Free Vintage Attraction by Charles Blackstone Page B

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    While some tenured faculty solicited feedback from us transients at occasional departmental meetings and on-campus happy hours just to foster the illusion of academic democracy, which we all pretended existed in spite of the oligarchic hierarchy, I knew, “dollars to donuts,” that Schultz wasn’t putting up a pretense. She was an administrator in the worst way. She had a master’s in education, not in English, and accordingly unrealistic expectations of the students. She actually really did need suggestions from adjuncts, as it had been years since she’d bothered to read any pedagogy in journals. Her source for inspiration was, in keeping with the undergraduates, Google.
    For comic relief—what else could have prompted it?—Bearded Sweater Dude stood up here. I didn’t even look in the vicinity of his face while he spoke. Instead I stared at the guy’s flat-fronted khakis, which fit him poorly, like he’d bought them without even trying them on. “I like to have the students trace themselves on a big piece of butcher paper, and then cut out the silhouette and make a collage on it, using pieces of newspapers and pictures from magazines that they feel describe themselves.”
    â€œYou could also just have them write something,” I said.
    â€œSorry, man?” Bearded Sweater Dude sat down again.
    â€œLike, I don’t know, instead of wasting time with the magazines and collages, just, you know, assign a paragraph or two of self-reflection. Writing.” He stared at me with unfocused eyes. “Writing? Pens, paper, sentences, that sort of thing?”
    Bearded Sweater Dude shook his head slowly. My very obvious suggestion had, it appeared, sent his lesson plan, or what passed for one, into revolution.
    Schultz must have sensed there was nowhere the meeting could possibly go from here. She abruptly and awkwardly dismissed us with benedictions. I watched the new adjunct hires collect their notebooks, shoulder their bags, and walk, single-file, out of her office. They waited to begin conversing until they had cleared the threshold, as though timid undergraduates.
    â€œIs there a problem, Peter?” Schultz asked when we were alone. Her voice was affectless. “Are you happy working here?”
    â€œHappy?” I asked. “This is academia. Liberal arts academia. English department liberal arts academia, no less. What does being happy have to do with it? We’re naturally a disgruntled sort.”
    She cleared her throat. “I think you saw a room full of enthusiastic young teachers who would disagree with you.”
    â€œYou want to know something, Shelley? I’ve realized—okay. I’ve been thinking a lot about Beethoven. You know, the composer?”
    She nodded, though I seriously doubted she would have been able to name one sonata.
    â€œBeethoven gradually started going deaf, but he continued to compose after he’d become fully deaf. Deaf. And he was writing music that would continue to be relevant for hundreds of years to come. Deaf. What excuse do we have to advocate, to champion mediocrity? Is it just because some of us are mediocre? I certainly am not.”
    She didn’t remark, as though I’d given a soliloquy. “I wanted to speak with you about this, Mr. Hapworth.” She clicked her computer mouse weakly several times and turned the monitor to me. There was an e-mail I’d sent weeks ago.
    From: Peter Hapworth
    Date: Tue, Sep 11, 2007 at 11:36 AM
    To: Adjunct Coordinator
    Subject: RE: ENG161 mandatory handouts!!!
    Could you possibly leave hard copies of future items we’re to distribute somewhere where those of us with limited computer access can get them? Once again, I couldn’t read the descriptive essay attachment because it was in PDF format, and the computer the department placed in my office back in 1997 is now too ancient to open these