A Sampling
Noitartst
other newsgroup. The following is one of my finest works:
Philip attended the lectures and book seminars; however, his behavior
during these program meetings was occasionally erratic.
--From my Faculty Evaluation of Student Achievement
"This was only the third time I've seen this happen at
Evergreen," my academic advisor assures me as we leave together. I
know not who was taken more aback by what has just happened, me or her.
I have just walked away from every student's fear: A teacher who is
out to get you. Despite this college's claim to be accepting and
open minded, I have just borne witness to behavior straight out of
Severus Snape's playbook. Trudging through the drizzle, I ask myself
once again how things could go so badly awry despite good intentions.
I start my day off by waking up late. It is March 19th, 2003. History
might remember this date as the start of the second Gulf War, but I
will recall this as one of my gloomier days on record.
Appropriately to my mood (dreary) and my residence (Washington State),
it is rainy and overcast. I can still make my appointment, but it is
not the early bus to Olympia I wanted. It seems that my discipline has
waned with the collegial quarter.
My bus trip taking me from my home in Shelton, formerly an old logging
town located at the tip of one of Puget Sound's fish hooks, to
Olympia, our nearby state capital, proceeds uneventfully. I can't
drive, so public transport is my only option aside from relying on my
siblings, who all have their own schedules. On the plus side (know
there even was one?) I need not fret over gas money and insurance.
After almost one hour traveling and two different buses, I reach my
misnamed destination: Evergreen State College. Named after the trees
which dominate our region, the buildings are anything but. A coarse
collection of concrete buildings, it is something of an eyesore. It
also seems that the current number of eyesores is not enough, and they
are putting up yet another to further add to the atmosphere without
clashing with the current monstrosities. Oh goody.
To reach Evergreen's buildings, I must first traverse its spacious
red square, be it consciously or unconsciously fashioned after the one
history remembers. Knowing Evergreen, I am leaning towards the former.
I enter the cavernous, brooding foyer of Evergreen's main building,
the library. I see there's a shrine up to the Greener (that's what
people here are called) who got herself run over by an Israeli
bulldozer protesting the destruction of Palestinian homes over the
weekend. My family cannot help but grasp the humor.
Even so, she deserves respect for her courage, assuming, of course,
that she knew the risks. I have my doubts about that, but even so...
I walk over to the shrine, which comes complete with a candlelight
vigil. I mumble a few words about how while I may have disagreed with
what she stood for, I respect her nevertheless. I wonder if anyone
present heard my words, but on the other hand, perhaps it is best none
did. At any rate, I beat a hasty retreat from the scene.
I swing from the foyer into the actual library section of the library
building, briefly greeting my work study supervisor, Jane. She somehow
reminds me of my grandma, right down to her hearing disability. I like
her, and I like working here in the library for the most part, but I
also fear ghettoization, being forced to work forever with the
disabled, being given jobs out of charity. I'm too smart to live out
an Uncle Tom lifestyle-or so I flatter myself.
I'm not working today, so I go over to the computer to print out my
comments to my instructor with whom I'm scheduled to meet with
sometime in the next hour. I've forgotten when, precisely.
You see, after every quarter, each and every student conferences for
about twenty minutes with his class's instructor, getting critiqued
on for his performance. The word "critique" is usually too strong
for it, however. To criticize a student's "achievements" is by
and large anathema to most instructors here. My quarter's class
bears the politically correct title "Celluloid Women and Men," for
which I am typing out my comments in advance, in anticipation of an
unusually uncomfortable encounter.
I have much to regret this quarter, both personally, and how I behaved
in class. I want to show my Instructor just how much remorse I
genuinely feel:
My Dear Instructor,
I have not been the best of students in your class to put it mildly.
I truly regret this, although I do think I improved as the quarter
waned. As I came to better understand the expectations, I rose
towards meeting them, but even so... I talked way too much, I never
fit in, and I think it showed. At least for me, this show was about a
learning curve. Please forgive me if I made you feel uncomfortable;
it was not my intention.
There. It is a good speech, nice and contrite, before getting into
the frictions betwixt us. I print it out, and decide to take no
chances and be early. I leave the concrete Library Building monstrosity
to take the few-minute-walk to the concrete Seminar Building
monstrosity next door. As I do so, I pass under the mud swallows
nesting against the library's mighty eaves and over the
dropping-strewn ground. My instructor's office would have to be on
the Seminar's top, third-story tier, too. Oh, well, good exercise.
Even so, as you have no doubt noticed, I am having a hard time keeping
a good attitude.
At almost 11 o'clock sharp, I walk up to my instructor's door, and
ask her when specifically my appointment is. My instructor, a Japanese
woman donning a typically gloomy-eyed expression on her face, is
clearly annoyed, as she tells me our rendezvous is at 11:30. As I just
now realize that her conference schedule is posted on her door, I now
see that her irritancy is more than justified. I thank her for
answering my needless question as she quickly shuts the door in my
face.
I now decide to withdraw down the hall to a reading space where me and
other schmos like me wait to be commented upon. As I wait, reading an
interesting book written in an aggravating manner, I ponder where
exactly it is that I went wrong this last quarter.
For starters, there was a clash in viewpoint. Evergreen is a bastion
of radical liberalism, and as I hail from, in terms of the political
spectrum, extreme conservatives...well, you know. Group "debate"
after group "debate," it has been affirmation after affirmation in
their socio-political thought and bias because the political
demographics are, so you say, "skewed." For the most part, I've
taken pains to keep my mouth shut, and stayed off the railroad.
But that was just why I did not enjoy the "debates" much. I more
than look the part of a Greener, actually, which allows me to fit in
seamlessly. As the proud owner of a brown-colored scalp (balding early
and on top, unfortunately) and a gold-tinted beard, I more than fit in
with the grungy, ungainly male facial hair which dominates the campus.
Though I wear it part in honor of my father's own jet-black beard
(and the other from shaving dislike), let's just say it does not fly
too well at home. My unkempt beard has been a bone of contention
amongst my immediate family the way long hair has been in others. My
grandma, ironically from whom I inherited my beard's color, has been
my beard's greatest critic. My family's most serious criticisms of
all, however, stem from the stigma of facial hair. Considering my
already-bizarre behavior, I cannot say that concern is totally
unjustified.
That behavior I think is where I got in trouble with my instructor.
One day after class, I was waiting to chat with her, and I think that
my pacing unnerved her. If so, she is not the first. Wandering back
and forth confusedly, complete with a disconcerting frown like a
predator eyeing his prey, I daresay I cut the stereotypical image of a
stalker. I once inadvertently scared a sweet 98-year-old lady into
calling over her relatives, so I know my capabilities of unease. My
mother and sister dislike my image too, but they, at least, have a
built-up tolerance.
It is not just the look, however, given some of my comments. I once
provoked a sweet, ninety-seven year-old lady into whacking me with her
cane over an age-related joke. As for my sister and mother, they have
hit me more times than I can count for observations deemed unsuitable.
Of course, in their case, I am kind of inviting displeasure. Yes sir,
I all too easily fit the Tim Allen profile, and I fear today will be
one of those times I'll regret it.
I look up from my book and reexamine my watch. The half hour nears; I
had best be up and doing. I put away the book that has my sister
convinced the Apocalypse starts in 2006, and amble on down to the end
of the hallway to await sentencing.
Five minutes or so later, out comes the girl ahead of me, and I
prepare to enter. I have read and reread my crafted statement, and am
poised for anything. "Anything" indeed does happen next, and still
it floors me. Looking me with her Oriental face as taciturn as ever,
she utters words to numb my bravery: "Stay out here. Your student
advisor will get here soon." Again the door closes shut in my face,
again leaving me alone with my thoughts. She fears me.
It was through my student advisor that I first found out my instructor
thought I was a menace, but it wasn't like couldn't tell. Yes, I
may have sub par people skills, but I have been around the block long
enough to know when someone fears you. It may have (has, actually)
taken some disastrous encounters of which I had rather not say, but
awareness I have. It just figures that she would want a chaperon.
Even so, something else gets me. She knew that when I was coming in
weeks in advance, and beyond that, had a half hour heads up that I
would show, yet something was strange. She could have notified my
advisor in advance, to say nothing of yet I could hear her on the
phone, right then and there. Like a football coach trying to rattle an
enemy place kicker by calling timeout, she was trying to unsettle me
via an unnecessary wait. She's trying to freeze me.
I junk my paper, realizing the venue has changed. In it, I had
confessed to my instructor my sins as her pupil, recognizing my
shortcomings, but I had been anticipating one-on-one, not a trio.
Carrying on, even enlarging upon, some of the points that I had made
over the quarter as intended would probably be better received without
the presence of a third party, so I prepare instead to paraphrase the
parts still relevant.
I had prepared for a conference when it should have been for a trial.
Perhaps I could plead innocent thanks to mitigating childhood
hardships. What a story I could tell: I had a father who constantly
failed his promises, an Old School mother who applied the rod, a
brother who just never understood, a Grandma that never listened, and a
sister that fed me dirt. Yes, I could probably win these faculty
members over if I would spin my life as a victim, but alas, I was
conditioned against doing so. Being well-raised has its downside after
all.
My student advisor finally arrives at 11:38 to my relief. "She
fears me," I confide to her before we enter. "I know," she
confides back. The door finally opens to me, and by this time I am all
too ready to get this over with.
What follows, however, gives more relevance to my last sentence than I
realized. My instructor hands me my Faculty Evaluation. By the time I
am finished reading, I see why she wanted a witness.
At first her assessment starts out fine, or at least "fine" by my
amiable reckoning:
Philip attended most of the lectures and book seminars; however, his
behavior during these program meetings was occasionally erratic.
Guilty as charged. In only my second quarter here, I had had yet to
know what was expected of me. Even so, I have to say "erratic"
describes me pretty fairly overall.
Then, this critique gets a little stickier:
These entries exhibited his emotional and intellectual engagement.
However, some entries suggested that his comprehension of the texts was
idiosyncratic.
Fair enough. At times, the stuff I had to comment on was either
oblique or uninteresting, not allowing me enough to form an opinion.
So what did I do? Split wood, naturally, trying to tie it to the
relevant piece.
She goes on to criticize my not supporting my arguments. In the
instance she gives, that was calculated. It was not supposed to be an
argument, but rather a challenge. All quarter long, I had been
subjected to feminist dogma, so I had responded with a counter
challenge. Getting it reprinted on my official transcript, though,
shows where she is going with this. She's out to embarrass me.
Finally, we come to the clincher, the topic of the quarter's end
video presentation. It was my finest moment all quarter, but it also
was The Straw That Broke the Camel's Back. I had actually gotten
some validation when I showed my class it. They enjoyed my humor and
biting commentary, amply laughing and applauding. My instructor,
though, was anything but amused:
For the video production segment of the program, Philip decided to
comment on 9-minute clips of Sailor Moon rather than creating a video
work because he "didn't know" that he had to produce his own
video work.
Now wait just a minute. I expressly asked mid-quarter if this was
allowable, and as usual, we miscommunicated. Running a series of
cartoon clips a total of nine minutes long while stopping and starting
the VCR to provide commentary was not my first choice-hey, not even
my third, and I myself wondered if I was allowed to be so low-tech.
For garnish, I made a minute- plus music video, but decided to cut it
for adding nothing to the presentation.
His major goal seemed to show how "anti-feminist" this animation
series was.
Ya got that right, sister.
His analysis ran the gamut of belittling the main character for letting
her brother belittle her to berating her tendency to depend on her
Prince Charming when she was in danger.
Again: guilty as charged.
He took the obviously comic absurdity of animation seriously.
Now it is my instructor who is being absurd. By her measure, should
the portrayal of Stepin Fetchit be written off because he was absurd?
For crying out loud, one Sailor Moon clip had her in a panic bawling
her head off while clinging to her boyfriend who is hanging for both
their lives to the side of an elevator shaft. You have to hand it to
Evergreen to make me feel sane.
As soon as I had finished presenting in class and the clapping died
away, my instructor started denigrating me in front of the class,
insinuating against my motives and telling them my work was improperly
formatted. So--she was mad at me for belittling a fictional character
that she herself had called "absurd." Now she was belittling me, a
real boy, for, in essence, being "absurd." Ever accusing me of
having "never got it," I fear in this case she never caught the
irony.
She made a telling remark claiming that this type of anime was made
for boys, yet Sailor Moon is universally recognized as shojo, a
girls' anime. I simply should have known there was trouble brewing
the day after class where I learned she knew less about the anime
aspect of Japanese culture than I did. An anime fan, I found she knew
next to nil when she disbelieved after I told her that Sailor Moon was
geared primarily to gals, not guys, written primarily by women for
women.
Why, though, would my message be so surprising-or upsetting?
Britney Spears danced like a schoolgirl whore, yet her most devoted
fans were taken-in girls. In part, my presentation was purposed to
demonstrate, not state, that females could actually be more sexist on
themselves than guys. All I wanted to do was to expose some irony, yet
what I found was a teacher who could not grasp the concept.
Judging from the applause my audience apparently got it, but if my
instructor did, she hated it. Considering all the strikes she had
against me, I can see where such a message from such a messenger would
be poorly received. Even so, you would expect more from a
professional. The half-dozen or so classmates I talked to all liked my
showing, and a couple expressly agreed that the instructor was unfair.
Even so, I liked her, in part because she came across in general more
conservative than the class, which she liked little more than me. I
truly wish I were a better student for her, but what's done is done.
For crying out loud, I should be sorry for her. Why, you ask?
Clearly, she has more problems than I do.
Back in the present, I confess to my instructor and student advisor my
missteps and regrets. I also tell her that while she no doubt thinks I
am one giant sexist pig, I was reared by some pretty diminutive sows,
from whom I inherited the faith to hold my least popular beliefs.
(Hey, if he lives in a matriarchy, he can't be all bad, can he?)
Also, I have the good pleasure to announce I won't be returning to
her quarter in the spring. At last she cracks a smile.
Leaving at last, I confer with my student advisor. After reading
everything in the evaluation, she's still in my corner...as far can
tell. At any rate, she should, because that's in her job
description, and that's supposed to be what the state pays her for.
She tells me that in nearly a decade working here, this is only the
third time she's seen a student shafted by his faculty, but that's
cold comfort. This Trial by Suspense is over, and all that's left is
my evaluation of the class and instructor.
I slave for the next few hours over my evals. I take care not to fall
into the trap of bad mouthing, like my instructor, but even so, her
class ought to have been better managed. On the whole the
class-teacher dynamic was adversarial, and that was largely her fault.
Still, the class itself was fascinating. I try my best to balance this
all out in my analysis, and then go back to turn it in. I should have
turned it in during the conference, but I fouled that up like most
everything this quarter, giving my instructor one last reason to hate
me.
It's decision time: I could turn in my evals to my instructor
directly, or else I could put it in her mail box, but my courage fails
me. Vince Lombardi said fatigue makes cowards of us all, and so it is
with me. I mercifully deposit my assessments one floor below her
office without meeting her again.
And there you have my predicament with me in one lousy day with me
spent at one very lousy college. I have Aspergers Syndrome, a subset
of Autism, affecting all my social interactions which has only
compounded the difficulty..
I am many things, but mostly many extremes and contradictions. The
contradictions, most of all, are what I am proud of. They prove to me
that I unlike other autistics, unlike other ideologues and Christians,
I can handle ambiguity, that I can handle the clutter of real
living-or so I tell myself.
My presentation was just the latest manifestation of my effort to prove
it. Here was sexism unnoticed, overlooked because it came in the form
of cartoon humor. I had the grand opportunity to catch it in the act,
show it for what it was, and I did.
I am in no way, shape or form a feminist, but the sexism was so
outrageously blatant. In my mind's eye, this was proof of my
fair-minded nature. I had finally come up with something that I and
these crazy, whacked-out liberals could reach common ground.
You would have thought that this den of extreme feminists would have
applauded my concise, counter-intuitive analysis, maybe even give me a
medal, but instead I find mistrust and misunderstanding again.
I guess that I should not be surprised, really. My brash, arrogant,
and liberal-minded history mentor saw proof of her fair-mindedness in
her hatred of Oliver Stone, for instance. Truly thoughtful people oft
seek points of commonality with the opposition, but the reaction shows
there is little to be found. In the end, such convergences are
generally only a proof of fairness to the self alone, and not the
group.
I never told my instructor at the start of the quarter about my
"disability" because I thought I needed from no extra time, or
anything like that. Just what could she give me that I would
especially need? My thinking was wrong. What I actually needed was
her understanding.
With business for the late quarter finished, I traipse across Red
Square for the umpteenth time today, to buy the books I need next
quarter. I ask the girl at the counter what the music playing in the
background is from. It is from the musical Rent, she replies. I ask
if she is from New York, and she gives me a look that asks me if it's
a come-on. (It's not.)
It is still raining as I trudge over the Square called Red for the
final time today to make my 5:15 bus. The war I have awaited for so
long for is about to commence, and I feel too emotionally dreary to
care, really. I feel tempted to cry, but resist.
Oh, well, I have writers group tonight, never miss that. Besides, I
have another respite from the Madhouse College Evergray for about a
week, and had best enjoy it while it endures. As always, I must count
my blessings.
Well, like it? hate it? Tell me what you think. It is not quite what
I understand this place to be about, but I do have Ideas for
illustrated projects I never knew how exactly to get off the ground.
For one, I thought about the the possibility of a mange- type take on
the book Witness by Whittaker Chambers. It may be melancholy, but
there's a lot of humor there waiting to be mined.
Sincerely, Noitartst
ra...@zanografix.com
keep it short. I do this to stay on track. One blog is a story blog
involving e-mails between a couple separated by 300 miles. A large
portion of bloggers are college students and this blog is aimed at
their interests. http://zanografix2.blogspot.com.
When Apollo 13 first ran into trouble all of its engines werefiring
randomly. The ship came perilously close to gimbal lock, a condition
that would have sent it spinning inevery direction out of control. At
timesyourwritingcome perilusly close to gimbal lock. In the beginning
there is so much paranthetical material thatone loses track of what
you're writing about. Stay away from paranthetical material it only
adds two things to a piece of writing: words to the word count and
confusion.
Details should be left out. Use closure to fill in some of those gaps
rather than spelling out every single little detail.
If you must write long pieces rather than posting to a users group post
to a blog and use a link. That way editing becomes a possibility, one
that doesn't exist here.
ra...@zanografix.com
randomly. The ship came periolusly close to gimbal lock, a condition
that would have sent it spinning in every direction out of control.
Just checking to see how badly the formatting screws up what I wrote.