BEEN A WHILE

Lots going on in life right now, or, actually, maybe not much. Some who observe me believe that I'm slowly becoming certifiable. I continue to pack my worldly belongings and make arrangements for the move to Iowa with gusto! There would be no questions about my behavior if I had a job and a place to live. My practical partner and friends have given up on "bringing me to my senses." I've come down with a huge case of the power of positive thinking and the simple-minded belief that I'll get a job. Any evidence of that? Not at the moment, but I believe it will come. What, I ask, is my alternative? Do I give in and give up? "Accept reality"? Or do I just remain me--ever hopeful on some days; sobbing on others because I'm afraid I'm stuck. I prefer the hopeful idiot, and so I pack, rent trucks, buy airline tickets, look for huge storage places in Iowa. Mary's looking for a small house to rent in Canton for one semester. Maybe I'll be here as well, but I hope not. Oh, by the way, looking for a job is b-r-u-t-a-l. Wow! This is a painful but great experience for me. My professional life, in this sense, has been, as Grandma would say: "a flowery bed of ease." Time for me to know intimately what others go through, and hey, not a word about a PhD please. Worthless outside of the academy--just worthless (in the humanities at least). The best it gets you is a lot of quizzical looks and crazy questions about why you want a job. I shoulda been a nurse or something in medicine or perhaps even an IT person. Not an English teacher with a PhD. Nope. Nada.

I've had my first dreams about my mother since she died two years ago. I remember them vividly. I think it's her way of weighing in on this moving business. In the middle of the last dream, I went back to that brief time when she was here. July 16-September 16, 2008. I saw the face of every, single person who stood by me during that time. That core group that kept the vigil toward the end--read scripture, sang her favorite hymns, did whatever they could to comfort me. And then there were those who dropped by. Some cried; one person lotioned her dry, dying skin and spoke softly to her. There was a steady stream of people during those last days and final hours. I see some of them from time to time, but not often anymore. I don't spend much time on campus. But I hold all of them in my heart--every, single one. Funny, there are a couple with whom I had quite a professional disagreement last year. I suspect they would say that I didn't love them or that we are no longer friends. So not true. Well, maybe half not true. We may not be friends, but I'll love you always for what you did for me during that time. My vision of my friend sitting alone in Gunnison in his suit observing my hand in Mary's replays over and over. I carry mental snapshots of special people at an extraordinary moment in my lifetime--the most extraordinary moment in my lifetime. Sometimes I hear the words they spoke to me; other times I feel the touch. So I got mad love, big love, deep love and forever love for them all, and that love has nothing to do with anything in our professional lives. It's personal--as personal and intimate as any experience can be. Nothing trumps that. Just sayin'.

Okay, so now I'm going back to my mad woman self--packing my stuff to move to my no home in Iowa that I'll pay for with my no job. And guess what? It's all gonna be just fine.

"DON'T HATE."

I love the ways that our students have begun to use this phrase and other related ones: "Hateration," "Don't be hating on me." "You a hater." The concision of "don't hate" appeals to me. It's also very funny when used in most contexts. The phrase came to mind as an interpreter of some of my blog posts decided that I would either be perceived as "crazy" or a "hater" Both designations make me smile because I know and they know that nothing could be further from the truth. Though I understand why some "haters" would want to put me in those categories, nothing that I write is fueled by either mental illness (crazy) or hate. While much of it seems personal, particularly to those who see themselves in the blog, my observations are over a period of twenty years. I've seen what I see for twenty years; watched the same scenes unfold in the same ways at three different institutions and then some.

Rather than suggest some imbalance, why not engage me? Those "concerned" and "conscious" ones just need to "reach out." I'm more than happy to explain and engage. I hear comments via the grapevines, but no one ever wants to speak to me about my blogs. Well, at least not those who feel implicated. Just so you know: this blog ain't fueled by no hate. This blog is inspired by years of observation, exceptionality, tokenism, racism--personal and institutional, and great personal cost.

As a matter of fact, I owe you out there a debt of gratitude. You have precipitated my move toward freedom; you have encouraged me, in your own "innocent" ways to do what I should have done a long time ago. My heart is light; my burden is eased. I feel great joy and excitement about all the possibilities that are before me. And yes, I'm anxious and terrified. I've sold my home. We have no jobs. The economy is... well, you know. But this great mix of emotions is one huge promise of HOPE for a new life, a new beginning, a new job, new experiences. In other words, I am free. Who would "hate on" that? And this is my gift to myself as I look toward 61 next week. I give myself the right to take these risks in the quest for liberation. It's exhilarating.

Peace out, y'all. I'm going to Iowa City today to get me a JOB! "Don't hate."

LIBERALS AND CONSERVATIVES

I've many progressive, white, liberal friends, but they usually don't identify themselves as such. They just go about their business, living their lives, doing the things they do. And then there are the self-identified liberals--those who waste no opportunity to acquaint us with their latest and most pressing cause or issue and their jargon. These folks are always looking out for the underdog or less fortunate. They use terms like "disenfranchised," "essentialized," "underclass." I can always count on these liberals to have my best interest at heart, and I can also count on them to know, even more than I, what my best interest is. Either life experience or erudition gives them an incredible understanding, empathy, if you will, of all things pertaining to race and social justice. I owe these liberals so much. They helped me get to where I am today. They make promises they can't possibly keep. The "problem" of "diversity" is never solved because what, then, would they have to do? Whom, then, would they protect? Who would be their cause?

I've been criticized by the liberals for the relationships I have with conservatives: Republicans, members of the NRA, flagwavers, staunch and firm believers in a "conservative" interpretation of the Constitution and Christians, devout and otherwise. It should be no surprise that some "conservatives" are very dear to me. There is a deep and abiding bond between us that goes beyond political positions and persuasions. These are people who have loved and supported me. I can count on them, and they can count on me. We do not have to agree. To them, I am simply a person--not a representative, not diversity or even a minority. I'm me.

Self-proclaimed liberals often judge people by their politics rather than, as Shelby Steele would say, "the content of their character." This version of liberal can only hang out with like-minded folks who speak their language and support their causes. In my institution, one of the most effective "recruiters" of faculty of color is a "patriarchal, conservative, far-right, gun toting, hunting, Republican." In addition to effective recruiting, this "right wing nut" was the most effective "retainer" of faculty of color as well. Every, single person of color in the department is happy and content. There was no well-meaning, patronizing, rhetoric. No "lowering of standards" as a nod to "diversity." Just a good person whose genuine commitment is immediately transparent to a prospective colleague.

Liberals suffocate, patronize, affirmative actionize, determine, run, rule with the smug self-assurance that they are always absolutely right. They pity those of us who get in the way; they attempt to crush and denigrate those who get in their way. There is nothing worse to a self-proclaimed liberal than a "minority" who doesn't get with the program--a minority who opposes and exposes them--a minority who refuses to capitulate to their rigid requirements for membership in the club. They will find one who will. These liberals have no credibility if they have no "minority" among them.

I seen you before, Ms. Liberal, and like the emperor, you ain't got no clothes. Peace out.

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.

DEMOTED: THE NEGRO SWAP

So, I have finally been demoted. I've lost the title of HNIC. Lest you think I'm lamenting that fact, let me assure you that the demotion is welcome and entirely predictable. So why do I write? It's to further point out the ways in which racism works--the "innocent" and "unconscious" ways for which all involved would likely posit "good and noble" reasons. So here we are: a star emerges from the bowels of academe--one previously anxious, overburdened and mostly unto itself has taken center stage. The HNIC is everywhere--places its never been before--front and center, vocal, smiling and happy, loving life and living large. Not one bit of shame or self-consciousness. Previous enemies are now dearest friends. Oh joy! The social life of the HNIC soars. There are dinners and dates and gatherings of every sort. Ain't life grand? How do we explain the emergence of this up and coming figure? Where has it been? So here's the thing: The new HNIC is good. The new HNIC became an HNIC through the good graces of white folks--by popular demand. They helped, wrote, cajoled, guided, advised, and now, finally, they love, enjoy, fete and honor. They pat themselves on the back for a job well done. This HNIC, the chosen one, has all of the appropriate qualities: relatively quiet, makes no waves, no strong challenges to the system (except in its own particular interest), and more than anything else, it is grateful. The best possible Negro is a grateful Negro. The best possible HNIC is one that doesn't remind the good folks that racism is alive and well and working in its not so mysterious ways. In addition to gratitude, the new HNIC is "highly intelligent." It reads books. It is, or so I hear, very much like the learned white folks in both intellect and demeanor. Now I know some of y'all are gonna criticize me for being bitter and resentful; others are going to suggest that I read too much into "innocent" coincidences. Believe me when I tell you that I could have written the complete story before it began to unfold. Why? Cause while other folks were being learned, I was a Negro who studied white folks in the academy--white institutions, and the strange workings of "diversity." I've studied race in this country in theory and practice, and I been a keen observer for all these 20 years. I know there can only be one. The others will never matter in the way the HNIC matters. We just need one--just one. It gives me great joy and great pleasure to see the first act of this performance before I leave, and if you'd like to know how this show will end, I can tell you that too. For me, the title, HNIC, has offered years of pain and heartache and tokenism at its worst. You see, I was never chosen. My title was inevitable given my solitary position and tenure. It was a job I never wanted. Perhaps the reign of the next will be a more positive one. I hope so. I hope so.

THOUGHT I WAS GONE, DIDN'T YA?

Funny thing about leaving. You're gone before you're actually gone. People start thinking about you as yesterday, in the past, not current. There's something comforting in that--of being spoken of in the past tense, even when you're still alive. I'm noting, with interest, the responses to my impending departure: one is a deep sigh of relief, a gratitude for my silence. "She's finally shut up." Another response, the most puzzling of the bunch, is the anger: "How dare she?" There are those who think I've flipped. "Who, tell me, WHO gives up tenure and a great job in this economy?" I do. And despite my anxiety over the unknownness of it all, I feel better than I've felt in a long, long time--maybe for as long as I've been in the academy. I have no more obligations "to the race." I have no more obligations to "diversify the institution." I do not have to be spokesperson for faculty, staff and students of color. I get to be nobody, in the way, a has been. A teacher on the decline, nearing retirement, nuts. I find it incredibly satisfying to have forfeited my title as HNIC. Nobody cares what I say or if I say or.... A ton of burdens have fallen from my weary shoulders, and for once, I'm thinking about me, my life and the life of my partner. I've not had one moment of regret about this decision. I'm committed to giving my best to the students in my courses this semester, but I wonder if I have any best left in me. I apply for positions others can't imagine that I really want, but I want them. Executive assistant to a college president, entering the corporate world, working in a bookstore. All are possibilities that excite me. All represent a certain freedom from an all-consuming profession. I imagine the joy of reading bad novels. Having a day where I don't have to figure out what to do. What I want to do now is just have fun, enjoy my family and friends, enjoy my life to the fullest. I just want a job--just a job, even if it's one I don't like so well. Perhaps everything really does go full circle. Maybe I long for the childhood I never had--the time for play and frolic; the time for ME. I think, for the very first time in my life EVER, I'm making a choice for me, my life rather than for someone or something external to me. I'm going to continue chronicle this journey. Lots left for me to learn. At the moment, I'm flying high.

YOU GOT TO KNOW WHEN IT'S TIME TO GO

Toni Morrison is one of my favorite writers. I taught a course on Morrison years and years ago. A colleague audited the course, and as an extravagant end of semester gift, she gave me a complete set of all of the novels Morrison had written. The last Morrison novel that I read was JAZZ. Though I purchased the subsequent novels, I've not read one. There's a reason for that, and the reason is JAZZ. The literary crescendo from THE BLUEST EYE to BELOVED is stunning, and although BELOVED is not my favorite Morrison novel, it certainly deserves its place among American literary masterpieces. After I read BELOVED, I wondered what Morrison could possibly have left to say to her readers. How could she possibly write anything comparable to BELOVED and the splendid novels that she'd written prior to it? I read JAZZ, and I got a response to my question. Morrison couldn't outdo what she had already done. None of her subsequent novels have received the acclaim of the first four. Morrison likely needs to write; believes she has something more to say, and that's okay. However, I wish she had recognized the greatness that she'd achieved and simply understood that she had reached the top of the mountain, and her current work slowly creeps back down again. I've read enough chapters and passages to know that about the more recent novels.

And now to me. I've been a teacher for the past thirty years. I've spent all of my professional life in or near the classroom. I've been a terrible teacher, and I've been a superb teacher. Many of my best teaching years have been in college classrooms. I've remained an excited and enthusiastic teacher despite my battles and woundings in the academy. I've have always known that the academy and I were not, as we say, a "good fit," but my passion for teaching; my love for my students, my excitement about classroom interactions; the sheer joy that teaching gave me made the suffering (and I mean suffering) bearable. That is no more. For the first time in my life, I dread the beginning of a new school year. Though I have emotional tugs toward the classroom, and I can't imagine life without students in it, I know that it is time to go. I have started to creep back down the mountain, and that it not the place where I want to end my life as teacher. The passion is gone; the enthusiasm is gone. I love teaching, and I love it enough to leave it before I don't love it anymore. Although I'd like to merge my attitude toward teaching with my feelings about my workplace, I think that's not quite the case. As far as the workplace is concerned, I've weathered too many storms. Many would argue that the storms are of my own making, but they were storms nonetheless. I'm weary of institutional politics, institutional racism, and while I know I'll most certainly find them in any organization with which I'm affiliated, I need a new and different variety. The academic versions have burned me up, exhausted me to the point of no return. It's time to leave SLU. It's time to leave while I'm still able to conjure up a fond memory or two. It's time to leave the profession. It's time to leave teaching while I still believe in its power and importance. It's time to leave the profession while I still love it; while thinking about leaving it makes me cry and feel sad and lost. Why not stay? I've read the declining evaluations. I feel my waning desire to read the books, grade the papers, stand before them and teach what I teach. I'm impatient with them. I'm weary. I hope this will be my final semester. It's definitely my final year at SLU.

You got to know when it's time to go. We all know people, celebrities, athletes, colleagues and friends, who have held on too long--those who reached their peak and refused to recognize or acknowledge their decline. You got to know when it's time to go despite the assurances that you're okay or you've got a lot to give. YOU got to know when it's time to go.

And so, I venture out on faith. I've interviewed for a job. Waiting to hear. Terrified. Afraid of failing, but also excited and thrilled about the possibility of learning new things and exploring new worlds. There's comfort in the familiar. The future is uncertain, but it looks bright and positive. And when I imagine what I'm leaving with great sorrow, I imagine what lies ahead and I smile. Hail and farewell to my students past. Hail and farewell to my colleagues and friends. Hail and farewell to "Writin' Black from the Academy." You got to know when it's time to go.

Thank you, kind readers, for your time and attention. Thanks for your comments and criticisms. Thanks for making my words matter. May peace be with you. Margaret