The Edge
I read a Judith Butler essay tonight called Contingent Foundations: Feminism and the Question of 'Postmodernism'. And I understood it! Unfortunately, I can't go into what she said, because I feel as though the foundation upon which my understanding rests will falter under the pressure and cause everything to topple.
So I'm just going to let it be. It's for my political theory class on Tuesday so I'll find out soon enough if I really did get it. In case you don't know anything about Judith Butler, just take my word for it that she is virtually impossible to understand unless you're one of these academics I encounter every once in a while who claim to have a deep understanding of her language. And who just puke into one another's mouths until the theories they're stroking are rendered completely useless because any semblance of authenticity has been removed as a result of too much regurgitaion.I hope I don't turn into one of these people. I was brushing my teeth last night and I had a thought. Like, what am I doing here?
I began thinking about the function of grad school. We sit in these classrooms, some of which have really bad art on the walls, and talk about shit. We talk about equality versus difference; about the development of cultural modes of behavior; about the failure of "man" to adequately develop from the savages who came before; about the non-existence of our autonomy. As I spit, I began feeling guilty about being a student in this esteemed institution of higher learning, this place where exiled professors safely regurgitated their philosophies. Some of us, perhaps most of us, will go into teaching at other esteemed institutions of higher learning. We will teach younger people like us the same things we learned.
And some new stuff will arise from these lectures. We'll write books that will be shelved in the many social science, history, political science, economics, sociology, and philosophy sections that comprise local corporate bookstores. Putting my toothbrush back in its holder, I wondered what it's all for. Teachers who were promised masters degrees at the end of their two-year terms in the NYC public school system are quitting from places like P.S. 4 in the South Bronx because they "just can't do it." Parents don't care their kids aren't learning. Or eating, even.
And the teachers are fed up with a system that doesn't support their efforts. Wages remain low and class sizes continue to increase. Trying to do the right thing no longer includes the kids. It means getting home safely. P.S. 4 is a hotbed of NYC emergency services vehicles just about every day. So yes the teachers are leaving. And no wonder: My friend's rich-ass grandmother donated an undisclosed amount of money, which undoubtedly contained a lot of zeros, to an already-rich Westchester bloody County private high school for a science lab.
As I flossed, I thought of the kids who don't have textbooks written in the last decade. And here we (me and the rest of my classmates) all sit, talking about it. And the books that those academics are writing are sitting on bookshelves going unread by the same growing number of illiterate 18-year-olds about whom they're being written. And even if they could read, academic language is absolutely inaccessible to the audience they purport (I mean "claim." Damn! See I do it, too) to target.
With my teeth clean and head now full of crap, I went to bed. But I kept thinking. When I'm done here, if I go back into a regular "9-5," what will all this have been for? I have no idea what I want to do. Writing? Whatever. Teaching? Not a chance. I don't claim to be a politician. I don't claim, in fact, to even know what the hell I'm talking about. But I know what I see when I'm on the train. And I'm wondering if these kids I see are getting the education that's promised them under our constitution. I think I may volunteer somewhere this summer. The Bronx. Brooklyn. Maybe try to help a kid. Or maybe I'll just go steal all the books from the schools in Westchester and find better homes for them. They've got a high tax base. They can just replace them.
And life goes on...I had to go to the grocery store tonight for some things, among which was a six-pack of Bass Ale. When I got to the counter, the woman (probably in her mid-20s) asked for my ID, something which is not uncommon. So I gave it to her. She looked at it carefully then looked at me. And she said "1973?" Yes, I replied. When do you think I was born? I asked. "More like 1983." Hmm. Of course I don't have a problem with the fact that I'm going to be 30 in less than five months. But to considered 19 years old? Nice.
It's 4:10 am (at least it is now). I'm in the study lounge right now. I've been here since midnight. I hate to admit this, but there was a table of about six women who were talking and designing things on their laptops. I felt a little competitive. I decided fairly early on that I was going to outlast them. I think it's my longing for solitude that fueled that freakish little game. They just left....i won....
