The Westfield Gardener: Part 5
A Frustrating Friday
The following is not a standalone. It’s part of a larger piece of fiction, written in a first-person narrator style and placed in a contemporary setting. You can access each part of the story here.
***
As a small-college history professor, there are certain class days on the syllabus I can teach in my sleep. One that certainly qualifies is the discussion on the end of salutary neglect and the glib taxation decisions that fomented a revolutionary spirit in the American colonies.
At the same time, it’s one of the last classes I’d ever want to sleep through. Unpacking the events and decisions that launched the unique American experiment: What could be more relevant, more captivating? The hope of finding one or two students who catch just a small piece of that passion is enough to keep me alert.
Not many love the Sixties—the 1760s, that is—like I do.
It almost makes me wish I hadn’t planned for this particular class to fall on a Friday. Like it or not, attendance trails off right before the weekend, even if spring break itself is still a fortnight away.
I wonder what it would be like to have Addison in the class. While she certainly could have taken the course this semester, she opted to wait until the next time, when there’s another instructor. It’s a decision I can respect. My oldest daughter might have reason to expect a tendency to be a little harder on her, and perhaps one too many in-class references to Joseph Addison, the English Whig playwright and Cato’s champion. (It was challenging enough, trying to explain this obscure inspiration for naming our baby girl, oh, those 18 years ago.)
A younger version of me would be deflated to see most of my students unable to identify Albany as the capital of New York, in attempting to make the connection with the Albany Plan, Ben Franklin’s proposed prototype of colonial cooperation that took place during the war with France.
At least there’s near-unanimous recognition of Franklin’s name. “He’s not just on the $100 bill.” Dramatic pause. “Pay attention, it’s not the last we’ll hear from him.”
The reading and conversation continues apace for a while, until we touch on the Stamp Act. I’m jaded, more than a little accustomed to students’ blank stares at its mention. At least a couple nod in recognition this time, though. Enough to buoy my hopes in the next generation? Let’s not get too far ahead of ourselves.
It’s helpful to have more foresight than Lord Grenville and his fellow British leaders who stubbornly imposed the Stamp Act on the colonies. Such a haphazard approach from leaders in London. So little to gain, so much to risk.
But isn’t that how historical events unfold? Accidents that put power and responsibility into certain people’s hands, maybe the ambitious ones who most want to wield it. Then the decisions they make, based on their biases and blind spots. How many hours have I spent thinking about the confluence of factors and events that led to the American Revolution? So inevitable, yet so utterly improbable.
“That fairy king really screwed the pooch, no?” Yes, of course, the kid in the rumpled sweatshirt with a thin filter between his brain and his lips. Apparently, his parents also bought tickets for him to watch a certain notable Broadway musical. If contemporary connections like that are what it takes to help them grasp the events of the period a little more deeply, so be it.
“Yes, but we’re getting ahead of ourselves. George the Third would play his own role in ensuring the permanent divorce with America.” That word carries a quiet sting. I intentionally inject some emotional gravity into the dialogue, to generate some relevance and pique interest. “But here, the problem starts with Parliament, trying to find a way to raise money and cover the nation’s debts. And yeah, some also wanted to strut their stuff a bit. They just assumed the colonists were second-class citizens, after all.” A distinct pause, a look across the room. Joelle earnestly raises her hand. “Yes?”
“What makes them both so much different? I mean the Parliament and the leaders of the colonies. They both looked down at a lot of people. Second-class women, second-class slaves—to them, I mean. It was just privilege versus privilege, right?”
I remember the one time Joelle visited my office hours. High school valedictorian, passed her AP U.S. History test. Clearly, she not only read Howard Zinn, but also has absorbed his warped, two-dimensional view of the past. I wish that I weren’t so familiar with her type.
Before I can respond, a tall, brash figure from the back of the room jumps in. And here, I hadn’t even realized the droning figure was awake. “I’m tired of all the white privilege sh--, I mean, crap.” Nice save.
“It’s not just that,” Joelle huffs, as if having to repeat her own lecture untold dozens of times. “Could women vote in the Revolution?” An inarticulate declaration, to be sure, but several other students, mostly female, nod along.
“Let’s go Brandon,” someone else adds, dragging the level of discourse down even further. The reactionary views aren’t isolated to one class. Interesting.
Time to sidestep the political trap. “Let’s keep focus on the 18th century… shall we?” Another pause, a stare, and a half-hearted attempt to take down the strawman in my own mind. “The Stamp Act was a classic blunder, sure. But we also have the benefit of hindsight.”
Ah, the disinterested looks on most of their faces, the disconnect from reality and the past. More important weekend plans looming just beyond. I have to assume my highest hopes for this class have been dashed. It reminds me of a professional mentor from grad school telling me: “If teaching them history doesn’t teach you humility, then you’re doing something wrong.” Wise man, that Dr. Kirk.
***
Taking the short stroll back across campus toward the cafeteria, I glance at my phone. The sound is turned off for class, as always. I see a small icon indicating a voicemail.
It’s Brian from Redeemer: “Hey there, professor.” Haven’t heard that one before. I smirk and shake my head. “Missed you at the prayer breakfast. Bad timing, I guess. Just want to put something else on your radar. There’s gonna be a work day at the church next month.” A pause, as if collecting himself, then a gentle chuckle. “It’s not as bad as it sounds. Not much experience required. Anyway, hope you can put it on the calendar. On the 23rd. Talk to you later.”
I look back up, take in the scene around me. It’s almost as if Brian isn’t taking for granted the chance to catch me in person at church. Smart guy. A smart guy who wastes no time, that is. Josh’s basketball season will be over by then. I might just be free and without excuse, unless Lise insists on dusting off the honey-do list.
***
I set my tray down on the familiar table in the corner of the cafeteria. It’s not unusual for me to be the first one here. Friday lunches are a standing date for any available social studies professors to meet with Cynthia, the provost, as long as she’s in town. If not, the rest of us have plenty of academic politics and gossip about students to catch up on.
For those of my generation who attended college but haven’t spent much time on campus in recent years, you must realize that the quality and variety of food served here has increased significantly. Lise might even be proud to know I chose a green side salad to go with my chicken tenders and roast potatoes.
Who shows up first but the senior-most member of our history department faculty? “Hey, Erwin. Fancy seeing you here.” It’s the first time I’ve seen him at one of these Friday lunch confabs since last semester. The encounter seems even stranger, given that we’ve mostly missed each other in our adjoining offices all week.
“Seemed like a good week to meet my cafeteria quota.”
I eye his taco salad with a wry smile. “Given up on your vegan principles?” Erwin just shakes his head. “Seriously, it’s good to see you here… on a day when you don’t even have any classes on campus.”
“Sure, make light of my plight,” he replies with a familiar dash of snark. “That’s part of the deal, no? Teach an intro to Western Civ, it’s got to be Tuesday-Thursday.” While I ponder whether to playfully poke him on a potential retirement decision, he beats me to the punch. “You know, Dan, I think this will be my last one.”
“You mean your last Western Civ class, right?”
“If I’m just doing seminars on East Asia colonialism, I’m not doing you a lot of good….” A bite of taco salad. “No one else is showing up? No Cynthia?” I shrug my shoulders, as he starts to strike a more serious tone. “The end of this semester might be a good time to call it a career. I mean, if we’re bringing in some swinging youngster on a private endowment.”
The allusion is clear. I shouldn’t be surprised. There’s no way Erwin hasn’t already caught wind of the Callinicus Foundation meeting. However, too many details remain unresolved for me to either stoke, or assuage, his fears. “Whatever comes of that, there’ll be plenty of room for both of you.” I scratch my face as our eyes meet. “As long as you’re willing to keep covering Western Civ.”
Erwin is a savvy pro. He hasn’t maneuvered his way through decades of academia blindly. “I know you’re not at liberty to share much about this deal. But I have to tell you, something doesn’t sit right.”
“Hopefully I’ll know more by our next department meeting.”
“You mean I have to show my face at one of those?”
Trying not to laugh, I dig into the chicken tenders, which honestly, aren’t bad. In the meantime one of our colleagues from the sociology department, Higginson, walks up with a tray and abruptly nods his way into the conversation. “Any of you have that kid Jackson from the basketball team?”
My eyebrow arches. As a matter of fact, I just saw him this morning, and heard a rare comment from his mouth about white privilege. I doubt this Jackson kid is taking sociology, but who knows? Erwin shakes his head, while I take an extra second to dip the chicken in the not-so-spicy buffalo sauce.
“You, Gardener?”
“He’s not in sociology, is he?”
“No,” Higginson replies, then lowers his volume in an increasingly busy cafeteria. “But I’m overhearing he could be trouble….”
Erwin is drawn into the gossip, but I tune out the chit-chat. There must be something better to talk about. On second thought, probably not.
To be continued…