THE SURPRISE

Last night, a colleague and sometime friend looked directly into my eyes and said: "Yeah, I heard it. I don't believe it. Nobody does." The topic was the likelihood of my departure from SLU and the north country. It was an incredibly revealing moment. Although I've wanted to leave for at least 5 years, I don't think I've ever threatened to do so (or "cried wolf" as some would say). I read job ads and imagined myself doing all kinds of things, but I've never said: "This will be my last year at SLU." Now, I don't write because I expect anything from anyone, but the assumption that I couldn't possibly be telling the truth is a curious one. Why couldn't I be? Is it because the job and tenure are simply too good to "give up"? Is it because some overestimate the my feelings about the place? What would I possibly have to gain by fueling such a rumor? Negotiations? More money? Some attractive deal?

I'm amazed by my own conviction and commitment in this matter. I've had no misgivings or second thoughts. Nothing has given me pause--not the almost certain and significant decrease in salary or the probability of beginning a position about which I know nothing; not even leaving friends and "family" here whom I dearly love. Not one, single thing has caused a flicker of reconsideration.

The decision, or more likely the responses to it (even no response is a response) has taught me so much about my relationships here. My best friends aren't; one casual friend has emerged as a longstanding best friend whom I've unconsciously overlooked. The silences from friends are varied and various. There are pained silences (but not many), angry silences, "how could you" silences, "how dare you" silences, and "I don't give a damn" silences. I learn something from them all.

A student asked me last night if I would miss academe. He's a kid who thinks he wants to be an academic. I uttered an emphatic "no." He looked sad, and said "what about us?" Rather than feel the tremendous sense of obligation that I've felt for all these years, I simply and gently told him that no one is indispensable. There will be another; there are others who will do what I've done and more. Then, I reminded him that students, in my opinion, are not academe. I love all of my life as teacher, even to this very day. I love the ways students have touched my life--have given me life and such delight and joy. I love my students enough to leave them when I know that my passion and enthusiasm wane. Would I feel this way if my life in the profession had been less tumultuous? Perhaps not. But it has, and I do.

My computer documents are gone--the syllabi and course descriptions, the tenure file. I've given away 500 books, and the book shelves in my office are clear. I'm tossing mementos of years past that I've hauled from place to place. My file cabinet is clear save my teaching evaluations. They're the one "safety" feature that I hold onto "just in case." When I sign a contract, the evals, too, will go. I will leave the profession with my memories alone. They will sustain me.

The time has come, believe it or not, the time has come.