Advice to an OLD Teacher: And Now What?

A few months ago, I went to an academic conference.  One of the breakout sessions was an hour-long discussion about why so few faculty aspired to go into administration.  I didn't actually attend this session, as I couldn't comprehend why anyone would need an hour to say, "Well, duh!"  Because, seriously, why would anyone, given a choice, opt for a workweek filled with meetings, bureaucracy, and complaints over the much more innately appealing prospect of hanging out with students, pontificating for several hours a week on a topic that interests you, and having summers off?  It's a fair question.

Nevertheless, last semester, when my own longtime dean announced her retirement, I decided to throw my hat into the ring and apply for her job.  And today, I was informed that I got it.  And now I am answering the obvious question: Why?

Mainly, I want a new challenge.  I enjoy teaching, and I think I'm pretty good at it, but I've been doing it now, in one way or another, for over twenty years.  It's time for something new.  And as much as administration features some unappealing aspects--I dread the meetings that are, I fear, going to become a major part of my life for years to come--administration also, possibly, offers opportunities.  If nothing else, a good administrator can make it easier for good teachers to do a good job.  If nothing else, I hope that becomes part of my legacy.

But, legacies are a long way off.  Tomorrow is day one.  Let the adventure begin!

Seasons Greetings

As a non-practicing member of the Jewish faith, I have never had particularly strong feelings one way or the other about Christmas.  I've always appreciated the festive mood that comes over people--particularly when I lived in New York, and the city seemed to unwind slightly from its normal state of aggravated frenzy.  But ultimately Christmas is just another day to hang out and, perhaps, enjoy a movie and Chinese food.

Today, in a change of pace, I'm gorging on basketball.  Five--count 'em, FIVE--games, back to back to back to back.  Uh, to back.  As I watch, I also find myself thinking about my stepfather.  He passed away several years ago, but I can't help but think how much he would have enjoyed this.  He was a huge basketball fan, and, though he would no doubt have been pained by the lackluster performance of the local New York teams, such a glut of games would have seemed like quite the Festivus miracle.

Anyway, however you are all celebrating your holiday--whether "holy" or not--I hope you're having a good time.  Happy holidays, everyone!

Anti-Productivity

One of the nice things about teaching is that every day is different.  At the same time, though, the year rolls along in utterly predictable ways.  Mid-August to early September is complete chaos followed by a period of relative stability as the semester hits the doldrums of late-September and October, picking up steam again towards finals.  Things quiet down again in January.  And then the spring semester follows the same general tidal flow of the fall.  Summer is this strange, indefinable period, busy or not, depending on one's preference for summer school classes and the extra paychecks that come with them.

At any rate, I'm currently in the midst of the fall-semester-chaos time.  Interestingly, the classroom these days becomes a relative oasis of calm.  Granted, I'm still struggling to learn people's names and falling back on teacherly shorthand to call on people: "Tall guy!" "Barely-dressed girl!" "Skater-dude with hat!" "Stinky!"  But at least classes afford the opportunity to work from a script developed and perfected over years of teaching.  When I come back to my office, I'm besieged by a neverending series of small problems that, despite the relative insignificance of any one of them, cumulatively become overwhelming.  For the last week and a half, I have been constantly busy every day and yet feel as though I've accomplished nothing.

October can't come soon enough.

In Praise of the Stepfather

Those of you who read this column regularly know that virtually no one ever leaves comments.  Rest assured, I will have my vengeance on you all eventually.  One of the few (well, TWO) regular commenters, though, is a fellow named "Anonymous."  Beknownst to some of you, the mystery person behind most--though not all--of Anonymous's comments is none other than DOS--Dad of Solipsist.  To whom I would like to wish a Happy Father's Day.

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Growing up, I actually had two fathers.  Now, before I alienate my overwhelmingly right-wing, homophobic readership, let me hasten to add that the second father was in no way a threat to traditional marriage, being the stepfather whom my mother married after my parents divorced.  Take THAT, Focus on the Family! 

My parents divorced when I was about four, and Stepfather of Solipsist (SFOS) came along about three years after that.  He and my Mom got married when I was eight.  Born and raised in Brooklyn, SFOS was a good a gentle man; in the dictionary, under the word "Mensch" should be his picture.  He worked for New York's somewhat euphemistically named "Human Resources Administration"--better known as the Welfare Bureau, first as a case-worker then later as a supervisor.  His job, though, was just that: his job.  While he worked diligently and conscientiously, his job was basically just a source of income and camaraderie--not a real source of passion.

Passion was reserved for sports.  SFOS loved sports, basketball especially.  He played for the City University of New York at a time when that meant something more impressive than it does now--back when CUNY had no open admissions policy and basketball was actually played by Jews (no, honest!).  In high school SFOS played against none other than the future two-time NBA Hall of Famer (player and coach) Lenny Wilkens.  SFOS pointed out that Wilkens could never go to his left.  When asked, then, why SFOS couldn't just overplay him to his right, SFOS replied that he always did.  And?  "Didn't matter."

At the time SFOS and my mother got married, I was, as I mentioned, eight-years-old.  I had not been raised a sports fan.  I liked the Mets--because we lived in Queens--and my favorite player was Tom Seaver--because I had heard of him.  (Later, my favorite player was Mookie Wilson because, come on, "Mookie"!)  Sports, in fact, were something of a pain in my juvenile ass because invariably Sunday football games would go on past 7:00, interrupting the beginning of "Wonderful World of Disney."  (Yes, the nerdiness started young.)

As I grew older, I started to pay more attention to the sporting scene.  In the mid-80's, of course, the Mets got good.  SFOS and I could both thrill to the exploits of the young and godlike Dwight (not yet "Doc") Gooden.  SFOS, having grown up in Brooklyn, had been a Dodgers fan, so his National League allegiances transferred readily to the boys at Shea--as did my mother's Giants' allegiance.  One shudders to think what domestic strife would have ensued had both teams remained in New York.  Anyway, the three of us suffered together through the final agonizing days of the 1985 season, as the Mets fell just short of the Cardinals, and enjoyed the ride to the 1986 World Series title.

By the time the Mets won that title, however, I was away at college.  And while I was no longer around SFOS on a daily basis, his influence continued to be felt.  I started watching football regularly--what else was there to do on Sundays in Syracuse?  And I knew I had arrived at SFOS's level of enthusiasm when, during a Jets playoff loss, I expostulated on the coach's idiotic decision not to take a delay of game penalty late in the fourth quarter that would have set up a better punting situation and probably sealed a victory.  What had I become?!?

SFOS died in 1998--a heart attack.  At his funeral, I told a story about a day when I had gone in to work with SFOS.  This must have been in the late 1970s--possibly pre-"Kramer vs. Kramer"--when "step" families were not as common as they have since become.  At his office, SFOS had introduced me to a couple of people, explaining in agonizing detail exactly how I was related to him.  Later that day, when we went to lunch, SFOS asked if it would be all right if he simply introduced me as his son.  Sure, why not.

In the end, it was true, right?

. . .And It Was All a Dream

You ever have dreams where you wake up and think you're awake but you're really just dreaming that you've woken up?  That was my morning.  It was Saturday, so I was able to sleep in, which was lovely, but I kept dreaming that I was waking up.  Let me tell you: That gets your day off to a strange start.  For an hour or so after I got up, I kept making sure that I was actually awake by sticking my hand in a waffle iron.  After the sixth or seventh time I did this, WOS--who by now was sufficiently convinced that something was up aside from my "normal behavior"--asked what I was doing.  She pointed out that I could probably just pinch myself and achieve the same assurance of consciousness.  By this time, though, I was fairly convinced that I was, in fact, awake, and after a quick jaunt to the emergency room, I was able to get on with my day, including writing today's "Solipsist."  Now, time for a nap!

Regrets, I've Had a Few

When I was a child, I didn't care for baked potatoes.  French fries or nothing!  When I think back, now, on all the baked-potato-ey goodness I missed out on--all those gallons of sour cream and bacon bits and butter--I feel a great sense of loss.  Those are potatoes I will never get back.

Word of the Day: "Like"

Whenever Facebook introduces changes, people invariably complain.  At the risk, however, of causing major consternation in the social networking world, I would like to suggest a much-needed innovation.  Something needs to be done about the "Like" button.

As Facebookers know, when responding to someone's status or other postings, you currently have the option to leave a comment or, if you want to acknowledge the post without making the effort to write actual sentences, you can simply "Like" the entry.  This involves the highly complex procedure of clicking a button labeled "Like."  Interestingly, on Facebook, "Liking" is an active process: Once you "Like" something, the "Like" button changes to "Unlike," suggesting that, while you may instantly forget whatever it is you've just "Liked," you do, in some sense, continue "Liking" it indefinitely, as if in some remote corner of your subconscious, you continuously appreciate the fact that, say, your friend had a delicious dinner with Ralph and the kids.

Maybe you do.

At any rate, a problem arises when you wish to acknowledge a posting, a comment, a status update--when silence seems callous--and you don't really have anything to SAY about the post--words are superfluous--but somehow "Liking" seems inappropriate or insufficient.  Currently, you have no other options.

Twenty-three years ago today Libyan terrorists planted a bomb on Pan Am flight 103.  The plane blew up over Lockerbie, Scotland, killing everyone onboard as well as several people on the ground.  Thirty-five passengers on the flight were students from Syracuse University, including several friends and acquaintances of mine.  As you might imagine, several of my Facebook friends, also from Syracuse, have posted memorial comments on their walls today.  And I have nothing to add.

So I "Liked" the posts.  What else could I do?

Now I'm not suggesting that Facebook should--or even could--add buttons to express every possible emotional reaction to a friend's piece of news, much less to express the complex emotions one feels when confronted with important reminders of somber occasions.  But an "Agree" button would be a welcome addition.  Or even just a simple "Yes."

As for those people on Pan Am 103, especially Theo and Miriam, let me just say for now and always, "Like."

The Actor's Nightmare

You know that dream? It's the final exam, you haven't studied, and there's only two minutes left? Around the classroom, everyone else is casually scribbling away? And you're not wearing any pants? An unpleasant feeling. Except maybe for the not-wearing-pants part.

We're talking, of course, about anxiety dreams. And it may interest you to know that performers have their own variation of this dream, called, logically enough, the "actor's nightmare." In this dream, it's opening night, the curtain is about to rise, you are the lead, and not only have you not rehearsed, you've never even read the play! And you're probably not wearing any pants.

One doesn't have to be Freud to understand the source of such dreams. Performance anxiety is a fixture in cultures worldwide. As has been mentioned before in this space, the fear of public speaking is more common than the fear of death, and the most overwhelming aspect of this fear is that one gets up in front of an audience and is exposed as a charlatan, as a fake, as woefully unprepared.

Come back with us now to summer 1988. We had just returned to New York from Syracuse University, where we had been studying in the Drama Department. We had decided that we did not wish to continue studying acting, but, since we lived in the theater capital of the world, we thought we would take a shot and go on auditions. Somehow, defying everything we had ever heard from our drama teachers--words like "fundamental lack of talent" may have been uttered--we were successful in our first attempt. We tried out for, and were accepted into, the ensemble of the 13th Street Repertory Company--an established Off-off Broadway theater, the kind of hole-in-the-wall joint probably once used to house a sweatshop where Lithuanian immigrants labored secretively to produce horseshoes at the turn of the century, but which had since found second life and a measure of respectability as a place of culture. There, a steady stream of aspiring actors trod its boards, and there bohemian scribblers watched as their dramatic worlds came to life. And we joined this troupe in its production of a work of massive socio-psychological import, a world-altering cri de coeur, a dramaturgical Molotov cocktail hurled at the feet of bourgeois society!

The work in question? "The Rose That Refused to Bloom"!

Did we mention that we were cast in the Children's Theater Ensemble? We might have skipped that part. Still, a gig's a gig, and we were pleased to know that we would soon be entering the theatrical garden where. . . well, where a rose was refusing to bloom.

Actually "soon to be entering" is a bit imprecise.

See, the production was already running, but the director was looking to recast with fresh blood. There were three male roles in the show: the Snail, the Caterpillar, and the Boy (a role you might say we were born to play). We were sort of cast as the Caterpillar--kind of the male lead, actually--"sort of" because we were actually assigned to be the Caterpillar's understudy.

We like to tell ourselves that there are roles less impressive than "understudy to a Caterpillar," but thus far, we've found little evidence of that assertion. Still, it is how George Clooney got his start. . . .

Anyway, we were actually cast as the understudy to all THREE male parts, and we were also assured that we would have the opportunity to play the Caterpillar. We were even given a date some three weeks in the future when we would make our debut. So we weren't complaining too much. We went about learning the role and circled our calendar for the big day.

Now, a few days before what we were privately referring to as "The Day That Would Alter the Course of Theater History," we received a call from Woody, the first-string Caterpillar. He had been offered another "better" gig (???), and he was wondering if we would be willing to step into the role permanently. Well, what could we say? Everything was falling into place!

Saturday:

Barely able to contain our excitement, we arrived at the theater nearly three hours before curtain. We were sitting around, going over the script, thinking about what new and interesting depths we would plumb in the character of Alfred C. Pillars. The Third. Not too much later, the lady who was playing the "Sun" came in. She said, "Hey, Solipsist" (just go with it!), "you're playing the Caterpillar today?"

"Well, in fact," we replied, struggling to remain humble, "not only are we playing the Caterpillar today, but we are actually taking over the role permanently!"

"Oh, congratulations! You'll be great!"

"Thank you!"

"So," she went on, "who's playing the Snail?"

"What?"

"Who's playing the Snail?"

"Well, isn't Gene playing the Snail, like always?"

"No, Gene's not here today."

"Oh, uh, well, then JB must be playing the Snail." (JB played the Boy, and in previous productions, the Snail and Boy would be played by the same actor.)

"No, JB isn't going to be here today, either."

"Well, then. . . Who. . .? How. . . ?"

Then the Sun fixed me with her solar gaze and said, "Well, aren't you the understudy for all three roles?"

You may have noticed in this recounting the utter absence of anything resembling rehearsal. The Director, you see, was basically on his way out and had barely any time to rehearse the replacement cast, to say nothing of the understudy. Our "rehearsal," in fact, had consisted of watching the play a couple of times. And, in fairness, we had been so wrapped up in living the part of the Caterpillar that we had neglected to, y'know, learn the other two roles.

Back to Saturday:

"Uh, well, yes, we are the understudy for all three roles, but. . . Can that even WORK?"

We scrambled through our script and, after ascertaining that none of the male characters are ever on stage at the same time, we figured it COULD be done. We looked at the clock: Two hours to learn two roles. We could do this!

The Rose walked in a few minutes later:

"Hi, Solipsist. So you're playing the Caterpillar today?"

"Well, in fact, not only are we playing the Caterpillar today, but we are actually taking over the role permanently, only we just found out that Gene and JB aren't going to be here today, so we have to learn the Snail and the Boy really fast, so can't really talk, memorizing."

The Bee buzzed in a few minutes later:

"Hi, Solipsist. So you're playing the Caterpillar today?"

"WellinfactnotonlyareweplayingtheCaterpillartodaybutweareactuallytakingovertherolepermanently, onlywejustfoundoutthatGeneandJBaren'tgoingtobeheretodaysowehavetolearntheSnailandtheBoy reallyfastsocan'treallytalkmemorizing."

By the time the Daisy Twins showed up, we were. . . in a less than optimal mindspace:

"Yes. . .not just. . . Permanently! Gene, JB. . .not. . . Ack! Must learn. . . Can't talk. . . Memorizing."

Understand, on top of our not knowing our lines, we were about to attempt something that no one had ever attempted before: playing all three roles. This was scaling Mount Everest! This was a moonshot! This was a first term, African-American Senator with a funny name being elected President! THIS WAS NOT POSSIBLE! We'd say we were running around like a chicken with its head cut off, but headless chickens have more dignity.

Well, of course, it all worked out. With support from an incredibly patient cast and some unavoidable improvisation, the show went off relatively flawlessly. Indeed, my mother, who had come to see our New York debut and was expecting to see us only as the Caterpillar, assumed it was all some sort of diabolical plot on our part: "What, did you have somebody tied up backstage?"

We suppose we should conclude this narrative with some major life lesson: perhaps something about facing your deepest fears--we lived the "actor's nightmare" and came out OK on the other end. But we think the more important lesson here is, just because you're asked to understudy a Caterpillar, you should always--ALWAYS--prepare to be a snail.

Uneasy Lies the Head. . .

The Solipsist doesn't have much time today--he's been stuck in meetings all day, and he has to go teach in a few minutes. But he'll be damned--that's right, DAMNED--if he lets that break his uninterrupted blogging streak. So, today, just a brief post on the despair that goes along with management.

Some of you may have heard that our humble state of California is having some teensy-weensy budgetary issues. Have no fear, the Solipsist's position as Solano County Dog and Pheasant Wrangler is safe. The problem is that the Solipsist is in a managerial position, one that requires him to arrange a staffing schedule for part-timers--part-timers who look to the meager offerings that we dole out to help them make ends meet. Facing a budget reduction of approximately 75% (in actual terms), the Solipsist has had no choice but to dramatically reduce, and in some cases eliminate, his young staff's hours.

In many cases, we probably take it harder than our minions. After all, for them, this is just a part-time job, not meant as anything like a career path; and it's not as if we're firing them for egregious failure--they'll all get glowing recommendations. But it's disheartening. When one has striven over the last several years to build something up, only to see it decimated once it's reached a certain level of success. . . .

Such is life in the public sector. We struggle on.

In Memoriam

Miriam Luby Wolfe

Theodora Cohen

The quality of mercy is not strained . . . . We have to admit, we've never exactly understood that phrase. Oh, sure, we get the gist of it: Be merciful. It's a good thing. But what does it mean to not be "strained"--that you should be merciful easily? The next line--"It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven / Upon the place beneath--suggests that mercy is something that should come lightly, easily. . . .

It doesn't.

Back in 1988, just before Christmas, a Pan Am flight out of Heathrow blew up over the previously unknown town of Lockerbie, Scotland. Today, the Scottish government released Abdel Baset al-Megrahi, the only man ever convicted for participation in the bombing (who didn't even have the decency to be a suicide bomber), on compassionate grounds. He's dying of prostate cancer, and he was returned to his homeland, Libya, to die. Many of the victims' friends and families are understandably upset.

We have no compassion for Megrahi, but who cares--he'll be dead soon enough anyway, and he'll feel a lot more pain along the way than any of his victims. We give a big "thumbs up" to the Libyan people, who showed real class and dignity by giving this guy a hero's welcome. Hope you never need American help for anything.

We should mention here that the Solipsist knew some of the people on that plane. Among the 270 passengers on that flight were 35 students from Syracuse University--our partial alma mater--who were returning from their study abroad semester. Watching the Facebook commentary of our Syracuse classmates brings back the shock and fear of that December night. When the phone rang around 11:00 that night, we knew the news wasn't going to be good.

We knew two of the students in particular. Theodora (Theo) Cohen was one of the first people we met at SU, one of the first to befriend us. A real free spirit, who will live forever in our memory as a Midummer Night's Dream fairy, who--in her interpretation at least--was something of a cross between a spider and a cat, slitherbouncing across the stage, making a variety of chirping noises. RIP, Theo.

And then there was Miriam Wolfe--a scene partner, an "enemy," and, finally, a very dear friend. At first, she came across as a typical "theater geek"--someone desperate to prove that she belonged among her creative classmates. And since the Solipsist himself was just as insecure (though more wallflower than theater geek), we did NOT get along. But then, sophomore year, she returned to campus so joyous, so much more at ease with herself, so much more willing to have fun! YNSHC was determined to hold onto his grudge against her, until his roommate pointed out that he--the Solipsist--was being a shmuck. Miriam and YNSHC held an informal summit at Burger King and decided we could be friends.

And we were.

Miriam was actually quite the goofball--and we say that with nothing but immense affection--the world needs more goofballs. Once, when we were doing a scene with another classmate--a scene from As You Like It between Touchstone and the Goatherdess, Audrey--Miriam gamely volunteered to play a goat. She thoroughly upstaged the Solipsist, for which we still have not quite forgiven her, but what could we do? Talent won out.

But she still had insecurities. Once, after YNSHC had decided to leave Syracuse and turn his attention to more "reasonable" pursuits than acting, we had a long conversation with Miriam about dreams and goals. She actually said she envied--envied--us for the fact that we were not sticking with an acting major. She was apprehensive about the future--about what it would mean to devote her life to performing. But the fact is, she had no choice.

Several acting teachers, in one way or another, constantly gave us advice of this nature: If you can do anything--anything--other than act, do it. Because it's a hard life. But Miriam could only do that. Not that she wasn't intelligent or passionate enough to do other things, but that--acting, singing, dancing--was what she was born to do. She would have been out of place anywhere else.

On this day, it does no good to dwell on injustice. Remember the people who deserve to be remembered.

RIP, Miriam.