Blunt Affect

In psychiatry, there is a phenomenon called "blunt affect," or in other words, someone who lacks facial expression. It's considered to be a negative symptom of schizophrenia. People who suffer from this illness, or like me from schizoaffective disorder (which is of course related), gradually become more and more blank. Some of it is the drugs, but some of it is the disease itself, and people turn into modern day zombies.

I'm getting into my little SUV after studying and completing homework for Engl 201A, and I'm thinking, it's sort of like that--but only if that was normal. Someone who has the ability to turn off facial cues.

Everyone, I suppose, has that ability to some extent.

It's the beginning of Engl 201A, and I've arrived after the English instructor--which is unusual. But I was down in the Writing Center, which is next to his office, waiting to see if he would show up for office hours. I had a paper to present to him--one he asked for because at the time I thought I would miss Wednesday's class, and its midterm.

I'm standing at the podium with my paper in hand (called "I'm a Doll: How The Bean Trees Reaffirms Female Gender Stereotypes") while he is writing on the white board. He turns to me, sees me standing up front of the class, and asks, "[Jae], do you have a question or a comment?" There's a given rhythm to this--the comforting words of assumed and designated roles. Professor and student. He says it to me multiple times during a typical class period--mostly because I obnoxiously raise my hand every few minutes, either to clarify something or to ask about something.

It reminds me of the doctors at Stanford Hospital's G2P, who have been taught to always ask, right before they leave your room to attend to another patient, "Do you have any questions or concerns?" They say it without fail, even when they don't want you to respond because they have other pressing and more important matters to give their attention to. But they say it because somewhere, someone told them it was important to check in with patients and to discern how they are feeling.

The English instructor says it to other students as well, regular decorum of class conduct. I'm assuming it's to encourage students to say what's on their mind on any given topic--to promote debate and intellectual pursuit--especially the comment part. A yes, go ahead with your thoughts.

After the English instructor finishes writing, he walks over to me, and gives me his attention. I explain about the paper, and say I don't know his time schedule, if he wouldn't mind going over it.

Today, in an email containing my homework for tomorrow, I write to the English instructor on the last line, I don't know if you enjoy talking to me or if you merely tolerate me (echo of similar words I've written on this blog). I was going to write, I don't know if you like me...but I figured "like" could be taken in too many ways.

Too much of my night last night was concerning bringing up the issue to the English instructor, either in person or through my writing. Was it simply my insecurities popping up--thinking that someone who I see several times a week, who indulges me in long conversations--that he doesn't like me as a person? I decided it wasn't just me (and rarely is it ever just one person).

After the class is gone, and the kidding around and joking about with the other students is gone as well, the English instructor will sit down in a chair, and sometimes look at me briefly, but mostly avoiding my gaze. He sits there, sometimes crossed legged, and he has a perfect reflection of polite distance. Even though I don't spend near the amount of time talking to the Engl 201B professor, he has been more forthcoming about his life, about his emotions than the English instructor has been.

At times, despite myself, I see Morpheus in the English instructor, although my professor is taller than Morpheus. When the English instructor gabbed proudly and briefly about his little boy to the class, I only thought of the pictures and the stories I've heard of Morpheus' son--a world I will never breach, and one in which makes me regretful and, frankly, sad. The English instructor's coolness in conversation and yet the multitude of his words brings back memories of Morpheus standing in his kitchen, talking excitedly about different projects he's into and so on--and yet, none of it has any lasting importance. We're not talking about our souls--we are just skating along on the surface of things--as if to dare one on into the depth of human deviant behavior would be a tragedy. It would be the entanglement of the cables that keep us in our place. And, most of all, it would be frightening.

So, do I believe that this is pathology on part of the English instructor? No, I don't. I believe that it is simply gentle guidance. These are the rules, and you must obey them. 

I remember being eighteen years old, and almost completely new to the University, but I was new to the Animal Science Department, and all those times I walked into the Advisor's office. I would sit there in the chair, and he would talk to me--and if other students showed up, he would tell them to come back later. I always came first if I was there first. I told him all sorts of things that I had never dared to mention to someone else--and in my own way, I fell in love with him--if only that could be considered platonic. Our biggest hurdle was our age difference--but he still became one of my favorite people on this planet. The Advisor is not a particularly emotional man--not in the way that the LSU Professor is--but he showed me that he loved me, in his own way, at a time when I needed someone to care for me desperately because I had no one, and I was alone in my misery.

Most of the time, I feel that the English instructor is more intelligent than the writers of the books we are reviewing--and smarter than the writers of the articles we have in our textbook. He sees patterns and ideas in The Bean Tree that I don't believe was a deliberate act on the part of Kingsolver. He creates a better novel because he can envision a different world that few others can access. 

"I have to go at five fifteen to the library," The English instructor tells me abruptly. The other students are gone, and have been for a while.

I glance at the clock. He talks about the book, and I start to gather up my belongings.

"Can I ask you another question?" I watch his face. He is neither pleased nor displeased. He remains completely neutral, and nods slightly.

We're outside, and it's surprisingly dark. He checks the door of the classroom to make sure it's locked.

I ask him if he wouldn't mind helping me analyze "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" when he has the time some other day.

We're walking down the road and through the parking lot. He's reciting poetry to me.

I don't know where the lines come from, but I'm assuming it's T.S. Eliot. 

The words are rapid, and some of them are muttered.

I can't see his face for the darkness, but that doesn't matter.