therealljidol Reprobate
Two weeks after my mother died, I found myself sitting in opera class, still feeling shell-shocked. It was a Friday, which meant that Buckman was teaching acting rather than our usual technique focused singing class. Buchmman had always treated me badly. He made it very clear that he didn't like me as an artist. He ripped me a new asshole every time I sang in his class, and it was usually unjustified. I made it a habit to make my encounters with him as few and far between as possible. In light of recent events, there was no way I was going to subject myself to him.
It was obvious from the way he spoke and the way he treated people that Buckman considered himself a god among men, an operatic superstar who could be anywhere, but chose to spend his time in our little conservatory, gracing students one at a time with his artistic genius. I saw right through this act. Just below the gleaming surface was a man who was unsure of himself. His career had never really gone anywhere, and he pretended to know more than he actually did. He had charisma, but not a lot of substance. Although I knew this, his dismissal bothered me. I saw him for what he was, but for some reason, it still got to me a little.
My game plan was to avoid direct contact. I was emotionally fragile and mentally drained, and I knew I couldn't handle his bullshit. I shifted in my seat in the back, trying to lose myself in the reading for another class that I had parked in my lap.
A friend of mine stepped up to sing. Wanting to support her, I pulled myself away from the essay. She presented Morgen, a Strauss song about an encounter with an elusive lover. She sang it well, but without a ton of presentation. This was what Buckman was there to help with.
"You need to feel this song," Buckman said, and then I swore he shot me a searing glance. I shook it off. What could this possibly have to do with me?
"Let's do some visualization. I want you to sing the song again, as though you were singing to your mother. She has just died, and you are singing it to her." This time, his eyes locked on mine. He positioned himself behind her. She began to sing, and he fed dialogue into her ear, his eyes burning into mine the entire time.
"Your mother is dead. You'll never see her again. She suffered for a long time, and now she's finally gone, but there's no relief for you. You remember the softness of her skin, her eyes as she took her last breath..."
I tried to play visualization games of my own, putting myself anywhere but there, but Buckman's stare was penetrating. Two of my friends shot me concerned glances. Buckman continued, and I bit the inside of my cheek, trying desperately to put myself anywhere but there. I couldn't, though. He was getting to me. His words, his charisma, and the story he was telling that was so obviously meant for me were slicing through my every effort. I felt tears welling. It was all too fresh, and I couldn't hold back, but I wouldn't give him what he wanted. I decided that I would stay until his little show was over, and that I wouldn't be dramatic about it and I wouldn't walk out. I knew exactly what he was doing. He was using my weakness to make himself look powerful. If I were to walk out, he would use the opportunity to tell the class how powerful art could be, when really, he was just exploiting my tragedy to make himself look good. I refused to give him that satisfaction. I would fight the tears, and I would fight the urge to remove myself.
Still, his eyes were locked on mine. It was making others in the class uncomfortable. My friend Lily passed me a note. I glanced at it. "He's so mean, ignore him!" That's exactly what it was. It was mean. Mean, and also idiotic. The song was written to emulate the build to an orgasm. How could this man possibly justify making it into a tragic story of mother loss? I bit my cheek harder and refused to look at him. Others in the class openly cried. I suppose they were thinking about the possibility of losing their own mothers. A few even later told me that they cried because they knew he was doing it for my benefit. Buckman's chest puffed with pride as he saw people react. He gave me a smirk as the welled tears finally fell down my cheek.
When class was finally over, I went to the bathroom and cried. I couldn't believe the heartlessness of this man, who took advantage of my grief to make himself feel big. Part of me hoped that my classmates understood what had just happened, but another part of me hoped that they had not noticed how easily I could be exploited. More than anything, I knew that I could never again feel safe in that school, around those people.
I took a few days to collect myself before I confronted Buckman about the incident. I asked to speak with him. In the teacher's lounge, alone, I refused to allow myself to be intimidated. He tried. Before I had a chance to speak, he expressed condolences on the loss of my mother.
"Bullshit," I said. "What you did in class the other day was inexcusable. Don't think for one minute that I don't know EXACTLY what that was about. It is a pathetic thing when you have to exploit my grief to make yourself look powerful."
"It wasn't what you think," he whined, his charisma nowhere to be found. "I can't hold back in class for any one student's benefit. If you can't handle my class, maybe you shouldn't be in it."
"Don't you dare pretend that I'm reading more into this than what is there. That song had nothing to do with the story you told. I will stay in your class, but I will never participate again. You are never to speak to me again. If you even so much as look at me funny, I'm going to take this to every level of administration that I can, and I will make sure that you no longer have a job."
Although he complied with my demands, I did make sure that the dean got wind of what happened. Nothing ever came of it, really, but Buckman never spoke another word to me. I still recognized little digs at me in class, but his vibrant personality never intimidated me again. I doubt he ever saw what he did as wrong, but at least, for once, he didn't get away with it. He moved on to other targets, but I think the fact that he got caught in the act unnerved him enough to censor his later efforts. He lost some confidence in our confrontation, and he lost his power over me. Some people are just not worth the tears we shed over them.
(Names have been changed. I don't want to flatter anyone by having them discover that they've been the subject of my writing.)
It was obvious from the way he spoke and the way he treated people that Buckman considered himself a god among men, an operatic superstar who could be anywhere, but chose to spend his time in our little conservatory, gracing students one at a time with his artistic genius. I saw right through this act. Just below the gleaming surface was a man who was unsure of himself. His career had never really gone anywhere, and he pretended to know more than he actually did. He had charisma, but not a lot of substance. Although I knew this, his dismissal bothered me. I saw him for what he was, but for some reason, it still got to me a little.
My game plan was to avoid direct contact. I was emotionally fragile and mentally drained, and I knew I couldn't handle his bullshit. I shifted in my seat in the back, trying to lose myself in the reading for another class that I had parked in my lap.
A friend of mine stepped up to sing. Wanting to support her, I pulled myself away from the essay. She presented Morgen, a Strauss song about an encounter with an elusive lover. She sang it well, but without a ton of presentation. This was what Buckman was there to help with.
"You need to feel this song," Buckman said, and then I swore he shot me a searing glance. I shook it off. What could this possibly have to do with me?
"Let's do some visualization. I want you to sing the song again, as though you were singing to your mother. She has just died, and you are singing it to her." This time, his eyes locked on mine. He positioned himself behind her. She began to sing, and he fed dialogue into her ear, his eyes burning into mine the entire time.
"Your mother is dead. You'll never see her again. She suffered for a long time, and now she's finally gone, but there's no relief for you. You remember the softness of her skin, her eyes as she took her last breath..."
I tried to play visualization games of my own, putting myself anywhere but there, but Buckman's stare was penetrating. Two of my friends shot me concerned glances. Buckman continued, and I bit the inside of my cheek, trying desperately to put myself anywhere but there. I couldn't, though. He was getting to me. His words, his charisma, and the story he was telling that was so obviously meant for me were slicing through my every effort. I felt tears welling. It was all too fresh, and I couldn't hold back, but I wouldn't give him what he wanted. I decided that I would stay until his little show was over, and that I wouldn't be dramatic about it and I wouldn't walk out. I knew exactly what he was doing. He was using my weakness to make himself look powerful. If I were to walk out, he would use the opportunity to tell the class how powerful art could be, when really, he was just exploiting my tragedy to make himself look good. I refused to give him that satisfaction. I would fight the tears, and I would fight the urge to remove myself.
Still, his eyes were locked on mine. It was making others in the class uncomfortable. My friend Lily passed me a note. I glanced at it. "He's so mean, ignore him!" That's exactly what it was. It was mean. Mean, and also idiotic. The song was written to emulate the build to an orgasm. How could this man possibly justify making it into a tragic story of mother loss? I bit my cheek harder and refused to look at him. Others in the class openly cried. I suppose they were thinking about the possibility of losing their own mothers. A few even later told me that they cried because they knew he was doing it for my benefit. Buckman's chest puffed with pride as he saw people react. He gave me a smirk as the welled tears finally fell down my cheek.
When class was finally over, I went to the bathroom and cried. I couldn't believe the heartlessness of this man, who took advantage of my grief to make himself feel big. Part of me hoped that my classmates understood what had just happened, but another part of me hoped that they had not noticed how easily I could be exploited. More than anything, I knew that I could never again feel safe in that school, around those people.
I took a few days to collect myself before I confronted Buckman about the incident. I asked to speak with him. In the teacher's lounge, alone, I refused to allow myself to be intimidated. He tried. Before I had a chance to speak, he expressed condolences on the loss of my mother.
"Bullshit," I said. "What you did in class the other day was inexcusable. Don't think for one minute that I don't know EXACTLY what that was about. It is a pathetic thing when you have to exploit my grief to make yourself look powerful."
"It wasn't what you think," he whined, his charisma nowhere to be found. "I can't hold back in class for any one student's benefit. If you can't handle my class, maybe you shouldn't be in it."
"Don't you dare pretend that I'm reading more into this than what is there. That song had nothing to do with the story you told. I will stay in your class, but I will never participate again. You are never to speak to me again. If you even so much as look at me funny, I'm going to take this to every level of administration that I can, and I will make sure that you no longer have a job."
Although he complied with my demands, I did make sure that the dean got wind of what happened. Nothing ever came of it, really, but Buckman never spoke another word to me. I still recognized little digs at me in class, but his vibrant personality never intimidated me again. I doubt he ever saw what he did as wrong, but at least, for once, he didn't get away with it. He moved on to other targets, but I think the fact that he got caught in the act unnerved him enough to censor his later efforts. He lost some confidence in our confrontation, and he lost his power over me. Some people are just not worth the tears we shed over them.
(Names have been changed. I don't want to flatter anyone by having them discover that they've been the subject of my writing.)