F-ing the Lie
3
I write this in prison. Some might think teaching in prison a dangerous line of work, and I usually tell such people that it is safer than teaching high school (which I truly feel, having substituted for high school teachers). Actually, there are twelve institutions here, individual prisons on the huge acreage, and I teach at only one of them. Driving past the entry gate is rather like passing a toll booth, where they check my parking permit. I move on a mile to my institution, to a parking lot, walk through a second check station, where they stamp my hand with invisible ink, then on to a third check, where they scan my hand for invisible ink. After two and a half years, I barely notice the various metal detectors or slamming metal gates. During the day class, the place is often crowded with guards, transportees and visitors, but in the evening almost no one is about. During the days, some guards who do not know me call the school or ask for my I.D. But, at night, it is a pleasant walk, where guards wave “hello” and gates open almost as at A&P for me. Since daylight savings time (or after DST since I can never recall which is which), it is dusk when I arrive and the inmates have been placed in their dorms. At 5:30, the guards perform a count, after which inmates with reason to be in the yard, such as night students, are allowed out of their rooms.
While working here is seldom dangerous, it is, at times, frustrating, especially because of the count, which can last over an hour. The delay expands my waiting, which is too heavy in my life anyway. I feel a slow count, since there was an “incident” here Monday (a stabbing and a mini-riot), and the prison was “locked down” due to it. Tonight is the last night of the semester, and I plan to show a video of Willa Cather’s “Paul’s Case.” We should have discussed the story Monday, but, for obvious reasons, could not, and I am certain most of my eight students have not read the it. Outside the room, in the empty office of the principal and vice principal, there is a phone I could use to call E., but I do not know what to say:
“I enjoyed lunch. When can we do it again?”
“I’m in prison. What’s new with you?”
“Let me be the father to your child.”
“Why did you turn away when I tried to kiss you?”
“Why didn’t you show up for class this morning? I know you knew you’d passed, but I wanted to see you.”
I should call. Instead, as with my life, I will wait.
My father says, “If you wait for life to happen to you, it never will. You must go out and grab it.” Of course, the words are rather ridiculous coming from him, a hermit. Perhaps, the opposite is true, that life must be allowed to happen, and if it is sought, it will evaporate. I think I am routinely early because I prefer waiting to being waited for, and because I neither want to seek and find life nor let it happen–I desperately want to avoid it, if I can. Somewhere in me, a fear of it harasses me, and I feel I can stay ahead by arriving early. My practice has given me much time to think and has fostered a mind that might have been brilliant if disciplined, but rather, over time, has drifted into a self-absorbed, inventive state.
E., I know, is a momentary escape, and the relationship will pass, just as will my concern for the failed class. While I do not love her or desire to be her child’s father, the notion of doing some thing or being some one fascinates me so much I can think of little else, but I must. Perhaps, clarifying my perception of food and eating, alluded to earlier, might help us both.
Many people (perhaps most) feel certain foods taste “good.” Nature has provided, I say, taste to identify foods that are ruined and could cause bodily harm if ingested; hence, taste is part of the digestive system. To a lesser degree, taste can give a degree of pleasure or displeasure, as many stimuli can. Foods can remind people of past events, happy or sad ones. I have no argument with these appreciations of taste or food. But, for many people (perhaps most), the goodness of taste comes simply because other people enjoy food. Those who make an ado about food baffle me, paying such regard to one half of digestion, glorifying it, while being embarrassed about the other half. I have a similar attitude to most inventions culture has devised, including the growingly ritualized enjoyment of material goods and of sex. My point here is that certain processes can be enjoyed and stimulate our creation, but most people actually enjoy what the cultural filter recreates. Hence, as a people, we have recreation, rather than create. More concretely, you might grasp Native American mores. While you may not totally comprehend the people, you know many of them had no concept of ownership or money. In a transcendental way, they were part of the universe, and placed little preference to one aspect of it over another. The breeze was good, the breeze could destroy, the breeze was the breeze. I am not transcendental in thinking, but food, sex, money and the like, have judged worth, not inherent value.
All this while, the guards have been counting and the intercom has just announced, “Count is correct” (which may give you solace this evening if you live nearby [though "now" will be "long ago" for you]). It is 5:55. In a few minutes, the prisoners will be allowed out of their cells to become students for a while, and here they will become an audience for Willa Cather’s story, which they probably have not read. I need to find the television, VCR and tape. Tomorrow, I will transcribe this to my computer, and then move on.
# # #
I have just completed copying my thoughts to disk, keeping my revision to a minimum (except I included a new chapter–Two, which I hope you read) since the agent told me what he did (although this work is an autobiography–not a novel [although, in truth, it is just that, but none of that should matter to you.]) In spite of my high hopes of remaining honest, I must admit I did lie to you in promising to return the next day. That would have been Thursday, since the prison class was on Wednesday night. Today is Sunday. The reason for that delay is unimportant–my car. (Recently, I received my Pontiac Fiero from a mechanic [whom I will call Z-1] after ten weeks of work. I took it to him, because the car would not start when hot, but only sometimes, of course. It has been a tedious problem for for some time. He worked weekends. Four weeks later, I tired of him and demanded my car. He complied, one Sunday afternoon, at dusk, bringing it home, without any lights. Probing for the cranking problem, evidently, he short- circuited the vehicle. He kept the car, in search of my lights, for a total of ten weeks. With only headlights still dark and a headlight door stuck open, my car was returned. A garage located the headlights in an hour for $130. Still. the car refuses to start when hot, sometimes.).
# # #
I called E. Friday. She was busy with a customer and asked me to call back Monday. She stressed the word “call,” and I think she meant it.
I called Monday. She was out of the store.
I called Tuesday. She was in, but working with a vendor, a seller of porcelain palm trees. I called back later. She was at lunch. (I am worried about my phone bill.)
# # #
Another Wednesday, and I sit a new Hardee’s, one I do think I have never visited before, trying not to think about a call an hour ago. Monday, I gave two exit exams and a final, from 8:00 a.m. to 8:00 p.m. (total time–not actual). Tuesday was lazier, with one exam. Today, we had our second chance grading session.
Exit exams are graded by committee. Teachers read exams from other classes, passing or failing the essays on merit, rather than the students’ class performances. In my classes, all who should have passed did, as did many who should not. Of my class who once failed completely, gave me Ziggy-in-the-Far Side thoughts and served as impetus for beginning this autobiography, the nine who had ability won freedom from Developmental Composition, somewhat reversing my own sense of failure.
I am usually shy in grading sessions, listening while teachers speak about our standards for assessing the students’ work, what exactly our minimums should be, listening while some disagree, or agree, or simply think out loud to everyone about whatever they happen to be thinking about, listening while some get angry that the benchmark is too low, listening while some take notes, listening while some gain insight despite having gone through the session many times (I have gone through thirteen, I think), listening to my tummy rumble (I was hungry), listening to my own daydream with E. (we saw a movie). Eventually, all instructors are satisfied that no one is satisfied, so we begin, and read papers just as we always have, with or without the earlier part of the session.
My bearing at the grading session was odd for me. Through the talking and the reading, my quiet attitude was the same as always, but during a break, I was jollier, having had a good, imaginary adventure with E., and eager to enter a conversation simply to hear voices, including my own. A teacher, Z-2, must have sensed my receptiveness and asked me about football, more specifically about a fantasy football league. I knew about the practice of cataloging players’ statistics, but had never participated in such a game, and told her so.
“I heard some professors talking about one,” she said, and took a sip of cola.
It seemed to me the conversation was over before my enthusiasm for hearing words, so I said, “Wish I knew more about it.” (I need practice with conversation.)
“It doesn’t matter, of course,” Z-2 said.
“From what I’ve heard it sounds like fun–fantasy football, that is.”
“I wouldn’t know. I hate football.”
Her statement confused me. I wondered why she brought up the subject at all.
“Uhm,” she began. “Did you apply for that full time position last fall?”
“Yeah. Same as always. I’ll get the rejection from personnel in a few months.”
I must have stumbled onto the knack of conversation, as my tone of frustration with the administration encouraged Z-2. She spoke for several minutes about her unhappiness with the system–the adjunct system–its pay scale, work demands, and the like. I have known Z-2 for two years, and I knew she was disenfranchised with adjunct teaching from other comments she had made, but the leap to that subject from football was odd. She continued for a few minutes, then returned to the room to read.
Now, I sit at this new Hardee’s, one where I am not known, trying to make sense not of Z-2′s comments, but rather of a call with E. after the session.
E. and I spoke somewhat longer than my past few attempts, but to the same ends–her delay. I should say that I note no animosity or reluctance in her voice. She does not sound as if she wants me to stop calling. In fact, there is a sincere and enthusiastic tone, as if she enjoys me, and is friendly to me. (After all, it is friendship I most want.) Nor do I hear any sign that she recognizes her delays are maddening to me (which seems anyone should at least acknowledge after delaying another so often). She talked about customers and co-workers, and I about the session and Z-2′s disillusionment, hoping E. to realize that my concerns about teaching were not unique and that I was not a complainer. Again, she asked me to call back.
It is as if I am searching for something far greater than she can give, willing to accept much less than she could offer, and being denied even that. I have often faced each of these–grandiose expectations, diminutive rewards, and vague rejection. But, the combination she extends overwhelms me and has become center to most of my thinking. I am fully aware I must not call back for the protection of my sanity (what little I own). I know my personality type is subject to fixation and obsession. (I saw Fatal Attraction. I do not mean that kind of obsession.) It is not even to this woman that my thoughts keep returning. I think about, dream of, yearn for the other thing, the friendship, the caring, the mutual esteem. I know I should stop so thinking and dreaming and yearning. I should stop and let whatever is to happen to take its course.
# # #
Friday. I am on hold. A perfume deliverer has a smashed crate. I am in Grander’s Writing Center, closed for the holidays. Adjuncts are allowed to use it as office space. I am at one of their computers, jotting notes, while I wait. It must be a small gift shop. They do not have Muzak.
I have mentioned very little about my father although my relationship with him is far from unimportant to me. He is an ebullient, aging, bastard of a man, who does not want to need me, who needs me, and who treats me like a teenager. We seldom converse for long periods of time. Instead, we tend to speak when needed. We seldom argue beyond the first half of some sentences, as we see ourselves in the other and grow quiet. Otherwise, I do not know if I know him.
(I am still on hold.)
Perhaps, he is senile, but he has been this way as long as I can remember. He hid it better when my mother was alive. Or else, he is proud of me, proud, but embarrassed of breaking a macho attitude in telling me. He tells me he is proud just as he showed pride in my grades in college, with sincerity, but with greater concern for his paternity than for my maturity. Or else, he thinks I am using him by staying there. Or else, he loves me wholly, and I him.
(E. broke in for a moment to ask me to forgive her, then replaced me on hold.)
I do not know my father, at all.
The most basic, most real, and most obvious characteristic about our relationship is the fact that he views me as a teenager, and he has no reason not to, as I have never acted like anything else when I am around him. I have never given him details about my life, have not told him about E., have not told him about being drunk with one of the most renown writers in America (who told me what life is), or have told anything that my father did not need to know to interact with me as a human on a daily basis. I do not know why I tell him so little, except I am certain the me he has created in his mind is better than the one I am, and my telling him who I am would only disappoint him greatly. On this singular fact, I am certain: In my refusal to talk with him and in my cohesion to him, I have built a life few can understand, have forfeited the pleasures and problems of existence (foods, taste, dating, et al), rationalizing away my loss, but hungry for what I am missing.
Less philosophically, he knows after high school I went to college, and my that my major was anthropology, and that I went back to a different college years later for a Masters degree in writing, knows I quit after the first year and moved back into his and my mother’s house, knows that I returned to school, knows I called one weekend a year after my mother died, and knows I moved back with him. He also knows what I do for a living and that I plan to start trucking school soon (I believe I told Edwin this also), because I do not think we (my father and I) could eat breakfast together without him having some of that knowledge. If I marry E., I will tell him and bring her to meet him. I am sure he will be amazed, me suddenly with a bride and life, will extend a naval cordiality and politely will drop dead.
Or else, he will not.
(I am still on hold.)
A ninety two year old man, my father stands five foot ten and commands an aggressive, military posture when in the presence of anyone other than me. With me, he stoops a bit, uses chairs to aid his walking, and coughs up from his two-packs-a- day lungs. He watches a good deal of television, especially the news, religiously taking in local broadcasts at 6:00 a.m., 12:00 p.m. and 6:00 p.m., as well as Peter Jennings, McNeil-Lehrer, David Brinkley on Sunday mornings and Sixty Minutes on Sunday nights. Edwin gave us cable as a Christmas present last year, and my father often watches CNN during the days. Otherwise, he enjoys jigsaw puzzles, although recently he has begun using the variety with large pieces due to his worsening arthritis. Overall, I am impressed by the man, despite our relationship.
Part of that relationship is the most typical relationship between any offspring and any parent in America, today or ever, so typical it is astounding and bizarre. We are strangers, although I cook for him, launder for him, talk to him and sit in the same room with him daily. We have not the first clue of the other’s humanity, yet we love the other fiercely, never saying so aloud. Despite the fact that most of my reasons for living in that house are finacial (such as rent), a part of my giving the decade of my thirties to him, forfeiting all social life for him, secluding myself with him, is altruistic. At the same time, I cannot stand the man, partly because whenever I leave on rainy days, he advises me to take an umbrella although I have one in my hand (which in itself is nothing, but it represents his inability to accept of me as an adult), and partly because of the life I renounced. Still, I cannot stand the man most, I think, because I cannot escape him.
E.: I’m back. (Apologetic.) Sorry. The perfume seeped on half the shipment of Carolina Panthers T-shirts. They’re ruined.
Me: You can’t talk?
E.: No, it’s okay. It’s the shipper’s fault. (Pre-occupied.)
Me: Well, I wondered if you wanted to try lunch again.
E.: It’s so busy this time of year.
Me: All right. (Cognizant.) I’ll call you next semester. (Closure of conversation.)
E.: No. When are you free? (Concerned?)
Me: Always.
E.: Monday? But, I hate you to make you wait that long.
Me: That’s fine. (Suspicious.)
E.: I have to shop for Dad. I’m off Monday. The mall? The food court? Noon?
Me: All right. (Overwhelmed.)
