Professorial Flatulence

All right. So I went to see my gender professor yesterday. After only getting only four hours of sleep -- my own fault -- I got out of bed, painfully made my way to the coffee pot, and hurriedly read through the final few pages that I am to present/lead/teach/whatever on Tuesday afternoon.

Upon my arrival, Elaine (the prof.) was in her office with a boy who is in my class. He's an undergrad. One of two in the class. So I waited. Ten minutes after my scheduled time to arrive, she was finally available for our meeting. I walked in, and began a discussion with her about the readings. We talked about the infighting of the feminist movement of the 70s -- the whites vs. the blacks, the blacks vs. the blacks, the lesbians (white and black) vs. the heterosexuals (white and black), the radical lesbians vs. the plain ol' non-radical lesbians.

I expressed my relief at not having been involved in all that as well as my frustration at the continued existence of such factions. Anyway, I asked her what she expected of me on Tuesday. A lecture? A presentation? A discussion? Her words of wisdom to me were: "Just bring in some good questions and be prepared for silence." OK. Whatever.

Then, somehow, for some reason (I can't remember now) we broached the topic of interracial relationships. Now, being a big fan of them myself apparently, I was curious as to what she was getting at. She said, "I have a very good friend named Cheryl Clarke. She's a poet. African American. And she lives with [lives with?] a white woman. She always has in fact. There's definitely a choice that is going on there. It's very interesting. And, I have two very good African American male friends who also live with white men. And they're older, as well. They've lived together a long time."What the hell? I didn't pursue that discussion. I was growing increasingly intolerant of her inability to talk like a human being. For a woman in her (easily) early sixties (for her sake, at least, I hope so) who is a professor of history/gender at a progressive university in a liberal arts department to talk of gay couples as "living with" one another annoyed me. And to make such a comment regarding the choice involved in "participating" in an interracial relationship to me seems just as ignorant as someone choosing only to date within one's "race."

Give me a fucking break. Every day, I am reminded that I am a political being. By challenging the binaries that constitute our society, I am taking a stance. I guess what bothers is that I am reminded of it by stupid comments. When race, sexuality, gender, and class are discussed, I am a part of every point that is raised. It's getting old. Very shortly after changing the subject by bringing the discussion back to Tuesday, she looked at her watch and began to pack up to go teach a class. She stood up, walked over to her file cabinet and, with her ass less than three feet from my face (I was sitting in a chair), let it rip (apparently unbeknownst to her). Stunned, I had hoped that what I heard was the noise I was creating from running my thumb along the pages of the book I was holding. My contentment with this alternative was short-lived, though, because not 30 seconds later, I heard it again. It was neither me nor my thumb. Trapped against the wall, still in my seat, I panicked. I figured I had a few seconds before my nose would be violated. I never did take off my jacket, so luckily I would save time with that. Now holding my breath, I stood up and stepped through the polluted air. Not stopping to put my things away, I wished her a good weekend -- still holding my breath.  Kill me before I lose control of my ass, please. After this, I had an hour to kill before attending a diversity lunch. This week was about gays. Lunch was being served so I definitely had to go. We had a good discussion over pasta, broaching topics such as labels, identity and history. I met a guy named John who works in the health services department at New School. He's really awesome and incredibly smart, so I'm going to try to become friends with him. There was also a woman there, Desiree, who works in the library and also at the Lesbian Herstory Archives in Brooklyn. I'm gonna try to check that out. After this, I saw some friends in the cafeteria in the GF, talked about money and New York, and then I read for a bit before going to see another professor. Elzbieta. She's in her 50s and is fortunately still in control of her ass. She also has a bottle of vodka in the closet in her office. I'm gonna have to get in with her. She's my culture professor, you may remember, and she will most likely be my thesis advisor. She's getting me started on getting grounded in identity theory, so that I may reach my own conclusions and, perhaps, develop my own theory. She had me start with Julia Kristeva, a woman everyone says is difficult to read. She also gave me a manuscript that her friend wrote and sent her called Identity in Transformation: Postmodernity, Post-Communism and Globalization. She told me to skim through the 368 pages and to treat it nicely. With this and after getting a book from the library, my bag was really heavy. I have to read Rousseau's Discourse on the Arts and Sciences for Elzbieta's class. She said I looked lost the other day. It couldn't possibly have been because I was thinking of the first scene of the play I am working on. She was talking about Vico. I wasn't into it. I'll think about my play outside of class from now on.  Plays, you say? Last night, I went to one. Well, it was actually week two of the Actors Studio repertory season. The third-year students (actors, playwrights, and directors) all have to do their theses. So every week until the middle of May, there will be performances. And they're free. They are three 30-minute pieces. Two of them sucked and one was awesome. The third one sucked the most. It was from the play A Coupla White Chicks Sitting Around Talking. Or something like that. I caught a glimpse of James Lipton with his head resting on his fist. I'm not sure he was enjoying it, either. The awesome one was four sketches from a satirical play called The Colored Museum. The first piece is called "Git on Board." What they are "gitting" on board is the Celebrity Slaveship. Hilarious. I wish I could see the whole thing. That was Thursday. I was gone for 15 hours, walking through slush (which I actually don't mind, despite the fact that I stepped in a deceptively shallow hole the other night -- it wasn't shallow) with a heavy bag in tow and an uncooperative jacket. I'm procrastinating. I have to read some chapters from Carol Gilligan's book In a Different Voice: Psychological Theory and Women's Development and write a response to it. So I'm gonna go do that now.