Lies And Joseph

I'm going to a clean and sober party with Joseph, and I will be buzzed.

Shh! Don't tell anyone.

The Tinder Experience, Part V

One of the men sent me a message through Tinder, saying, "So u don't need prep time u are ready to fuck now?"

Little Do They Know

One despaired at my comments and edits, writing to me that “this must be my last draft because clearly I’m incapable of doing it correctly.” But with encouragement and gentle nudging they kept going.  [emphasis is the author's]

-- by James Trent, "My Prison Cell: A Visit From an Outsider," The New Yorker

The English instructor is critiquing one of my drafts for my research paper on the opioid addiction. He smiles briefly, " 'Happiness is...' That's a great sentence." He is referring to a part of the autobiographical portion of the essay.

Weight No One Cares About

"Like I told your Dad," my mother says. "I don't care if you are heavier than you were, as long as you stay out of the hospital! Who cares?" She points decidedly that it's the medications making me gain weight.

"Yes, and because of the medication and because of the added weight, I have an increased risk for diabetes," I respond.

Your Rights to Speak Have Been Revoked

It's finals' night for Engl 201A, and I've mentally prepared myself to give a short oral presentation on my research essay, as requested by the English instructor. I assumed we would have to get front of the class, and discuss it--but he decided that everyone should just form a circle.

"And what was the most interesting thing you learned?" The English instructor asks me, the next desk over to my left, as he had for all the students.

I told him and the class, not using names, that I decided to write about someone close to me, and how upset she was over the fact that I was disclosing her opiate use in a college paper, "And I had this hyper-emotional conversation, in which she said, 'Don't you need my permission to write about me?' "

"Was she being neurotic or paranoid?" The English instructor asked.

I'm sure my mother would appreciate that, I thought humorously, but I only responded that the individual was just afraid of the stigma around opioid use, even for people with chronic pain.

One of the students, the one I had problems listening to all semester, spoke up, "It reminds me of Dr. House, when she said, 'she has a pain problem, not a pill problem.' "

I'm waiting for him to say something really stupid, so I can put him in his place. After all, it is the last class.

He doesn't comment further. 

The Real "What if's"

On the Saturday of finals' week, I sent the English instructor my final draft for my essay on the opioid epidemic, in which I was allowed to write about my own personal experience with an opioid overdose. I never heard back that he had received the paper, which I thought was odd.

And then, days passed, and I still didn't hear from him. On Christmas, I sent him a "Merry Christmas" greeting, with the added note that maybe he didn't celebrate Christmas (not all of us do). Nothing back.

A week goes by, and I assume at this point that I will never hear from him again. Maybe I wasn't the only one who felt that our last exchange was uncomfortable (although he gave no indication of this).

Yesterday, I was getting ready to write a critical entry on how the English instructor won't be my friend because I'm a woman, close to his age (which, I believe, makes total sense as to why he handles me icily--while he is very attuned to a woman's trials in this world, I would dare call him a "feminist," he still treats me like I am a woman). Alas, he sent me an email that very morning.

With my married, male friends, I defy the stereotype that friends of opposite gender can't be authentic to each other--that there can't be real exchanges and true closeness. The topic of sex may come up, but usually everyone agrees that it's better to be platonic friends (for reasons that are obvious).

It would be "backward" (as I see it) to believe that men and women can't be companions to each other without the complications of sex. 

Unfortunately, weeks ago, the LSU Professor and I got into a major argument over the "what if's" when it came to the English instructor that lasted for at least fourteen or more days. The LSU Professor was ardently against me sleeping with the English instructor because he is my professor, and my physical involvement with him could jeopardize my grade. If the English instructor was single and had no children, to be honest, my grade would be the least of my concerns. The LSU Professor thought this was foolish on my apart.

I argued that the fact that he's married with not two or three or four, but five kids should stop any woman from sleeping with him (besides his wife, of course), and never has the English instructor brought up the idea that his marriage is open.

We fought more over a situation which would never arise. The LSU Professor, however, remained concerned that I would risk my academic future for a quick roll in the hay. I finally agreed that I would not have sex with any of my professors, and the LSU Professor seemed satisfied with this answer, and the subject got dropped.

So, yes, my motivations for being "friends" with the English instructor are not entirely innocent, but I tell myself that I'm mature enough to not hit on him in hopes for sex. I've only been attracted to two men since Morpheus and I broke up a few years ago, and the English instructor happens to be one of them (the other is a prominent doctor at Stanford who is not only charming and good looking, but also very caring about my case). I really don't see myself fucking either one.

Can you be friends with someone who you're attracted to? I guess that depends on whether or not you fall in love with him/her. If you can realistically separate out your feelings, and deal with them by yourself.

It's easier to write it out than to follow your own rules. After finals' night for Engl 201A, I got drunk, the first time in months (even though I had another final the very next morning). I was upset, some of which was about the English instructor, and some of which was about Morpheus. It's hard to tell people that you are hysterical because you won't be in class anymore with--at least one--of your favorite professors. He won't be there, and you'll be forced to face an uncertain future by yourself. That you, perhaps, could be forgotten as many faceless, nameless students pass through Engl 156 and Engl 201A. And that Morpheus, who is technically separated, is just as unattainable.

But That Never Came, Part II

"Thank you for your words," the English instructor tells me on finals' night. He said this out of kindness, not because it was true.

But That Never Came: Discussion on The English Instructor

I read an article, of which I can't remember where it came from or I would quote it, that said that men sometimes don't hold eye contact out of either embarrassment or guilt--and that women were better at reading social cues (there is an exception for people who are inflicted with depression who interpret facial expressions more negatively than most people--an obvious point).

The English instructor doesn't suffer from embarrassment nor guilt. I've tried this out in the classroom, by bringing up the "pull out method" when interpreting "The Flea." He didn't seem particularly affected by this, and just said, "I don't know." (Why in a pop culture class are we not talking about sex?)

Toward the end of class, the final weeks, I noticed a very small, but potentially powerful change. He started defending my ideas to the rest of the group--very subtle, probably most people wouldn't noticed anything, but he came to my rescue a few times, in the very same way that FB would do in high school. Of course, realizing this while sitting in lecture, I thought I might start to cry (I loved FB dearly even though we never dated because he was my best friend in school--and I regret to this day that I never shared my feelings with him).

Of course, I considered that I might cry during finals night in Engl 201A (this potentially could be the last time I see the English instructor), but I managed to only embarrass myself, and then I left.

"Have you thought about applying at [the University]?" I ask the English instructor on finals night since he has expressed to me multiple times that he doesn't want to teach high school (which is where he's headed, as I'm assuming he can't afford to live on a community college's salary with five kids).

He's putting on his dress jacket, and staring at the table. "No, I haven't."

I found that to be unfortunate, so I continue, "I know [The English Professor] at [the University] English Department only has a Master's, granted he's not tenure, but he's a full time lecturer--and you're a better teacher than he is." Which is true, although I have to admit--after seeing many photos of the English Professor on his Facebook page--he is still oddly beautiful even at fifty (we should all age so gracefully).

The English instructor is busy shuffling around his belongings, and he seems unmoved by my argument.

"Maybe getting published would booster your resume," I say.

"I feel like this is the right thing for me to do at this time in my life," he tells me later, although this is in direct contradiction to his earlier statements. I asked him plainly after class one night while we were standing outside if he wanted to teach high school. He responded, "I think you know the answer to that question." It was too dark to read his face.

My mother, who is deeply unsatisfied with her career choice, told me yesterday to do what I loved, as long as it made me enough money to pay the bills. Money, after a certain point, doesn't make up for hating your life and what you do.

I left class, and then as I was walking in the night to my SUV, I remember that I brought the English instructor a book that I had been saving for him, one of Harry's. I grab the book, and head back to class.

The English instructor is sitting at the table, reading, all alone.

I'm obviously nervous, so I quickly explain that this is Harry's book, and that he would appreciate any feedback he could receive on it. I hand it over.

The English instructor doesn't say anything, and immediately opens it up, and begins to read.

I stand there, mute, and feeling out of place. Should I just leave, and let him read? Or should I stay, if he wants to say anything to me?

I stay, putting my hand over my lips in self-defense.

The English instructor makes a face, the face he makes when he's thinking hard. He comments on the diction, and then puts the book in a box, saying he will read it over break.

I feel like something should be said, but I'm not sure what that is. I was only looking for some evidence of a genuine connection, that superseded the professor-vs-student dynamic.

But that never came. 

Hot Bed of Female Emotion

According to the sociologist who works for Tinder, my photos on my profile are not going to attract much attention--I'm not wearing make up and I'm not wearing something tight and red.

She also mentioned in the same article that Tinder is not a hook up app (she explains that most people meet after about a week, not the same night).

I've learned over years of experience, both as a professional and as a layman, that most men, when you say you just want something casual, they say they want that too--even if it isn't what they are after--because men have a reputation to uphold. Who's going to turn down free, no-strings-attached sex (apparently, only Morpheus)?

It's the women's duty to guard her chastity.

A man could even be punished if he looks at you, and says he's trying to find his soulmate (women too might come across as intimidating if they do the same).

Needless to say, to quote an old movie, Tinder is "a hot bed of female emotion," or male emotion, if you will.

I set up two different get togethers with two different men, and they, more or less, cancelled at the last minute. One TXT-messaged me a few hours before we were supposed to meet, and said that his parents came into town early, and if we could re-schedule. If he was a close friend, of course, I would make other plans, but this is a stranger, and he's unable to keep his word. I told him how I felt, that I didn't want to see him anymore, and he hasn't bothered me.

The other man, who I picked out of the crowd because he was pictured with his Doberman on his profile, told me that we could meet up at five on Friday, and then I didn't hear from him for a few days, even after I asked him where he wanted to get together. Finally, he responds on Friday that he can't see me because he has his daughter with him, and if seeing me after nine was okay. Again, I understand family responsibilities and how that is important, but this is a stranger who couldn't manage to schedule ahead of time--like many others on Tinder.

After Christmas, Tinder has been unusually quiet. I'm only in contact with one man now, who happens to be the most strikingly handsome of them all. In contrast to almost the whole group of the other men, I messaged him first. He doesn't talk much, but he did ask if he could meet my parents (which I thought was odd, but I'm willing to forgive him. I answered that yes, he could, but first we need to meet for a drink).

I have no further interest in surveying Tinder anymore. I told the last man standing that I was closing my profile, and then I gave him my cellphone number.

Private and Public Language

" 'To kill time,' an English phrase that still chills me: time can be killed but only by frivolous matters and purposeless activities. No one thinks of suicide as a courageous endeavor to kill time."

"English is my private language. Every word has to be pondered before it becomes a word. I have no doubt—can this be an illusion?—that the conversation I have with myself, however linguistically flawed, is the conversation that I have always wanted, in the exact way I want it to be."

"There’s so much to give up: hope, freedom, dignity. A private language, however, defies any confinement. Death alone can take it away."

"Often I think that writing is a futile effort; so is reading; so is living. Loneliness is the inability to speak with another in one’s private language. That emptiness is filled with public language or romanticized connections."

--"To Speak is to Blunder," by Li, The New Yorker

The Model American

Trump’s mother was an immigrant, too, from Scotland; his first wife was born Ivana Zelníčková, in Zlín, Czechoslovakia. If he’s as concerned as he says he is by all the "people that are from all over and they’re killers and rapists and they’re coming into this country," he might consider building a wall around his pants...

"Do you speak any Spanish?” Barbara Walters asked Trump in November. “No,” he replied. “This is an English-speaking country, remember?” 

“I mean, I won’t do anything to take care of them,” Donald told Howard Stern, speaking of children. “I’ll supply funds and she’ll take care of the kids. It’s not like I’m gonna be walking the kids down Central Park.” 

--"Who is Melania Trump?" by Lauren Collins, The New Yorker

In the Character of The Trump

"Beyond Trump’s extraordinary talent as a salesman, his singular dubious achievement has been to remain fully in character at all times. He has deliberately chosen to exist only as a persona, never as a person.

The essential Trumpian conundrum: he seems the most legible of men, yet, for all the fine work of his many biographers, none has figured out what truly goes on inside his head. When Trump tells a lie—to paraphrase William Maxwell, he tends to 'lie with every breath he draws'—it never feels premeditated. The lie is a reflex. And no persona, no matter how artfully devised, can stifle a reflex."

--by Mark Singer, "In Character," The New Yorker

Perception of White Superiority

"In order to limit the possibility of this untenable change, and restore whiteness to its former status as a marker of national identity, a number of white Americans are sacrificing themselves. They have begun to do things they clearly don’t really want to be doing, and, to do so, they are (1) abandoning their sense of human dignity and (2) risking the appearance of cowardice...To keep alive the perception of white superiority, these white Americans tuck their heads under cone-shaped hats and American flags and deny themselves the dignity of face-to-face confrontation, training their guns on the unarmed, the innocent, the scared, on subjects who are running away, exposing their unthreatening backs to bullets."

--by Toni Morrison, "Mourning for Whiteness," The New Yorker

I Began to Bleed

"But by the time I left her house the space of possibility that had opened inside me was filling with pain. Soon I was shaking. As the evening wore on, the pain expanded to fill every cavity in my body. Even my bones felt hollow, as if something were growing inside and pushing them out. In the small hours, I began to bleed. The episode was over."

--by Hilary Mantel, "Bryant Park: A Memoir," The New Yorker

The World's Indifference

"...bewildered by the world’s indifference to its imminent demise... 'Obviously that’s a little—optimistic,' Shriver told me, dryly. 'But I think there is something to be said for the fact that there’s a whole host of Western woes that you simply can’t afford in a society which is more desperate.' "

--by Alexandra Schwartz, "Lionel Shriver Imagines America's Collapse," the New Yorker

I Think Before I Speak

"It is true that I will most likely arrive at an answer slower than you will. But does that make me impaired? I don’t think so. I take longer to arrive at that answer because I spend time considering all angles and crafting my response before speaking. So when I do answer, I provide a thoughtful, logical, clear sentence. This is why, maybe surprisingly, introverts are great at debating and public speaking. When they have time to think about what they are going to say, they nail it."

--"Just Because I Need Time to Respond Doesn't Mean I'm Unintelligent," by Mueller

School Experience May Be a Casual Factor

"They reported that 27 percent of medical students had depression or depressive symptoms and that 11 percent reported suicidal ideation, both of which are higher than the general population. Because these symptoms began during medical school, the authors concluded 'it is not just that medical students are prone to depression, but that the school experience may be a causal factor.' "

--"Should We Let Doctors-inTraining Be More Sleep-Deprived?" by Daniel Barron, Scientific American

Pastor, Am I a Christian?

"For example, my faith is to some degree based on reasoning that the existence of God makes the most sense of what we see in nature, history and experience. Thomas Nagel recently wrote that the thoroughly materialistic view of nature can’t account for human consciousness, cognition and moral values. That’s part of the reasoning behind my faith. So my faith is based on logic and argument."

--"Pastor, Am I a Christian?" by Kristof, direct quote from Keller, The New York Times

NASA's Overlooked Duty

"NASA brought six flags to the moon, on poles outfitted with horizontal crossbars so that the stars and stripes would show, as though caught in a nonexistent breeze. The flags are still there, but radiation is presumed to have left them in tatters—monuments to our love of Earth, or maybe just litter."

--"NASA's Overlooked Duty to Look Inward" by Elisa Gabbert, the New Yorker

Knullar, MD is an outstanding individual, who is not only a resident of medicine but also a really good writer. Read his articles at the New York Times here.

More on Political Correctness

"Among the reasons for Mr. Trump’s win is the corrosive state of the nation’s culture, from the opioid crisis to political correctness."

--"Michelle's Trump Despair" by Daniel Henninger, The Wall Street Journal 

Pope Critiques Mr. Trump

"Pope Francis warned against the 'spread of xenophobia' and the 'false security of physical and social walls'—remarks widely seen as a critique of Mr.Trump."

--"How Pope Francis Became the Leader of the Global Left" by Francis X. Rocca, The Wall Street Journal

Problem of Whiteness, I'd Take It

“I am extremely concerned that UW-Madison finds it appropriate to teach a course called, ‘The Problem of Whiteness,’ with the premise that white people are racist,” he said in a statement. “Even more troubling, the course is taught by a self-described 'international radical' professor whose views are a slap in the face to the taxpayers who are expected to pay for this garbage.”

'President Cross needs to stop wasting time appeasing the political correctness crowd demanding safe-spaces, safe-words, universal apologies for hurt feelings, and speech/thought police,” Nass said.

--"Wisconsin Republicans Want 'Problem of Whiteness' Class Cancelled, Professor Fired," by Osita Nwanevu, Slate

How is canceling a controversial class about race issues not a form of thought or speech censorship?

Only Thing Worse Than Suffering

"For me, the sadness of his death was surpassed only by the sadness of his solitude. I wondered whether his isolation was a driving force of his premature death, not just an unhappy circumstance.

Every day I see variations at both the beginning and end of life: a young man abandoned by friends as he struggles with opioid addiction; an older woman getting by on tea and toast, living in filth, no longer able to clean her cluttered apartment. In these moments, it seems the only thing worse than suffering a serious illness is suffering it alone."

--"How Social Isolation is Killing Us," by Dhruv Khullar, the New York Times 

(http://www.nytimes.com/2016/12/22/upshot/how-social-isolation-is-killing-us.html?_r=0)

The Tinder Experience, Part IV

Ramsey, who has a picture of himself next to a man who's holding a sign that says in big, block letters:

"PORN IS HATE"

The Tinder Experience, Part III

Ted writes on his profile:

"You:
Must be fit (even though I'm not)..."

That is worse than another man who wrote (twice) that he refuses to date strippers or ex-strippers. I almost messaged him to ask why, surely, there must be a juicy story about how some clever woman dragged him along for a ride to empty his pockets, and therefore, he couldn't handle the idea that someone didn't want him, just for him. 

 

The Tinder Experience, Part II

What kind of romantic world are we building when the sole quality that determines whether we "like" or swipe left on someone is a small picture and his/her age? Doesn't that say something about the millennial hook up culture?

One of the "men" in Tinder happened to be a very beautiful woman, who still claimed a masculine name, and identified himself as a man--but was dressed up and wore make up like a woman (and I hate to say it, the prettiest woman I've come across in the whole app).

The Tinder Experience

The response from Tinder has been overwhelming. I had to make some quick culls, "dematching" two men already (just a note: I'm also searching for other bisexual or gay women, but haven't found anyone--as expected that there are more straight men than bi-women or lesbians).

None of them are stand out's except for the two gentlemen that I essentially blocked. One said I looked like the "Unabomber" because of a picture of myself in a hood and wearing sunglasses. I replied that I didn't think that was funny. He then told me to wear something else next time I take my picture (dually noted).

The other man proved to have "separation anxiety." He asked if he could have my last name so he could friend me on Facebook (I said no to that). I did offer him, instead, my email address, and told him to write me sometime. Minutes later, he sends a message explaining how he just wants to get to know me (which is why he also asked if we could hang out that night, like a five minute conversation via the world wide web counts as "getting to know someone"). The next morning, he sends a message via Tinder, "Did you get my email?" Wow, people expect a fast response. Delete. Delete.

Nevertheless, since I re-activated my profile, I have received near non-stop messages from men via Tinder. One man said that he had a foot fetish, and a quick "sorry."

I tell him, "A foot fetish is pretty mild on the scale of kinks."

"Sucking toes is extreme!" He assures me.

Hmmm--not really. "Do you want to piss on me?" I ask (not that I'm into that sort of thing!).

I've been trying to figure out a way to make money off of Tinder without being turned in or arrested. Like asking for a "donation" for my time, maybe the standard $200 an hour that a private dance agency would charge. I'm sure that would thin the herd also.

I told myself yesterday that I really needed to get back into the habit of taking my clothes off (no matter what my weight because, of course, these recent strangers have no idea I used to be actually skinny and wear a size four) and sucking dick--after all, besides a quickie with Morpheus in the beginning of September this year, I've probably been celibate for around three years.

I don't necessarily miss sex, which is why I put off one of my "dates" with a nice, thirty-seven-year-old, who is an alcohol distributor, until Saturday. I loathe the idea of having to dress up (which, unfortunately, I don't have much for options because of the weight gain).

All of this is an attempt to move on (and keep myself occupied until spring semester starts).

The Complex Assortment of Skills We Call "Consciousness"

"They just believe instead that the complex assortment of skills we call 'consciousness' has randomly emerged from the coordinated activity of many different simple mechanisms. The implication is that our facility with what we consider the higher registers of thought are no different in kind from what we’re tempted to perceive as the lower registers. Logical reasoning, on this account, is seen as a lucky adaptation; so is the ability to throw and catch a ball."

--"The Great A.I. Awakening," by Gideon Lewis-Kraus, The New York Times

The Great A.I. Awakening

"If an intelligent machine were able to discern some intricate if murky regularity in data about what we have done in the past, it might be able to extrapolate about our subsequent desires, even if we don’t entirely know them ourselves."

--"The Great A.I. Awakening" by Gideon Lewis-Kraus, the New York Times

(http://www.nytimes.com/2016/12/14/magazine/the-great-ai-awakening.html)

Incredible Insight From A Sixth Grader

"Men and women are same humans who only has [sic] different gender."

--by Jinwon Choi from India

"I believe that almost everyone deserves forgiveness, including people who are sexist or racist or homophobic."

--by Anna Roth, from California

All part of the article "If I Were President...of My Club, My Class, My College, My Country" by The New York Times

(http://www.nytimes.com/2016/11/06/education/edlife/if-i-were-president-of-my-club-my-class-my-college-my-country.html)

Assaults on Freedom

"The site is also keenly aware of its dependence on social media, so attempts made by these platforms to regulate participants or to ban or discourage hateful behavior are covered by Breitbart as conspiracies or assaults on freedom. The site wrote aggressively about frail allegations that Facebook had censored conservative content in its trending-topic module. (Facebook subsequently fired the team responsible for moderating it.) It describes attempts at Twitter moderation as censorship and has characterized the company’s recent account bans as a 'purge.' "

--by John Herrman, "Who's Responsible When Extremists Get a Platform?", The New York Times

(http://www.nytimes.com/2016/12/13/magazine/whos-responsible-when-extremists-get-a-platform.html?_r=0)

I'm attempting to incorporate different viewpoints into my blog, which is why I include Dave, who also suffers from a mental illness, but is a Christian; and the Combat Medic, who has obviously military experience (to say the least) on my blog roll.

If you are wondering and wanting to read about the alt-right or white nationalism, Damigo is becoming an influential figure, who is right here in California and also a student.

Likewise, if you want to be comforted by another friendly liberal, check out Dr. Yancy's website. I've been in contact with him (very little so far, but I hope for further exploration of his values, beliefs and philosophies).

Can You Say 'Nasty'?

One of my friends on Facebook (who I'm not really friends with) posted this, "Why would anyone want to watch Oprah & Michelle?"

One of her commenters replied, "Maybe they will ride away on matching brooms!!!!"

To which I responded, "Whoa! That is incredibly misogynistic!"

And while we're on the topic--tis so pressing--I would like to see more men put a broom in their hand, you know, for--like--sweeping and shit. 

 

The Real Unifying Force in American Politics is Whiteness

"Now we hear again the cry that the neglected white working class is the future of American progressive politics. The tragedy is that much of the professed concern about the white working class is a cover for the interests of white elites who evoke working-class solidarity to combat racial, sexual and gender progress.

Identity has always been at the heart of American culture. We must confront a truth that we have assiduously avoided: The most protected, cherished and nurtured identity of all has been white identity. After all, the needs of the black and brown working classes, which are not exclusively urban, are, again, even in progressive quarters, all but forgotten.

Mr. Trump, and to a degree, the liberals and progressives who advocate a vision of America that spurns identity politics, make one thing clear: The real unifying force in American political life is whiteness, no matter its party, gender, region or, at times, even its class."

--"What Donald Trump Doesn't Know About Black People," by Michael Eric Dyson, The New York Times 

(http://www.nytimes.com/2016/12/17/opinion/sunday/what-donald-trump-doesnt-know-about-black-people.html)

Yes, He Said to the Shooting Range

"[My son] comes here for three or four days, and he just sits on his ass. He doesn't help me," my grandmother complains. She looks at me, irritated, "He's lazy."

"If you need help, you need to call someone," I say, bringing my hand to the side of my face in a gesture like holding a phone to my cheek. "No one is a mind reader. Plus, [my uncle] said he is coming on Sunday to take the garbage to the dump."

"You wanna bet me?" She says, sourly. "Bet me $10."

"I asked him if I could come with him, so I will be here on Sunday."

"Okay, you can sit and watch him."

If I would have taken that bet, I would have lost. My uncle sent my mother a TXT-message that he wasn't going to Ridgecrest to haul off that hazard of garbage, but instead was going to the shooting range.

I made plans to go to Ridgecrest again on Sunday by myself, using my uncle's truck, to fix up the place a little. To that, Dad said, "You don't have to go." Mom finally talked me into driving to Ridgecrest when she would be available. She responded, "You have no idea how many of those bags are going to fall apart as soon as you move them. It's going to be a dirty job."

Resistance, Part II

In other words, calling out someone on his/her biases is not the same as being subjected to those very same biases.

Resistance is Portrayed As Abuse

"But by characterizing both sides as biased, this article equates the real threat of racialized violence with the discomfort of being called a racist and asked to stop...The New York Times must take care to avoid false equivalencies in which, in the spirit of fairness, resistance is portrayed as abuse."

--"Donald Trump on Campus," letter to the editor by Allison Jamieson-Lucy, The New York Times

(http://www.nytimes.com/2016/12/17/opinion/sunday/donald-trump-on-campus.html)

More Lies From Grandma

"Grandma," I ask her. "How have you been getting groceries?" The local Albertson's is just a block over and across the street--a short distance to walk. My grandmother, however, has chronic knee pain, and even such a brief exertion would be difficult.

"I call up, and say, 'hey come pick me up,' and they do. When I'm done, I say, 'hey, drop me off,' and they come," she says.

"But you haven't had a phone," I mention.

Her face shows anger at the fact that I would dare contradict her. 

Beauty is a Space

"What I refer to as beauty, the source of which is the experience of trauma and pain as well as, without contradiction, of joy, signals an encounter with the horrible that we are trying to avoid...There is no real beauty without compassion; art humanizes the shock and transforms trauma as you realize the impossibility to not-share your psychic, mental and physical space."

--"Art in a Time of Atrocity" by Brad Evens, the New York Times

(http://www.nytimes.com/2016/12/16/opinion/art-in-a-time-of-atrocity.html?_r=0)

The Taken Truck

When we lose touch with reality, what becomes of our nightmares? Do we know when we are awake and when we are asleep?

I'm sitting on the couch in my grandmother's front room, the exact same spot that I've been returning to in my trips to Ridgecrest. The corner of the couch looks relatively clean.

Grandma says, "It broke my heart when I lost my truck."

"Why?" I ask, interested in how she deals with emotional setbacks. Is she even aware of her own feelings? Can she process them when she hardly remembers five minutes at a time?

"Because I couldn't afford it." She then begins a story about how much the maintenance costs added up because of the wind and dust out in the desert fouling up the engine and filters.

There isn't much truth to her talking. My mother recently balanced her checkbook, and she had close to $9,000 untouched in her accounts, more than enough to pay off the truck completely. But I don't argue with her. She's lost in the hazy, blue fog of her worst nightmares.

The Issue of Immigration in the State of California

" 'I'm here to represent my culture. We can and do contribute to society.' "

--"For Asians in the U.S. Illegally, 'There's More Shame and More Quiet,' " by Anh Do, Los Angeles Times

(http://www.latimes.com/local/lanow/la-me-ln-undocumented-asians-adv-20161206-story.html)

Broken Promises

I read outloud to the LSU Professor my last TXT-message to Morpheus (previously quoted in an earlier entry). "Now, you can chastise me."

"Never make a promise you can't keep," he responds.

"What part? The part where I said I wouldn't write him again or the part where I said I would have casual sex with him?"

"Both."

"That Our Time Matters Precisely Because it Ends"

"Yet we share a rough idea of what’s meant: a lasting awareness of one’s self moving in a sea of selves, dependent yet alone, or a deep and common wish that 'I' somehow belong to 'we,' and that 'we' belong to something even larger and less comprehensible; and the recurring thought, so easy to brush aside in the daily effort to get through our to-do lists, that our time matters precisely because it ends."

--"The Secret Life of Time" by Alan Burdick, The New Yorker

(http://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2016/12/19/the-secret-life-of-time)

Don't Believe in Facts

"But let’s make it our job as a society to encourage each other to find replicable and falsifiable evidence to support our views, and to logically argue our positions. In the process, please stop saying 'because, science' to justify your argument, and using 'FACT' as a preface to your statements. These are just the grown-up versions of 'because I said so.' We need to remind each other to stay on our toes and to actually backup our claims."

--"I'm a Scientist and I Don't Believe in Facts" by Julia Shaw in Scientific American

(https://blogs.scientificamerican.com/mind-guest-blog/im-a-scientist-and-i-dont-believe-in-facts/)

Nothing Makes Sense

"Nothing makes sense, and you feel like a ghost. Once you’ve been there, you never really leave Aleppo...You feel powerless. You can’t stop it. There aren’t enough hands to help, and you can’t save everyone. Should we give all of our blood supplies to save one life? Or ration them to save five who all need some? The choices are impossible, yet we make them."

--powerful essay by Attar called "Why I Go to Aleppo," The New York Times

(http://www.nytimes.com/2016/08/28/opinion/sunday/why-i-go-to-aleppo.html?_r=0)

Time to Talk--What About? Identity Politics

"Now is the time to recalibrate the default assumptions of American political discourse. Identity politics is not the sole preserve of minority voters. This election is a reminder that identity politics in America is a white invention: it was the basis of segregation. The denial of civil rights to black Americans had at its core the idea that a black American should not be allowed to vote because that black American was not white. The endless questioning, before the election of Obama, about America’s 'readiness' for a black President was a reaction to white identity politics. Yet 'identity politics' has come to be associated with minorities, and often with a patronizing undercurrent, as though to refer to nonwhite people motivated by an irrational herd instinct. White Americans have practiced identity politics since the inception of America, but it is now laid bare, impossible to evade."

--"Now is The Time to Talk About What We Are Actually Talking About" by Adichie, The New Yorker

Can I climb up?

The bar for people with severe mental illness is set pretty low.

I'm currently at a Christmas party for a company that is contracted by county mental health to rehabilitate people with psychiatric disorders.

One such client walked up to the microphone and exclaimed about how much this organization had helped him. He also added that he has been working for Walmart for a year and three months.

Everyone cheered and clapped.

I Am a Professor and I Have Depression

"A few students exchanged glances. Then one, a young man, said, a bit eagerly, a bit nervously: 'It was hard to know what to write about! We had to decide how vulnerable to make ourselves to a roomful of people we don't even know.' "

--"Should I Tell My Students I Have Depression?" by Abby L. Wilkerson, the New York Times

(http://www.nytimes.com/2016/12/14/opinion/should-i-tell-my-students-i-have-depression.html?_r=0)

The Simple Truth About Gun Control

"A few Tartuffes would see the children writhe and heave in pain and then wring their hands in self-congratulatory piety and wonder why a good God would send such a terrible affliction on the innocent--surely he must have a plan!"

--"The Simple Truth About Gun Control" by Adam Gopnik, the New Yorker

(http://www.newyorker.com/news/daily-comment/the-simple-truth-about-gun-control)

I Damned Well Earned It

"I served in the Army. I worked blue-collar jobs. I washed dishes and bused tables. I went to college at night and worked during the day for an insurance company...My father was raised in an orphanage, and my mother was an immigrant from Poland who first childhood memory was of hunger. Somehow, despite all of that, I am called a member of the 'elite.' If so, I damned well earned it."

--" 'Real America' is its Own Bubble" by Richard Cohen, the Washington Post

(https://www.washingtonpost.com/opinions/real-america-is-its-own-bubble/2016/12/12/e8ba60c2-c09f-11e6-b527-949c5893595e_story.html?utm_term=.04e13287bb03)

The Weight of the Finals

I'm almost at the door. "This isn't how I thought this conversation would go."

The English instructor is sitting at a table with his stack of notebooks that he needs to finish reading before his next class at seven pm. He isn't looking at me. "How did you expect this conversation to go?"

Be the Change--Fucking What?

I fucking miss getting drunk. Alcohol rocks.

The English instructor asks me, almost casually, "Did you email [English Division chair]?"

"Yes," I say before thinking. Shit, I was supposed to deny this. The email I sent was meant to be anonymous.

"He said something about 'praise,' I haven't read it yet," the English instructor adds. "Thank you." He smiles briefly.

This wasn't exactly the response I was expecting. First, I wrote a two paragraph "praise" of the English instructor to what is essentially the head of the English department, saying that he was very dedicated to his job, and did it excellently. I thought he deserved it, not because I was expecting anything in return. In fact, I asked in the email that my name not be used.

The English instructor seems to not let praise affect him, which is unfortunate.

Either as if he couldn't expect or except praise or that it happened so often, he was immune to it. Like the charming guy at the party who circles around the room, shaking hands all night long, smiling and being pleasant.

Someday, The New York Times

"I have a proposition for you," I say to the English instructor after all the other students have left.

"Okay," he responds.

I was going to make a prostitution joke, but felt it wasn't appropriate for the setting. I give him my big idea, writing an article for the New York Times, which I admire greatly. If that California asshole Damigo can get published several times in mainstream media, why can't we? Me and an educator should have valuable input on the subject of racial relations and the idea of a "liberal echo chamber" on campus. Surely, we have something to add.

He seems to hesitate.

I say, "I thought this would be a big ego-booster for you."

He laughs at this. "Thank you." He does admit that writing for the New York Times seems to be ambitious.

I explain that they publish essays from students of Columbia, Yale or Harvard--none from [community college]. I add that I thought my chances for being published increased with his input.

The Influence of Fancy

Perhaps my "praise" of his writing abilities is under the influence of fancy, particularly of the sexual nature. While fucking men for money, I wasn't shy, but today, after the class had filed away, I found myself embarrassed, making excuses for my words, "I think I overstepped my bounds," I respond.

"You sound like my parents," he tells me.

I'm instantly ashamed. Parents? Surely, I don't come across as patronizing.

(The wine helps lubricate the joints of creativity.)

"I meant that as a compliment," the English instructor assures me. "I love my parents."

Done the Opioid Overdose

"You know what you're talking about, you know the subject better than your readers," the English instructor tells me about my essay on the opioid epidemic. He suggests, in various ways, that he doesn't have the same confidence about political issues.

Political Climate on Campus

"But how has the political climate affected the classroom?" I ask of him. I'm investigating possible interests the English instructor might have that we can write about together for The New York Times. I explain that I went to the open forum, talked even to the group, and it was all about how Trump could change the situations for immigrants, particularly Latinos.

"I think you were here when we talked about the election," the English instructor continues. "You know how many people commented at [another community college that he teaches at which is about thirty minutes away from Yuppieville]?" He pauses for affect. He continues that the vast majority of his students are Hispanics in that class, and he has several African Americans as well. He shows surprise for me while he says, "None." Trump effectively cut off ties with the minorities. Everyone knows this.

So, yes, class and ethinicity makes a difference in one's political views.

We can't hide from our racial issues, and we can't discard our white, privileged skin. We were born with it, and we can do much to better others around us, regardless of color, by leading by example.

No, That's Not What "Schizophrenia" Means

My anxiety kept creeping up while I was listening to the other students give a short oral presentation on their research paper's topic in the final class of Engl 201A. I was waiting for someone to say something insensitive.

One girl incorrectly use the word "schizophrenia," which is honestly a common mistake. Many don't understand how it is a thought disorder, or even what that means.

Regardless, I wanted to speak up and correct her misconception--because no one else was going to. But I quickly realized that it would make me look like an asshole, and it would embarrass her.

Then We Kept Talking

"I was able to answer him because he had first acknowledged what so many people deny: the persistence of prejudice. That's the first step for all of us to become better Americans."

--by Heather C. McGhee, the New York Times, " 'I'm Prejudiced,' He Said. Then We Kept Talking."

(http://www.nytimes.com/2016/12/10/opinion/sunday/im-prejudiced-he-said-then-we-kept-talking.html?_r=0)

Final in Engl 201B

Other students are still trying to finish up the final, so I speak softly. "I would like to keep in touch," I say to the Engl 201B professor. "But I know you don't do email."

He's smiling at me. "I do emails sometimes!"

"Okay, I'll email you then." I need all the help I can get. 

As Usual, the Drain on Society

"It is also a largely preventable drain on our economy...America can't be great if millions of our citizens with medical and psychiatric illnesses lose their insurance coverage. An anxious nation is rooting for Mr. Trump not to let that happen."

--"The Mental Health Crisis in Trump's America" by Richard A. Friedman, The New York Times

Shut Up, Liberal [Revised]

One of the students in class was talking about his paper (it was our final grade--a short oral presentation on our final research essay), saying that he was against "safe spaces," Affirmative Action, and some other leftist policy.

"Can I comment?" I ask the English instructor.

He tells me to go ahead.

"I've been reading over and over again about the Democrat party--"

The English instructor interrupts me sharply. "Okay, let's not make this political." He's smiling. He tells me to go ahead.

"I think you told me to 'shut up.' " I was going to comment on the Democrat Party's overwhelming focus on identity politics.

The other student insists that these liberal ideas are "good ideas," but he insists that they don't work in actuality.

Interesting, anyone read The Black Man in the White Coat? The author claims his success as a Duke medical school graduate is due to Affirmative Action. So, I say, "yay."

Further Discussion with the English instructor [Revised]

I walk to the back of the classroom to dump my coffee cup in the garbage. I start walking back to the front of the room, "So, can I come visit you during next semester?"

The English instructor doesn't respond.

I start to laugh. "Okay...no then!"

"No, that's not what I meant. I'm thinking about my office hours next semester, when I'm going to have them. Just email me." He walking across the front of the room without looking at me.

Truth

I drank most of the bottle of wine because I cannot deal with the possibility that Morpheus and I are not meant to be together.

After nine years, I'm still waiting for him.

I Like Women Eating, Too

"For Labor Secretary, Trump has in mind Andrew Puzder, the C.E.O. of the company that runs Carl’s Jr. and Hardee’s. An opponent of raising the minimum wage and of expanding overtime pay, Puzder, referring to the company’s ads, told the magazine Entrepreneur, 'I like beautiful women eating burgers in bikinis. I think it’s very American.' "

--"The Future of Women Under President Trump," by Margaret Talbot, The New Yorker

(http://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2016/12/19/the-future-of-women-under-president-trump)

More About the [Liberal] Echo Chamber

"When universities are echo chambers, they become conservative punch lines, and liberal hand-wringing may be one reason Trump's popularity has jumped since his election."

--"The Dangers of Echo Chambers on Campus" by Nicholas Kristof, The New York Times

(http://www.nytimes.com/2016/12/10/opinion/sunday/the-dangers-of-echo-chambers-on-campus.html?_r=0)

Not True, I Argue

"Your body will never be as good of shape as it is now," The LSU Professor tells me.

I immediately disagree (I plan to have lost all the weight I gained on Seroquel within nine to twelve months). I reference Jamie Lee Curtis as an example. Remember the striptease she did in True Lies? I have no idea how old she was at the time, but she was definitely older than me. You can dance professionally as long as you want--if you keep up your fitness.

Trading Up

The LSU Professor and I are at my favorite restaurant in downtown Yuppieville, partially because the food is relatively cheap and excellent tasting with varieties of salads and sandwiches.

"I feel stifled at [community college]," I say to the LSU Professor. I pause, "Maybe 'stifled' isn't the word."

"You need to listen to that feeling."

We both agree that I would be happier on a more liberal campus.

He suggests CSU-Humboldt, assuming, of course, that I don't get into UC-Berkeley or Stanford or UC-Santa Cruz.

"I see you as an English professor," The LSU Professor declares.

I smile at this.

Friends on Campus

After we get done discussing the similarities between Antigone and Hamlet, the Engl 201B professor adds while looking away, "So, how is everything else going?"

He actually cares about how I'm doing, I think. I respond with a story about my grandmother, and that I'm worried about her.

He adds a small story himself about how his father's health is declining. 

It's Four-O-Three, and I Can't Sleep Without You Next To Me, I Toss and Turn Like the Sea

--Shinedown, which always makes me miss Morpheus

I've been sending Morpheus (another married man, who is tall, handsome, smart with an athletic build--of course, he played football at the college level) a TXT-message once a week for the past month. I have never received a reply. Yesterday, out of a mixed mood of feeling sentimental and blue, I sent him a couple of messages.

How about we get together? I'll bring wine and we see where it goes. I won't hold you to anything...If not, I will stop contacting you...If you want to see me casually I will try to work with that...I think I'd rather have you in my life in some capacity than to not have you at all, even if it isn't exactly what I want.

Did I just sink to a new low?

Popularity in High School, and The LSU Professor Says I Can't Sleep With My Professors Until After Grades Are Finalized--Not That I Would Ever Do Such A Thing

A few classes ago in Engl 201A, the students performing an oral presentation brought up the subject of being popular in high school (which I was for the first two years, including the title of "sophomore class president," not only did I win--yay for me--but won by a landslide).

I had been saving my question (I spend too much brain energy coming up with items to say beforehand, in verbal conversation and in email exchanges--I dedicatedly plan out what I'm going to mutter). So, I ask the English instructor after class, "Were you popular in high school?"

"No," he says decisively.

"Really? But you were in athletics!" I respond, shocked.

"I was on the mens volleyball team," he replies, making fun of himself.

I almost added that a nice, tall, handsome man like him, surely, he would be popular in high school. Girls at sixteen can't resist a towering man with an athletic build. But, I don't want to make him uncomfortable by, more or less, hitting on him. Is that flirting? I really can't tell. So, I keep my mouth shut.

The Perils of Empathy, Part II

"A better understanding of mental illness, a more nuanced and humane view of sex work, an unmasking of white privilege -- all your causes, the things you've written about, are related: How can we learn to see through another's eyes?"

--a recent email by Harry

The Perils of Empathy (What!?!)

"I don’t deny the lure of empathy. It is often irresistible to try to feel the world as others feel it, to vicariously experience their suffering, to listen to our hearts. It really does seem like a gift, one that enhances the life of the giver. The alternative—careful reasoning mixed with a more distant compassion—seems cold and unfeeling. The main thing to be said in its favor is that it makes the world a better place."

--"The Perils of Empathy," The Wall Street Journal, by Paul Bloom

(http://www.wsj.com/articles/the-perils-of-empathy-1480689513)

Changing Things Instead of Complaining

After the open forum, I explain to Dr. SF, who is the coordinator for student life and activities, that I want to get more involved on campus by raising awareness on mental illness.

Dr. SF suggests that I re-start an Active Minds chapter here at the community college--that I could run it.

It's Four-O-Three, and I Can't Sleep...

--Shinedown

"Maybe he's deeply in love with you, but he's scared, so he pushes you away whenever you get close," The LSU Professor tells me as I'm eating my salad for lunch.

"I love that," I say, smiling. "And I love you, [the LSU Professor]."

"Well, it's as good of a theory as any of the others you've come up with," he responds, referring to my odd premise that Morpheus just isn't attracted to me anymore, which the LSU Professor thinks is ludicrous.

The Ills of Society, Part II

Despite all efforts on the part of my mom, who accused me of being a racist because while most of my classmates are white--referring to them solely through their ethnicity is, of course, racist of me--well, I just couldn't swallow and tell the English instructor that he was right. And perhaps that is the trap of identity politics--spending too much time focusing on our differences while we should be zoned in on our collective strengths.

The Ills of Society

My mom and I are driving Dad's new truck, a nice, four-door Dodge Ram EcoDiesel, and we're headed to Ridgecrest to visit my grandmother.

I had just recently noticed on my phone that the English instructor left me an email in response to my rather long message named "I'm White And Privileged, Too." I read his reply initially and felt defeated, but maybe Mom would get a different interpretation.

I asked Mom if she would listen to it (there was nothing personal in the email, as always the case with the English instructor, so I felt it was fair to share). I want her opinion on the matter.

"He likes you!" My mom exclaims happily. "He really likes you. He wants you in that class."

Somehow, that just wasn't my impression. I didn't read the essay, and think, he's proclaiming his undying love for me. I thought of it more as a thoughtful and albeit careful reprimand, i.e., Jae, this is not how you win friends and influence people. If you want to be rude, fine, but don't expect anyone to thank you. 

He reiterated his original point in his email. "I felt that it was inaccurate and unfair to attribute your peers' views strictly to their race and class..."

On the road trip, I kept thinking of ways to still maintain my A in the class, and skip the rest of the lectures. But that would just make the relationship I have with the English instructor awkward, and as I explained to him, "I don't care what they think or if they will change their minds--I only care about and value your opinion."

"Democracy is more alive than ever."

--quote from Amanda Delekta, sophomore at the University of Michigan

"The day after the election, Biddy Martin, president of Amherst College in Massachusetts, called for tolerance and acknowledged that some people might be rejoicing. But she also said in a speech on campus: 'In the mirror we see virulent forms of racism, misogyny, homophobia and other ills; and we see them celebrated by some as though the expression of our worst impulses were the definition of human freedom.' "

--"On Campus, Trump Fans Say They Need 'Safe Spaces' " by Hartocollis, The New York Times

Islamic Ideology

"To me and many of my former colleagues at the Central Intelligence Agency, such pronouncements reflect Obama’s greatest blind spot in his fight against terrorism: he has been unwilling to acknowledge that Islamic ideology plays a role in what motivates terrorists to strike."

--"I'm a former CIA officer and a Democrat. Here's what Obama still doesn't get about terrorism" by Bryan Dean Wright, Los Angeles Times

No Place for Hate

I was slightly irritated and changed my focus to my cellphone, which contained an email from the New York Times. The session wasn't on hate speech, as I predicted, but about undocumented students who fear deportation.

The faculty leader of the forum approached me, and put his hand on my shoulder. He told me that mental health issues were also important, and thanked me for my comment to the group. I stood up, and now closely faced him. I told him that I would like to get more involved on campus in spreading awareness. He suggested a couple of names of people on campus who could help, and then went into a story about a returning student's difficulty adjusting to college life. He said to me, "I know you know how that feels." He patted me.

Done As Much Harm

"Here's another thought: All the liberal professors in all the classrooms in America haven't had as much influence, or done as much harm, as Rush Limbaugh's radio show."

--an email by Harry

I Still Cannot Condone Their Words, Part III

Did she just say "colored people" in a college classroom?

I Still Cannot Condone Their Words, Part II

"While I can criticize them for their insensitive remarks toward people on the fringes of society--innocent enough comments that proved to be, nevertheless, damaging (something as innocuous as using the wrong pronoun when referring to someone who is transgender)--I also acknowledge that this lack of insight on their part will in no way hinder their progress as a writer nor as a student. In fact, in this political environment, it may propel them."

--paragraph contained in an email to the English instructor

Always Strive For

The English instructor suggested that since I was uninspired by the topic of opioid epidemic that I should perhaps change the focus of my paper (I had told him that I ran out of ideas on page two).

"What do you like to write about?" He asks.

"Mental illness," I say automatically. "That's all I write about..." I pause. "Not entirely, I'm writing about conservatism versus liberalism in the college classroom."

"Then write about that."

I look down for a few seconds. "I don't mean this as a criticism, but from my previous encounters with you, you don't seem like the issue of mental illness particularly stirs you."

He argues that his interests should have no influence on my topic. He says to make him interested.

The English instructor also tells me, "Don't write a 5,000 word paper, unless it's the best paper I've ever read."

"Well, that is the goal I always strive for."

Pain and Opiates

"Doctors don't care about pain," my mother says to me as she's walking away.

Historical Context of the Opioid Epidemic

" 'We must appreciate that severe constant pain will destroy the morale of the sturdiest individual. . . But . . . we are often loathe to give liberal amounts of narcotics because the drug addiction itself may become a hideous spectacle,' surgeon Warren Cole wrote 60 years ago in a small book on cancer pain."

-- "The Ongoing Opioid Prescription Epidemic: Historical Context" by Meldrum

What is interesting about all my research into the opioid epidemic (yet another research paper due in Engl 201A) is the fact that no one can explain how these overdose deaths are occurring. I've overdosed on opioids twice--once with hydrocodone (and a very large amount of Tylenol) and then again years later with tramadol (also taken with lithium). I didn't die (although I have to admit if you are going to kill yourself, taking a bunch of codeine or morphine is one of the better ways). What I'm curious about is how many people are accidentally overdosing and how many people are doing it with the sole purpose of dying. Those are two vastly different problems.

I Still Cannot Condone Their Words

"Sensitivity is all well and good, but it can be highly distracting and anxiety-provoking. However, despite knowing that hey, I'm not finished with my double doctorate like I had planned as an eighteen-year-old, I still cannot condone their words and attitudes, and therefore I cannot understand them nor can I appreciate them like you are asking."

--excerpt from my last email to the English instructor

I Am a Dangerous Professor, Part II

I knew if I was going to write him an email, I would have to "hit it out of the ballpark," as some would say. You never know until you try. 

I was so swayed by Dr. Yancy's essay that I did sit down and send him a message, to which he responded within a few hours. I never thought he would read it, much less hail me a reply.

In my letter, I accused my fellow students of Islamophobia, xenophobia, and just plain ol' prejudice. I professed that I cried after class. I explained to him that I didn't know how to handle hate speech in the classroom and continue my education. I asked for advice.

(I believe it's a fair assumption that the English instructor would disagree with my charges against my classmates.)

Dr. Yancy told me that my message was "very touching," and that he would love to speak to me more--that I should send another email to him in a week as he is swamped in his mail box. 

I hope dearly that someday too, I will be incriminated as a leftist, spreading my evil, liberal "bullshit" (as eloquently said by my classmate). 

The Horror Show

"My mental illness is largely (though not entirely) under control, but as my therapist pointed out recently when I was cavalier about some warning signs, 'In this room, Andrew, we never forget that you are entirely capable of taking the express elevator to the bargain basement of mental health.' "

--by Andrew Solomon, "Mental Illness is Not a Horror Show"

(http://www.nytimes.com/2016/10/26/opinion/mental-illness-is-not-a-horror-show.html)

I, Too, Am a Dangerous Professor

"Recognition of these educational politics suggests that teachers take a position and make it understandable to their students. They do not, however, have the right to impose these positions on their students [emphasis in original]…."

--by Joe Kincheloe

 (https://radicalscholarship.wordpress.com/2016/12/01/i-too-am-a-dangerous-professor-if-you-covet-ignorance-hatred/)

I Am a Dangerous Professor

"The Watchlist appears to be consistent with a nostalgic desire 'to make America great again' and to expose and oppose those voices in academia that are anti-Republican or express anti-Republican values. For many black people, making America 'great again' is especially threatening, as it signals a return to a more explicit and unapologetic racial dystopia. For us, dreaming of yesterday is not a privilege, not a desire, but a nightmare...Its devotees would rather I become numb, afraid and silent. However, it is the anger that I feel that functions as a saving grace, a place of being...If we are not careful, a watchlist like this can have the impact of the philosopher Jeremy Bentham’s Panopticon — a theoretical prison designed to create a form of self-censorship among those imprisoned. The list is not simply designed to get others to spy on us, to out us, but to install forms of psychological self-policing to eliminate thoughts, pedagogical approaches and theoretical orientations that it defines as subversive...

 But now I feel the multiple markings; I am now 'un-American' because of my ideas, my desires and passion to undo injustice where I see it, my engagement in a form of pedagogy that can cause my students to become angry or resistant in their newfound awareness of the magnitude of suffering that exists in the world. Yet I reject this marking. I refuse to be philosophically and pedagogically adjusted.

 To be 'philosophically adjusted' is to belie what I see as one major aim of philosophy — to speak to the multiple ways in which we suffer, to be a voice through which suffering might speak and be heard, and to offer a gift to my students that will leave them maladjusted and profoundly unhappy with the world as it is."

--"I Am a Dangerous Professor" The New York Times, by George Yancy

(http://www.nytimes.com/2016/11/30/opinion/i-am-a-dangerous-professor.html?_r=0)

English 201A and Friendships

It's Wednesday the 23rd, and it's the end of English 201A. No one else is in the room but him.

I can tell that the English instructor is busy, but I proceed anyway. "The reason why I'm asking you this is because I think the answer is no." I pause. "I was hoping we could be friends. I would like someone to talk about literature with."

"Yes, I will be your friend," he says finally. "But not tonight."

Somehow, that just strikes me as being funny.

English 201A and The Experience of a Child

It's Wednesday before Thanksgiving, and most of the class decided not to show up. Of those who did attend in the beginning, after we had to change classrooms because the internet was out in our usual spot, well, almost everyone left.

Maria was there, sitting in the front, with her little girl in the next desk behind her. The child has a piece of paper and a marker, and is totally concentrating on her doodling. She doesn't look up or around.

The English instructor is one desk over from the little girl. He looks at her and says, "Are you going to help me grade? That's great." He's smiling.

For just the briefest of the trickle of time, I was moved.

Tales of Delusions, Brought to You By Patients At Stanford

It's the beginning of 2016, and I spent the holidays in Stanford University Hospital's G2P. We have groups with the patients from H2, the locked ward.

From the day I arrived, back in early December, he was there, always shoeless, always referring to himself as a "gentle giant" even though he was delusional and paranoid. Often, during group therapy, he would get into the same rant about how the doctors are holding him against his will, and that they are conspiring to keep him here as long as they possibly can.

During one particular session, he says, "This is like prison...right? Because we are held against our will."

One of the other patients turns to him, and says, "I've been to prison. This ain't nothin' like prison."

He shut up.

It was a beautiful moment in an otherwise dreary day.

White and Privileged Too, Part III

"I call bullshit," says the grumpy, older student in the front. She's looking in my direction, but she isn't making eye contact. She then goes into an analogy about what if a man doesn't want to remove his ball cap or his sunglasses for his driver's license picture.

"That has nothing to do with his religion," I respond. Honestly, I don't care whether the Muslim woman removes her hijab for her DMV picture or not. What I care about is that somehow 9/11 got pulled into this discussion as rationale for discrimination against Muslims. I hear Trump in the back of my head--in the voices of my fellow classmates. "You're going to punish an entire religion for the actions of a few individuals?"

On Hamlet

It's the end of Engl 201B class, and the only people in the darken room are myself and the professor.

He says, distracted and looking down at the table, "How many students do you think understand it?" He's talking about the video we just watched based, line-for-line, on Hamlet.

I don't have a good answer to this, so I remain quiet.

He asks another question. "Are you having any trouble with it?"

"No, not really," then I admit, "I'm having to read over certain parts more than once."

"That's the way to do it," he says.

White and Privileged Too, Part II

I raise my hand, and the English instructor calls my name. "What I find to be so distressing is the other students' laissez faire attitude towards blatant discrimination against people with other religions."

I hear the whole class growl like some mystical, giant beast. I mention to them that they are "white and privileged." Several voices in the back are grumbling like heavy breathing from hiking up some intimidating hill.

"I don't think that's fair," the English instructor says to me.

I do. I see a whole class full of white kids with maybe one or two minority students.

White and Privileged Too

"Unfortunately, I have proven unable to take his sound advice."

--my last sentence in a very long email to the English instructor named "Yes, I'm White And Privileged Too"

The advice being what the Advisor said, rather indirectly and sympathetically, that I should toughen up my skin when I'm in the classroom.

"I'm mostly playing devil's advocate," the English instructor says to me as I'm already leaving the table in the classroom with my belongings slung over my shoulder.

"It's group think," I say as I'm walking towards the door. I half-expected the other students to shout "Heil Trump" as I was leaving.

Minutes later, I'm bawling in my SUV, tears streaming down my face, the whole ordeal. I haven't cried in years--the medication just zaps you of the ability to express your emotions that deeply.

But I cried anyway, and felt ashamed because I left lecture, and let my fellow classmates know that they got to me--that they struck some soft spot inside of me.

Love's Labour's Lost

My grandmother and I are walking back from the restaurant in the dark.

"I don't want to lose my son," she tells me. She had asked me to contact him for her, to see if there was any channel that could be mended between them.

The Mystery of the Lost Phone

Most of what Grandma wanted to talk about once I got there in Ridgecrest was my uncle--her son.

She had many complaints about him. "He ripped the phone right out of the wall in anger, now, why would he do that?" She tells me.

I have no response to this because according to my uncle and my mother, this is simply false--but I am curious as to how my grandmother with dementia falsified the memory. In other words, where did she get her inspiration for this fiction? Did it just come into her mind from some hidden, dust-laden corner of her psyche? Or was it based on truth--only a gross extortion of it?

She claims she has no phone--which is not true, and I show her where it is--next to the wall in the TV room where it's always been (at least as long as I can remember)--only the phone line isn't hooked up. I can't find the phone line at all. She has service--because Mom paid her outstanding bill and got it working again.

Discussions About Grandma, Part III

"Yeah...like manners," Mom tells me. "Go to bed."

Delusions and Free Will

"Why would Uncle [name retracted] steal your TV? He has a TV, plus he has enough money to buy another TV if he wanted," I say to Grandma as I'm listening to her, trying to find the illogical reasoning behind her paranoia. We're sitting at a bench in a restaurant that literally has saw dust (or shavings) on the floor.

"Because he wants to hurt me," my grandmother responds.

"I don't know Uncle [name retracted] that well, but I have talked to him some, and he would never want to hurt you on purpose," I say, trying to comfort her.

Discussions About Grandma, Part II

When I first arrived at my grandmother's house in Ridgecrest, I heard my Grandma mumbling something about not wanting to go out because of the [Thanksgiving] crowds.

Then an hour later, she forgot what day it is, and told me after I clued her in, "I didn't know it was Thanksgiving."

"Did you remember me telling you when I left that I was coming back on Thursday?"

"No," she responds honestly.

During the visit, Grandma keeps asking me if I'm hungry (which I'm not). Finally, she decides that she wants to go to the restaurant across the street. She hasn't had anything to eat since lunch, which she says she ate some soup.

Two people are smoking just outside of the restaurant's doors, and they politely say hello as we come closer.

"I'll have a piece of pie," I tell the waitress after my grandmother and I are seated. After all, I had a New York steak sandwich a few hours ago (which I shared with my dog, Beck) while I was on the road to Ridgecrest.

She looks surprisingly annoyed. "We don't have any pie."

"Okay," I say, undaunted. "Do you have any type of dessert?"

"Yes, we have a spice pound cake."

"I'll take that then."

Grandma lifts her head up, "Make that two." She hands the waitress the menu.

It's bad enough I'm eating it, which is perhaps the main reason why I didn't say anything to my grandmother, but as a diabetic, she really doesn't need the sugar--especially since she's not having anything with it like a protein source.

I watch in horror as she eats the cake and the ice cream that went with it. Like looking at an addict with a needle in her hand as she finds a good vein in the arm, poking around and finally diving right in, blissfully blind to the overwhelming consequences that are assuredly coming--a medical doomsday.

"This is even better than real food," my grandmother comments as she's shooting up straight sugar.

Discussions about Grandma

My Mom is in bed. "There's a lot of shit that you just don't know!" she says, talking about her relationship with her mother.

"Yeah, must be because you lied to me about who my father was for twenty-one years!" I shout back, instantly regretting it.

I Realize My Own Quiet

"They are the sounds of the outsider. They annoy me for being loud--so self-sufficient and unconcerned by my presence. Yet for the same reason they seem to me glamorous. (A romantic gesture against public acceptance.) Listening to their shouted laughter, I realize my own quiet. Their voices enclose my isolation. I feel envious, envious of their brazen intimacy."

--pg. 33-34 of Hunger of Memory by Richard Rodriguez

Realist on Suffering, Part IV

Mom did call the cops on Grandma, and asked them to pick her up on a 5150 (which also includes the possibility to be forcefully hospitalized if you are "gravely disabled," the condition my mother was hoping for).

The cops refused, saying there wasn't enough evidence to warrant such action.

Innately Priviledged

"Yet at the same time he is afraid his work is innately priviledged..."

--The Hidden Injuries of Class by Sennett and Cobb, pg. 6

Realist on Suffering, Part III

People don't want freedom as much as they want security and comfort.

Nature Had Instilled in Him

"Where the Renaissance philosopher Pico della Mirandola believed extraordinary men struggled to rise above the ordinary to produce the achievements of civilization, Enlightenment writers like Voltaire believed the capacity for civilized achievement to lie within the grasp of any member of the human race, if only he could develop the rational powers nature had instilled in him."

--The Hidden Injuries of Class, chapter: "A Flawed Humanism" by Sennett and Cobb

Measuring Excellence in the Person

"Today, the idea of ability has become a wholly different phenomenon. Excellence in the object is only a means to measuring excellence in the person. The demonstration of worth now has become a demonstration about inner capacity in the man greater than his tangible works, about a virtue which permits him to transcend situation after situation, mastering each but attached and identified with none."

--pg. 245 of The Hidden Injuries of Class by Cobb and Sennett

Realist on Suffering, Part II

"I believe in individual rights," My mom argues, providing justification that if Grandma wants to live alone and die out there without any family or support, then she should be allowed to just grow old and die of some complication from her diabetes or maybe from an accident or fall or E.coli and/or salmonella from the old, hot dairy she's consuming.

Somehow I just can't ride that wagon train, feeling like it's a bit too convenient for the people around her who can now morally and righteously ignore her because she makes other people uncomfortable or even angry--but at least she can live the life she wants to, right? She has freedom from an assisted living center. Freedom, hmmm...

Realist on Suffering

My Mom and Dad are lying in their bed, and I'm standing at the foot.

Dad says, "Do you feel compelled to do this?" He is referring to me telling my parents that I would move to Ridgecrest, CA to live with Grandma, watch her for her health and safety, and attend community college there. It would be a temporary solution, I acknowledged, since eventually "I will have to return to a four-year university."

I don't know how to respond. The idea of moving to the middle of the Californian desert, leaving my friends, the few I have, and staying with my grandma who needs someone to clean her house, pay her bills, manage her finances, and on top of all that, keep in check her diabetes by balancing snacks and cooking for her (because despite being one of those ol' fashion housewives, she's gone on strike and refused to make any of her own meals) and of course, her dementia. I answer honestly, "I feel compelled to act."

I asked Mom for us to set up a schedule between her and her brother and me that we would visit Grandma once every two weeks, rotating on the duties.

Mom is livid, "I have a job! And Uncle [name retracted] has a job. He works forty hours a week plus an hour and a half drive each way to work. Then, he has to come home on his days off and clean house and cook his meals and take care of his yard and his dog. He is living alone!"

How tragic for him.

She bites down. "Why are you staring at me pissed off? You are sitting there, telling me what to do, and you are judging me!"

It was late last night by the time I returned from Ridgecrest because it's a four hour drive one way. Beck went with me.

Mom and I got into an argument. Mom wanted to call the cops in the morning (this morning) to see if they would pick her up on a 5150. I countered that idea by asking Mom if I could talk Grandma into going to Stanford where there are better doctors and more resources.

"What are they going to do? Keep her for a few days, and then kick her out on the streets of Palo Alto," Mom tells me in anger.

"I was planning on picking her up," I retort. "They can do a lot of things in a few days. They can diagnosis her properly, they can tell you the extent of her deterioration and also there are social workers who can help find her help and a place to stay."

"She won't go."

"Just give me the time to ask her to go in voluntarily and if she won't go, then call the cops."

"She doesn't have electric, and she's eating dairy out of a warm fridge, do you really think that treatment will help? Do you want it to help? Is that really the kind thing?"

"That's horrible to say, and yes, treatment can slow down the deterioration for a while."

The next day I walk into my mother's bedroom to find her slouched in bed, surfing the internet on her computer that's resting in her lap. "Mom," I say. "This is not a problem that you can ignore and it will go away."

But everyone just wants the problem to go away without anyone getting dirty or messy. We have to minimize the situation through denial of one person's extensive suffering.

I knew it was a bad situation when I drove all the way to my grandmother's house, and her truck was not in the driveway--which means either she drove to the grocery store or the truck had been repossessed from lack of payment.

I have Beck at my side, and I knock on the door. No one is coming, and the blinds are drawn so there's no way to see into the house.

I knock again, and wait.

Grandma opens the door and invites me in like she was expecting me.

The idea thing I notice are the dead, dried leaves on the carpet near the door. Grandma hasn't vacuumed in a while.

"Oh, she's getting so big," Grandma says about Beck. She walks into the kitchen, and starts wringing out a shirt or a pair of blue pants in the sink as she has washed them there, I can't tell which.

"She's like me, she's just getting wider." I look around and see an Albertson's shopping cart that rests next to the dining table. Obviously, Grandma has been without a car for a while. "The washing machine isn't working?" I ask.

"There's no hot water out there, I have to get it hooked up."

"I just got in last night," Grandma continues. She mentions seeing her son, my uncle, the one who lives in Nevada. I don't know if she means she was there yesterday or during some earlier trip."Take Beck outside in the back," she offers.

As soon as I walk through the patio, I see something on the ground in the backyard. It's a half-eaten sandwich with rib bones scattered around. Beck nabs one of the bones before I have time to tell her to spit it out. I grab Beck so she won't perforate her stomach, and I march her back into the house.

The garbage is everywhere. In the back yard, some of it is in the front yard. Everywhere, and you can tell that the smell is only going to grow. No one has picked up the trash in a very long time.

I tell my grandma that I need to charge up my cellphone, and I head to my SUV to grab the charger. I plug it into the wall in the kitchen. No response from the phone. Then, I start to look around, and I notice there are no lights on in the house. I see the open carton of cottage cheese with the fork still left in it. I see an empty package for a microwavable dinner that proudly proclaims "6 grams of protein." There are other food articles clotting up the counter.

I open the door of the fridge, and notice how it's just above room temperature.

"Grandma, do you have electricity?" I ask innocently.

"No, I had it turned off because I have been in and out so much over the past couple of months." Later, she would tell me that she called the power company, and that they promised to turn on her lights "tomorrow or the next day." Which is odd because she doesn't own a working phone. She didn't pay the bill on her landline, and according to her, she lost her cellphone. Who did she call and from where?

I sit down on the couch across from her. Beck lays down at my feet on the carpet, obviously exhausted from being so excited in the car. Grandma looks smaller, shriveled even like how a sweater will shrink from all those wash cycles--like Grandma has been through one too many life battles where you just go 'round and 'round, spinning in some machine. "Have you lost weight?" I point out.

"I'm not trying," she responds. Her shoe laces aren't tied--and those happen to be my sneakers. She tells me that her son, my uncle, has been in and out of here, checking in on her--which I know not to be true. Neither of my uncles have been to Ridgecrest in months. Hence why I came--because no one else wanted to. No one wants to deal with an old, sick woman who reminds them of how they might end up someday in the not-so-distant future.

In a shocking display of irony, my grandmother confides in me that she feels like she can be honest with me, and not with the other family members. She wants to move away from this place because it bothers her eyes and her nose.

"Well, if you decide to move, will you tell me?" I ask. The question is ridiculous. She doesn't own a vehicle, and just where is she going to live?

As I'm getting ready to leave, she stops me on the sidewalk to my SUV. She says, "Be careful what you say to your parents about my life. I don't want them to know."

"What don't you want me to tell them?" I'm lying because the entire visit I was TXT-messaging my father about the "grim" picture of the house and Grandma's welfare.

"Everything," she says. "Uncle [name retracted] will come up here and harass me."

My mom decides this morning that she and her brother (my uncle) are going to Ridgecrest on Tuesday, to fix her electricity and to buy her some groceries. "We are not going to bring her back," my mother tells me sternly.

"Your uncle made a valiant effort," my Dad says, talking about how my uncle let Grandma live with him for close to six months--a time which was filled with conflict for the both of them. Grandma ardently and blindly denies having any memory loss or any dementia, despite the fact that her GP told her to her face that she probably had Alzheimer's. She also has refused treatment.

"I am more of a realist," my mother says, insinuating that I have my head in the clouds when I suggest that we try to get Grandma into treatment on a voluntary basis. 

Hidden Injuries

"In 2008, Sean Quinn of the site fivethirtyeight.com told the story, possibly apocryphal, of the voter in Western Pennsylvania who told a canvasser, 'We’re voting for the nigger.' "

--by Robert Kuttner, article: "Hidden Injuries of Class, Race, and Culture"

(http://prospect.org/article/hidden-injuries-0)

An Act of Social Withdrawal?

"Was my dissertation much more than an act of social withdrawal?...I seemed unable to dare a passionate statement. I felt drawn by professionalism to the edge of sterility, capable of no more than pedantic, lifeless, unassailable prose."

--by Rodriguez

Blinkered Pony

"He rarely feels the reality of knowledge, of other men’s thoughts and imaginings, on his own pulses . . He has something of the blinkered pony about him."

--by Richard Hoggart

Fellowship Between a Reader and a Writer

"I sat there and sensed for the very first time some possibility of fellowship between a reader and a writer, a communication, never intimate like that I heard spoken words at home convey, but one nonetheless personal."

 --by Richard Rodriguez, Hunger of Memory: The Education of Richard Rodriguez, chapter: "The Achievement of Desire"

PC Way of Saying "Dumbed Down"

I had just finished my poetry midterm from Engl 201B, and I walked up to the professor and handed in my test.

"How much of Hamlet should we read?" I ask since he had mentioned in the beginning of class that we were moving onto plays.

"Oh, we won't get very far. Probably to the first or second scene," he replies. He looks up at me, and comments, "It's a hard read."

I don't mention the fact that I read Hamlet when I was seventeen or eighteen years old in AP Lit, and I don't remember having any trouble with it back then.

The English instructor during a stray conversation held similar conventions about community college students in freshman comp having difficulties with Shakespeare, and how, instead, he chose to teach a text that "was more accessible" in order to ignite student interest.

I suppose there is a fine line between challenging your students, and overwhelming them to the point that they surrender and refuse to study anymore.

A Gift of All Things

The doctors through the ultrasound have found about a two-inch (5cm) tumor in my uterus.

My GP called me twice yesterday, first to break the news, and then he rang me again about fifteen minutes later to tell me that I shouldn't worry (he had said that already during the first conversation), it likely wasn't cancerous, probably just a large fibroid--and of course, don't worry.

Larry Summers: 'Political Correctness'

"I have made no secret over the years of my conviction that the sensitivities of individuals or members of various group should not be permitted to chill free speech on college campuses."

--Lawrence H. Summers, "Larry Summers: 'Political Correctness' Has Become a Codeword for Hate"

(https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/wonk/wp/2016/11/17/larry-summers-political-correctness-has-become-a-codeword-for-hate/)

I am talking to my mom in the front room about "safe spaces" on campus. My father walks up to our chairs and says to me, "You're too old for this, but you're sounding like an entitled millennial."

A Bud, Perhaps?

"To love that well which thou must leave ere long."

--William Shakespeare, "That Time of Year Thou Mayst in Me Behold"

"Do I get a Corona out of this?" I ask to the English instructor after I won a quick round in class of a game based on The Bean Trees.

He's not looking at me, and he shakes his head. Apparently, I'm not very funny.

I try again, "A Budweiser, perhaps?" This is an allusion to the LSU Professor who, during his tenure, would frequently bring beer to class for the students who have excelled or accomplished something during either lab or lecture.

Again, the answer is another casual "no."

It's the end of class, and several students are milling around the English instructor, asking him various questions.

I'm standing there besides my desk waiting my turn when I notice another student who is wearing wool slippers. This is worse than yoga pants.

But yesterday, mostly, I was severely distracted and disgruntled. I was frequently overwhelmed with negative, ruminative thoughts, much to the chagrin of my case manager who told me to develop a positive voice in my head to counteract the other voices. Like that is an easy feat.

I contemplated Morpheus, and even sent him a TXT-message yesterday, and when I had returned from school to home, I called him on the phone and left a voicemail.

I read a quick summary of an article from a decent news source that said depression was partially caused by wanting everyone to like you. Obviously, some people just won't.

I can't make Morpheus like me or want to be with me, and somewhere in my brain, I recognize that I should just move on with my life like someone with a missing leg learns to walk again.

My eager, excessive academic performance slowly reveals a greater truth about my personality: I want to be liked by my professors, I want to receive special recognition and attention, and I have no similar feelings towards my classmates. I don't care if they ever talk to me, but I feel the need to develop some working relationship with my instructors.

We all want to draw a certain distinction about ourselves that is readily identifiable by others. We need to stand out or the world will swallow us whole. We will be consumed by the mass culture.

Many people give up on the idea that they are unique. I see this in my mom, who has a Master's in Accounting, but does, as she explains it, "data entry" for the state because she needs the health insurance. How is she challenging herself or how is she growing creatively? What opportunities are lost?

Engl 201A And the Accusation of Cheating

I want to be a social worker, to help kids, Maria says to me outside of the Engl 201A classroom as we're both waiting for the English instructor to show up and start lecture.

She's almost to the point of tears as she tells me that the English instructor accused her of plagiarism, even though she told him "to google it" (her paper) to check. He brought up the charge that she had not turned in a work that came from her own words.

While she admitted to me that she had originally written the essay in Spanish, and then had help in translating, she is adamant that those are her sentences and paragraphs and ideas.

If she fails Engl 201A, she tells me, she will lose her financial aid, which not only provides for her registration dues, but also helps with child care--and she has five children to take care of. Her family is in Mexico, and they cannot help her out.

Maria is also working while managing four college classes.

Hearing her story, I didn't have any great advice. I did respond that she should talk to the English instructor--I want to tell her that he is a kind and understanding person, but I don't. I also inform her that if she did lose her financial aid, there is always an appeal process to get it back. And that I had to go through that same succession of steps myself because I did not pass enough of my classes to normally qualify (I provided documentation of my disability and a short letter explaining about how I'm all better now and ready to return to college--and the decision was overturned, and I got my money).

I did have to write the English instructor an email (and yes, those emails add up, I have an almost innumerable amount from him in my inbox) about the oral presentations, so I decided to include in that letter a quick word about Maria. I told him that while I knew he couldn't discuss other students with me, I wanted to say that Maria seemed to be "sincere in her attempts to be successful in this class" (thereby indirectly vouching that she didn't cheat).

If I had knowledge that a student was cheating in either of my classes (Engl 201A or Engl 201B), I would immediately inform the appropriate professor as I have no qualms about being "a rat." I have no loyalties to the other students.

But Maria seems to be particularly distressed, and while I cannot relate to her situation when dealing with racism for being a Mexican American, I can relate to her feelings of alienation and despondency. My coursework matters to me too despite the difficulties I face every day in class.