Free The Dead and the Dying by Amy Cross Page B

merely added more of her thoughts on gender, albeit with some proper referencing this time. As I read through the essay, I can't help but be horrified that she could have misunderstood my request so thoroughly. Then again, she's clearly a smart student, so by the time I get to the end of the essay I realize that she can't have failed to grasp what I told her; instead, this essay amounts to an act of provocation, and a deliberate attempt to push back against everything I told her. It's hard to believe that someone who's so mousy and quiet in person could have such a stubborn streak, but it's simply impossible to interpret this essay as being anything other than a hostile act of willful refusal to compromise. She's pushing me, testing to see how hard I'll push back. I honestly don't think I've ever experienced anything like this in my entire academic career.
    As I start typing a response, I struggle to work out where to begin. Her central argument is that men have spent more than two thousand years treating women violently, and that the reason for this is that men and women must always be violent to one another. She goes on to suggest that as we continue to move through the twenty-first century, it's time for us as a species to reverse the balance; she suggests that women should rise up and use force to subjugate men and make them understand the impact of their previous behavior. Sure, the essay is well-sourced, and she brings in some useful quotes, but ultimately this whole piece of work is only tangentially linked to the original topic, and I'm left simmering with rage as I realize that she has completely ignored everything I told her. In the end, all I can do is write a few basic points and tell her to come to my office on Monday morning. At least that way, I'll have time to come up with a more considered approach.
    Once I've sent the email, I sit back and try to take stock of this Paula Clarke girl. It's as if there are two sides to her: on the one hand, she's painfully shy and demure in person, to the point where she can barely function; on the other hand, her essay clearly demonstrates a trouble mind, and it's clear that although she takes time to present counter-points to her arguments, she truly believes everything she's written. It's hard not to come to the conclusion that she might be seriously unbalanced, and I'm left to wonder where, precisely, she might draw the line between thought and action. She's certainly angry, but I'm not sure whether she's able to take that anger and go further.
    I need to be sure. If she's all talk and no trousers, she's useless to me.

Joanna Mason
     
    "So what's the deal?" I ask as I walk through to Dawson's office. "You solved this thing yet?"
    Looking up from his desk, he greets me with a weary smile. "You're looking better."
    "I think I kicked it," I reply, wandering over to his desk and picking up the nearest file. The truth is, now that I've passed out the other side of the chemotherapy haze, I'm feeling as sharp and alert as ever. That's the crazy thing, in a way: I can always feel my mind becoming sluggish as the drugs go into my system, and then a few hours later I hit a brick wall. Eventually, however, everything settles and I know that I won't have any more problems until my next chemotherapy session. In a weird way, I'm learning to live with the situation. It's like some kind of weird disability that messes me up a couple of times a week.
    "I've been going over all the old paperwork concerning Sam Gazade," he says, sounding as if he's not sure whether or not he should broach the subject with me.
    "Huh," I say, flicking through the file. "I remember writing most of this. I was just a fresh-faced, optimistic twenty-three-year-old on one of her first assignments. Twelve years later..." I pause as I notice that my handwriting has barely changed over the years. It's strange to think of myself writing all this up, unaware that a few months later I'd be diagnosed with cancer for the