The Elitism In Me

I went to this English faculty Bar-B-Que mostly because the English Division Chair (kind of the same title as the Department Head at the University) was supposed to be there. That, and there was a slight possibility that the English instructor would show up (he didn't, and he explained that he was going on a trip with his kids that day). And I thought for a moment that I might like to see the Poetry Professor.

The English Division Chair has been fairly friendly to me, even giving me a compliment on my prize-winning poem, saying that there was lots of competition this year (other professors had confessed that in the past, the poetry contest had the least amount of entries with the fiction section having the highest). He was even mused when I kept interrupting his class (I walked in a few times, thinking the room would be clear for English 201C to begin--guess not).

I started to brag at the party about the Poetry professor, telling the English Division Chair (surely, he needs some other, shorter nickname) that despite having five classes, the Poetry Professor was always available and answered his messages quickly.

"That's because he believes in giving short comments..." The English Division Chair says, pauses for a moment, and then continues, "Me? I can't do it." He's referring to the feedback we receive on our essays, which to me is only one small piece of the overall teaching puzzle.

I recover. "Well, he said that if I wanted further feedback to just go and see him during office hours," I say, defending a man who is the sole reason I even attempted writing poetry in the first place (although this had been brewing because of the English instructor's influence and his influence is the biggest reason I took the poetry class--because if the English instructor can quotes lines of poems in the dark, well, so should I). But the Poetry Professor was so peppy and excited and encouraging, he acted like the best thing in the world to happen was students writing poetry. He told the class how creative their poems were, and he told everyone to enter the poetry contest. It's hard to dislike a man who is so invested in his students' futures. It's only after getting to know him some that he expressed the same feelings that all professors have at some point--that it's frustrating trying to teach people who don't put in an effort to learn the material or the art form. I'm assuming that's just part of the job, dealing with unmotivated students who would rather be down at the bar drinking (who does that remind you of?) or having lots of unprotected sex or pissing away the allowance that their parents send them every month (again, remind anyone of me?).

The English Division Chair nods his head in agreement.

Of course, the Poetry professor wasn't able to come because his daughter needed him (she broke her collarbone, and then required surgery and is in recovery).

Out of everyone, including even the English instructor, perhaps it's my Engl 201B professor who shows me the most affection (weird word to use, but it works). He hugs me every time he sees me, and then he always asks about my life, and how I'm doing and what's going on. At the Bar-B-Que, he said to me that I should call him by his first name.

The English Division Chair told me that he reported back to my "mentor" that I had mentioned him during the poetry reading at the award ceremony (he's talking about the Poetry Professor), but no word was made of the English instructor, even though I brought up him directly at the ceremony when explaining all the positive people in my life who made writing this poem possible. The English instructor's name was never spoken the entire time I was at the Bar-B-Que. I wondered if this is because the English instructor is only part time, and somewhat on the outside looking in. I say that, when I really don't know. Perhaps the other professors didn't see a reason to talk about him, even if they actually do like the man.

I wonder sometimes if the English instructor's bravado during class time doesn't translate into the same extrovertedness when dealing with people who aren't sitting behind desks while he speaks. Again, I could only guess.

The award ceremony for the community college's literary journal brought up both positive and negative emotions. I was mildly distracted by the thought that Morpheus didn't even dignify my request that he attend with an answer. He ignored me completely, even after I explained that my feelings were hurt that he wasn't coming. Joseph didn't make it. The English instructor, obviously, didn't make it. However, the Advisor did show up, and I placed him at my family's table, and he met my parents for the first time.

I presented last, a bit like everything was building up to my reading. It was hugely flattering considering the poem was written in around fifteen minutes, and besides changing the last few lines, I left everything unedited. It was pure stream of consciousness. I have spent far greater hours on other works that received no attention at all besides a grade. But I am now officially a published writer.

The Advisor bought me a beer, a Stout (which would be my second of the evening), and by the time I gave the reading, I had a good buzz going on.

Over the past two weeks, I've been trying to decide why the English instructor talks to me at all. I mean, I did confess to be "falling in love" with the man, and being very attracted to him (Perhaps he sums up this inference on the fact that women can be flighty and somewhat silly, and that we can just put the past behind us, as if I'm only eighteen years old, and away from home for the first time). Because I have some good sense (I've been reading all these articles about how I should change the way I talk to myself), I haven't brought the subject up. However, his letters are deeply flattering, if they only contain references to my writing. To me, this is beyond the "good professor act," which I see often on the surface. Pretty much every professor I've encountered has believed that he/she is the beacon of hope for the uneducated, naive masses. It comes with the territory. Usually, once you peel this off, you witness a sincerity in them. That they want to do a good job, and be a positive influence on their students, no matter how tiring the job might be at times. In this sense, the English instructor fits perfectly.

I had a dream about him last night (totally platonic, by the way as if even in my fantasies, I can't imagine being physically intimate with him), and I said, "You're not the type to wear your heart on your sleeve, just an observation." That perfectly sums it up. In this sense, I got Morpheus, except that he's taller, and he quotes poetry, and can write eloquently, both to his advantage and disadvantage (sometimes I think it's easier for writers to hide behind themselves and their excessive use of language, when simple can be better). Oh, yeah, and he doesn't make as much money. It's a real toss-up who's smarter (Morpheus may not be a writer, but he's an excellent verbal bullshitter, which is how I imagine he makes his living), but comparisons like this can't be good for me or my audience.

The English instructor doesn't share Morpheus' materialism, probably because he values other things in life (like intellectual pursuits) more than he idolizes money. Or maybe Morpheus just grew up with this horrible, unending sense that he wasn't good enough, and so, he obsessed with becoming better until there seemed to be no more point in excelling. Except there is. As Morpheus told me, "nothing is ever enough." This is the one trait, to hear him tell it, that he shared with his ex-wife. It's a drive that I simply do not possess. Yes, I want to be one of the intellectual elites, but money is only money, and you can be pretty miserable having a lot of it.

I do have a little elitism in me, otherwise I wouldn't attend English faculty Bar-B-Que's or spend the vast majority of my time socializing with people who are educated far better than I am. In turn, I don't have any "rich" friends. Morpheus knows that in order to be rich, you have to play with other rich people, even if everyone is basically lying about how rich they are.



I often tell myself that one of the major reasons I'm attracted to Morpheus is because of his money (which I've never seen, except for the first two times we met, and he paid me and the agency for my services). Then I remind myself that I like (and am attracted to) a middle class guy, how sweet is that? Maybe I'm not completely empty and superficial.