Among the Scholars

One of my favorite introverts, my friend, my mentor, my inspiration, my Dr. McCambridge, passed away several months ago. I've been wanting to write a post about him for a long time, and I knew how I wanted to end the post, but I did not know how to start. Where do you start with anecdotes about a twenty-year friendship?

When I called for advice, twisting my finger on the phone cord, an anxious grad student holed up in my childhood bedroom like a teenager?

When I prepared to serve him a cup of coffee in my first apartment and he recognized the sound of the hand-me-down Corelle dishes (you know the ones, with those  stylized flowers--you could get blue, green, or gold; my mom's had been gold)?

When I called from that same apartment to tell him I'd discovered, on one of the three channels I received over the TV antenna, That Seventies Show? I couldn't have articulated then that I wanted him to watch it because we were both Red-and-Kitty types living in a Donna-and-Eric world; at the time, I just said, "It explains everything."

When Masters Degree #2 was complete and I hated my one and only non-teaching job, declaring, "Well, it turns out that the only thing worse than working with kids is working with adults"?

When I was engaged and called to ask, "What if I become one of those horrible happy people and we can't be friends any more?"

When my toddler daughter, Victoria, to whom he referred as "Herself, the Empress of India," ransacked his living room and office with the dog named Esme--a literary name, from Salinger, but brought back into vogue, I'm convinced, by Daniel Handler in the Lemony Snicket books? "It's 'A Series of Unfortunate Events,' I had explained." "Well, that could be the title of my biography," he had wryly replied.

Or do I fast-forward to when I finally got to go to Oxford this summer but it was too late for any more phone calls or cups of coffee? When the recorded audio tour told me that the entrance to one of the buildings bore an inscription in Greek that referred to Luke 2:46, when the child Jesus' worried parents found him studying with the elders? How I stood there, the Walk-Man-eque audio device hanging from my neck, the touristy apparatus ridiculously incongruous with the tears in my eyes? How I heard nothing else after the British robot-voice said, "They found Him among the scholars"?

Maybe I should just say that I hope his part of heaven looks just like Oxford, and that, if I ever get to heaven someday, I'll look for him among the scholars.

Cinderella, Introvert Princess

So, what I'm about to say is inevitably influenced by the fact that I've seen Moana about 100 times. Here it is: Moana is a bit of a pushy loudmouth. I know the narrative is that the new Disney princesses are bold and rescue themselves and that's great and I'm generally all for that. But I think there's something to be said for an old princess like Cinderella. Rather than thinking of her as a passive doormat, why not think of her as quietly self-assured? After all, she literally gets the last laugh: in that ending scene where the loud mean sisters destroy literature's most famous shoe, she just sits back and laughs like the bad bitch that she is and says, "But I've got the other slipper."

Why is everyone so angry?

As an English teacher and writer, I have what seem, probably to others, to be unlikely feelings about fancy bookmarks. Fancy bookmarks, like fancy writing journals, while they seem like an ideal gift for people like me, actually cause me a lot of anxiety. They're so beautiful; what if what I have to say doesn't isn't worthy? I know, too, that lots of people prefer to write things like poetry in such journals, in old-fashioned paper and ink. Not me. Too much commitment. I like the forgiveness of the computer, with its delete key and its cut and paste function. I recently discovered an old poetry notebook of mine, and I had, at the end, resorted to printing out what I had written and paper-clipping it to the pages of a fancy notebook that I felt bad for not using--it was lovely, it had probably been a gift, etc. I have similar feelings toward fancy bookmarks; I read like I breathe air, and I can't be worried that a beautiful work of art will slip from the pages as my book bangs around the house or the car. I also feel committed to read a particular book if I assign it the fancy bookmark. Too much stress. Instead, I use the little subscription cards that fall out of magazines to mark my pages. They are a bit sturdier than the receipts you get at the library or the bookstore, but you still don't feel bad to lose them.

So even though I didn't buy the fancy bookmark I saw the other day in Barnes and Noble (I still remember the joy I felt when they first opened: "It's two stories! Like a department store, but for books!"), the quote from Socrates featured on it has made a particular impression upon me: "Wisdom begins in wonder." 

When I think about public and academic discourse now, and, worst of all, when I see it on social media, I'm struck by the pervasive feeling of anger. If I were to ask, naively, "Why is everyone so angry?" I know the answer I would get. But I think something else is going on; I don't think one person, one name, is enough to explain all the anger. Life has always been hard, injustice and evil always rife. 

I think of my students, growing up amid all this anger. How would everything be different if we approached life from a place of wonder? I hope that on my best days, I can bring a little bit of wonder back to the pursuit of wisdom.