I am writing this on the Friday of the fourth week of the spring semester. Things have now settled into something of a routine, including being a TA. And as I promised two weeks ago, I’ll describe what it’s like.
So far, it’s not hard, but it is time consuming. The class I am a TA for is Briggs’s introductory international relations course. The lecture sections, which Briggs conducts and I attend, are on Tuesdays from 9 to 11. There are over 100 students enrolled in the class. Most attended the first lecture when I passed out the syllabus, but not all. Several asked me for an extra copy of the syllabus to take to a friend who was somehow unable to come to class. Attendance was down to only 40 or so subsequently. I was amazed that it dropped so dramatically. Briggs, though, didn’t seem to be concerned, saying that this was normal. They’d all be back, he said, for the midterm and final (both of which will be held in class). In addition to these exams, students must write a 5-10 page critical review of a book chosen from a list Briggs provided on the syllabus.
When Briggs went over the syllabus with me before the beginning of the semester, I said that requiring only three assignments from the students seemed a little light. He reminded me, though, that not only would there be a lot of students in the class, but that I would be doing all the grading. “Are you sure you want me to assign anything else?” he asked. I quickly got the point.
My discussion section meets Tuesdays from 2 to 3. Twenty or so students came to it the first week, but only five or six—-including Shivvy--have been showing up since then. I had originally thought that I would have to keep the session going for the entire hour, and I tried to do so the first time. Shivvy told me, though, that I should just answer whatever questions students had, and then end the session when they didn’t have any more. Good advice.
One thing I haven’t quite gotten used to is students showing up late to my session, and more than this, leaving early. Of course, I’d seen this occurring in virtually every class I’ve ever taken both at Cal State Barstow as well as here and never thought anything of it. When it happened in my discussion section, though, I was annoyed. I asked Briggs if this didn’t annoy him, but he just laughed and said, “You’ll get used to it.”
I then have my office hours on Tuesdays from 3 to 5. Absolutely nobody has come to see me yet—-except Shivvy, who has come back with me to my office after every session so far. She really doesn’t count, though, because she only wants to talk about personal matters and not the course material. I’ve told her each time that this embarrasses me. And each time she responds, “Am I keeping any other student from talking to you? I’ll wait outside if I am.” But she’s never had to do so yet.
I gave her back her blue scrunchy when she came to my office last week. “I was wondering where this got to,” she commented. “Are you sure you don’t want to keep it?”
I really did, but said that she should. “Afraid you’re new girlfriend will see it?” she asked accusingly. This led to yet another annoying inquisition about who this woman could be.
This past week she told me that she’d been having lots of fun going out with her friends—-male as well as female. I ignored the implication, and said I was looking forward to going out again at the end of the semester.
“We’ll just have to wait and see,” she responded. “Maybe I’ll have a new boyfriend by then.”
Oh, Shivvy!
When she finally leaves, I spend the rest of my office hours reading for the courses I am taking—-but also wishing she was still here with me.
Our grad student office feels a lot emptier this semester with both Danielle and Doug gone. Since nobody is admitted to start the program in the spring term, it won’t be until the fall that we will get any new office mates.
The office also feels emptier because Craig, Lisa, and I—-the three new TA’s-—all have our office hours on different days. Lisa holds hers on Wednesday afternoons. Craig holds his on Mondays from 11 to 1—-just after Asquith’s morning undergrad class for which Craig is a TA and before Asquith’s graduate methodology class (which all three of us are in) which begins at two o’clock.
I see Craig in the office on Monday before Asquith’s afternoon class. He’s usually eating his lunch at his desk and so we chat. Once, though, Asquith himself brought a sandwich in and ate it at Craig’s desk. Asquith, I have to admit, makes me a little uncomfortable. What surprises me, though, is that he seems to make Craig uncomfortable too. Like me with regard to Shivvy, Craig obviously has scruples with regard to Asquith.
Still, I’m positive now that Craig is gay. After Shivvy had left my office this past week and I was sitting in there alone until five o’clock, I noticed that my pen had run out of ink. Nobody else was there, so I decided to just check the other desks for one. While I was looking in Craig’s desk, I found a sheet of paper with a little poem written on it:
You said it was a game,
but you couldn’t keep it tame.
You said it was an act,
but he wants to make it fact.
You said it was a joke,
but now he wants his poke!
The time is near, I hope
when you’ll stop playing the dope.
The time is near, I say
when you can laugh it all away.
The time is near, I foresee
when you’ll come “out” with me!
Love, love,
Love, love,
Love, love,
Lee
It’s obvious to me what it all means: this Lee is Craig’s actual lover boy. Craig, though, doesn’t want Asquith to find out about him. Lee is playing along for now, but he’s clearly becoming petulant about it all.
Yuck! I have to admit that I wish I hadn’t found this. All I can say is that I hope this Lee person is not a student in the class Craig is a TA for. If he is, Craig will be in big trouble if and when Lee decides to “out” the relationship, as he clearly wants to do.
[I’d better delete this passage with the poem and my commentary before letting anybody see my diary. I, of course, am not at all homophobic, but there may be some privacy issues here. On the other hand, my leaving the poem in might be doing this Lee a favor: his poem certainly isn’t going to be published anywhere else. What doggerel!]
Michael, of course, isn’t a TA this semester, but is back on fellowship. I haven’t seen all that much of him. He says that he doesn’t want to be here when the three of us who are TA’s have our office hours because he really needs to concentrate not just on his classes but also on studying for the comprehensive exams this summer.
Occasionally, though, we do run into each other. And he still always seems to know more than the rest of us grad students about what is going on. When I saw him this past week, for instance, he told me that the social science subcommittee of the college promotion and tenure committee was evenly split on Trizenko’s tenure application, and that the full committee voted against him. “That’s it for him this year!” Michael gloated. I felt sad when I heard this. Well, maybe he’ll get it next year.
I wonder how Danielle is doing. I’d like to call her up; maybe she could give me some advice on being a TA. I have no idea where she is now, though. And I’m afraid she wouldn’t want to talk to me anyway. It’s very sad that friendship sometimes has to be sacrificed for the sake of principle.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Friday, February 5, 2010
February 5
There is one advantage, it seems, to not being in a relationship with Shivvy any more: I have Friday evenings free to make entries into this diary. It is an advantage, however, I wish I could have foregone.
Shivvy and I did meet for an early dinner last Saturday. I realized after agreeing to do this that it would probably be considered ethically compromising, but I at least refused to drink any alcohol with her. Shivvy, though, insisted on ordering a bottle of wine, and drank it all down herself.
We repeated the same arguments that we had each made previously. When she realized that I couldn’t be moved from my principled position, she said some very ugly things to me. At first, she accused me of being “Briggs’s little faggot boy.” I kept my cool, though, and told her that her statement was both homophobic and untrue. Furthermore, she of all people was familiar with my heterosexual preferences, as I had demonstrated them repeatedly on her last semester and even the weekend before the start of spring classes. And as far as Briggs was concerned, I pointed out, he too had demonstrated his heterosexual preferences with Doug’s wife, Angie.
“Why is it okay,” she asked me, “for Briggs to fuck Angie but not for you to fuck me?”
The more she drank, the cruder she became. I remembered that when we went out last semester and I was drinking too that this would excite me. Now, though, I just felt embarrassed at the prospect that she might be overheard.
I reminded her that while she was now my student, Angie was not a student at all, and therefore her relationship with Briggs wasn’t covered by the university’s code of conduct.
“What about her being married to someone who was his student?” she asked.
That, I told her, was irrelevant.
“You’re sick!” she replied, shaking her head. She was obviously inebriated. Suddenly, though, she straightened up.
“You’ve found some other girl, haven’t you?” she asked accusingly. “All this `professional code of conduct’ crap is just bullshit, isn’t it?”
After pointing out that ‘crap’ and ‘bullshit’ were the same and that the university’s prohibitions against sexual misconduct were neither, I told her that, no, I wasn’t seeing anybody else.
“You are!” she said angrily. “I know it! Nobody normal would end a relationship for the bogus reasons you’re giving me.”
I tried to explain that I wasn’t ending the relationship, but just putting it on hold, but she would not be deterred from this line of thinking.
“Who is she?” she demanded. “You hooked up with someone during the January intersession when I was in Barbados, didn’t you?” She then started asking me if it was any of the various girls she knew had stayed on campus during January.
I tried to reassure her that there had been nobody else, but she wouldn’t buy it. “You can tell me if something happened,” she said reassuringly. “I would understand. Having a little fling during the January intersession is kind of a tradition at Charles. I had one myself in Barbados. It happens.”
I didn’t say anything, but my face must have revealed the anger and hurt that I felt. Shivvy just smiled and said, “So, you do care after all? Look, Jonathan: January is over and we can get back to normal. You don’t have to feel guilty. I don’t.”
I couldn’t tell if she was telling the truth or just trying to make me jealous. I told her it was time to go move her stuff out of my apartment. I rounded up the check and paid it. She didn’t offer to split it, and I was too embarrassed to ask her to (which was unprofessional of us both, I realize).
Up at my place, she saw that I had already packed up her stuff in a cardboard boxes I had found. I even borrowed the same dolly that I had used to help Angie move out with. “My God! You really want me out of here!” said Shivvy when she saw what I had done.
She went and sat on my bed, but I just loaded her stuff on the dolly and asked her to help me with the door. We went down the elevator and then the relatively short distance to her dorm in silence. Entering her room, her roommate just glared at me; Shivvy had obviously told her what was going on. I was about to leave, but Shivvy asked me to help set up her unpack, which I did. She then came with me back to the elevator in her building. As we waited for it to arrive, she said, “You’re lying to me, Jonathan. Nobody in his right mind would be so cowardly as to dump me because some university code of conduct said he should. You’ve got a new girlfriend, I just know it. And when I find out who it is, I’m going to have a few words with her.”
I tried to reassure her that there was nobody else, and that we’d be back together in May if she wanted. As the elevator door finally opened, she said, “Don’t count on it!” and walked away.
Rereading the last entry and this one so far, I realize that I have only described my personal life and not what future biographers and intellectual historians will undoubtedly consider far more interesting: the classes I am taking this semester. It’s just that I have been so upset by what has happened with Shivvy. And I want whoever reads this to know that sometimes even I allow my emotional life to come before my intellectual life.
It is time, though, to say something about the latter. I am taking international political economy with Briggs, which meets Mondays from 9 to 11. I am also taking the second half of Asquith’s required political science methodology class. Just like last semester, it meets Mondays from 2 to 4. These two are open just for grad students. My third class is on the politics of American foreign policy making with Prof. Stavros, the chair of the department. Like the class with Trizenko last term, it is open to both undergrads and grad students. And as luck would have it, Shivvy is also in this class, which meets Wednesdays from 9 to 11.
I had a hard time deciding what to take for my fourth class. I had originally hoped to take one over at M.I.T. The only one that fit into my schedule and which I was even somewhat interested in, though, was one on quantitative political analysis. I went to the first class, and that was enough for me. These people at M.I.T. really are heavy-duty number crunchers! I probably could have done it if I’d really concentrated, but what with being a TA for the first time and the hassle of having to commute to and from the class on the T, I decided I didn’t need the aggravation this semester. Besides, since M.I.T. is less prestigious than Harvard but its classes are harder, what would be the point of taking one there?
I then decided to try DeKlerk’s feminist IR theory class. I quickly discovered, though, that I was the only male in the class, and that I was not exactly welcome. The first lecture consisted of DeKlerk showing us a bunch of slides of paintings or photographs from different times and countries, but all of women—all of whom looked quite pleased with themselves—breast feeding their babies. The point of it all seemed to be to show how men have tricked women into breast-feeding down through the ages by portraying it in these paintings and photographs as a pleasant process, which DeKlerk assured us, it is not. One woman in the class who had breast fed her baby disagreed with her strongly, saying that she had enjoyed it. The class talked about this issue, as well as about the clothes that the various women portrayed in the slides were wearing for some time.
Finally, I raised my hand and asked, “What does all this have to do with international relations?”
DeKlerk and the other students became indignant. “Up to now, it has been males who have decided what constitutes international relations,” she said disdainfully. “But feminists do not have to limit themselves to such patriarchic visions.
“And surely it’s obvious,” she added, “that since men get women to breast feed their offspring in all countries, it is an international phenomenon and thus is a part of international relations—whether the patriarchy wants to admit it or not.” The women in the class all nodded knowingly at this and, like DeKlerk, all laughed through their noses at my ignorance.
As to class assignments, students were allowed to choose from several options. One was for those who had been in Briggs’s IR theory class last semester to write about how alienated they had felt in it. Lisa Dudwick squealed with delight at the possibility of writing such a paper. I decided then and there that this class was not for me. Lisa, by the way, had cut her long hair short in the same style as Prof. DeKlerk’s, and has also taken to laughing through her nose like her.
I finally ended up in Prof. Wang’s Chinese politics class, which meets Thursdays from 2 to 4. Like Trizenko’s class on Russia last semester, the class is not theoretical at all but just descriptive. Still, it looks interesting.
I’m getting a little tired now, so next time I’ll describe what it’s like to be a TA.
[Reminder: I found one of Shivvy’s scrunchies that I apparently overlooked when I packed her stuff up for her. I must remember to take it with me and give it back to her. It’s a blue one, which is appropriate because that’s how finding it made me feel.]
Shivvy and I did meet for an early dinner last Saturday. I realized after agreeing to do this that it would probably be considered ethically compromising, but I at least refused to drink any alcohol with her. Shivvy, though, insisted on ordering a bottle of wine, and drank it all down herself.
We repeated the same arguments that we had each made previously. When she realized that I couldn’t be moved from my principled position, she said some very ugly things to me. At first, she accused me of being “Briggs’s little faggot boy.” I kept my cool, though, and told her that her statement was both homophobic and untrue. Furthermore, she of all people was familiar with my heterosexual preferences, as I had demonstrated them repeatedly on her last semester and even the weekend before the start of spring classes. And as far as Briggs was concerned, I pointed out, he too had demonstrated his heterosexual preferences with Doug’s wife, Angie.
“Why is it okay,” she asked me, “for Briggs to fuck Angie but not for you to fuck me?”
The more she drank, the cruder she became. I remembered that when we went out last semester and I was drinking too that this would excite me. Now, though, I just felt embarrassed at the prospect that she might be overheard.
I reminded her that while she was now my student, Angie was not a student at all, and therefore her relationship with Briggs wasn’t covered by the university’s code of conduct.
“What about her being married to someone who was his student?” she asked.
That, I told her, was irrelevant.
“You’re sick!” she replied, shaking her head. She was obviously inebriated. Suddenly, though, she straightened up.
“You’ve found some other girl, haven’t you?” she asked accusingly. “All this `professional code of conduct’ crap is just bullshit, isn’t it?”
After pointing out that ‘crap’ and ‘bullshit’ were the same and that the university’s prohibitions against sexual misconduct were neither, I told her that, no, I wasn’t seeing anybody else.
“You are!” she said angrily. “I know it! Nobody normal would end a relationship for the bogus reasons you’re giving me.”
I tried to explain that I wasn’t ending the relationship, but just putting it on hold, but she would not be deterred from this line of thinking.
“Who is she?” she demanded. “You hooked up with someone during the January intersession when I was in Barbados, didn’t you?” She then started asking me if it was any of the various girls she knew had stayed on campus during January.
I tried to reassure her that there had been nobody else, but she wouldn’t buy it. “You can tell me if something happened,” she said reassuringly. “I would understand. Having a little fling during the January intersession is kind of a tradition at Charles. I had one myself in Barbados. It happens.”
I didn’t say anything, but my face must have revealed the anger and hurt that I felt. Shivvy just smiled and said, “So, you do care after all? Look, Jonathan: January is over and we can get back to normal. You don’t have to feel guilty. I don’t.”
I couldn’t tell if she was telling the truth or just trying to make me jealous. I told her it was time to go move her stuff out of my apartment. I rounded up the check and paid it. She didn’t offer to split it, and I was too embarrassed to ask her to (which was unprofessional of us both, I realize).
Up at my place, she saw that I had already packed up her stuff in a cardboard boxes I had found. I even borrowed the same dolly that I had used to help Angie move out with. “My God! You really want me out of here!” said Shivvy when she saw what I had done.
She went and sat on my bed, but I just loaded her stuff on the dolly and asked her to help me with the door. We went down the elevator and then the relatively short distance to her dorm in silence. Entering her room, her roommate just glared at me; Shivvy had obviously told her what was going on. I was about to leave, but Shivvy asked me to help set up her unpack, which I did. She then came with me back to the elevator in her building. As we waited for it to arrive, she said, “You’re lying to me, Jonathan. Nobody in his right mind would be so cowardly as to dump me because some university code of conduct said he should. You’ve got a new girlfriend, I just know it. And when I find out who it is, I’m going to have a few words with her.”
I tried to reassure her that there was nobody else, and that we’d be back together in May if she wanted. As the elevator door finally opened, she said, “Don’t count on it!” and walked away.
Rereading the last entry and this one so far, I realize that I have only described my personal life and not what future biographers and intellectual historians will undoubtedly consider far more interesting: the classes I am taking this semester. It’s just that I have been so upset by what has happened with Shivvy. And I want whoever reads this to know that sometimes even I allow my emotional life to come before my intellectual life.
It is time, though, to say something about the latter. I am taking international political economy with Briggs, which meets Mondays from 9 to 11. I am also taking the second half of Asquith’s required political science methodology class. Just like last semester, it meets Mondays from 2 to 4. These two are open just for grad students. My third class is on the politics of American foreign policy making with Prof. Stavros, the chair of the department. Like the class with Trizenko last term, it is open to both undergrads and grad students. And as luck would have it, Shivvy is also in this class, which meets Wednesdays from 9 to 11.
I had a hard time deciding what to take for my fourth class. I had originally hoped to take one over at M.I.T. The only one that fit into my schedule and which I was even somewhat interested in, though, was one on quantitative political analysis. I went to the first class, and that was enough for me. These people at M.I.T. really are heavy-duty number crunchers! I probably could have done it if I’d really concentrated, but what with being a TA for the first time and the hassle of having to commute to and from the class on the T, I decided I didn’t need the aggravation this semester. Besides, since M.I.T. is less prestigious than Harvard but its classes are harder, what would be the point of taking one there?
I then decided to try DeKlerk’s feminist IR theory class. I quickly discovered, though, that I was the only male in the class, and that I was not exactly welcome. The first lecture consisted of DeKlerk showing us a bunch of slides of paintings or photographs from different times and countries, but all of women—all of whom looked quite pleased with themselves—breast feeding their babies. The point of it all seemed to be to show how men have tricked women into breast-feeding down through the ages by portraying it in these paintings and photographs as a pleasant process, which DeKlerk assured us, it is not. One woman in the class who had breast fed her baby disagreed with her strongly, saying that she had enjoyed it. The class talked about this issue, as well as about the clothes that the various women portrayed in the slides were wearing for some time.
Finally, I raised my hand and asked, “What does all this have to do with international relations?”
DeKlerk and the other students became indignant. “Up to now, it has been males who have decided what constitutes international relations,” she said disdainfully. “But feminists do not have to limit themselves to such patriarchic visions.
“And surely it’s obvious,” she added, “that since men get women to breast feed their offspring in all countries, it is an international phenomenon and thus is a part of international relations—whether the patriarchy wants to admit it or not.” The women in the class all nodded knowingly at this and, like DeKlerk, all laughed through their noses at my ignorance.
As to class assignments, students were allowed to choose from several options. One was for those who had been in Briggs’s IR theory class last semester to write about how alienated they had felt in it. Lisa Dudwick squealed with delight at the possibility of writing such a paper. I decided then and there that this class was not for me. Lisa, by the way, had cut her long hair short in the same style as Prof. DeKlerk’s, and has also taken to laughing through her nose like her.
I finally ended up in Prof. Wang’s Chinese politics class, which meets Thursdays from 2 to 4. Like Trizenko’s class on Russia last semester, the class is not theoretical at all but just descriptive. Still, it looks interesting.
I’m getting a little tired now, so next time I’ll describe what it’s like to be a TA.
[Reminder: I found one of Shivvy’s scrunchies that I apparently overlooked when I packed her stuff up for her. I must remember to take it with me and give it back to her. It’s a blue one, which is appropriate because that’s how finding it made me feel.]
Friday, January 29, 2010
January 29
I am writing this on Friday afternoon at the end of the first week of spring semester classes. Well, I found out what Shivvy’s surprise for me was. Unfortunately, it was not a good one.
Without telling me she was going to do so, she enrolled in Briggs’s introductory international relations class for which I am the TA. I didn’t notice her among the large number of undergrads attending the first lecture session (I was concentrating on listening to Briggs). I could not help but notice her, though, in my first discussion section where she was one of the (rather surprisingly to me) few students who showed up. It was very embarrassing because she kept making flippant remarks while I was trying to foster a serious intellectual dialogue. In this crucial first discussion session when it was essential for me to establish my credibility with the mainly freshmen and sophomores in the class, Shivvy seemed to be going out of her way to undermine my authority. She was treating my discussion section as one big joke!
She approached me afterward saying that her enrolling in this class was her surprise and asked me how I liked it.
“I’m afraid I don’t like it at all,” I responded. “You have put me in a very embarrassing situation!”
“Just because I teased you a little?” she asked. “I was just trying to get you to relax. You seemed so uptight!”
“I didn’t appreciate your disruptive behavior,” I told her, “but that’s not the main problem.”
“Then what is?” she asked, finally sensing that I was genuinely upset.
I explained to her that the university’s code of conduct strictly prohibited sexual relationships between students on the one hand and professors and TA’s on the other. “I can either be your boyfriend or your TA, but not both simultaneously.”
She appeared shocked to hear this. “But we began our relationship before you became a TA!” she insisted. “It’s not like you’re using your position of authority to take advantage of me!”
I tried to explain to her that it wasn’t just the reality of our specific relationship that was important here, but also its appearance to others as well as the principle that must be upheld.
“What you and I do together is private! Our relationship is nobody else’s God damned business!” she practically shouted.
I then explained to her that our relationship was, in fact, the university’s business since she was a student in a class for which I was a TA. The only way around the problem, I suggested, was for her to drop the class and take it again when somebody else was the TA for it.
“I can’t drop it!” she responded. “I was supposed to take it a year ago, but I waited until somebody other than Michael the Rat was the TA! It’s a pre-requisite for a lot of other classes. You’re probably going to be the TA for it next fall too, and I can’t wait until spring semester of my senior year when somebody else will be the TA.
“Besides,” she added, “Why should I drop it to stay with you? Why don’t you quit as TA to stay with me? Weren’t you going to be a TA for Trizenko anyway? You could switch!”
I asked her to please be reasonable and consider my position. Briggs was the professor I wanted to write my dissertation with while Trizenko was not. After accepting Briggs’s offer to be his TA, it would severely damage my relationship with him to back out of it now that the semester had begun. “Besides,” I added, “I want to have the experience of being a TA for Briggs.”
Shivvy suggested that since she was unwilling to drop the class and I was unwilling to step down as its TA, then maybe we should just try to keep our relationship secret both from Briggs and the other students in the class. “It would be exciting,” she said enthusiastically, “to be having a clandestine affair!”
Much as I hated to, I had to nix this idea. “It wouldn’t work. Too many people know about us. And if the authorities found out that not only were we having a sexual relationship, but that we were trying to keep it secret, my career in academia would be ruined.”
“So then we won’t try to keep it a secret!” she replied. “We’ll acknowledge our relationship openly! That’s what I’d rather do anyway, and I don’t see what would be wrong with that. The system has to have a little give in it that takes human relationships into account.”
I told her that I wished she was right, really I did, but that unfortunately she was not. “Here’s the problem,” I said. “I’m going to be grading the work you do for Briggs’s class. There’s not a living soul who’s going to think that our having sex wouldn’t influence the way I grade you.”
“So don’t grade me!” she said. “Explain the situation to Briggs and ask him to grade my work while you grade everyone else’s. It wouldn’t hurt him just to grade my stuff alone, would it?”
This wasn’t a bad solution, I thought. I told her that I’d check with Briggs and get back to her. “You do that!” she said and walked off in something of a huff.
Later that day, I went to Briggs’s office where I presented the problem to him along with Shivvy’s proposal that he grade her work directly. I could tell right away, though, that he was not pleased.
“It looks bad, Jonathan,” he told me, “for everyone to know that a professor or a TA has a girlfriend in class. Even if I graded her work—or someone else did entirely—the other students aren’t going to believe that she’s not getting special treatment.
“No, Jonathan,” he continued, “I think you’re going to have to choose between being a TA and continuing your relationship with this girl. And I would certainly understand if you chose the latter. But I need to know now before we proceed any further into the semester.”
For a second, it crossed my mind that he just didn’t want to go to the bother of grading Shivvy’s assignments himself. But then I realized that Briggs was too humane a guy to think anything like this—especially when he, like Shivvy, suggested that she just postpone taking the class until next spring when someone else would be his TA.
I explained how she needed to take the class now, and how I really wanted to be the TA for it. He shook his head, and said, “Well, I really don’t see any way for you to avoid having a conflict of interest except to put your relationship with her on hold.” Then he winked and said, “At least until the end of the semester.”
I told him I would remain his TA and that I would follow his advice. As I got up to leave, he said, “You know, I almost wish you hadn’t told me about this girl. Now that you have, though, I felt bound to give you this advice, even though I know it’s unpleasant. I just don’t want you to risk jeopardizing your career before it’s even begun.”
As sad as I felt about Shivvy, it was comforting to know that Briggs was so concerned about me. I called Shivvy that night in her dorm room to tell her what Briggs had said and suggest that we follow his advice about putting our relationship on hold until the end of the semester.
“I can’t believe this!” she practically shouted. “Did you ask his permission as to whether I could be your girlfriend? You were supposed to just tell him what the situation is, and that he would simply have to grade my assignments instead of you!”
I told her that it was impossible to speak in such a manner to Briggs. Besides, it wasn’t like we were breaking up or anything. We were just putting things on hold until mid-May, and surely that wasn’t all that far away.
“What makes you think I’ll wait until May for you to finish playing Mr. Simon Pure?” she asked sarcastically. “You’re not the only guy out there interested in me.”
I told her that I still thought of her as my girlfriend and that I’d hope she’d wait, but that, clearly, the choice was hers.
“This makes no sense!” she exclaimed. “If you think of me as your girlfriend, then how does our not having sex make you more objective about grading my assignments? If you are emotionally attached to me, then it seems to me that you cannot grade my assignments objectively even if we don’t have sex. And if that’s true, then we may as well have sex since the emotional attachment is still there!”
This conversation, I told her, wasn’t getting us anywhere. I said that in order to protect both our professional reputations, I hoped she would join me in following Briggs’s advice. In the meantime, I thought that she should come over and collect all her stuff. She said she’d only do it if I agreed to take her to dinner tomorrow and have a serious discussion about the future of our relationship. That’s what I thought we had been doing, but I agreed to meet with her tomorrow—Saturday. What else could I do?
All this has not only been extremely distracting, but also very, very distressing emotionally. But as painful as the decision I had to make about Shivvy was, I feel some consolation in knowing that my future biographers who read this will undoubtedly conclude that my behavior during this episode has met the very highest ethical and professional standards.
Without telling me she was going to do so, she enrolled in Briggs’s introductory international relations class for which I am the TA. I didn’t notice her among the large number of undergrads attending the first lecture session (I was concentrating on listening to Briggs). I could not help but notice her, though, in my first discussion section where she was one of the (rather surprisingly to me) few students who showed up. It was very embarrassing because she kept making flippant remarks while I was trying to foster a serious intellectual dialogue. In this crucial first discussion session when it was essential for me to establish my credibility with the mainly freshmen and sophomores in the class, Shivvy seemed to be going out of her way to undermine my authority. She was treating my discussion section as one big joke!
She approached me afterward saying that her enrolling in this class was her surprise and asked me how I liked it.
“I’m afraid I don’t like it at all,” I responded. “You have put me in a very embarrassing situation!”
“Just because I teased you a little?” she asked. “I was just trying to get you to relax. You seemed so uptight!”
“I didn’t appreciate your disruptive behavior,” I told her, “but that’s not the main problem.”
“Then what is?” she asked, finally sensing that I was genuinely upset.
I explained to her that the university’s code of conduct strictly prohibited sexual relationships between students on the one hand and professors and TA’s on the other. “I can either be your boyfriend or your TA, but not both simultaneously.”
She appeared shocked to hear this. “But we began our relationship before you became a TA!” she insisted. “It’s not like you’re using your position of authority to take advantage of me!”
I tried to explain to her that it wasn’t just the reality of our specific relationship that was important here, but also its appearance to others as well as the principle that must be upheld.
“What you and I do together is private! Our relationship is nobody else’s God damned business!” she practically shouted.
I then explained to her that our relationship was, in fact, the university’s business since she was a student in a class for which I was a TA. The only way around the problem, I suggested, was for her to drop the class and take it again when somebody else was the TA for it.
“I can’t drop it!” she responded. “I was supposed to take it a year ago, but I waited until somebody other than Michael the Rat was the TA! It’s a pre-requisite for a lot of other classes. You’re probably going to be the TA for it next fall too, and I can’t wait until spring semester of my senior year when somebody else will be the TA.
“Besides,” she added, “Why should I drop it to stay with you? Why don’t you quit as TA to stay with me? Weren’t you going to be a TA for Trizenko anyway? You could switch!”
I asked her to please be reasonable and consider my position. Briggs was the professor I wanted to write my dissertation with while Trizenko was not. After accepting Briggs’s offer to be his TA, it would severely damage my relationship with him to back out of it now that the semester had begun. “Besides,” I added, “I want to have the experience of being a TA for Briggs.”
Shivvy suggested that since she was unwilling to drop the class and I was unwilling to step down as its TA, then maybe we should just try to keep our relationship secret both from Briggs and the other students in the class. “It would be exciting,” she said enthusiastically, “to be having a clandestine affair!”
Much as I hated to, I had to nix this idea. “It wouldn’t work. Too many people know about us. And if the authorities found out that not only were we having a sexual relationship, but that we were trying to keep it secret, my career in academia would be ruined.”
“So then we won’t try to keep it a secret!” she replied. “We’ll acknowledge our relationship openly! That’s what I’d rather do anyway, and I don’t see what would be wrong with that. The system has to have a little give in it that takes human relationships into account.”
I told her that I wished she was right, really I did, but that unfortunately she was not. “Here’s the problem,” I said. “I’m going to be grading the work you do for Briggs’s class. There’s not a living soul who’s going to think that our having sex wouldn’t influence the way I grade you.”
“So don’t grade me!” she said. “Explain the situation to Briggs and ask him to grade my work while you grade everyone else’s. It wouldn’t hurt him just to grade my stuff alone, would it?”
This wasn’t a bad solution, I thought. I told her that I’d check with Briggs and get back to her. “You do that!” she said and walked off in something of a huff.
Later that day, I went to Briggs’s office where I presented the problem to him along with Shivvy’s proposal that he grade her work directly. I could tell right away, though, that he was not pleased.
“It looks bad, Jonathan,” he told me, “for everyone to know that a professor or a TA has a girlfriend in class. Even if I graded her work—or someone else did entirely—the other students aren’t going to believe that she’s not getting special treatment.
“No, Jonathan,” he continued, “I think you’re going to have to choose between being a TA and continuing your relationship with this girl. And I would certainly understand if you chose the latter. But I need to know now before we proceed any further into the semester.”
For a second, it crossed my mind that he just didn’t want to go to the bother of grading Shivvy’s assignments himself. But then I realized that Briggs was too humane a guy to think anything like this—especially when he, like Shivvy, suggested that she just postpone taking the class until next spring when someone else would be his TA.
I explained how she needed to take the class now, and how I really wanted to be the TA for it. He shook his head, and said, “Well, I really don’t see any way for you to avoid having a conflict of interest except to put your relationship with her on hold.” Then he winked and said, “At least until the end of the semester.”
I told him I would remain his TA and that I would follow his advice. As I got up to leave, he said, “You know, I almost wish you hadn’t told me about this girl. Now that you have, though, I felt bound to give you this advice, even though I know it’s unpleasant. I just don’t want you to risk jeopardizing your career before it’s even begun.”
As sad as I felt about Shivvy, it was comforting to know that Briggs was so concerned about me. I called Shivvy that night in her dorm room to tell her what Briggs had said and suggest that we follow his advice about putting our relationship on hold until the end of the semester.
“I can’t believe this!” she practically shouted. “Did you ask his permission as to whether I could be your girlfriend? You were supposed to just tell him what the situation is, and that he would simply have to grade my assignments instead of you!”
I told her that it was impossible to speak in such a manner to Briggs. Besides, it wasn’t like we were breaking up or anything. We were just putting things on hold until mid-May, and surely that wasn’t all that far away.
“What makes you think I’ll wait until May for you to finish playing Mr. Simon Pure?” she asked sarcastically. “You’re not the only guy out there interested in me.”
I told her that I still thought of her as my girlfriend and that I’d hope she’d wait, but that, clearly, the choice was hers.
“This makes no sense!” she exclaimed. “If you think of me as your girlfriend, then how does our not having sex make you more objective about grading my assignments? If you are emotionally attached to me, then it seems to me that you cannot grade my assignments objectively even if we don’t have sex. And if that’s true, then we may as well have sex since the emotional attachment is still there!”
This conversation, I told her, wasn’t getting us anywhere. I said that in order to protect both our professional reputations, I hoped she would join me in following Briggs’s advice. In the meantime, I thought that she should come over and collect all her stuff. She said she’d only do it if I agreed to take her to dinner tomorrow and have a serious discussion about the future of our relationship. That’s what I thought we had been doing, but I agreed to meet with her tomorrow—Saturday. What else could I do?
All this has not only been extremely distracting, but also very, very distressing emotionally. But as painful as the decision I had to make about Shivvy was, I feel some consolation in knowing that my future biographers who read this will undoubtedly conclude that my behavior during this episode has met the very highest ethical and professional standards.
Friday, January 22, 2010
January 22
I am writing this entry on the Friday before the start of spring semester classes here at Charles—exactly five weeks since my last entry. I realize that getting just a summary report on my intellectual development over such a long period will not be as useful to my future biographers as weekly or even biweekly ones. The truth of the matter, though, is that I don’t think I’ve experienced all that much intellectual development over this period. Well, that’s not really true, of course. Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that not all that much has happened for me to report on in weekly installments. In any event, I fully intend to get back to making more regular entries during the upcoming semester.
I went back to Barstow for a little less than two weeks right after fall semester finals. It was great to see Mom and Dad again, of course, but it was also a little hard. They’re just not in my intellectual league. Of course, they weren’t in it even when I was at Cal State Barstow. But things were different then: even though I lived in the dorms, I saw them fairly regularly and we were used to each other. Since coming to Charles, though, I hadn’t seen them for over four months. And now we really aren’t used to each other any more.
I know they were really trying hard to communicate with me. They kept asking me questions like what I thought about American foreign policy toward China or how I assessed the latest developments in the Middle East. They didn’t understand that I wasn’t studying these sorts of issues or that I wasn’t interested in them. “So what are you studying?” they kept asking. I tried to explain neo-radicalism and its importance, but they just couldn’t get it. “What kind of job will that get you?” they kept asking.
In discussing the classes I took last term, the one that appealed to them the most was the one I had with Trizenko. “Now that sounds interesting!” they said. They just didn’t understand how low on the political science totem poll are descriptivist courses like this one. I tried to explain, but they just couldn’t comprehend it. Yes, it really is tough when you’ve outdistanced your parents intellectually to the extent that I have with mine.
The best part of being back in Barstow was hanging out with my old professor, Brendan Cohen. I remember being slightly embarrassed to be seen with him at the International Relations Association conference back in September. Seeing him here, though, was fine. Indeed, I was quite pleased that he made such a fuss over me this time—when Briggs and my fellow grad students weren’t around to witness it. I even had him come over to dinner with my folks. I think they felt reassured by his telling him that my focus on neo-radicalism was “cutting edge,” but even he couldn’t make them understand what it was all about.
I noticed one thing funny in talking with him. I knew that Charles, like Harvard and M.I.T., was an incredibly prestigious university before I enrolled there. But when I was actually there last semester, it just seemed normal. In fact, even taking a class at Harvard seemed fairly ordinary to me after the first week or so. But to Brendan, my having done all this was really exalted. I think this was because while I had entered this elite world, Brendan could only look at it from the outside. Indeed, I was his closest link to the Cambridge world which I knew he wanted so much to be a part of.
I felt sorry for him. As a result, I ended up agreeing to something that I later sort of wished I hadn’t. Brendan told me he had recently received word that he would be getting a sabbatical—his first one—from Cal State Barstow next year. The way it worked, he explained to me, at Barstow as well as most other colleges was that you could either take one semester off at full pay or two semesters at half pay. He, of course, would prefer to take two semesters off, but couldn’t afford to live on half salary for a year. The only way he could do it, then, is if he managed to get sufficient outside funding to cover the other half of his salary. But whether he could only take one semester off or two, he was hoping to come to Cambridge next year as a guest scholar at either Harvard, M.I.T., Charles, or wherever.
These guest scholarships, he told me, were designed for people on sabbatical. They provided office space, library privileges, and an affiliation, but usually no money. Even so, getting one was highly competitive, since everyone in our field with a sabbatical wanted to spend it in Cambridge. In order to get one, he said, you had to have connections—and he didn’t. What he was hoping, then, was to visit Cambridge during Cal State Barstow's upcoming spring break to introduce himself around. But as usual, he was low on funds.
What would really be great, he told me, is if he could be invited to give a lecture somewhere in Cambridge that week by an institution willing to give him an airline ticket and maybe even cover a couple of nights in a hotel. He was wondering, then, if I could ask Briggs to get him an invitation to speak at Charles that week. “But if doing this would be at all awkward for you,” Brendan added, “just tell me and I’ll try to figure something else out. I wouldn’t dream of putting you in an embarrassing situation.”
It was a couple of nights before my flight back to Boston and Brendan was treating me to a dinner at the best Mexican restaurant in Barstow. I’d gone to a few Mexican restaurants in the Boston area with Shivvy, but they were not nearly as good as the ones in southern California. Maybe it was the effect of the excellent food and a couple of cervezas, or maybe it was because Brendan’s request made me feel important. In any event, I heard myself tell him, “I’ll see what I can do. I’ll bring it up with Barry when I see him.”
Brendan thanked me profusely. At the time, I felt like a real big shot. Once I got back to Cambridge, though, I regretted having agreed to pass on Brendan’s request to Prof. Briggs. Why couldn’t Brendan just ask him directly? Perhaps sensing that I would get cold feet, Brendan sent me a couple of e-mail messages thanking me in advance for passing on his request to Briggs, commenting that Briggs was sure to accept my recommendation that he be invited to Charles as a guest speaker.
I wasn’t so certain, but it turns out Brendan was right. I didn’t see Briggs until today when he had me meet with him about what all he wanted me to do as a TA for his introductory international relations class this coming semester. (Basically, I’m to attend his lectures so I know what he’s telling the students, hold a weekly discussion section for students wanting to discuss the material, keep my regularly posted office hours, and do all the grading—subject to his approval.)
When I put it to him about Brendan coming to speak in the Political Science Department’s lecture series, Briggs surprised me by responding, “Sure, Jonathan. I owe you one for stepping into the breach after Doug defected to Gates on me. And for helping with Angie’s move. I remember meeting Cohen at the IRA conference.”
He said his one concern was that Cal State Barstow’s spring break would coincide with our own, when everyone would be away. But a quick check on the internet revealed that it did not. He took Brendan’s contact information from me and said that he’d have someone in the department office take care of it all. Later on this afternoon, I e-mailed Brendan with the good news that Briggs said he’d arrange an invitation for him, including airfare, two nights in a hotel, and even an honorarium! I got an e-mail back from him almost immediately, thanking me ecstatically. It felt good to be influential enough to help him out.
There’s not much else to report about the break. It’s basically been cold and lonely since I got back from California—except for a couple of fun days I spent hanging out with Shivvy before she flew off to Barbados for her January intersession course.
For the benefit of my future biographers, I should further describe the paper I was finishing up for Saltz at Harvard when I wrote my last entry. As I mentioned before, it was a critique of the Briggsian approach to international security. I was able to draw on part of the senior thesis I wrote at Barstow for it, but I also added a lot of fresh material since I didn’t really consider international security issues in the thesis. Saltz liked it, but I know Briggs wouldn’t. Fortunately, Briggs will never see it, as I have no intention of showing it to him. Cohen was right to caution me against showing him any critiques of his work before knowing him better. And now that I do, I know that it would definitely rub him the wrong way—which is something I want to avoid.
Shivvy called a few minutes ago. She got back from Barbados today. She said she’d be coming back to campus tomorrow afternoon with, as she put it, “my brown, Barbados bod!” She also said that she had a little surprise for me coming up next week, but she wouldn’t tell me what it is just yet. God, I can’t wait to see her!
I went back to Barstow for a little less than two weeks right after fall semester finals. It was great to see Mom and Dad again, of course, but it was also a little hard. They’re just not in my intellectual league. Of course, they weren’t in it even when I was at Cal State Barstow. But things were different then: even though I lived in the dorms, I saw them fairly regularly and we were used to each other. Since coming to Charles, though, I hadn’t seen them for over four months. And now we really aren’t used to each other any more.
I know they were really trying hard to communicate with me. They kept asking me questions like what I thought about American foreign policy toward China or how I assessed the latest developments in the Middle East. They didn’t understand that I wasn’t studying these sorts of issues or that I wasn’t interested in them. “So what are you studying?” they kept asking. I tried to explain neo-radicalism and its importance, but they just couldn’t get it. “What kind of job will that get you?” they kept asking.
In discussing the classes I took last term, the one that appealed to them the most was the one I had with Trizenko. “Now that sounds interesting!” they said. They just didn’t understand how low on the political science totem poll are descriptivist courses like this one. I tried to explain, but they just couldn’t comprehend it. Yes, it really is tough when you’ve outdistanced your parents intellectually to the extent that I have with mine.
The best part of being back in Barstow was hanging out with my old professor, Brendan Cohen. I remember being slightly embarrassed to be seen with him at the International Relations Association conference back in September. Seeing him here, though, was fine. Indeed, I was quite pleased that he made such a fuss over me this time—when Briggs and my fellow grad students weren’t around to witness it. I even had him come over to dinner with my folks. I think they felt reassured by his telling him that my focus on neo-radicalism was “cutting edge,” but even he couldn’t make them understand what it was all about.
I noticed one thing funny in talking with him. I knew that Charles, like Harvard and M.I.T., was an incredibly prestigious university before I enrolled there. But when I was actually there last semester, it just seemed normal. In fact, even taking a class at Harvard seemed fairly ordinary to me after the first week or so. But to Brendan, my having done all this was really exalted. I think this was because while I had entered this elite world, Brendan could only look at it from the outside. Indeed, I was his closest link to the Cambridge world which I knew he wanted so much to be a part of.
I felt sorry for him. As a result, I ended up agreeing to something that I later sort of wished I hadn’t. Brendan told me he had recently received word that he would be getting a sabbatical—his first one—from Cal State Barstow next year. The way it worked, he explained to me, at Barstow as well as most other colleges was that you could either take one semester off at full pay or two semesters at half pay. He, of course, would prefer to take two semesters off, but couldn’t afford to live on half salary for a year. The only way he could do it, then, is if he managed to get sufficient outside funding to cover the other half of his salary. But whether he could only take one semester off or two, he was hoping to come to Cambridge next year as a guest scholar at either Harvard, M.I.T., Charles, or wherever.
These guest scholarships, he told me, were designed for people on sabbatical. They provided office space, library privileges, and an affiliation, but usually no money. Even so, getting one was highly competitive, since everyone in our field with a sabbatical wanted to spend it in Cambridge. In order to get one, he said, you had to have connections—and he didn’t. What he was hoping, then, was to visit Cambridge during Cal State Barstow's upcoming spring break to introduce himself around. But as usual, he was low on funds.
What would really be great, he told me, is if he could be invited to give a lecture somewhere in Cambridge that week by an institution willing to give him an airline ticket and maybe even cover a couple of nights in a hotel. He was wondering, then, if I could ask Briggs to get him an invitation to speak at Charles that week. “But if doing this would be at all awkward for you,” Brendan added, “just tell me and I’ll try to figure something else out. I wouldn’t dream of putting you in an embarrassing situation.”
It was a couple of nights before my flight back to Boston and Brendan was treating me to a dinner at the best Mexican restaurant in Barstow. I’d gone to a few Mexican restaurants in the Boston area with Shivvy, but they were not nearly as good as the ones in southern California. Maybe it was the effect of the excellent food and a couple of cervezas, or maybe it was because Brendan’s request made me feel important. In any event, I heard myself tell him, “I’ll see what I can do. I’ll bring it up with Barry when I see him.”
Brendan thanked me profusely. At the time, I felt like a real big shot. Once I got back to Cambridge, though, I regretted having agreed to pass on Brendan’s request to Prof. Briggs. Why couldn’t Brendan just ask him directly? Perhaps sensing that I would get cold feet, Brendan sent me a couple of e-mail messages thanking me in advance for passing on his request to Briggs, commenting that Briggs was sure to accept my recommendation that he be invited to Charles as a guest speaker.
I wasn’t so certain, but it turns out Brendan was right. I didn’t see Briggs until today when he had me meet with him about what all he wanted me to do as a TA for his introductory international relations class this coming semester. (Basically, I’m to attend his lectures so I know what he’s telling the students, hold a weekly discussion section for students wanting to discuss the material, keep my regularly posted office hours, and do all the grading—subject to his approval.)
When I put it to him about Brendan coming to speak in the Political Science Department’s lecture series, Briggs surprised me by responding, “Sure, Jonathan. I owe you one for stepping into the breach after Doug defected to Gates on me. And for helping with Angie’s move. I remember meeting Cohen at the IRA conference.”
He said his one concern was that Cal State Barstow’s spring break would coincide with our own, when everyone would be away. But a quick check on the internet revealed that it did not. He took Brendan’s contact information from me and said that he’d have someone in the department office take care of it all. Later on this afternoon, I e-mailed Brendan with the good news that Briggs said he’d arrange an invitation for him, including airfare, two nights in a hotel, and even an honorarium! I got an e-mail back from him almost immediately, thanking me ecstatically. It felt good to be influential enough to help him out.
There’s not much else to report about the break. It’s basically been cold and lonely since I got back from California—except for a couple of fun days I spent hanging out with Shivvy before she flew off to Barbados for her January intersession course.
For the benefit of my future biographers, I should further describe the paper I was finishing up for Saltz at Harvard when I wrote my last entry. As I mentioned before, it was a critique of the Briggsian approach to international security. I was able to draw on part of the senior thesis I wrote at Barstow for it, but I also added a lot of fresh material since I didn’t really consider international security issues in the thesis. Saltz liked it, but I know Briggs wouldn’t. Fortunately, Briggs will never see it, as I have no intention of showing it to him. Cohen was right to caution me against showing him any critiques of his work before knowing him better. And now that I do, I know that it would definitely rub him the wrong way—which is something I want to avoid.
Shivvy called a few minutes ago. She got back from Barbados today. She said she’d be coming back to campus tomorrow afternoon with, as she put it, “my brown, Barbados bod!” She also said that she had a little surprise for me coming up next week, but she wouldn’t tell me what it is just yet. God, I can’t wait to see her!
Friday, December 18, 2009
December 18
It’s Friday afternoon—the last day of finals week. I’m glad it’s all over with. Well, almost all over with. Saying how he knew how busy we must be right now, Saltz over at Harvard gave the grad students until Monday to turn in our papers. This is really a boon since, in addition to studying for finals, I was swamped with finishing papers for my classes here at Charles this past week. I am happy to report, though, that I got them all in except the one for Saltz. I'll finish that over the weekend.
Spring semester here at Charles doesn’t begin until the end of January. After the two week Christmas break, there is a three week intersession which the undergrads are required to take a class in, but not the grad students.
Shivvy explained to me that these January intersession classes are mainly just for fun: they have courses on detective novels, science fiction, and that sort of thing. There are also study tours—usually to places where there is either skiing or warm sunny weather—for students whose parents can afford it. Being in this category herself, Shivvy and two of her girlfriends have signed up to study the tourist industry in Barbados.
I wish I could afford to go with her, but I can’t. I’ll just go out to California for the Christmas break and then come back here before Shivvy shoves off for points south. While sunning herself in Barbados, I’ll prepare myself for becoming a TA next semester.
On this last point, I have some good news to report: I will be TA’ing for Briggs after all! The reason for this is that Doug has done something truly unbelievable. I knew that, like me, Doug had been admitted to Gates University (home of the neo-liberal, Arch Faircloth) with a fellowship. Well, Doug came in the office this morning and told me that he was leaving Charles altogether and would be starting up at Gates next semester!
He told me that he was so incensed by what Briggs had done to him that he called Faircloth on Monday, told him that he couldn’t stand to work with Briggs any more (but not why this was so), and begged to be let in. Faircloth was apparently delighted to have a defector from the neo-radical camp. He said he’d see what he could do, and then called Doug yesterday to say that both his admission to and fellowship from Gates had been reinstated for spring. He could even get credit for all the courses he took at Charles—all, that is, except Briggs’s. Faircloth said he wanted Doug to take his own course on IR theory.
“I told him that was fine with me,” Doug related, “since Briggs’s class was all bullshit anyway.”
I was shocked! I couldn’t believe what Doug was saying, much less what he was doing! And I told him so too.
“It wasn’t very pleasant, I’m sure, to come home and find Briggs in bed with Angie,” I told him. “But to renounce neo-radicalism and become a neo-liberal over it? You’re overreacting, Doug!”
Doug chose not to take my comments in the helpful, constructive spirit in which I had offered them.
“Are you out of your mind?” he asked me. “The bastard was fucking my wife behind my back! In fact, he’s still fucking her; it’s just that everybody knows about it now. I can’t stay here!”
“But how can you go work with Faircloth?” I asked. “What about the great critique of neo-liberalism you’ve been expounding all semester? How can you trash neo-liberalism and praise neo-radicalism for Briggs all semester here, and then go to Gates and do the opposite for Faircloth next semester? That’s just incredibly unethical!”
“You apparently assume,” replied Doug, “that Faircloth is like Briggs and just wants his students to parrot his own views. But he’s not like that. I had a long talk with him and told him all about my attraction to neo-radicalism and even about my critique of neo-liberalism. And you know what? He said that that was fine with him. He wants his students to develop their own views, not just repeat his. He said he likes it when grad students challenge him; he said it helps him keep his own ideas fresh and sharp!
“What a healthy attitude!” Doug continued. “And so very different from the sick one prevailing around here with senior professors like Briggs and Asquith who just want students to be their clones. No, Jonathan: what I’m doing is not unethical. It’s what Briggs has been doing with my wife that is!”
“I’m afraid you’re wrong there, Dougie,” interjected Michael. I’m not sure when he came in the room or how much of our conversation he had overheard. “If your wife was a student here, then a professor having an affair with her would be considered unethical. But your wife wasn’t a student here, was she? So she was fair game!”
Doug looked at him in disbelief. “She was my wife!” (Yes, he definitely said it in the past tense.) “I never expected that my major professor—someone whom I thought the world of—would do anything like this.”
Michael described how there were “progressive ethics” upheld by universities against discrimination and sexual misconduct and there were “reactionary ethics” which forbade all sex outside of marriage. What Doug was expounding, he explained patiently, was an example of reactionary ethics—which universities were not obliged to uphold. “They couldn’t even if they wanted to,” he told us. Nor could a neo-radical like Briggs be expected to abide by any such reactionary code of conduct.
Doug, I’m sorry to say, responded to this by calling Michael all sorts of foul names. Michael just laughed. But I was mad.
“You know, Doug,” I said, “You really can’t blame Briggs for your problems. Angie would never have let herself be seduced by him if you hadn’t been so nasty to her.”
Doug turned toward me. “So you’re on their side too? Well, I’m not surprised. You’d never dare challenge anything Briggs said or did, would you? Why, if he took a shit on your dinner plate, you’d eat it up and ask for more, you ass kisser!”
I started to object strenuously to this, but Doug interrupted by asking, “Why am I even arguing with you losers? As far as I’m concerned, you’re history!” He then proceeded to pack up his desk and leave.
So now with Doug as well as Danielle gone, there are just four of us left in the office.
I had a much more pleasant conversation later on with Professor Briggs when he came in and asked if I would be his TA. I was thrilled by the offer, of course, but told him that I had been assigned to Trizenko.
“I think an assistant professor—especially one who’s likely to be turned down for tenure—can do his own grading,” he responded. He then told me that the choice was mine, and that he would even talk to Trizenko for me if I felt awkward doing so. I accepted immediately! And who can blame me: being Briggs’s TA will look far better on my cv than being Trizenko’s. And besides: it was what I really wanted to do anyway.
I did see Trizenko in the hall later and told him myself that I would be TA’ing for Briggs. I started to explain how I was far more knowledgeable about Briggs’s field than his anyway when he interrupted me by saying, “You don’t have to explain anything, Jonathan. I understand perfectly.”
That didn’t sound too friendly. I hope he doesn’t take it out on me when it comes to assigning grades for the course I’m taking with him this semester. Maybe he’s turned his grades in for that class already; I think he’s the type that would. I should be okay then.
Spring semester here at Charles doesn’t begin until the end of January. After the two week Christmas break, there is a three week intersession which the undergrads are required to take a class in, but not the grad students.
Shivvy explained to me that these January intersession classes are mainly just for fun: they have courses on detective novels, science fiction, and that sort of thing. There are also study tours—usually to places where there is either skiing or warm sunny weather—for students whose parents can afford it. Being in this category herself, Shivvy and two of her girlfriends have signed up to study the tourist industry in Barbados.
I wish I could afford to go with her, but I can’t. I’ll just go out to California for the Christmas break and then come back here before Shivvy shoves off for points south. While sunning herself in Barbados, I’ll prepare myself for becoming a TA next semester.
On this last point, I have some good news to report: I will be TA’ing for Briggs after all! The reason for this is that Doug has done something truly unbelievable. I knew that, like me, Doug had been admitted to Gates University (home of the neo-liberal, Arch Faircloth) with a fellowship. Well, Doug came in the office this morning and told me that he was leaving Charles altogether and would be starting up at Gates next semester!
He told me that he was so incensed by what Briggs had done to him that he called Faircloth on Monday, told him that he couldn’t stand to work with Briggs any more (but not why this was so), and begged to be let in. Faircloth was apparently delighted to have a defector from the neo-radical camp. He said he’d see what he could do, and then called Doug yesterday to say that both his admission to and fellowship from Gates had been reinstated for spring. He could even get credit for all the courses he took at Charles—all, that is, except Briggs’s. Faircloth said he wanted Doug to take his own course on IR theory.
“I told him that was fine with me,” Doug related, “since Briggs’s class was all bullshit anyway.”
I was shocked! I couldn’t believe what Doug was saying, much less what he was doing! And I told him so too.
“It wasn’t very pleasant, I’m sure, to come home and find Briggs in bed with Angie,” I told him. “But to renounce neo-radicalism and become a neo-liberal over it? You’re overreacting, Doug!”
Doug chose not to take my comments in the helpful, constructive spirit in which I had offered them.
“Are you out of your mind?” he asked me. “The bastard was fucking my wife behind my back! In fact, he’s still fucking her; it’s just that everybody knows about it now. I can’t stay here!”
“But how can you go work with Faircloth?” I asked. “What about the great critique of neo-liberalism you’ve been expounding all semester? How can you trash neo-liberalism and praise neo-radicalism for Briggs all semester here, and then go to Gates and do the opposite for Faircloth next semester? That’s just incredibly unethical!”
“You apparently assume,” replied Doug, “that Faircloth is like Briggs and just wants his students to parrot his own views. But he’s not like that. I had a long talk with him and told him all about my attraction to neo-radicalism and even about my critique of neo-liberalism. And you know what? He said that that was fine with him. He wants his students to develop their own views, not just repeat his. He said he likes it when grad students challenge him; he said it helps him keep his own ideas fresh and sharp!
“What a healthy attitude!” Doug continued. “And so very different from the sick one prevailing around here with senior professors like Briggs and Asquith who just want students to be their clones. No, Jonathan: what I’m doing is not unethical. It’s what Briggs has been doing with my wife that is!”
“I’m afraid you’re wrong there, Dougie,” interjected Michael. I’m not sure when he came in the room or how much of our conversation he had overheard. “If your wife was a student here, then a professor having an affair with her would be considered unethical. But your wife wasn’t a student here, was she? So she was fair game!”
Doug looked at him in disbelief. “She was my wife!” (Yes, he definitely said it in the past tense.) “I never expected that my major professor—someone whom I thought the world of—would do anything like this.”
Michael described how there were “progressive ethics” upheld by universities against discrimination and sexual misconduct and there were “reactionary ethics” which forbade all sex outside of marriage. What Doug was expounding, he explained patiently, was an example of reactionary ethics—which universities were not obliged to uphold. “They couldn’t even if they wanted to,” he told us. Nor could a neo-radical like Briggs be expected to abide by any such reactionary code of conduct.
Doug, I’m sorry to say, responded to this by calling Michael all sorts of foul names. Michael just laughed. But I was mad.
“You know, Doug,” I said, “You really can’t blame Briggs for your problems. Angie would never have let herself be seduced by him if you hadn’t been so nasty to her.”
Doug turned toward me. “So you’re on their side too? Well, I’m not surprised. You’d never dare challenge anything Briggs said or did, would you? Why, if he took a shit on your dinner plate, you’d eat it up and ask for more, you ass kisser!”
I started to object strenuously to this, but Doug interrupted by asking, “Why am I even arguing with you losers? As far as I’m concerned, you’re history!” He then proceeded to pack up his desk and leave.
So now with Doug as well as Danielle gone, there are just four of us left in the office.
I had a much more pleasant conversation later on with Professor Briggs when he came in and asked if I would be his TA. I was thrilled by the offer, of course, but told him that I had been assigned to Trizenko.
“I think an assistant professor—especially one who’s likely to be turned down for tenure—can do his own grading,” he responded. He then told me that the choice was mine, and that he would even talk to Trizenko for me if I felt awkward doing so. I accepted immediately! And who can blame me: being Briggs’s TA will look far better on my cv than being Trizenko’s. And besides: it was what I really wanted to do anyway.
I did see Trizenko in the hall later and told him myself that I would be TA’ing for Briggs. I started to explain how I was far more knowledgeable about Briggs’s field than his anyway when he interrupted me by saying, “You don’t have to explain anything, Jonathan. I understand perfectly.”
That didn’t sound too friendly. I hope he doesn’t take it out on me when it comes to assigning grades for the course I’m taking with him this semester. Maybe he’s turned his grades in for that class already; I think he’s the type that would. I should be okay then.
Sunday, December 13, 2009
December 13
I am writing on the Sunday following the last week of classes. Final exam week starts tomorrow, but I feel great—although I’m a little ashamed to admit it. I was feeling a little jealous of Doug for much of the semester since Briggs seemed to favor him over me. It became clear this past week, though, that Briggs is far less interested in Doug than in Doug’s wife.
It turns out that Briggs and Angie have been having an affair. I’m not sure how long it’s been going on, but Doug found out about it last week when he went back home earlier than he normally does. Doug told me later that when he went inside, he found two sets of clothes—male and female—on the couch. Realizing that he was there, Angie quickly threw on her robe and even gave Doug’s to “Barry!”
Doug was furious, he told me, not just at discovering that both of them had betrayed him, but at how nonchalant they both appeared at being caught. “Now, Doug,” he told me how Briggs had said, “I know this is a bit of an awkward situation, but I think it’s important that we all keep calm.”
Doug said that he was anything but calm, and that he called Angie a “worthless slut.”
“Well, none of this would have happened, Dougie,” she told him, “if you had treated me decently instead of like shit.”
Doug then told Angie that he wanted her out of his apartment (and him being the student, it was indeed his) as soon as possible. Briggs then said she could move in with him, at least for the time being. Instead of being ashamed of herself, Doug told me angrily, Angie appeared to be delighted by this turn of events.
After retrieving his clothes and retreating to the bedroom to change back into them, Briggs came back out and announced that he’d come by with his car at the end of the working day to transport Angie and her stuff out to his place. Angie, Doug said, remained in her short, skimpy terry cloth robe which she had not bothered to tie very carefully. She seemed to really enjoy showing herself off before the two of them, said Doug, scandalized. I have to admit: I wish I’d been there to see her dressed like that!
“Now Doug,” Briggs said just before leaving, “I’m sure you’re a little upset by all this, but I want you to know that I have great respect for your work, which I really do think is quite promising. From what I’ve seen of your work so far, I’m sure you’ll be earning an “A” in my seminar. And I really am looking forward to your being my TA next semester. If that would be uncomfortable for you, though, I’m sure I can arrange for you to TA for Trizenko and for Jonathan to take your place with me.”
Doug was indignant as he told me this. I have to admit, though, that I was thrilled at the prospect of our trading professors to TA for. The issue, however, was not resolved since Doug then ordered Briggs to get out.
Briggs continued in what Doug described as his patronizing tone of voice, telling Angie he’d pick her up around five o’clock and advising Doug that he had a great career ahead of him and that Briggs would hate to see him jeopardize it by doing or saying anything “rash” now. “This sort of thing happens all the time,” Briggs was saying as he stepped out into the hall and Doug slammed the door on him.
After calling each other a few choice names, Doug related, he and Angie quickly got down to dividing their few possessions which, fortuitously, did not include either a car or any furniture (the grad student apartments we lived in came furnished). That settled, Doug told her she could pack up by herself. He then went to their bank and drew out the few hundred dollars they had in their checking account. After that, he came over to the office where he found me and told me all about it.
I sympathized with Doug, but I didn’t want him to take up my entire afternoon talking about his personal problems. I was just about to get up and leave when Michael came into the room. Doug immediately stopped talking, and so I was able to get back to my writing. Michael didn’t say anything, but the supercilious way in which he asked Doug how Angie was doing these days indicated that he knew what was happening—indeed, that he had known for some time. Doug tried to act busy, not looking at him and only answering his questions with one or two syllables. Michael said he was glad everything was going so well, laughed derisively, and then made a show of getting to work himself.
Lisa came in the room a little while later. She apparently sensed that something was wrong because she asked why we were all so quiet. “I guess we’re just busy!” I tried to say cheerily.
Michael left the room a short while later, telling Doug to be sure and give Angie his best regards as he went out. Almost as soon as he was gone, Doug cried out in a hoarse whisper, “He knew! That bastard knew! He even intimated something was going on between them at Thanksgiving!” So that’s what they were really arguing about! Lisa, of course, was all curious and concerned, and so he told her the whole story. Lisa was indignant that Briggs had seduced Angie. She said that the university should not tolerate such unethical conduct.
At four o’clock, I reminded Doug that Briggs would be coming by in his car for Angie and suggested that we go over and help her get her stuff down to the lobby.
He thanked me for offering to help, and so we set off. Once we got to our apartment building, though, Doug said he didn’t want to even see her. He asked if he could wait in my apartment until she was gone. Since he wouldn’t even phone her from my place, I did. She said she’d appreciate my help. With him standing there in front of me and her on the line, I arranged to bring her half of their bank balance upstairs in exchange for her key to Doug’s apartment. She was quite business-like on the phone, while it was clear to me that Doug was becoming increasingly emotional.
I popped him a beer, gave him the remaining half of a potato chip bag that Shivvy and I had opened on the weekend, and then went over to what would soon be just Doug’s apartment.
I was amazed at the sight of her when she opened the door of the apartment to me. Although it was a cold December evening outside, she had on a short, revealing black dress and black stockings. The blackness of the dress vividly contrasted with her pale skin and blonde hair. But despite the self-confidence that being dressed so sexily implied and her business-like tone on the phone just a few minutes ago, she was crying quietly now.
“He treated me like shit, Jonathan! You and your girlfriend saw how he acted that night you came for dinner. I was so embarrassed! He was always belittling me like that!”
I tried to say something reassuring, but she wasn’t listening to me.
“Ever since we got here,” she continued, “he’s just steadily lost interest in me. Every time I tried to talk to him about what he was studying, he’d just say that it was too hard to explain to someone not already in the class. I even tried talking to him about the news, but he’d just blow me off by saying that whatever situation I wanted to talk about was `trivial’ as far as theory was concerned.”
I’m sure Doug was right about this, but I didn’t think that it was a good time to say so.
“For the past month or so,” she went on, “he’s just ignored me altogether. Why, he wouldn’t even take the time away from his studies to stop and fuck me!”
This was embarrassing. I didn’t know what to say. Luckily, the phone rang. It was the front desk calling to say that Briggs had arrived, and asking us to please hurry up and come down since cars were only supposed to be parked in front of the main door for just a few minutes.
I remembered to give Angie her cash, and she gave me her key. All of her stuff fit into just one suitcase and four cardboard boxes which she had gotten from the custodial staff. They had also let her borrow a dolly, which was great, since that meant we could take all her stuff down to the lobby in just one trip.
I reminded her to put on her coat and hat since it was pretty cold outside. She reminded me to lock the door since I now had the key.
As we got off the elevator, Briggs was there waiting for us impatiently. I went out to the car with them and helped him load her stuff into it. “Thanks for helping out, Jonathan,” he said. “I won’t forget this.” Turning to Angie, he said, “Okay, sweetheart; if you’re all set, let’s get going.”
Before getting in his car, though, Angie came over to me and kissed me on the cheek. “Thanks for being a friend, Jonathan,” she said, looking directly at me. “I won’t forget this either.”
I said I hoped we’d keep in touch. She got in the car and as they started to drive off, I saw her take off her hat and release her long blonde hair to flow down her shoulders.
I took the dolly back inside and left it by the elevator for the custodians to find. When I got back to my apartment, Shivvy was there with Doug. After I gave him Angie’s key, he thanked me for helping him out and left.
“He looks like he’s in bad shape,” I said.
“Yeah, he’s a mess,” responded Shivvy, shaking her head. “But you know what? I think he’s a lot less bothered by the fact that Angie was cheating on him than by the realization that he really wasn’t Briggs’s prize little pupil after all.”
She laughed at her own observation and continued, “I’m afraid it’s the old story, Dougie! Briggsy didn’t love you for your brain, but for your body! Your wife’s body, that is!”
It turns out that Briggs and Angie have been having an affair. I’m not sure how long it’s been going on, but Doug found out about it last week when he went back home earlier than he normally does. Doug told me later that when he went inside, he found two sets of clothes—male and female—on the couch. Realizing that he was there, Angie quickly threw on her robe and even gave Doug’s to “Barry!”
Doug was furious, he told me, not just at discovering that both of them had betrayed him, but at how nonchalant they both appeared at being caught. “Now, Doug,” he told me how Briggs had said, “I know this is a bit of an awkward situation, but I think it’s important that we all keep calm.”
Doug said that he was anything but calm, and that he called Angie a “worthless slut.”
“Well, none of this would have happened, Dougie,” she told him, “if you had treated me decently instead of like shit.”
Doug then told Angie that he wanted her out of his apartment (and him being the student, it was indeed his) as soon as possible. Briggs then said she could move in with him, at least for the time being. Instead of being ashamed of herself, Doug told me angrily, Angie appeared to be delighted by this turn of events.
After retrieving his clothes and retreating to the bedroom to change back into them, Briggs came back out and announced that he’d come by with his car at the end of the working day to transport Angie and her stuff out to his place. Angie, Doug said, remained in her short, skimpy terry cloth robe which she had not bothered to tie very carefully. She seemed to really enjoy showing herself off before the two of them, said Doug, scandalized. I have to admit: I wish I’d been there to see her dressed like that!
“Now Doug,” Briggs said just before leaving, “I’m sure you’re a little upset by all this, but I want you to know that I have great respect for your work, which I really do think is quite promising. From what I’ve seen of your work so far, I’m sure you’ll be earning an “A” in my seminar. And I really am looking forward to your being my TA next semester. If that would be uncomfortable for you, though, I’m sure I can arrange for you to TA for Trizenko and for Jonathan to take your place with me.”
Doug was indignant as he told me this. I have to admit, though, that I was thrilled at the prospect of our trading professors to TA for. The issue, however, was not resolved since Doug then ordered Briggs to get out.
Briggs continued in what Doug described as his patronizing tone of voice, telling Angie he’d pick her up around five o’clock and advising Doug that he had a great career ahead of him and that Briggs would hate to see him jeopardize it by doing or saying anything “rash” now. “This sort of thing happens all the time,” Briggs was saying as he stepped out into the hall and Doug slammed the door on him.
After calling each other a few choice names, Doug related, he and Angie quickly got down to dividing their few possessions which, fortuitously, did not include either a car or any furniture (the grad student apartments we lived in came furnished). That settled, Doug told her she could pack up by herself. He then went to their bank and drew out the few hundred dollars they had in their checking account. After that, he came over to the office where he found me and told me all about it.
I sympathized with Doug, but I didn’t want him to take up my entire afternoon talking about his personal problems. I was just about to get up and leave when Michael came into the room. Doug immediately stopped talking, and so I was able to get back to my writing. Michael didn’t say anything, but the supercilious way in which he asked Doug how Angie was doing these days indicated that he knew what was happening—indeed, that he had known for some time. Doug tried to act busy, not looking at him and only answering his questions with one or two syllables. Michael said he was glad everything was going so well, laughed derisively, and then made a show of getting to work himself.
Lisa came in the room a little while later. She apparently sensed that something was wrong because she asked why we were all so quiet. “I guess we’re just busy!” I tried to say cheerily.
Michael left the room a short while later, telling Doug to be sure and give Angie his best regards as he went out. Almost as soon as he was gone, Doug cried out in a hoarse whisper, “He knew! That bastard knew! He even intimated something was going on between them at Thanksgiving!” So that’s what they were really arguing about! Lisa, of course, was all curious and concerned, and so he told her the whole story. Lisa was indignant that Briggs had seduced Angie. She said that the university should not tolerate such unethical conduct.
At four o’clock, I reminded Doug that Briggs would be coming by in his car for Angie and suggested that we go over and help her get her stuff down to the lobby.
He thanked me for offering to help, and so we set off. Once we got to our apartment building, though, Doug said he didn’t want to even see her. He asked if he could wait in my apartment until she was gone. Since he wouldn’t even phone her from my place, I did. She said she’d appreciate my help. With him standing there in front of me and her on the line, I arranged to bring her half of their bank balance upstairs in exchange for her key to Doug’s apartment. She was quite business-like on the phone, while it was clear to me that Doug was becoming increasingly emotional.
I popped him a beer, gave him the remaining half of a potato chip bag that Shivvy and I had opened on the weekend, and then went over to what would soon be just Doug’s apartment.
I was amazed at the sight of her when she opened the door of the apartment to me. Although it was a cold December evening outside, she had on a short, revealing black dress and black stockings. The blackness of the dress vividly contrasted with her pale skin and blonde hair. But despite the self-confidence that being dressed so sexily implied and her business-like tone on the phone just a few minutes ago, she was crying quietly now.
“He treated me like shit, Jonathan! You and your girlfriend saw how he acted that night you came for dinner. I was so embarrassed! He was always belittling me like that!”
I tried to say something reassuring, but she wasn’t listening to me.
“Ever since we got here,” she continued, “he’s just steadily lost interest in me. Every time I tried to talk to him about what he was studying, he’d just say that it was too hard to explain to someone not already in the class. I even tried talking to him about the news, but he’d just blow me off by saying that whatever situation I wanted to talk about was `trivial’ as far as theory was concerned.”
I’m sure Doug was right about this, but I didn’t think that it was a good time to say so.
“For the past month or so,” she went on, “he’s just ignored me altogether. Why, he wouldn’t even take the time away from his studies to stop and fuck me!”
This was embarrassing. I didn’t know what to say. Luckily, the phone rang. It was the front desk calling to say that Briggs had arrived, and asking us to please hurry up and come down since cars were only supposed to be parked in front of the main door for just a few minutes.
I remembered to give Angie her cash, and she gave me her key. All of her stuff fit into just one suitcase and four cardboard boxes which she had gotten from the custodial staff. They had also let her borrow a dolly, which was great, since that meant we could take all her stuff down to the lobby in just one trip.
I reminded her to put on her coat and hat since it was pretty cold outside. She reminded me to lock the door since I now had the key.
As we got off the elevator, Briggs was there waiting for us impatiently. I went out to the car with them and helped him load her stuff into it. “Thanks for helping out, Jonathan,” he said. “I won’t forget this.” Turning to Angie, he said, “Okay, sweetheart; if you’re all set, let’s get going.”
Before getting in his car, though, Angie came over to me and kissed me on the cheek. “Thanks for being a friend, Jonathan,” she said, looking directly at me. “I won’t forget this either.”
I said I hoped we’d keep in touch. She got in the car and as they started to drive off, I saw her take off her hat and release her long blonde hair to flow down her shoulders.
I took the dolly back inside and left it by the elevator for the custodians to find. When I got back to my apartment, Shivvy was there with Doug. After I gave him Angie’s key, he thanked me for helping him out and left.
“He looks like he’s in bad shape,” I said.
“Yeah, he’s a mess,” responded Shivvy, shaking her head. “But you know what? I think he’s a lot less bothered by the fact that Angie was cheating on him than by the realization that he really wasn’t Briggs’s prize little pupil after all.”
She laughed at her own observation and continued, “I’m afraid it’s the old story, Dougie! Briggsy didn’t love you for your brain, but for your body! Your wife’s body, that is!”
Sunday, December 6, 2009
December 6
This has been a traumatic week. The professors all met just after Thanksgiving break to assess our progress and decide on funding for next semester. All of us first year students passed muster, and we got our TA assignments for next semester. Just as she had hoped, Lisa Dudwick will TA for Theda DeKlerk—the feminist professor. And just as, I’m sure, Craig Hatfield wanted, he will TA for Elton Asquith. But much to my chagrin, Briggs picked Doug to TA for him, and not me. I kind of expected this, given how well Doug gets on with Briggs, but it still hurt. Much worse for me, though, is that I was picked to TA for Trizenko.
This is a disaster! It’s bad enough that he and I are not on the same intellectual wavelength. Worse, it won’t do my career any good to be associated with someone who is probably going to be denied tenure this year. Even if he successfully appeals the decision next year, the stigma of being turned down this year is going to stick with him—and me!
I can just see it now: when I’m on the job market sending out my vita, people are going to look at it and say, “He TA’ed for Trizenko? Isn’t that the guy that got turned down for tenure at Charles?”
Worse still, whatever is left of Trizenko’s reputation is going to be completely shot as a result of this whole incident with Danielle. People are going to say, “Wasn’t Trizenko the guy who led a demonstration in defense of a racist TA?” People may think that the TA in question is me! What the hell did I do to deserve all this? Being Trizenko’s TA is going to make the next semester sheer hell for me.
Michael, of course, is getting fellowship support for next semester. And just as he predicted, Danielle is not. She has already announced her intention to withdraw from the Ph.D. program and leave Charles University altogether at the end of this semester.
Michael thinks that this is the only appropriate course of action for her after being accused of racism. Lisa and Craig, though, are saying she has not received due process: it would be one thing to take away her funding if it had been proved she had been guilty of racism, but it was quite another to do so after only being accused of it. Doug and I aren’t as down on her as Michael, but we’re not with Craig and Lisa either. Taking away her funding as a result of an accusation of racism is harsh, but we can understand how the faculty doesn’t want to be seen protecting a racist. I personally think she should go on leave until the matter is settled one way or another. But maybe it’s best for her to just go away altogether: with Trizenko likely to leave next year at the latest, there’s probably nobody else here she would want to work with—or who would want to work with her—on a dissertation about Russian politics.
In any event, she’s not being forced out. She could come up with the tuition herself through student loans or getting a job. It was Danielle herself who decided to leave before the charges against her were cleared up. So, in the end, I really can’t feel too sorry for her.
It’s very clear, though, that she’s feeling rather sorry for herself. She sent me the following e-mail message, which I reproduce in full:
Jonathan:
Being shoved by [once again, I omit his name—JV] was bad. Being then accused by him of racism for calling him an asshole—which he was—for shoving me was also bad. But neither was as bad as being betrayed by my so-called colleagues and see them trumpet their raw, naked hostility toward me at the top of their lungs. I wouldn’t have stayed here even if they had renewed my funding after that.
It didn’t surprise me to see lickspittles like Michael and Doug join Briggs and Asquith in that vicious demonstration against me, but I expected you to give me the benefit of the doubt the way Craig and Lisa did.
I used to think of you as a friend, but not any more. Still, I hope that you never experience what has happened to me—no matter how much you deserve to!
Danielle
Strong stuff! I sent her back what I thought was a diplomatic message saying that I participated in the demonstration not out of any feelings of personal hostility toward her, but from my desire to join Prof. Briggs in expressing my principled opposition to racism in general.
She wrote back:
J:
Briggs and Asquith acting as cheerleaders in that demonstration had nothing to do with any “principled opposition to racism.” And do you always write so ponderously? Through branding me a racist, they hoped to discredit Ilya and derail his application for tenure. And by coming to my defense the way he did, he fell right into their trap.
Can’t you see through all their leftist mumbo-jumbo???
D
I didn’t even bother to respond; the poor woman is clearly hysterical. She’s lucky I didn’t forward her libelous message on to Professors Briggs and Asquith—like someone else might have done who wanted to curry favor with them.
This past Friday afternoon (yes, I’m back to writing this diary on a Sunday), all of us incoming TA’s were called to a meeting with the professors we have been assigned to as well as the outgoing TA’s. Not only did Danielle not show up, but Trizenko didn’t either—yet one more black mark against him. The rest of us, I think, were just as happy that they didn’t. I’ll have to meet with him at some point, though, since I’ll be working with him.
Anyway, after the chair, Prof. Stavros, said a few words, both Asquith and Briggs gave talks about the extreme importance of TA’s being sensitive in dealing with—and especially grading—minority students. Prof. DeKlerk then appealed to the new male TA’s in particular to be sensitive to students from “the other gender.” Asquith then got back up and urged us not to overlook the “special needs” of gay, lesbian, bisexual, and transgendered students. We then had a general discussion in which everyone expressed their fealty to these important principles.
[I would never admit it publicly, but I am not quite certain what “transgendered” means. I would, of course, never knowingly discriminate against such students. I only hope, though, that they will let me know if they are in this category so that I can treat them with the sensitivity they undoubtedly deserve.]
Afterward, Michael, Doug, and I all went out for a beer (we invited Craig and Lisa, but they wouldn’t come with us). As we began drinking, Michael announced that he would now give us the “inside scoop” about racially sensitive grading—what nobody on the faculty would say out loud, but which we needed to know.
“The whole point about being racially sensitive,” he informed us, “is to advance the progressive agenda and not the reactionary one.” What this meant, he explained, was that we should “encourage and reward” members of minority groups who did this and “correct” those who did not.
Both African-Americans and Latinos were the most disadvantaged minority groups, he explained, and so they needed to be especially encouraged and rewarded. There were, however, “reactionary exceptions” within these two groups who needed correcting.
“African-American males who have served in the military are all right-wingers, to a man!” said Michael. “Nor are they ashamed about it either.” It was necessary to be patient but firm in trying to re-educate them, he advised.
“And while Latinos in general are progressive, one group—Cuban-Americans—are ultra-reactionary.” Michael suggested that students from this group were so stubbornly reactionary that attempting to speak with them politely was useless. “Just give them the “C minuses” they deserve,” he advised. They were in no position to complain, Michael observed, because other Latinos would not come to their defense. “They’re that unpopular,” he concluded.
I, of course, had known that Cuban emigres were all right-wingers. I had never thought of them as Hispanics, but as Spanish-speaking whites instead. I was, though, a little uncomfortable with the idea that a whole segment of the African-American population—those who had served in the military—were reactionary. Michael’s depiction, though, made me wonder whether Prof. Saltz had been in the armed forces; this might explain a lot.
This is a disaster! It’s bad enough that he and I are not on the same intellectual wavelength. Worse, it won’t do my career any good to be associated with someone who is probably going to be denied tenure this year. Even if he successfully appeals the decision next year, the stigma of being turned down this year is going to stick with him—and me!
I can just see it now: when I’m on the job market sending out my vita, people are going to look at it and say, “He TA’ed for Trizenko? Isn’t that the guy that got turned down for tenure at Charles?”
Worse still, whatever is left of Trizenko’s reputation is going to be completely shot as a result of this whole incident with Danielle. People are going to say, “Wasn’t Trizenko the guy who led a demonstration in defense of a racist TA?” People may think that the TA in question is me! What the hell did I do to deserve all this? Being Trizenko’s TA is going to make the next semester sheer hell for me.
Michael, of course, is getting fellowship support for next semester. And just as he predicted, Danielle is not. She has already announced her intention to withdraw from the Ph.D. program and leave Charles University altogether at the end of this semester.
Michael thinks that this is the only appropriate course of action for her after being accused of racism. Lisa and Craig, though, are saying she has not received due process: it would be one thing to take away her funding if it had been proved she had been guilty of racism, but it was quite another to do so after only being accused of it. Doug and I aren’t as down on her as Michael, but we’re not with Craig and Lisa either. Taking away her funding as a result of an accusation of racism is harsh, but we can understand how the faculty doesn’t want to be seen protecting a racist. I personally think she should go on leave until the matter is settled one way or another. But maybe it’s best for her to just go away altogether: with Trizenko likely to leave next year at the latest, there’s probably nobody else here she would want to work with—or who would want to work with her—on a dissertation about Russian politics.
In any event, she’s not being forced out. She could come up with the tuition herself through student loans or getting a job. It was Danielle herself who decided to leave before the charges against her were cleared up. So, in the end, I really can’t feel too sorry for her.
It’s very clear, though, that she’s feeling rather sorry for herself. She sent me the following e-mail message, which I reproduce in full:
Jonathan:
Being shoved by [once again, I omit his name—JV] was bad. Being then accused by him of racism for calling him an asshole—which he was—for shoving me was also bad. But neither was as bad as being betrayed by my so-called colleagues and see them trumpet their raw, naked hostility toward me at the top of their lungs. I wouldn’t have stayed here even if they had renewed my funding after that.
It didn’t surprise me to see lickspittles like Michael and Doug join Briggs and Asquith in that vicious demonstration against me, but I expected you to give me the benefit of the doubt the way Craig and Lisa did.
I used to think of you as a friend, but not any more. Still, I hope that you never experience what has happened to me—no matter how much you deserve to!
Danielle
Strong stuff! I sent her back what I thought was a diplomatic message saying that I participated in the demonstration not out of any feelings of personal hostility toward her, but from my desire to join Prof. Briggs in expressing my principled opposition to racism in general.
She wrote back:
J:
Briggs and Asquith acting as cheerleaders in that demonstration had nothing to do with any “principled opposition to racism.” And do you always write so ponderously? Through branding me a racist, they hoped to discredit Ilya and derail his application for tenure. And by coming to my defense the way he did, he fell right into their trap.
Can’t you see through all their leftist mumbo-jumbo???
D
I didn’t even bother to respond; the poor woman is clearly hysterical. She’s lucky I didn’t forward her libelous message on to Professors Briggs and Asquith—like someone else might have done who wanted to curry favor with them.
This past Friday afternoon (yes, I’m back to writing this diary on a Sunday), all of us incoming TA’s were called to a meeting with the professors we have been assigned to as well as the outgoing TA’s. Not only did Danielle not show up, but Trizenko didn’t either—yet one more black mark against him. The rest of us, I think, were just as happy that they didn’t. I’ll have to meet with him at some point, though, since I’ll be working with him.
Anyway, after the chair, Prof. Stavros, said a few words, both Asquith and Briggs gave talks about the extreme importance of TA’s being sensitive in dealing with—and especially grading—minority students. Prof. DeKlerk then appealed to the new male TA’s in particular to be sensitive to students from “the other gender.” Asquith then got back up and urged us not to overlook the “special needs” of gay, lesbian, bisexual, and transgendered students. We then had a general discussion in which everyone expressed their fealty to these important principles.
[I would never admit it publicly, but I am not quite certain what “transgendered” means. I would, of course, never knowingly discriminate against such students. I only hope, though, that they will let me know if they are in this category so that I can treat them with the sensitivity they undoubtedly deserve.]
Afterward, Michael, Doug, and I all went out for a beer (we invited Craig and Lisa, but they wouldn’t come with us). As we began drinking, Michael announced that he would now give us the “inside scoop” about racially sensitive grading—what nobody on the faculty would say out loud, but which we needed to know.
“The whole point about being racially sensitive,” he informed us, “is to advance the progressive agenda and not the reactionary one.” What this meant, he explained, was that we should “encourage and reward” members of minority groups who did this and “correct” those who did not.
Both African-Americans and Latinos were the most disadvantaged minority groups, he explained, and so they needed to be especially encouraged and rewarded. There were, however, “reactionary exceptions” within these two groups who needed correcting.
“African-American males who have served in the military are all right-wingers, to a man!” said Michael. “Nor are they ashamed about it either.” It was necessary to be patient but firm in trying to re-educate them, he advised.
“And while Latinos in general are progressive, one group—Cuban-Americans—are ultra-reactionary.” Michael suggested that students from this group were so stubbornly reactionary that attempting to speak with them politely was useless. “Just give them the “C minuses” they deserve,” he advised. They were in no position to complain, Michael observed, because other Latinos would not come to their defense. “They’re that unpopular,” he concluded.
I, of course, had known that Cuban emigres were all right-wingers. I had never thought of them as Hispanics, but as Spanish-speaking whites instead. I was, though, a little uncomfortable with the idea that a whole segment of the African-American population—those who had served in the military—were reactionary. Michael’s depiction, though, made me wonder whether Prof. Saltz had been in the armed forces; this might explain a lot.
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