Pimpgnosis

Lo these many years ago, in the far off time of 2003, when the second internet boom was just starting to lift off, and yet the nation still lay under the miasmatic haze of post-9/11 foreign policy paranoia….

A no-longer young man and his partner moved from Boston to Texas.

A year later — on November 5th, 2004, precisely — this no-longer young man and his partner awoke and realized that they needed to leave Texas.

It took them 3 years to do so.  During which time they accumulated many experiences.  Most of them edifying, to be sure.  Many of them calorific, and not a few of them chock full of addictive substances.

Until the bright spring days during which everything fell into place: they put their house on the market and received an offer within 24 hours.  Da Partner submitted his resume to a job posting on Monday at 9 a.m. and had a job offer in hand by 3 p.m. on Friday.  The no-longer younger man realized that there were things he loved more than academia, and these things included Da Partner, and his sanity.

In 2007, this no-longer younger man and his partner moved to the promised land of California.  And there they took on the trappings of adult life: they entered into well-paying professions, bought a house, travelled to Europe.

Planned to start a family.

In fact, in or around the summer of 2010, they entered into certain contractual arrangements with an adoption agency, the stated end-point of which was for RBL and Da Partner to become fathers.

Fast forward three years, and RBL and Da Partner are not yet fathers, and see no near-term prospects of becoming fathers.

What then, are RBL and Da Partner to do?

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The ghoul has resurfaced.

Apparently it took him all of 10 days — 10 days! — to cyber-stalk my CV and determine that I had submitted an article on A Topic Very Dear to His Heart to a peer-reviewed journal.

At which point he immediately asked me for a courtesy copy of said article.

A request which I denied.

Why?  Two pieces of context:

1.) The manuscript which he requested is technically under review, and so it is not exactly clear if it would be appropriate to share it with anyone other than the editor(s) and whoever he/she/they choose to review it.

2.) The last time this person had the opportunity to review my work, he accused me directly and explicitly of gross professional misconduct.

To put the matter succinctly: Mr. Ghoul, you may review my work when and only when you pry it out my hands through main force or subterfuge, or under such circumstances as I choose entirely of my own free will.

Or, if you need an executive summary of the matter:  Fuck. You.

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Dear Sir/Madam,

When you have to make a presentation for your superiors, here’s a little advice:

#1.) Do not tell people what you are going to tell them in the future.  Instead, restrict yourself to what you intend (and are prepared) to talk about today.  When you tell people what you are going to tell them in the future, that means (surprise!) they want to talk about it today.  Why?  Because you brought it up, that’s why.

#2.) Do not give people two choices, and do not do so especially when you give people all of two business days to read up about those two choices, and do not do especially when you give people no real sense of the pros and cons of those two choices.  Either (a) give people choices, with plenty of time to mull them over, and a business case for both, or (b) give people one choice, with a business case for just that course of action.  Actually, prepare for (a), but then in the event just do (b).  Why?  Because then when the people whose responsibility it is to make decisions come up with choice (c) — which is to say, choice (a), but they came up with it on their own — you can combine the advantages of toadying to the powerful with having done your homework.  The worst of all possible worlds is what you did — call it choice (d), snowing them with decontextualized choices and difficult-to-interpret oral presentations — because doing that leads to the policy makers making no choice at all.  This may seem like an advantage, since you will likely get to make the actual choice. But actually this is really a disadvantage, since your bosses end up feeling like you mal-prepared them for a public decision-making process.

And that, my friend, is a no-no.

Anywho, just thought I’d share my $0.02.  Have fun!

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When I went to my 15 year reunion (gack!) I listened to a couple of people now working in finance — or finance-adjacent — jobs talk about how being able to watch a movie and see the “double meaning in that” was awesome.

About how they were so thankful that they’d gone to college, so that they could see the “double meaning in that.”

How thankful they were that they could see beyond the trivial.

The shallow.

The ridiculous.

The pathetic shadows on the wall of life.

….

You know what the hardest part of listening to this conversation was?

How much I agreed with it.

How much I couldn’t find any reasonable grounds on which to disagree with it.

How much it made absolute sense, given what I faced then (and now) in the pathetically trivial pace of life, the quotidian banality of it all. The numbing stupidity of most of what crosses my path.

…..

I listen to my students discuss how much of an effect class has on whether one graduates from college (or GPA in college, or GPA in high school, or whether one aspires to graduate school, or what one’s career aspirations are — it’s all the same, really), which is a standard sociological question.  And then I hear them talk about how they “disagree” with the fact that class background affects current class position.

As if established empirical relationships were matters with which one could “agree” or “disagree.”

As if facts were negotiable.

As if, as if (jumping jiminy christmas on a goddamned pogo stick), post-modernism really had won, and there was no position (except pure power) from which to claim authority over even something so basic as the standard sociological truism that what your father does for a living has a powerful effect on what you will spend the rest of your life doing.  A truism, by the way, which has been “true” since before my discipline was ever named, much less organized enough to publish articles on something that has been the subject of literature and plays for hundreds of years.

And yet, and yet.  Evidently this is a matter over which reasonable people can disagree.

……..

Or yet, take another example.  One of the activities in which I ask my students to engage is to write down a paragraph about where they imagine themselves to be, 10 years from now.  To be quite honest, the point of the exercise is to get them to connect their life goals with the class, at least on an implicit level. The actual content of the goals — which interesting in and of themselves — are rather beside the point.

Or, which is to say the same thing with a different value inflection, it’s rather beside the point that first-semester seniors at a third-tier public university expect to be lawyers.  Or doctors.  Or make $90,000/year doing “something,” the actual specific content of which is unspecified when they are asked to imagine what, precisely, it would take to make $90,000/year.

It is ever and always a conundrum on my part, how precisely to say to students in my class that I am ever, and always, happy to offer the career advice, but — and this is a big but — they are ultimately the authors of their own destiny, and career advice about how to get into law school when you can barely pass my class may be somewhat inutile.

….

A student of mine recently told me that he was going to take a year off after graduating, and then return to take a class — “to keep things fresh,” he said.  He asked me what class he should take, so that he wouldn’t “go crazy, bored at home with nothing to think about.”

A question like this is somewhat sad, when you think about it.  This is a fellow who took 10 years to get his BA, after having moved across the country, discovered racism through volunteering for the Republican Party, flunked out of one school, started a family, and then sold cars through the boom of the early oughts.   This is someone who is seeking some insulation against the barrenness of our culture, a a liveliness with which to fill the fundamental vacuousness that lies at the heart of most Americans’ lives.

At the time, I could only give him that most American of answers — namely to suggest that he think about what goal taking the course should serve, and so decide that way.

What seriously wrong-headed answer that was. A student asks me for inspiration, and I give them practicality.   Sigh.

….

How could I possible tell the truth in such a situation?  That the only proof I know of against the primacy of fact is narrative?  That we tell ourselves stories in order to live, and taking continuing ed courses is a sad, say way of engaging in the improvisational theatre of adulthood?  That the only method I have found so far of “keeping it fresh” is to read, and to write, and always to fill up my head with everything I can possible find that smacks of the shock of the new?

In the event, I recommended theory.  Which seemed a better way of inventing new tales to tell than either methods or social psych.

*Frances Cornford, by way of Alan Bennett.

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Dear Person #1,

A few observations about your recent behavior:

When Person #2 else tries to tell me that you are stupid, and I offer you the opportunity to correct Person #2′s accusation, first privately and then publicly, and you decline these opportunities, I have very little choice but to assume you are a fucking idiot.

Furthermore, when Person #2 tries to tell me that you are lazy, and I offer you the opportunity to correct Person #1′s accusation, first privately and then in front of your boss, and you decline these opportunities, I have very little choice but to assume you are a slothful cow.

Finally, when you engage in nonsensical jokes and impertinent giggling during a meeting in front your boss, Person #2, and Several Other Very Important People, I have very little choice but to infer that you are diabetic, alcoholic, or otherwise seriously impaired.

Sincerely yours,

RBL

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It is true, that reading a play is completely different from watching it performed.

The visuals are powerful, and tend to override purely mental images.

On the other hand, because the visuals are so powerful, it is more straightforward to form an emotional connection (or, by the same token, sever such a connection) to a character.

When reading The History Boys I, (of course!) identified with Posner, the gay kid.  Despite being, well, Christian and whatnot.

However, when watching The History Boys I (of course!) identified with Scripps, the Episcopalian journalist.

Lord love a duck, let the record reflect that I identify neither with Irwin, nor with Hector.

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…is how easily the words to the Episcopalian liturgy come.

I leave, invoked only implicitly, the lyrics to Psalm 51.

Starting at line 15, I mean.  Of course.

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That barest minimum rung on the ladder of the professional middle class,

That most pathetic, and yet most powerful, gatekeeper in our collective social garden of good and evil,

That simpering angel with the flaming sword, who can, with the flick of her wrist, bless you with a fruitful family or banish you to everlasting barrenness,

The social worker.

To wit: Da Partner and I have now been waiting, patiently, for 3 years, to adopt.

Three years in which, at the beginning, we received semi-regular enquiries from women in various situations wondering as to our fitness to take on a burden they were contemplating passing on to someone else.

These enquires came steadily at first, but have lately declined in frequency and seriousness.  We do not count as serious those enquiries that come to us from persons purporting to be born in the U.S. but lately living in, say, the Central African Republic, and who found us “through His grace” and who have a “powerful feeling” that we are the “chosen one’s of God” (note the usage error).

I wonder which particular circle in hell is reserved for people who try to scam adoptive parents?  Is it the circle of the avaricious (not so bad, if you read Inferno closely)?  Or the circle of liars? (somewhat worse, if I recall correctly).

Anywho.  Where was I?  Oh, yes, talking about what bitchez social workers are.

So Da Partner and I have been waiting for three years (did I mention it was three years?) to adopt.  During which time we operated under the assumption that in order to have the good opinion of our adoption agency, we should act as the kind of clients we would want.

Smart.  Self-assured.  Capable.  Worry-free.

This was, in the words of some nameless wit, a Big Fucking Mistake.

It turns out that if you want to get a social worker’s attention, you need to be dumb, naggy, needy, and neurotic.

You need, in other words, to squeak as loud as you fucking can in order to get a quick shot of baby to shut you the fuck up.

Silent, hard-working, nice people don’t get shit.  They are expected to keep on rolling, rolling along. It’s the needy, naggy barren suburban soccer moms who get the grease.

This was brought powerfully home to me about a month ago when Da Partner enquired with our agency as to how many of our shiny nice profile letters had been sent out to prospective birth parents.

The agency replied with statistics that belonged to someone else with the initials “D.P.”

This did not encourage confidence in us that our agency had any blessed idea who the hell we were, after we had been waiting three fucking years to adopt.

Did I mention we’ve been at this since I was 36?  And now I’m 39?  That my parents will likely be DEAD before they see their grandchildren graduate from college?

Anywho.  So we called the agency up and said, in so many words, “no, we’re not that D.P.  We’re the OTHER D.P.  You know, the ones who’ve been on your books for THREE YEARS, and still no baby.  So let’s talk, shall we?  Let’s sit down with this glossy 8 page pamphlet you had us develop, and re-work it.”

That meeting occurred this week.  And boy howdy was that a Waste of My Fucking Time.

Shall we start with the bit where the social worker told us that we had to include more “pictures with women?”

Or shall we start with the bit where she told us that we should drop every picture that included my mother and grandmother?

Or shall we start with the bit where she told us that we should include more pictures of us, with each other, and/or with our dog?

Or shall we start with the bit where she told that it would be really helpful if we had more pictures with children?

Or shall we start with the bit where she told us to take out all of the pictures of our extended families — which is to say, all of the pictures that actually have kids in them — because, and I quote, “you need more people of color.”

So, let’s see: more girls, but not these old hags who clearly shouldn’t be in the picture literally or figuratively.  Because, you know, it’s not important to have women in your life, just “girls.”  But really, you shouldn’t have more pictures of girls at all because actually what you need are more pictures of two dudes and a dog.  Oh, and pictures of kids — because, well, it’s not clear why — but certainly not pictures of those pasty-faced tykes you clearly spend too much time with already.

Or maybe we should take a different tack, and focus on the text.  This despite the fact that a (different, younger, and clearly not schooled in the professional methods of Blowing Smoke Up The Asses of Clients) social worker lifted the green curtain on the whole “Dear BirthParent” letter thing by stating pretty bluntly that most birthmothers are functionally illiterate.   However, leaving all that aside, clearly we needed to rewrite the text, because it was “cold” and “didn’t show our humor.”  So, in repairing that deficiency, we were told that that we needed to include more text about what we would do with our child.

Following which we then told that, no, actually what we really needed to do was eliminate all of the bits where we talked about how excited we were to discover new activities with our child because — and I quote — “birthmothers aren’t thinking about childhood, they’re thinking about infants.”

….

Okay.  Sure, honey.  I’ll talk about vomit and shit.  Because that’s what infants do.  I’m excited about changing diapers, and cleaning up vomit.  Because that’s what “doing things” with an infant involves — at least that’s what every parent I’ve ever known has told me.  So sure — I’ll write up some text that somehow states in convincing terms, how excited I am to change diapers and clean up vomit.

Or did you mean something else?  Because really, I’ll write Whatever the Fuck It Will Take to Get Me a Baby.  So just tell me what to write, and I’ll write it. Sweetie.

Because I forgot, long long ago — maybe 2 years ago, maybe less, I forget — that this whole “Dear Birthparent” letter was actually supposed to be about us, me and Da Partner, who we are and what we hope our family to be.  I’ve forgotten that, because it has since become ever so painfully fucking clear that this letter is about someone else’s fantasy, not mine.  And you, Ms. social worker, are just the person to help me write this particular piece of self-contradicting psychornographic nonsense that no one will ever read except you, me, and Da Partner.

But once we’ve written it, and you’ve approved it according to whatever criteria you’ve decided matter on this particular moment of this particular day of this particular week, then please can it be over?

Please can I have a baby?

Please?

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Goddamn that was a lot of white people.

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My bourgeois instincts keep pulling me back.

How many people, I wonder, actually know the real meaning — the Marxist meaning, the meaning debated over formica countertops in the cafeteria of CUNY in the 1950s — of the phrase “politically correct?”

Very few, I suspect.

In the meantime, here’s my real query: what does one say to a student who, when asked for the mean, gives you a percentage?

Does one say “Gosh, honey.  You sure are pretty, but that’s not going to cut any ice with me.”

Or does one say to her friend, “Gosh, honey.  You sure seem nice, you’re not near pretty enough for her.  What are you thinking, trying to copy her answers?”

Or consider this: what does one say to a student who comes into office hours and says, in brief, the following: “So, yeah, here’s the deal.  I took this class awhile ago and got a D.  And so I thought I had to take it again because, like, I’m supposed to have a C in it to graduate, right?  But then it turns out that, like, I still get the credits for having a D, and so I can totally graduate.  So why am I in your class?  And, oh by the way?  I am TOTALLY about to have a major health catastrophe, unless someone — you? — allows me to drop you class.

….

Oh, and did I mention I live in Marianotown, AND I have a job at a WAY more important place than this shitburg of a university.  So can I get that withdrawal signed?

….

So can I drop out of your class?  Please?

Me: Whatever.  I don’t really care.  You’re been doing basically fine up until now — except for you basically FUBARing the mid-term, of course.

Aren’t there any other options?

Me: Well, the only substantive lecture left in the semester is next week.  If that conflicts with your work schedule, or whatever, that’s your call.  The syllabus is clearly laid out.

Tuesdays aren’t really convenient for me to come to lecture.

Me: That’s a pity and a shame, really, but it can’t be helped.  If you need to take a hit on your participation, that’s your call. I mean, if you need to work, or drive in from the Bay Area or whatever.

Sigh…I’l think about it.  Can I get the lab exercise for this week?  Because it really isn’t convenient to come to class right now.

Me: Sure.  Let me print that out for you right now.

Follow-up: this particular student neither came to class, nor requested from me the data necessary to complete the assignment this coming week.  I have received no word about a health emergency.

Or, consider this: when provided with not one, not two, but three handouts that describe, step by step, how to construct the most basic of quantitative (I won’t dignify them with the phrase “statistical”) analyses, no less than half a dozen students come tugging on my sleeve, begging to know just what it is that they are supposed to do when constructing a table.  A full 25% of the class, in other words, comes tugging on my sleeve because they cannot do the even the most minimal translation work (“But, but, but, I don’t know what to look for!  I can’t make the table because I don’t know what the numbers mean!”).  A disturbing number of students who have ostensibly passed statistics, in other words, cannot even imagine what it would take to construct a fraction, nor what a fraction means when translated to a percentage, nor (horrors!) what it means to compare one percentage to another.

…..

What does one say when faced with such dilemmas?   Does one say:

1.) Read the assignment.  Call me when you’ve figured out the difference between “mean” and “percent.”

or does one say

2.) Call when you’re not trying to pull emotional blackmail, sweetie.  I am so not vulnerable to that shit.

or does one say

3.) Yeah I know math is hard.  Fucking man up, bitchez.  I’m not asking you to do calculus.  I’m asking you to compare percentages.   This is something you should have covered in grade school.

Sigh.  And for this I am pilloried for being “too hard.”  For “going too fast.”  For “asking too much.”  For “being mean.”  For “crushing the grad school dreams of vulnerable students.”

All of which I will admit to.  If someone wants to get a PhD, and cannot tell me (a) how to calculate a percentage, nor (b) whether one percentage is greater than another, then (c) I have absofuckinglutely no problem in telling them they need to go back to to work, and try a little harder to understand what it takes to do basic analysis.

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