Earlier this week, an academic acquaintance of mine made a passing joke about a plot for a new television drama, parodying Breaking Bad, that follows "the
story of an uninsured English adjunct who gets a terminal diagnosis and
then starts cranking out really bad free verse that no one will publish.
He'll die in the first season, underemployed and inarticulate." It takes being within the adjunct ranks to appreciate the subtle, stinging humor behind such lampooning. Such a boring, repetitive plot would be abysmally terrible viewing for anyone not suffering from some sort of long-term memory disorder. But I'm also a tremendous aficionado of scathing, self-deprecating humor. It's the primary reason why I love Woody Allen films and it's the most consistent critique of myself that my closest friends vocalize to my face.
While trying to justify my lot in life through comically bad poetry would make for absurd black comedy (think Louie without the reprieve of occasional stand-up sequences), the universe also delivered a much darker plot to my virtual doorstep this week. Margaret Mary Vojtko, an 83 year-old adjunct in French at Duquesne University, died on September 1st after a 25-year university teaching career. Normally, such a story wouldn't be cause for much notice, but Vojtko's story is different because of the conditions of her life just before death. Despite her long service to her university employer, she died penniless, trying to recover from cancer while on the verge of being turned over to social services. With no benefits and no retirement, she was virtually homeless while still serving as a college professor. You can read more about her story here. It's a sad affair, filled with a stunning lack of gratitude or an abundance of pointless hand-wringing, depending on one's personal perspective. It also reminds me of one possible fate, were I to stay the current course and sail onward into the sunset.
Her story motivates parts of my soul to rise up with the other lumpenprofessoriat and demand more gratitude from our employers. It also motivates another part of me to pull up the tent stakes I've carefully hammered in place and move on to more fertile tracts of land. Aside from those large scale, life-altering contemplations, such a story gives me pause for reflection. Our lives, which we spend so much time carefully and meticulously constructing, look very different to outside observers. Some might see the potential for self-referential laughter, where we all chuckle nervously when the humor hits a little too close to home. Some might see the unfolding struggle of a lonely soul, impossibly disadvantaged by decisions that didn't work out, against the cold, monumental indifference of reality. Some might see nothing of value whatsoever, while others might settle into earnest fandom. Whatever the audience's response is to the performance of our lives, it's almost certainly not quite what we're hoping the play will engender.
That statement, depressing though it may seem, is a subtle reminder of the folly of trying to live to make the audience fall in love with you. They will or they won't. You cannot control their reaction to or interest in your life any more than they can yours. The true answer is to play the scene you're in as well as you can, in the best way you know how. In the spirit of that, and in the spirit of cranking out really bad free verse that no one will publish, I think I'll share something I've kicked around lately. I make no claims to its relative quality and I don't expect anyone to like it or critique it. With my spouse's birthday coming and going this weekend, I feel like it's appropriate to share something about the best gifts we've ever given each other. Judge all you like and feel free to make snide, clever remarks to your heart's content. I'll be here, playing the scene I'm in the best way I know how. Here's hoping this isn't a herald of my impending doom.
BEHOLDEN
I cannot imagine loving more
Any other souls, ancient or potential,
In a more pure, unspoiled way
Than I love both of you.
Yet I know, undoubtedly,
Your ever-flowing streams and
While trying to justify my lot in life through comically bad poetry would make for absurd black comedy (think Louie without the reprieve of occasional stand-up sequences), the universe also delivered a much darker plot to my virtual doorstep this week. Margaret Mary Vojtko, an 83 year-old adjunct in French at Duquesne University, died on September 1st after a 25-year university teaching career. Normally, such a story wouldn't be cause for much notice, but Vojtko's story is different because of the conditions of her life just before death. Despite her long service to her university employer, she died penniless, trying to recover from cancer while on the verge of being turned over to social services. With no benefits and no retirement, she was virtually homeless while still serving as a college professor. You can read more about her story here. It's a sad affair, filled with a stunning lack of gratitude or an abundance of pointless hand-wringing, depending on one's personal perspective. It also reminds me of one possible fate, were I to stay the current course and sail onward into the sunset.
Her story motivates parts of my soul to rise up with the other lumpenprofessoriat and demand more gratitude from our employers. It also motivates another part of me to pull up the tent stakes I've carefully hammered in place and move on to more fertile tracts of land. Aside from those large scale, life-altering contemplations, such a story gives me pause for reflection. Our lives, which we spend so much time carefully and meticulously constructing, look very different to outside observers. Some might see the potential for self-referential laughter, where we all chuckle nervously when the humor hits a little too close to home. Some might see the unfolding struggle of a lonely soul, impossibly disadvantaged by decisions that didn't work out, against the cold, monumental indifference of reality. Some might see nothing of value whatsoever, while others might settle into earnest fandom. Whatever the audience's response is to the performance of our lives, it's almost certainly not quite what we're hoping the play will engender.
That statement, depressing though it may seem, is a subtle reminder of the folly of trying to live to make the audience fall in love with you. They will or they won't. You cannot control their reaction to or interest in your life any more than they can yours. The true answer is to play the scene you're in as well as you can, in the best way you know how. In the spirit of that, and in the spirit of cranking out really bad free verse that no one will publish, I think I'll share something I've kicked around lately. I make no claims to its relative quality and I don't expect anyone to like it or critique it. With my spouse's birthday coming and going this weekend, I feel like it's appropriate to share something about the best gifts we've ever given each other. Judge all you like and feel free to make snide, clever remarks to your heart's content. I'll be here, playing the scene I'm in the best way I know how. Here's hoping this isn't a herald of my impending doom.
BEHOLDEN
I cannot imagine loving more
Any other souls, ancient or potential,
In a more pure, unspoiled way
Than I love both of you.
Yet I know, undoubtedly,
Your ever-flowing streams and
Your delicate blackbird wings
Will carry you to places I cannot conceive.
So I enjoy the momentary respite
When you babble and run past my tree and
When you bring bright blue ribbons
To my dull, grey nest.
Stay longer, sing longer, be not so quick
To devour my admiration so fully and
To flee, fat-bellied and pleased,
Without kissing me goodbye.
So I enjoy the momentary respite
When you babble and run past my tree and
When you bring bright blue ribbons
To my dull, grey nest.
Stay longer, sing longer, be not so quick
To devour my admiration so fully and
To flee, fat-bellied and pleased,
Without kissing me goodbye.
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