left, I called him up and asked if it was true that he had raised her grade. He said it was. I asked him why.

“This is the young lady,” he responded, “whom you had to put your relationship with on hold this semester to avoid a conflict of interest, right?”

After I confirmed this, he said, “Look, Jonathan. She explained to me that you were unhappy about her going out with other guys, and that this might have affected your judgment in grading her exam. She just thought it should be read by someone she had not been personally involved with. So I read it myself and had to agree that maybe your personal feelings about her didn’t allow you to appreciate the merit in what she had written.”

I told him how I had graded all the exams blind, without knowing who had written them. “There’s no point in arguing about this, Jonathan. I’m the one who’s ultimately responsible for the grades in this class. Although I agreed with your judgment in all the other cases where students appealed to me, I didn’t in this one case.

“I can understand why you might be so upset by this girl,” he continued. “She’s very, very charming. But the semester will soon be over, and you’ll have the opportunity to win her back, okay? And with that, I’m afraid I have to go.”

What a bitch! She just made that entire story up! I confronted her about it when she came over to borrow my senior thesis and paper for Saltz. She just acted as if it was all a big joke. “Are you jealous?” she kept asking—while looking all around the room for evidence of a female presence (all she found was another one of her own damn scrunchies).

When I asked her to please be serious, she responded, “Well, how else do you explain your giving me a “B+”? It had to be for some personal reason since it clearly wasn’t what I deserved.”

We argued inconclusively for awhile until she declared that it was all a misunderstanding and that she was ready to kiss and make up. I said I wanted to do that too—when the semester ended next month.

After denouncing me as a “fucking bore,” she got up to leave. But just before she went out the door, I asked her whether she was really going out with other guys.

“Oh, Mr. Vining!” she responded. “Such a personal question! How unprofessional of you to ask it!” And then she left.

God, what a bitch! But I have to admit: I admire her for her sheer brazenness with Briggs. And I really am looking forward to the end of the semester.

March 26

I am writing this on Friday evening. This week just after spring break has been pure hell. It seemed like it would never end. But with the departure of Brendan Cohen back to Barstow, it finally has.

It started well enough when I met him at the airport last Saturday. We had a nice talk coming in on the T and during dinner at a cheap restaurant we went to which we found near his budget hotel (as always, he was low on funds). I had to admire his energy: not only was he giving the talk at Charles on Tuesday afternoon that I had arranged, but he had succeeded in having himself invited to give two talks at Harvard (one at the Center for International Affairs, the other at the Center for Science and International Affairs) as well as one each at the M.I.T. Center of International Studies, Tufts University’s Fletcher School of Law and Diplomacy, and somewhere or other at Boston University, Boston College, and even Northeastern University (which is truly the low man on the academic totem pole around here). He had also arranged some appointments with whomever he could in all these various places to talk about the possibility of his spending his sabbatical as a guest scholar. He hoped to make more such appointments over the course of the week.
He told me all about the financial arrangements he had made: a few were covering his hotel bill for a night while others (including Harvard) were not paying anything. “I don’t mind with Harvard,” he said, “since I consider myself lucky to wangle two invitations to speak there at all.” Cal State Barstow was not providing anything either since he’d spent his annual $500 travel allowance coming out to the IRA conference last September. He had flown in on the Saturday to get a lower fare, and would fly out the following Friday (today) since he really couldn’t afford to stay here for two weekends.

It soon became clear that he had assumed that I would spend the next day, Sunday, showing him around and that I would be going with him to his other talks. Our conversation started to grow a little testy when I informed him that I could do neither since I had so much work to do. Luckily, though, he seemed to realize that he was imposing on me and backed down. Feeling a little awkward, I invited him to come by my place Sunday evening for a little grad student fare, which he accepted.

I spent all Sunday catching up on my own work and was taken a bit by surprise when Brendan came by earlier than I had invited him for. I hadn’t had time to go to the store, so we dined on what I had: frozen fish sticks and ketchup. At least he brought a six-pack of some light beer with him; not my favorite, but I had none left myself.

The conversation was desultory. He told me how cool the weather was here compared to Barstow. I told him that it seemed warm compared to what it had been like only a few weeks ago. He told me about where all he had gone site-seeing today (as if I cared). I told him how I had fallen behind on my own work helping out with Briggs’s manuscript last week. He got really excited at this and pleaded with me to tell him all about it. I said that I’d really like to, but couldn’t due to professional ethics. He seemed shocked at my saying this, but all I could tell him was that the book should be out by the IRA conference this coming September, and that he could see it then along with everyone else.

He left soon afterward, obviously miffed. He even took the two bottles of beer we hadn’t drunk with him. He called me late the next evening, though, all full of enthusiasm over how well his talk had gone at Harvard CSIA in the morning and at M.I.T. in the afternoon. He had even had lunch with somebody-or-other from the former and dinner with somebody-else from the latter (neither of whose name rang a bell with me). He said he had a shot at being a guest scholar at both next year, but still had to talk to a few more people at each. I wished him luck and said that I was looking forward to seeing him tomorrow at Charles.

The next day, Briggs dutifully announced in class that “Jonathan’s old professor” would be giving a talk today during my discussion section. He urged everyone to show up, saying “something just might be on the final about it.” I knew he was joking, but the undergrads must have taken him seriously since they turned out in force that afternoon. I was a little surprised since I had never had so many show up in the discussion section just for me. In addition to the undergrads (among whom, of course, was Shivvy), there were several others, including Prof. Asquith, Michael, Lisa, and even Angie. Angie sat next to me in one of the student desks. I felt odd sitting in one instead of standing up front, but Briggs said he’d introduce Brendan and would moderate the session—which turned out to be an unmitigated disaster.

I don’t know what got into him, but Brendan’s talk was basically a critique of Briggs’s old book. Nobody else in the room knew it, but his presentation was essentially a summarization of the senior thesis that I had written for him! I couldn’t believe he would do something so stupid and unprofessional! And how could he be so rude as to critique Briggs after Briggs had, at my request, arranged for him to speak here?

I was too upset to make any comment when Brendan finally shut up and the Q&A session began. Michael, though, tore into him like a rotwiler, pointing out where his critique had “failed to grasp the complexity of Briggs’s argument” in his old book as well as where it was “outmoded” since Briggs had already dealt with similar critiques in his new book. Michael, it was clear, was very familiar with the new book.

A few others joined Michael’s bandwagon and made scathing remarks, but Michael, who had worked himself up into a righteous fury, was the star of the show. Brendan was completely taken aback and did not know how to respond. He tried to lighten the mood with the sort of witticisms that went over well with students back at Barstow, but they fell completely flat here. He kept looking over at me in what appeared to be an appeal for help, but I looked away each time.

Briggs himself just sat back and smiled throughout the entire session, especially during the Q&A part. He didn’t say one word in defense of his ideas; he didn’t have to, since Michael was doing it for him. Briggs finally spoke up to say that the session had to end now. He said that Brendan had raised some very interesting points (“No, he really did,” said Briggs in response to derisive laughter from Michael and others), but that he had already dealt with them all in his new book.

“You might want to have a look at it first in case you’re thinking of trying to publish what you said here,” Briggs said condescendingly to Brendan. This was followed by more derisive laughter. “And let me just end,” he added, “by thanking Jonathan here for arranging for you to come and talk.” Much to my embarrassment, the derisive laughter was then aimed at me. Michael sneered at me openly. Even Shivvy looked at me with open disgust.

Afterward, I really wanted to give Brendan a piece of my mind for having lifted what I had written in my senior thesis for his talk here, but didn’t want to do so in front of Briggs, Michael, and everybody else since that would have been an admission that all his arguments—which had just been punctured here—were really mine. Brendan himself was clearly embarrassed. “I guess that didn’t go over too well, did it, Jonathan?” he asked sheepishly.

Before I could answer, he said, “I’m afraid I can’t stay and talk. I’ve got to rush over to M.I.T. and meet somebody. I’ll get in touch with you later.” He was gone before I could tell him not to bother.

The room then emptied out quickly. Briggs, Asquith, Michael and a few others all went out together, laughing. Nobody said anything to me except Angie. “This was no reflection on you, Jonathan. I know Barry thinks highly of your work. Don’t give it another thought.” I thanked her and then practically ran out of the room myself. I was afraid I might break down and cry on her shoulder otherwise. I certainly wanted to.

Luckily, nobody came to see me during my office hours afterward—except Shivvy. She was in high spirits, rubbing it in about Brendan. “Wasn’t that the great Professor Cohen—the best of Barstow—whom you told me so much about? What a total loser! And I used to believe it when you told me how terrific he was!”

After getting tired of this line of attack, her voice turned cold as she said, “I know who it is you’re fucking now. It’s that little Southern simp, Angie, isn’t it?”

I told her that she was being outrageous. “I saw how you two were talking just now!” she shot back. “And a lot of people have told me that you and she seem to have spent the entire spring break together in the library and Briggs’s office. Jesus, Jonathan! Were you two so hot for each other that you couldn’t even go over to your apartment? You had to do it right there in his office? What if you’d been caught?”

I told her that we had been working together on Briggs’s manuscript at Briggs’s request, but she was incredulous. “Just be careful, Jonathan,” she said as she finally left. “Briggs will castrate you if he thinks you’re poaching on his private preserve.” God, what a bitch!

I got a phone call from Brendan last night. He started cheerily telling me, as if nothing at all had happened, how well his talks had gone elsewhere and that he thought he really had a shot at becoming a guest scholar at the Fletcher School. They might even pay him for teaching a class as an adjunct, but had asked for him to have, among others, a former student write a letter of recommendation for him. He said that, of course, he thought of me for this.

That’s when I let him have it. I chewed him out royally for having embarrassed the hell out of me by giving such a lousy presentation at Charles. I also said that I’d never thought he would have stooped to plagiarizing material from my senior thesis—and then to present this stolen material in a presentation that I myself attended. Did he think I wouldn’t notice?

He was stunned by this. At first, he started apologizing for embarrassing me. But then he started to go on about how much of what I wrote in my senior thesis were really ideas I had gotten from him both in class and our private discussions.

This made me so furious that I cut him off, saying, “Look, you asshole, I can’t carry you any more! I tried to help you as much as I could, and you embarrassed the hell out of me! You did enough damage this past week! I’m certainly not going to write any letter of recommendation for you so you can come back and do even more next year!”

I then slammed down the phone and turned off the ringer in case he tried to call back. In fact, the next morning I discovered that there was a voice mail message from him expressing shock at what I’d said after everything he’d done for me. I deleted it before the end.

To paraphrase a saying that I think was made up about somebody else from somewhere else: “You can take the boy out of Barstow, but you can’t take Barstow out of the boy.” That about sums up Brendan. It’s his own damn fault that I had to get rid of him like that. However useful he may have once been to me, I’ve clearly moved way beyond his league. Someone in my position just can’t afford to be dragged down by a loser like that. I had to do what I had to do.

March 20

I am writing this on a Saturday afternoon, for a change. Spring break is almost over, though it has not been much of a break for me, but a lot of work instead. And not so much of it my own work either. Still, I’m not complaining. Let me explain.

A week ago today, I got an early morning phone call from Briggs. He said he was flying off in the evening to London for a conference, but that there was still a lot of work to be done on his copy-edited manuscript which was due back to the publisher on Friday. “Angie’s been doing a great job with it, but there’s a little too much left for her to finish by herself. She told me that you two had spoken and that you had offered to help with it. I was wondering if I could take you up on that.”

I was incredibly flattered, as anyone would be, that Briggs had finally asked me to help him out with this book. I accepted immediately, but he seemed to think I still needed convincing. “Angie’s not as knowledgeable about the field as you are. It would really help me to have you look it over.”

I accepted again. He asked me to come out to his place for lunch. He would go over what had to be done with Angie and me. We could then go in his car to the airport later in the afternoon and Angie could drop me back at Charles.

When I finally got to Briggs’s house (which took quite awhile on public transport since it was a Saturday), Angie opened the door. She was unabashedly relieved to see me. “Thanks so much for helping out, Jonathan! I’d never be able to get all this work done by myself!” she told me.

Briggs was upstairs finishing his packing. He came down and we all ate the black bean soup and BLT sandwiches that Angie had prepared for us. Angie was in high spirits, chiding “Barry” good-naturedly for not taking her to London with him but leaving her here to work on his book. He responded in kind, saying that he’d be sure to take her to his next conference—unless he had another manuscript which he needed her to take care of for him.

After lunch, we got down to business. Briggs and Angie had already reviewed the changes made by the copy-editor. Briggs, though, had apparently thought of a lot more changes he wanted to make. There had been some to-ing and fro-ing between him and his editor over this, with the latter calling for him not to make too many changes or to exceed his “word budget” any further. Angie had also marked up all these changes—as well as “changes to the changes,” as she put it, that Briggs had made. It was doing this, plus answering most of the copy editor’s questions, that had taken up all their spare time last week.

What remained to be done was to verify the accuracy of all quoted material and bibliographic references, as well as to find the necessary information for any of the latter which were not yet complete—of which there were a surprising number, I thought (I would never say so to Briggs, though). “You know how it is, Jonathan,” he said. “I’m sure I read something somewhere, but I haven’t been able to find it since.” This, of course, was a problem I had encountered many times myself. It was gratifying to see that someone such as Briggs was not immune to it either. “You may have to be a little creative in hunting down some of these.”

We agreed that the best place for Angie and I to have our base of operations was Briggs’s office on campus. A lot of the books and journals he cited were right there, as were photocopies of things he had accumulated while writing the book. Most anything that we couldn’t find in his office, he told us, could probably be found downstairs in the political science library (like Harvard and M.I.T., Charles University maintained a large number of small, specialized libraries). But there might be a few things, he warned, that we wouldn’t be able to find either in his office or in the political science library. For these, he advised, we either search the internet or try to find them over at Harvard. Since I had taken the class with Saltz last semester over there, I had become reasonably familiar with the Harvard library system. Angie, of course, didn’t even know her way around the political science library at Charles, much less anything at Harvard.

The time came for Briggs to get going over to Logan airport. Angie drove, Briggs sat beside her up front, and I was in the back. On the way, I learned that Michael would be presenting a paper at the conference in London that Briggs was also presenting at. “I would have asked him to help you two with this,” Briggs said apologetically, “but he’s going to be with me over there.”

I was just as glad that he wouldn’t be with us, but was too polite to say so. Angie, though, was not: “He’s a creep!” she declared. This led to a minor dispute between them in which they each appealed to me for support. I knew Angie was right, but I said I agreed with Briggs. Briggs said that Michael would take the T to Logan, and that they would meet up there. When Angie said she felt sorry for Barry having to sit next to him all those hours on the flight over and probably on the way back, Briggs responded that her concern was misplaced: Michael had an economy class ticket while Briggs had traded some frequent flier miles for an upgrade to business class. Nor would they be staying in the same hotel since Briggs was being put up somewhere nice while Michael would be at a hostel. In fact, he said, they probably wouldn’t see much of each other outside the conference. “Lucky you!” exclaimed Angie. Briggs chided her for saying so, but I suddenly realized that he wasn’t particularly fond of Michael either. He respected Michael’s intellect, I knew that, but I could see that Michael wasn’t Briggs’s idea of good company.

We finally got to the airport after an annoying delay in traffic (not unusual for Boston). When we stopped in front of Briggs’s departure terminal, I got out to help him with his luggage, and then got in the front seat for the trip back. Angie thanked me once again for being willing to help out. “I hope that nice girlfriend of yours won’t be too angry about me taking you away from her this week.”

I explained to her how we couldn’t see each other this semester to avoid any conflict of interest since I was her TA. She expressed complete disbelief that we would actually comply with such “silly rules.” When I told her that I was the one who had called for the separation and that Briggs had insisted upon it, she just laughed. “Barry would never have followed any such rule himself,” she insisted, “even if he said he would.” This I couldn’t believe, and told her so. “But just look at how him and me got started!” she responded. “I was married to Doug when we took up with each other!” I told her that that was different because she was not his student while Shivvy was mine. “That’s just splittin’ hairs!” she exclaimed. “Surely it’s worse to take up with a married woman than to take up with a single girl who happens to be your student.”

She was obviously wrong, but I didn’t want to argue with her. So I told her instead that the separation was just temporary, and that Shivvy and I would probably be getting back together when the semester ended in just a couple of months. “Well, all I can say,” she responded, “is that if you want her to come back to you then, you’d better be prepared to buy her lots of flowers, lots of dinners, and lots of jewelry. I’d try my hand at writing her some sentimental poetry too, if I were you.”

Interesting advice. I’ll keep it in mind.

Over the course of spring break, I got to know more about Angie than I had before. First and foremost, she is an incredibly hard worker. She and I quickly organized all the tasks that had to be accomplished, and we completed them all by the end of the week. (“It was probably easier,” she noted, “without Barry here interfering and changing everything around.) She was actually quicker at finding and checking references than me. She just lacked self-confidence.

I also learned that she is from a small town in southwest Virginia. Her parents were divorced long ago, and she hasn’t seen much of her father since. Her mother works as a hairdresser, and had long made it clear that she didn’t want Angie moving back in with her after graduating from college. “So when Doug and I split up,” she said, “I knew I wasn’t welcome back there.” Fortunately for her, Barry had been willing to take her in and make a “mostly honest woman” out of her, as she put it. She could not have stayed in the grad student apartment even if Doug had been willing to let her take up the lease since he had to give it back to the university once he withdrew and left for Gates. She couldn’t have afforded to rent a decent place (assuming she could have found one) on what she earned as a waitress, and she didn’t know anybody she was willing to room with.

Briggs let her stay for free at his house, she told me, in exchange for her doing the cooking as well as serving as his research assistant. She still did some waitressing, though, to earn a little pocket money.

“We haven’t really talked about it,” she said, “but I’m sure Barry and I will be getting married after my divorce comes through.” Nor did she expect any problems on that front: Doug was cooperating with her on this. He had found another girl out at Gates, Angie suspected, who was undoubtedly encouraging him to get the divorce. “We never should have gotten married in the first place,” she said. “I think we both know that now.”

One thing she told me really surprised me: Briggs, she says, is extremely nervous about how this new book is going to be received. Considering how he exudes self-confidence, I would never have guessed this. But she insists that it is true.

The new book, by the way, seems to be an extended discussion with the critics of his previous book. Interestingly enough, Briggs actually dealt with a lot of the critiques that I had made about his earlier book in my senior thesis and the paper I wrote for Saltz. I’m glad I didn’t show them to him after all since the points I made wouldn’t have seemed all that new to him. As everyone reading this will recall, Briggs’s great book written all those years ago was entitled, International Relations: A Neo-Radical Perspective. This new one is entitled, Neo-Radical Relations: An International Perspective. I like that.

Angie and I finished everything up yesterday afternoon. We didn’t send the manuscript back to the publisher since Briggs would want to look it over first. He should be able to do so on Monday or Tuesday. I think he’ll be pleased with what we did.

Oh, here’s one other example of how well Angie organizes things: although I had completely forgotten about it, Angie remembered that Brendan Cohen would be speaking here at Charles next week. After Briggs had told her about it, she had worked with the department office to schedule his talk for Tuesday at two o’clock in my discussion section (which is fine with me), make travel arrangements, and even put up fliers in Case Hall (which we did together yesterday).

It turns out that Brendan’s plane from California will come in at about the same time today as Briggs’s from Britain. Since Angie is going to drive to Logan to pick Briggs up, she called to say she would swing by and take me to Logan to meet Brendan so I can take him on the T to his hotel in Central Square. She thinks of everything!

I’m really glad she called. It was fun working with her and I felt sad when we were all done. It’ll be nice to have one more conversation with her on the way to the airport.

Next Entry: March 26

March 12

It’s one week later--the Friday afternoon of the seventh week of classes. Next week is spring break. I am so glad, because this past week has been no fun at all.

I met with Briggs on Tuesday morning before class. He said that he’d looked over my grading, and that it seemed fine. Given what Angie had told me, I doubted that he had spent much time on this at all, but I certainly wasn’t going to say anything. Besides, I felt proud that he trusted my grading ability so much that he didn’t feel the need to scrutinize or question it.

We then went to class. Only about 25 students were there at first. More, though, trickled in while Briggs gave his lecture, as usual. Toward the end of the session, he said that the TA would now pass back the exams. If the students had any questions about it, he said, they were to see me first; he wouldn’t discuss it with anyone who had not done so. He then walked out, leaving me with the unenviable task of calling out the names of all the students who had taken the exam.

By the time I did this, there were about 40 students in the room and so a lot of time was wasted calling out the names of students who weren’t there. Many of those who were there, though, expressed their indignation over the grade they received as soon as they got their exams back. Things got noisy enough that I had to call for quiet three times so that students could hear me continue to call out names.

Once I had finished this task and made sure that everyone there had gotten an exam back, I ended the session. Several students came up to me immediately afterward, angrily claiming that I had given them “the wrong grade” and demanding an immediate upward revision. I told them that they had hardly had time to read—and none at all to digest—the comments I had written explaining each of their grades. I told them all to go and do so and then come and talk to me this afternoon during my office hours if they still had any questions.

The students who came to the lecture session in the morning apparently spread the word that the midterms had been graded (and graded hard at that) because when I went to my discussion section that afternoon, there were over thirty students waiting—both for me and the exams. A similar scene ensued there. Those who were satisfied with their grade left the room immediately after receiving their midterms back. Those who weren’t stayed behind to argue. I repeated to them what I had said in the morning. What this meant now, though, was that they simply followed me back to my office—where there was a line of students already waiting to see me.

I first called for all those who had not yet picked up their exams to come in and get them. There were several of these—many of whom wanted to start arguing with me right then and there. I told them to at least go back outside and read carefully through my comments. I then told those outside to organize themselves in a line and to come in to talk to me one at a time.

Then things really became unpleasant. I’m not sure how many conversations I had over the next few hours; it seemed like 40 or so. All the conversations, though, had certain common features. Each student was certain that I had erred somehow in grading them. Each asked me if this was the first time I had served as a TA and had actually graded anything (my affirmative answer, of course, only served to confirm the conviction that I had somehow screwed up). Each asked me if Prof. Briggs had checked the grades (I assured them that he had—even though I was not all that sure about this). And each expressed the firm belief that they deserved a higher grade.

I remember when I was an undergraduate how we all viewed TA’s as uniformly biased, unfair, incompetent, and generally stupid. Of course, most of the ones at Cal State Barstow really were. I mean, who but a loser who couldn’t get in anywhere else would go there for grad school? (There’s nothing wrong with being an undergrad at Barstow, though, as my coming from there to a prestigious school like Charles demonstrates).

But now that I am a TA myself, I see things differently. Each undergrad wrote one exam, but I was the one who read them all and so could see them in comparative perspective. Most of them displayed serious misunderstandings about the subject matter. Few students, though, were willing to recognize them as such, arguing instead that what I pointed to were minor mistakes which were irrelevant to their argument. Many of them also showed that they didn’t know how to write a decent essay. But instead of being embarrassed at having this pointed out to them, most responded hotly that since this wasn’t an English class, they didn’t have to write the way composition professors demanded. Good God!

These conversations, of course, were not absolutely all alike. There were some variations in them, which soon became predictable. Most men, for example, tended to get angry about their grade. This didn’t bother me at all. In fact, it was a good excuse for getting angry back at them. It felt good! Most women, by contrast, got all tearful and pathetic, claiming that the grade I gave showed I didn’t like them. This I found a lot harder to deal with. I usually told them that I felt the midterm wasn’t reflective of their true potential, that I was confident they would do better if they worked harder, and that it might be a really, really good idea to actually attend class regularly as well as do the assigned readings. Some reacted as if this was the first time they had ever heard such advice, thanking me profusely for it and promising to follow it faithfully.

Shivvy, I’m sure, would have said they were all putting on an act. All I can say is: if that’s what they were doing, they were quite good at it. Not all women, though, acted like this. Some got angry like the men—including Shivvy herself. “Who the fuck do you think you are, giving me a `B+?’” she shouted during her turn in the office. As with everyone else, I explained how I carefully concealed the students’ identities from myself when I read their exams, but this made no impression on her.

As with Shivvy, the most difficult students to deal with were those who had earned a “B+.” I didn’t think a “B+” was such a bad grade. There are a lot worse ones, after all. But all those who got a “B+” were adamant that they deserved “at least” an “A-.” If I didn’t raise their grade, they told me, they would never get into Phi Beta Kappa, a decent law school, or whatever. I told them all that this was just the first assignment, and that if they did better on the book review and the final, they could still get an “A-,” or maybe even an “A,” for the course. None, though, seemed terribly reassured.

There were a few other interesting variations to these conversations. Some students on scholarship tended to view this fact both as proof of their brilliance as well as sufficient justification for an “A.” On the other hand, many of those whose parents were paying full tuition also seemed to think that this entitled them to an “A” since, after all, they had paid for it.

Several students argued vociferously that I had graded them down because I was prejudiced against them because of their race, religion, gender, sexual orientation, or whatever. This, of course, was ridiculous: as everyone reading this knows, I’m incredibly sensitive to these matters. My response to them all was that I did not know the identities of the students when I read their exams, and that I graded everyone on exactly the same basis. Many of the students who accused me of bias against them did so, I am convinced, not because they believed this but merely in the hope of intimidating me into raising their grade. They did not succeed. There were some, though, who really seemed to believe that I was prejudiced against one or more groups they belonged to.

One of these, unfortunately, was the African-American male who had had the contretemps with Danielle last fall. As I mentioned before, I had originally given him a “D” but raised this to a “C” in compensation for past inequities experienced by African-Americans.

It turns out that he (once again, I maintain my principled policy of not identifying him by name) thought that I had crossed out a “B” instead of a “D.” (Because of the way I crossed out the “D,” I could see how he might have thought it was a “B.”) Thus, instead of seeing his grade raised from a “D” as a result of my racial sensitivity, he mistakenly thought it was being lowered from a “B” as a result of racial prejudice. He was incredulous at first when I told him what the true situation was. He realized that I was not prejudiced, though, when I reminded him that I had marched in the demonstration on his behalf last December (I was a little miffed that he did not remember me), informed him of my progressive views regarding racial sensitivity, pointed out the (many) weaknesses in his exam, and offered to provide him with individual tutoring.

I felt proud of myself for salvaging what could have deteriorated into an ugly situation, like with Danielle. I wonder why she didn’t think to do what I did. She would undoubtedly still be here if she had.

There were two other similarities in these conversations worth mentioning. One was that virtually every student—including Shivvy—told me that they were going to take the matter of their grade up with Professor Briggs—as if I had done something wrong and, since I wouldn’t mend my ways, they must reluctantly tattle on me. To all of them, I responded that they were free to do so, but that I doubted he would change their grade. And I was right: when I met with him today to go over the exams which students had submitted to him for review (he would not meet with them individually since he was so busy), he agreed with me in every case that the grade should not be raised. “If anything,” he said, “you’ve been too lenient with them.” Naturally, I was pleased that Briggs was backing me up. I noted, though, that not everyone (including Shivvy) who had said they would appeal had actually done so. “Some of them won’t get around to it until right before the final,” said Briggs, shaking his head.

Another similarity in my conversations with the students was that not one of them thanked me for having helped them by pointing out the weaknesses in their exams, thereby affording them the opportunity to learn from their mistakes and do better in future. Not one.

Yes, it was a grueling week—especially since these conversations were not limited to my office hours on Tuesday. Students felt free to come by the office on the other days of the week also and even to call me at my apartment! This made it very difficult to maintain my concentration on my own work.

Now I know why spring break was really created: not so that undergrads can have a holiday, but so that TA’s can catch up on their own work after dealing with undergrads on their midterms!

March 5

I am writing this on the Friday afternoon of the sixth week of classes. I didn’t write anything here last week because I didn’t have much to say. This past week, though, has been unbelievably busy with grading the midterm for Briggs’s class.

First, though, I will say something briefly about the fifth week. I was really surprised that so few undergrads attended Briggs’s lecture that week even though it was the last one before the midterm in which he discussed what would be on it. Attendance was a little higher than usual—about 60—but still nowhere near the entire class. About 20 students came to my discussion section that day—mostly, it seemed to me, ones that had not attended Briggs’s lecture earlier in the day. I repeated what Briggs had said about the exam, including what general areas it would cover. What the students wanted from me, though, was to tell them what questions would actually appear on the exam. I told them that not only would I not tell them that, but that I couldn’t even if I wanted to since I hadn’t seen the exam (Briggs hadn’t even written it). Upon hearing this, most of them got up indignantly and left! I was amazed!

A few, including Shivvy, did stay and ask me questions on the material—about which these particular students appeared remarkably confused. I ended up getting annoyed at Shivvy when she took it upon herself to point out where my explanations differed from Briggs’s. For the first time since the first week of class, the discussion section lasted the entire hour. I really felt like a professor.

Shivvy walked back with me to my office, but she didn’t come in since there was a line of students waiting to see me. There were six altogether—none of whom had attended either Briggs’s lecture or my discussion section. What they all wanted, of course, was information about the midterm. I had them all come in at the same time so I would only have to repeat once more what Briggs had said about it that morning. After ascertaining that I could not tell them what was actually on the exam, five of them left.

One girl, though, stayed behind and told me tearfully about how she was so confused by this course and didn’t know how to study for it. I tried to make some helpful suggestions about what to study as well as to reassure her that she could do well if she tried. She finally left after half an hour or so, at which point Shivvy came in.

According to Shivvy, who had apparently been listening outside the entire time, the girl’s tears were all an act, and that she was actually trying to let me know that she was willing to trade sexual favors for an “A” from me. “And it seemed to me,” she added, “that you were pretty favorably disposed toward her. I wonder what you would have done if you hadn’t known that I was outside listening the entire time.”

I told her that her theory was outrageous on three counts. First of all, I hadn’t known she was outside listening; I never thought she would have been silly enough to do something like that. Second, the girl was genuinely upset. And third, I wasn’t attracted to the girl.

“Oh no?” she asked. “Well, there’s one way to find out: let me feel your crotch to see if your dick is hard or not.”

I really got mad then. I told her that she was completely out of line, and that I wanted her to leave my office now before she made an even bigger fool of herself.

She stood up slowly. “If I find out you’ve been fooling around with this girl,” she said, “you can bet that you and I won’t be getting back together at the end of the semester or any other time.” Then she finally left. I checked outside to see if there was anyone there who might have overheard her. Luckily there wasn’t. God, what a bitch she can be!

Well, I guess I had more to say about that previous week than I had anticipated. Anyway, let me move on to this past week. Briggs wrote up the exam on Monday. We met that day to go over what he thought would constitute an “A,” “B,” etc. He also gave me the exam to photocopy for the students, and told me where in the department office to find blue books to distribute (unlike public universities like Cal State Barstow where students must buy their own blue books, private universities like Charles buy them for the students).

Briggs told me that he wouldn’t be coming to class for the midterm and that I was to administer it. I arrived in class a few minutes early on the day of the exam. There was a larger group of students than I had ever seen there before, all busily studying the text books or their notes. Promptly at nine o’clock, I told everyone that the exam was about to begin and that they should put away everything except their pens and whatever beverages they had brought in with them (nearly all of them had). Some students, of course, had forgotten to bring pens (amazing, considering that they knew they were going to be taking an exam), but I had anticipated this and by bringing six or so with me from the department office.

I then passed out copies of the exam and the blue books—a process which took longer than I had expected. I reminded the students to write their names clearly on the front cover of the blue book. I also told them, at Briggs’s insistence, to write their names on the exam itself and turn it in with their blue books when they had finished. Briggs said this was important because a few students probably wouldn’t show up for the midterm when it was scheduled, and that he didn’t want them to be able to get it from anyone who had taken it. I would have thought that anyone who didn’t show up should automatically flunk it, but he said most of them would undoubtedly have some excuse and that I should arrange to administer it to them during my office hours without even consulting him. And, it turned out, there were four students in this category. Two of them showed up to take the exam during my office hours later that day. They didn’t bother to offer any sort of apology, but just said they had stayed up so late studying the previous night that they had slept through the exam.

What surprised me during the exam itself is that so many students arrived late for it—some by as much as thirty or forty minutes. Maybe I’m old fashioned or something, but I never would have dreamed of showing up late for an exam, much less missing it altogether and just assuming that I could take it at a more convenient time. I guess the top dollar tuition that their parents are paying here buys their sons and daughters quite a bit of slack.

As each student finished the exam, he or she gathered up his belongings and came over to where I was sitting to hand in both a blue book and the exam itself. This occasion was the first time I had a close look at those students who didn’t come to my discussion section—which was, of course, the vast majority. One of these, it turned out, was the African-American male who had had that contretemps with Danielle last semester. I hadn’t realized that he was in this class (could this have been the first time he attended?) I will continue here my policy of not mentioning his name for fear of causing any problems for him when this diary starts to be quoted from or is published. I can’t resist saying, though, that he is the son of a highly prominent African-American personage. If he were white, he would be what Michael would call an “upper classhole.”

Remembering the charges of unfair grading he had made against Danielle last semester, I decided to adopt the totally fair grading procedure that Brendan Cohen employed back at Barstow: before reading any of them, I folded back the front cover of each blue book so I couldn’t see the name of the person written on it. As I read each exam, then, I had no idea who had written it, and so did not let any personal acquaintance—or lack of it—affect my grading.

Students only had to pick one question out of five to write an essay on for the exam. Most of the essays I read, though, were not particularly impressive; some were downright stupid. Under my totally fair grading system, only a dozen students earned an “A” or “A-.” Shivvy only earned a “B+.” I didn’t give any “F’s,” but there were several “D’s”—including one for the African-American male student whose name I’m not mentioning. After I realized that I had given him a “D,” though, I raised his grade to a “C” in compensation for the past injustices experienced by African-Americans. I’m sure he’ll appreciate that.

I had to finish the grading today so that I could get the exams to Briggs because he wanted to have a chance to look at them over the weekend before passing them back to the students this coming Tuesday. (As a student I always appreciated professors who gave back exams quickly, but as a TA I’ve come to sympathize with those who don’t.) When I went over to his office this afternoon with the exams and a record of the grades, I was surprised to find Angie there instead of Briggs. It was the first time I had seen her since helping her move out back in December.

“Hey, Jonathan!” she said cheerily. “I was expecting you. Just set those exams down here. I’ll take them to Barry.” Barry, she explained, was attending a seminar at Harvard but had asked her to drop by his office both to get the exams I had graded and, more importantly, the package with the copy-edited manuscript of his new book, which she had opened to see if she needed to bring anything else from his office back home with her.

“I kind of doubt Barry’s going to spend much time reviewing those exams,” she told me. “He and I have got a lot of work to do on this manuscript.” She explained that he had to review all the changes made by the copy-editor on the manuscript, answer all last-minute questions, verify all quotations, and verify and complete all citations. “Barry hadn’t quite completed them all before,” she said with a mischievous smile.

“He’s got to get everything back to the publisher in two weeks if the book is to be out for the International Relations Association conference this September in Washington. And he’s letting me help him! Isn’t it exciting?”

First Doug, then Angie. It seemed like everybody has been working on Briggs’s new book except for me. “If you need any help with it, just let me know,” I told her.

If in fact Briggs doesn’t review the exams this weekend, then I will have busted my ass for nothing to finish grading them today. Oh, well—at least it’s done. And now I have the weekend to catch up on my own course work—of which there is now one hell of a lot to do.