Anonymous Professor: Celebrating Neurodiversity

I'm not really sure if I am the neurologically divergent faculty member. I could be. 

Some of the faculty engage each other in educationese. I don't understand what they're saying most of the time. Maybe they really don't understand each other. Maybe they do. They always sit together during the damnable faculty meetings and exchange tidbits about experiential learning, growth learning, inclusion, change management, diversity and inclusion, and cloud transformation. 

Christ on a bike. 

The esteemed Dr. Byrd Ivies PhD, a professor of linguistics, speaks yet another language, and I am sure that it's not a put-on. I've heard her talking to herself. It's the same bizarre word salad that may have some meaning to others who come from the same planet. Most people just nod and respond with an "Mmmm hmmm" and continue listening until the wonderful Land of Oz calls her back.

Nobody ever says anything about her unless it's thoroughly complimentary. 

I don't get it. 

I try not to be anywhere near her. She cornered me in the mail room once. That was when I made the connection between communication with other faculty and my urgent need to take a nap.

I muttered --- to myself--- that some of my students were unmotivated. I wasn't really speaking to her, but she answered me.

"A poorly designed curriculum can organically trigger non-binary ennui and prevent access to legitimate deterministic semiotics."

"Really?" I hadn't learned my lesson yet. 

"Truth," she said. "The most effective teacher must intentionally elide cultural subjectivities. It's the only way to connect with the youth of today, e.g. Tik Tok." 

"Okay," I said. "Thank you for telling me that. Now that you've told me, I'll memorize it then throw my head away for the good of mankind."

That's what I said on the inside. On the outside I said "Uhhhh huh. I wondered about that."

I never wondered about that, and I doubt that I ever will because I don't know what the hell she was telling me. I wondered how I could get out of the mail room and not knock her over. She scared me. 

Then there's the poetry professor. He's into his poetry schtick. During a faculty meeting, he was asked for his thoughts about student cheating. He didn't bat an eye:

             Beneath the desk, secrets take flight,
             Grade point average masked in night,
            The dance of shadows, a silent plea,
            Cheating whispers through academe's sea.

 Huh?

When the faculty celebrates neurodiversity--- and it will someday --- I'll spring for the party hats.

Anonymous Professor's Return to Campus (cont'd)

I don't have a cubby hole in the mail room. I made sure of that a long time ago. Somebody screwed up ordering the name plates and left me off the order. I wasn't assigned a box for the office lackey to put memoranda from the office chair and the heads of various committees who do things of dubious worth. 

Not that I care about staying informed.  I don't care, and there are plenty of respectable people who feel as  I do. Several years ago, the Religious Studies department invited a monk from an order of the Bhekuli Biya religion to address campus faculty. I don't remember much of the lecture except that he was rather loosely dressed in orange. I do recall the monk speaking about frog marriages (Wind in the Willows?) and something about Mandooka Parinaya (or something like that. I've been meaning to look that one up. I think Dr. Byrd Ivies may be a carrier).

Okay. It's coming back to me. The thrust of the lecture was that ignorance is next to godliness. I can get behind that. 

Unfortunately, my will to ignorance gave in to curiosity. After I placed my syllabi under a stack of papers on the department secretary's desk, I went to the faculty mail room to root around the faculty cubby holes. I wanted to see what the department was up to while I was away. 

The only other person in this department who has such low regard for what happens in the department is our permanent lecturer. She isn't subject to performance reviews, reprimand, or the usual three-year contract renewal. She is a walking, talking equivalent of a benign disease. She has been here almost as long as I have, and she will probably be here after I leave. She was hired as a graduate assistant. Somebody thought that she was cute and nice to have around, so she scored that position.

Her box had at least five memos from skinny Dr. Blipps, the department chair. The latest one announced the annual faculty Christmas party. Another wished everyone a happy Thanksgiving, and one dated a few weeks before that one reminded everyone of the upcoming Awareness Month. There was also a reference to "Celebrating Disability at Work Day". 

Whoa. Maybe that was what all the singing was about when I visited. I'm glad I missed it. There are people in the department whom I really don't want to see when they let it all hang out.

I wish that the people who come up with the special days would just print a calendar with all of these weird awarenesses so I can plan to be involved in a car accident or  develop food poisoning that day. At least, I can have a valid excuse not to participate in the celebrations.

The 2024 Christmas party... Later...

I didn't think I'd miss anything at work while I was on sabbatical, but I did. I missed my couch. I not sure why, but a nap in my office behind the locked door is so much more refreshing in my office than at home. Maybe it's because there's so much more to escape when I'm in my campus office than when I'm at home. 

Not much bugs me at home. The Anonymous Children are old enough to be self-sufficient. The oldest doesn't have to ask for the keys to the car. He just takes them. The kids don't make much noise when they're home. They rarely have company. It's all virtual community on their iPhones.  When they're not talking, theyre listening to music with ear buds stuck in their ears.

Listening to music with ear buds stuck in their ears: that must be a  joyless experience. When I was their age, I had a real stereo with big speakers that blasted Jimi Hendrix, the Rolling Stones, and Pink Floyd so loud that I couldn't hear my father pounding on the door to turn the music down. Maybe I should be thankful. Instead of shelling out a thousand bucks for a 1200 watt stereo for each of them, it's a thousand bucks for an iPhone. There's no noise. No boisterous chatter of teenagers. There's quiet around here.

Which makes me wonder just what the hell they're up to on their phones.  I'll make a note to discuss this with them some day. Maybe I'll make that the topic for a paper for my freshman writing class: What I Do On My Phone.

Anonymous Wife was on the faculty years ago. She gave up academia for a job, and I don't think she regrets her decision at all. She doesn't miss faculty meetings or the pressure of publication requirements, though she does miss Christmas break and Spring break. Maybe it's a good thing that she has a job that keeps her busy throughout the year. Otherwise, my much-needed sabbatical might have been very different. 

But it is good to be back. When I'm here in my office, I can justify my naps. They are so rich and satisfying because there's so much to escape  from when I'm here. I just lock my door and pass out on my couch until it's time for class. 

If it weren't for the awful students, the pathetic faculty and their damnable meetings, life here would be idyllic. 

The 2024 Christmas Party

I wasn't  thinking when I walked into the department two weeks ago. It was the last day of classes, and that's when the department throws its Christmas party. I was halfway down the hall and about to open my office door when I heard someone sort of scream whisper "Go! Go! Close your door! Hurry before she sees you!"

It was the Queer Theory professor. He never talks to me. He rarely even attends the faculty meetings. I don't know why, but that day he found it necessary to warn me.  The faculty Christmas party was in full swing, and it sounded like somebody had spiked the punch bowl (definitely a no-no around here. We're state-funded).  

I opened my office door and closed it behind me. What the hell were they singing? It sounded like "Here We Go Round the Mulberry Bush", but they were all high as howler monkeys who had eaten too many overripe bananas. The words didn't quite fit the melody.

                    Sa gar vi rundt om en enebayrbusk 

                            enebayrbusk enebayrbusk... 

That's when I remembered Professor Blipps' announcement last Spring semester that the hiring committee had acquired a new professor from the University of Oslo. I don't recall his professed field of expertise, but I do remember the photograph that Miss Blipps (the department chair) passed around. He was very blonde and looked like he had just stepped off a GQ magazine cover. The women (especially Professor Byrd Ivies the linguistics professor) ooh-ed and ahh-ed over the photo. The batty old broad crowed how she'd just loooove to squeeze him. 

I locked my door.  I wasn't going to go to the office to deliver my syllabi until the party broke up and everyone went home.

 

Back to work

                              Back to Work

I have been on sabbatical since June.

I returned to campus during the last week of classes to hand in my syllabi for the spring semester. First, I had to go to my office to dig up an old one. Though I have had my own scanner, copier, and computer for twenty-five years, I haven't digitized a lot of my old tests and syllabi. They languish in a folder beneath a pile of library books that I failed to return. Some of the books have a due date going back ten years.  The library hasn't sent me any notices, so I suppose nobody has tried to check any of them out.

One reason why I have received no notices is that I have no university email address to send notifications to. Another possibility is that I have no cubbyhole to hand deliver a notice to. I don't think anyone who works for the library can find my office because I keep my door closed most of the time, and I removed my name plate years  ago. I don't think anyone really knows what's behind my office door. 

As long as nobody mistakes it for a bathroom door, I don't care.