labor and love
In the last couple of weeks, I wrote up a proposal for a class on the Gothic novel as part of an application for a topics-in-the-eighteenth-century lectureship. It was the most fun I've had in a while. It had me out of bed hours before my usual time several days running because I woke up thinking about it and wanted to work on it more than I wanted to sleep. I re-read prelims notes, checked eight books out of the library to consult and then didn't need them because I know this shit, made notes for the first three and last two lectures, came up with a dozen discussion questions about various texts.
In the last few years, I've had students in various capacities, but I haven't had a classroom of my own. I'd known I missed it, I'd have told you so if you'd asked, but I find that I didn't know just how much I've missed it. I didn't want this course application to be so important to me; it's a long-standing habit, not wanting things to matter because I'm so afraid something will go wrong. Then I remembered that if there's one thing I've learned in the last ten years - and I have learned it, even if it hasn't become automatic yet - it's that refusing to want things has seldom if ever gotten me anything but pain or regret or a pile of what-ifs. Wanting things has gotten me hurt and embarrassed, but it has also gotten me the things I most love. It's not just that I can live with the risk, it's that my life is better for the risk. This class, this possibility, is worth being hurt over. I get shaky just thinking about it. But I would be so good at that course. And I want to meet those students. I want to hear what they think about these books. I want to have those conversations.
On the picket lines this week, I saw a lot of former students. Some of them came and joined the line with me. Two of them made up a call-and-response chant on the spot: "How do you know a girl is fine? She won't cross that picket line! How do you know a boy is cool? He's no picket-crossing fool!" Another two brought me a giant thermos of tea, because they remembered that I don't drink coffee, and a giant box of doughnuts (ensuring that they are loved not only by me but by my fellow picketers). Others showed up as part of the teams taking apples and sandwiches and bottled water to picket lines all over campus.
And two others e-mailed me to say that their group of friends was talking mid-week about how their lives would be different without the TAs they'd had, and my name came up, and afterwards they wanted to tell me about it. One had a long story that I won't reproduce here. The other just said: "You are the first person on this campus who really cared about me. Thank you."
That e-mail made me weep. Because she was one of the ones who seemed fine, who seemed like she had her shit together and everything going for her. And I just wonder: what more could I have done, if I'd known? And at the same time, I am so glad that, even not knowing, I was able to give her some part of what she needed.
When I was a kid, my mom and dad would fight about the fact that he wasn't home much. I never really got why she was so mad, since things were more pleasant without him, but whatever. I would hear her yelling, and then I would hear his voice without being able to make out words.
Now that I am older and have a lot in common with my dad, I can guess what he was saying. He was explaining that his work was important to him, that he had to be there because nobody else could do the things he did. And I understand, now, in a way I'm not sure my mom ever did, that that was actually true. But what she said was also true: "That job is never going to love you back." Every fight they ever had, that was what it came down to for her.
It is my blessing, every day of my life, to have a job that loves me back.
In the last few years, I've had students in various capacities, but I haven't had a classroom of my own. I'd known I missed it, I'd have told you so if you'd asked, but I find that I didn't know just how much I've missed it. I didn't want this course application to be so important to me; it's a long-standing habit, not wanting things to matter because I'm so afraid something will go wrong. Then I remembered that if there's one thing I've learned in the last ten years - and I have learned it, even if it hasn't become automatic yet - it's that refusing to want things has seldom if ever gotten me anything but pain or regret or a pile of what-ifs. Wanting things has gotten me hurt and embarrassed, but it has also gotten me the things I most love. It's not just that I can live with the risk, it's that my life is better for the risk. This class, this possibility, is worth being hurt over. I get shaky just thinking about it. But I would be so good at that course. And I want to meet those students. I want to hear what they think about these books. I want to have those conversations.
On the picket lines this week, I saw a lot of former students. Some of them came and joined the line with me. Two of them made up a call-and-response chant on the spot: "How do you know a girl is fine? She won't cross that picket line! How do you know a boy is cool? He's no picket-crossing fool!" Another two brought me a giant thermos of tea, because they remembered that I don't drink coffee, and a giant box of doughnuts (ensuring that they are loved not only by me but by my fellow picketers). Others showed up as part of the teams taking apples and sandwiches and bottled water to picket lines all over campus.
And two others e-mailed me to say that their group of friends was talking mid-week about how their lives would be different without the TAs they'd had, and my name came up, and afterwards they wanted to tell me about it. One had a long story that I won't reproduce here. The other just said: "You are the first person on this campus who really cared about me. Thank you."
That e-mail made me weep. Because she was one of the ones who seemed fine, who seemed like she had her shit together and everything going for her. And I just wonder: what more could I have done, if I'd known? And at the same time, I am so glad that, even not knowing, I was able to give her some part of what she needed.
When I was a kid, my mom and dad would fight about the fact that he wasn't home much. I never really got why she was so mad, since things were more pleasant without him, but whatever. I would hear her yelling, and then I would hear his voice without being able to make out words.
Now that I am older and have a lot in common with my dad, I can guess what he was saying. He was explaining that his work was important to him, that he had to be there because nobody else could do the things he did. And I understand, now, in a way I'm not sure my mom ever did, that that was actually true. But what she said was also true: "That job is never going to love you back." Every fight they ever had, that was what it came down to for her.
It is my blessing, every day of my life, to have a job that loves me back.