Chapter 18

My “school family” was having our traditional holiday get-together. With school over for the semester, and just a couple days before I would return home for break, Emily, Julie and I met up for some food, some reminiscing, some respite from holiday hell.

Mr. Becker’s advice gnawed at me constantly. But, even with the explicit encouragement, I couldn’t take the steps. I had begun work on my paper, but the applications were put off. It was too late, I told myself, and pointless. It wasn’t the life I planned. Pursuing academia wouldn’t help me keep the promises I had made.

I had taken one of the internships. I would move to New York the following fall to begin work consulting. It was a coveted position, and I had been lucky. They had liked my non-traditional background and my analytical skills. Things were, they seemed, falling into place.

I was haunted by two people now, my father and Mr. Becker. I felt I had the potential to disappoint both. My promise to my father was something I held onto fiercely; to follow Mr. Becker’s advice threatened my ability to achieve everything I had originally mapped out for myself. But, in following the standard narrative that I had so meticulously planned, I was disappointing someone else I truly admired. It was obvious who I was more accountable to; still, I hated knowing that, out there, I had failed someone.

Since Emily’s boyfriend was working that night, we went to Delux, so if he had a break, he could join us. Julie, out of another relationship, was more than glad to be out and about, and promised quite fervently that tonight would flirt-free, as she was “off guys” for the time being.

I hadn’t spoken with Emily since our evening at the coffee shop, and Julie had been MIA while dating her last boyfriend, so I had to fill them in on my suddenly solidified plans. And while they congratulated me wholeheartedly, they both seemed hesitant about my new career path. And I noticed.

“Hey…what’s up? I mean, yeah…it’s not the most glamorous thing in the world, but it should lead to great opportunities down the line.”

Julie spoke up first.

“Yeah…but, come on. Are you really interested in that type of work? Is that really where you want to head?”

I was surprised to hear this from Julie. She was, in my mind, on a very similar path.

“This, from you?” I laughed. And she did as well.

“Hey, I like what I do. I like the research, the reports. I get them, and they’re really fun, in a kinda twisted way. But, I feel I need to be a good friend here, and tell you that, you are the last person I can think of who would enjoy it.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Really. Look…while there are certain things about my work I enjoy, it is also filled with a lot of stuff that, I know, would bore you to death. Compiling charts and data, tracking down research for your project managers, making sure they get everything exactly the way they expect it. Then there’s the stuff that would undoubtedly piss you off; answering to people who never listen, getting run around by bosses who can never seem to plan ahead. You’d go ballistic within three months…four months tops.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.” I knew she meant well, but my patience was running a little thin at this point. “Glad to know I just signed up for something you think I’ll really hate.” I tried to say it light-heartedly, but I should have known better. As I was learning day by day, I wasn’t the master of disguise I thought I was.

Julie looked at me, and she became serious. “Hey, hold on a second. I am really happy for you. But, in the years we’ve known each other, we’ve also gotten to know a lot about each other. I just want to make sure that, when you go, you know what you are getting into.”

I relaxed again. Julie was right. I should know myself better than this. But I knew why I thought this was the best way.

Emily broke in. “Julie and I both know how much you think this is what you should pursue. But, I agree with her, I don’t think this is for you. Look at what you’ve spent most of your semester doing. You really got lost in your work, especially with that research paper in Mr. Becker’s class. I haven’t seen you take on something with…well…with such dedication. You can’t tell me you haven’t thought about other options, especially after that class.”

I sighed, toyed with the pasta sitting in front of me, twirling it over and over again with my fork. How was it that my friends were seeing me more clearly that I could?

“How about this…let’s play ‘what if’ for a minute….” I looked at Julie first. “Julie, what if, knowing what you know now, you could do it all over. Would you do it the same way?”

Without hesitation, she answered, “Absolutely.”

I wasn’t expecting that, though I probably should have. So confident, so sure. Julie had always known what was in store for her, and how she would get it. And usually, things just fell into line for her. And I really wanted that.

“I really do enjoy most of what I do. Sure, it might seem rather dull, but it’s really great to be doing something you feel good at. My job has made me realize that the stuff I learned has purpose. And I get to see what that purpose is. That’s important…really important, especially at the end of the month, when I have to write that check for my loan repayment.”

“And, how about you, Emily? Same question.”

Emily took a bit more time considering. “Well…that’s hard to say. I’m not trying to be evasive, but I see it more like this: I am headed somewhere, but I’m not there yet. Asking ‘what if’ at this point in time would be, well, irrelevant.”

“Well, what if, when you get there, you don’t like where you ended up?”

“Well, then you just find a new place to head.” So simple. I know it wouldn’t be for me, but in Emily’s case, it would be. She’d change direction without regrets, only optimism for the future.

Julie and Emily turned the conversation back on me.

“And you, what if you had it to do over again?”

I sighed again. I had thought about this question too often in the past week or so. “What ifs” filled my head, occupied me day and night, and had led me no where.

“I dunno. Sometimes I think I’d change everything. I’d wipe the slate clean and start over. I’d focus on one thing, damn the rest, and just go for it. And then, sometimes, I think I’d leave everything as it is. I’ve been exposed to a lot of different things, and it has wetted my appetite for more. Actually, if I had my way, I’d win the lottery, and stay in college. Get another couple of degrees.”

Emily laughed. “It wouldn’t surprise me at all.”

“Mr. Becker told me to think about it, actually.”

That caught their attention.

“Yeah, at my meeting a couple of days ago…he told me I should apply to grad school. In fact, he thought I was planning that all along. He seemed really surprised that I wasn’t pursuing it. More than surprised, actually….”

“Really?” I could see Emily smirking.

“Wait, what did I miss?”

So I relived the last couple of weeks, bringing Julie up to speed. But, even in its hundredth repetition, I had no clearer idea of what I felt about the entire situation.

“So, did he say anything else?” Emily and Julie both looked at me expectantly, but I had no information to give. Mr. Becker had been considerate, friendly, but professional. And it had left me feeling rather foolish about entertaining any idea of something more. And talking about it now made me more certain that I had let my imagination run away with me.

“No…I didn’t pay much attention after he told me I should submit my paper for publication. The grad school thing threw me as well…especially since he seemed so disappointed that I hadn’t considered it. He didn’t say anything or do anything inappropriate. It was just a misunderstanding. That’s it.”

“Well…it would make a great ‘what if’, wouldn’t it?” Julie’s eyes had lit up like twinkling lights, filled with flirtatious joy. “What if a professor took personal interest in you? I’d entertain that fantasy for a while.”

I stared at her blandly. “I thought you were swearing off romance and dating…”

“For the right person, I’d start right up again. Besides, it’s just fantasy. And it’s nice to indulge once in a while.”

Perhaps she was right. But, indulging in this kind of fantasy threatened to open a very ominous pandora’s box. I had enough confusion in my life right now. Right now, I had to decide if my life, as I had planned it, was really what I wanted. I had to see if I could take a leap – one that everyone around me was encouraging me to try. My father’s advice floated back to mind, and I thought, perhaps, this was what he meant. This was my chance to take a risk.

Chapter 17

I didn’t get a chance to forget about it for long. Though classes were over, we still had individual meetings to attend. I awaited mine with anxiety and dread.

Mr. Becker termed the meeting as a “wrap-up” session – a place for us to express, privately, our opinions of the course, our grades, and of course, our final paper. While I had nothing but praise for the class, and the grade was supposedly a non-issue, I feared this meeting. I was unsettled by my last interaction with Mr. Becker. It was too ambiguous to make any clear conclusions. And that left me uncertain as to what I should be feeling walking into our final meeting. So I procrastinated the inevitable, failing to sign up for a time slot. Instead, Mr. Becker emailed me to designate a time, and I just agreed to it.

The day came, and I made my way to campus filled with a sense of awkward self-consciousness. I felt acutely aware of myself now. In the days since that evening in the coffee shop, I had become pre-occupied with how I thought others might be seeing me. I was thrust back to high school hell, where image was so acutely scrutinized. A glance in my direction left me feeling exposed and vulnerable. It felt like people, everywhere, were talking about me, evaluating me, judging me. And I was coming up short. I wasn’t worth the attention I thought I might be receiving. Everyone could see that. And who was I to second guess that?

As I made my way to campus, I began to confront some more difficult questions. Questions that I had never wished to face. Did I enjoy the attention? Or course. Did I want the attention? To an extent, yes. Did I want it from Mr. Becker? Again, to an extent, yes. After all, someone you idolize may have singled you out. Flattery is the natural reaction.

But, getting hit on? Did I want that? I couldn’t answer that. Was I offended? No. Did I care that I was getting hit on by a guy? Not really. After all, you have just been hit on for the very first time. Flattery is the natural reaction.

But the biggest question remained. Does that make me gay? There. There it was. The question we are supposed to fear more than anything else. The answer is supposed to shatter everything around you, shatter you. And from the pieces, you are to be rebuilt, reconstructed into a new, more real, persona of yourself. Confronting the question, answering yes or no, puts you on one side or the other of a very rigid line – a line with significant repercussions. It is suppose to change your world, shape how you experience it, and most significantly, shape how people perceive you.

Gay, straight? I never considered being anything. I hadn’t been attracted to anyone. I hadn’t looked at anyone in a way that might be considered romantic or sexual. No one really understood that about me. Or believed me when I told them. Ambiguity leaves people uncomfortable, and they work hard to fit you into some sort of definition.

I fit the gay stereotype. I knew it. Yet I wasn’t attracted to men. I hadn’t been. In fact, animosity might more accurately describe my feelings towards other guys I knew. I couldn’t relate to them, and them to me. And for that, they teased me, they demeaned me, they castigated me. Why would I then harbor some sexual desire for that?

When I arrived, Mr. Becker’s office door was closed. I waited, pacing outside his door, listening to his muffled voice as he spoke to another student. It was a low rumble, and as the minutes past, the vibrations filtering though that thick wood door wound their way straight into my gut, unnerving me more and more. Nausea was not an accompaniment that I needed at this moment.

Fifteen minutes later, I found myself settling into a chair across from him. I was acutely conscious of Mr. Becker’s perceptions of me. His gaze had potential symbolism now; being unschooled in the language of that symbolism, I couldn’t gain any understanding of its meaning.

And, for the first time, I became conscious of how I might be “seeing” Mr. Becker. Was it simply respect and admiration that colored my view of him? Was there more? My gaze, in this new state of hyper-awareness, was critical, evaluative, contemplative.

“So, you’ve made it.”

I nodded. I wasn’t sure what to say.

“So, how did you feel about your final paper?”

“Well…it’s done…I guess, you…umm…can’t feel too bad about that?”

Mr. Becker smiled, nodded. What was I suppose to say. After all, he had told me everything I need to know already. I was set. I knew my grade. This was torture.

“First, I want to tell you that I appreciate the work you put into this paper. It was beyond my expectations for this course. I thought you should know that.”

“Thank you.” Pause.

“Your work is exemplary; better, I have to admit, than some of the master students I currently teach. Your level of investigation is sophisticated and thorough, and you take a measured approach to your analysis.”

I flushed. Compliments. I was feeling warm and fuzzy at this point.

“But, I would like to specifically highlight what I consider the best aspect of this paper, which is your presentation. The tone strikes a fine balance between your standard academic text and something from more mainstream media. You make the work accessible, even entertaining, without loosing a sense of rigor and integrity. It was a pleasure to read.”

I was stunned. Overwhelmed. Giddy. Stunned. This was much more than I had expected, and I felt quite awed by the accolades. The person I admired, who guided my work, who I fashioned myself after, was sitting across from me, making me feel like an equal.

“Additionally, I’d like you to consider making some minor revisions and submitting it for publication. I have several journals in mind, which would consider your work. It would be a great way to add to your resume for graduate school.”

Huh? Graduate school? How would a paper like this add to my resume for graduate school? If it were from an economics class or a poly sci class, then maybe…but television? Now I was confused.

“Graduate School?”

“Yes. Applications are due very soon for most Masters programs, especially Cultural Studies programs. You should be submitting you applications within the next few weeks, right?

I looked at him blankly. While I had thought about applying, and had several applications laying on my desk at home, I hadn’t done a thing. In fact, I also had offers for two internships which needed replies at the end of the month. Those, too, had not been given much thought since receiving them.

“You are applying to graduate school, are you not?”

“Umm…well…actually…I…I…don’t think so. I’ve…well…been pursuing…well…something else. I haven’t really considered…um…well…continuing on.”

He put down my paper now. He seemed taken back by this revelation, though I had no idea why. And it seemed to unsettle him.

“Really? I, well, I assumed, based upon the work you’ve been handing in, that you were pursuing graduate work in the field.”

“No…no. This…well…this was all for…for fun. I’ve…well…got these internships to consider…and then…in a couple of years…I’ll think about graduate school.”

“And, I assume that, by graduate school, you mean a business school or another professional program.”

“Yeah…yes.”

Mr. Becker sighed. And I felt rather like a disobedient child. I had just done something really disappointing.

“Have you considered pursuing an academic program at all?”

“Well…not…well…seriously.”

That caught his attention. And he seemed revived.

“Well, I am encouraging you to do so. Please consider it. And if you do, please let me know. I’d be happy to assist you with letter of recommendations, or advice about programs available. I think you’d do quite well, wherever you go. And your work speaks for itself. You’d make great contributions to the field.”

I was too stunned to say much more. We wrapped up quite soon afterwards, and the end of the meeting was a whirlwind, which I processed little of. I had been given some very concrete encouragement. I had been given direction. I found a great deal of comfort in that; it had been a long time since I felt someone supporting me, guiding me, giving me a way to gauge my decisions. Not since my dad. But the direction led to someplace unknown, unfamiliar. And I wasn’t sure if I could make the leap.

Chapter 16

Emily sat there, looking at me expectantly; not sure of what I just sat through, I was silent, trying to process what might have just passed.

“So…come on…what was that? You look too shocked for him to have been delivering you good news, but not depressed enough for him to have delivered you bad news…”

“Well…” I paused. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to say it; saying it out loud made it clear that I considered it a possibility. I didn’t know if I wanted to confront it. “Well…if I didn’t know any better, I’m going to say that I was, maybe, complimented…”

“Complimented? Being complimented by a professor leads you to look like that?”

“Well…yes…if the compliments are more, well, personal than professional…”

I looked at Emily’s reaction. She seemed startled for a second. And then she broke out in a fit of laughter that seemed to echo all over the room.

“He hit on you?! Well that makes it clear why you look so uncomfortable.”

See. Having it stated like that, out in the open, made it something that was now tangible. An idea had been given form, been made concrete, by putting words to it. And that made it something that had to be dealt with.

“Well…no…no…well…I…I don’t really know. He said he was afraid he had driven away ‘one of the most interesting students he had the pleasure of teaching’”.

“Um….well…wow. I’d say it was pretty clear.”

No, it didn’t seem clear to me. It made me uncomfortable. It made me wary, cautious. I felt foolish for entertaining the idea, yet undeniable drawn to it. If it was true, IF he had, as Emily put it, “hit on me”, then he would be the first. The First. There was something so compelling about that; he would be the first person to express interest in me. There was a hazy glowing romance to that thought that was overwhelmingly attractive. A reachable dream. Well, in a distorted sort of way.

“Emily, that’s a HUGE leap…and it doesn’t seem likely at all. I mean, does he strike you as someone looking for a) a guy, and b) a student?”

“Well, I don’t know him, so I can’t make any evaluations on that end. I think the more important question is what you think about the possibility of him hitting on you.”

Pointed, direct – Emily at her best, and why I usually found her company so comforting. This wasn’t one of those times. I wasn’t interested. Hell, following this direction would lead me a far way from the life I was suppose to find for myself – the life I had promised myself to seek.

“Well, as I am not thinking of switch hitting,I think that question is moot.”

Emily looked at me for a moment. She grew more serious that I had ever seen her.

“Are you sure of that?”

I eyed her carefully. A loaded question. My answer could either silence everything or explode the situation into numerous hot topics of endless discussion.

“What are you implying by that?”

“Nothing. I just don’t know. Come on, think about it. In all the years I’ve know you, not once have you been out with someone, expressed interest in someone, even looked at someone and said something objectifying. I don’t know who your type is, what your type is. So that’s why I have to ask.”

“To be honest, I never thought about it.”

Emily stared at me, disbelievingly.

“Well, alright, abstractly. Everyone thinks about it at some point, I guess. I mean, we’re forced to think about it right? Everywhere you look, you’re told that your life is incomplete without experiencing love. Experiencing companionship. But, beyond thinking that it might be something I want in the future, no, I haven’t thought about it.”

“Not about the type of person you want to be with? Not about what that person might look like? What might attract you?”

“No.”

“Seriously.”

“Seriously.”

She was quiet for a few minutes, and I didn’t feel like saying much. I wanted to slink away and hide for a while. This wasn’t something I wanted to deal with, now or in the future.

I had spoken the truth. I hadn’t thought about it. I hadn’t thought about it because I had never imagined the possibility. I knew who I was: I was that solitary figure on the fringe of perception. That wasn’t someone who went noticed, who attracted attention.

I had figured on being alone. It was a natural conclusion and one that rarely gave me pause. I didn’t understand how romance worked, much less how to actively engage in the process. Being on the fringe, existing outside those conventions were liberating, in a sense. It freed me from evaluating myself in relation to how others might.

But, as I thought about saying these things to Emily, I realized how they might be interpreted. Rationalizations. Justification to hide a heart yearning for something more. And even as I struggled with the words, I knew how hollow they might sound. I couldn’t communicate how, in the split second in which Emily verbalized the unspoken, she had shattered a naivety I had towards the world – a naivety that kept me asking the other questions that would naturally follow. Blissful innocence had been destroyed. From this moment on, I would be constrained to the rules that, until know I had been oblivious to, ignorant of. Questions of sexuality, of preference, of self-definition, of self-identity. They all had to be answered, now that this situation had been given structure. And I resented it.

I sighed. Started to speak, started to explain. And then I just gave up.

“You know what? I am going to just leave it alone. I don’t feel like making an ass out of myself. There isn’t anything that proves one thing or another, so why bother?”

Emily nodded, hesitated, started to say something, then went silent. She tapped her fingers for a second, and then stared at me.

“We’ll forget it, then.” And we did, at least for that night.

Chapter 15

A challenge had been made, and I was determined to rise to it. I sank myself into research, filling my room with the additional material recommended by Mr. Becker. Note cards were spread in neat piles on the floor, sorted and dated and arranged in chronological order. I was hitting my stride, and the working rhythm kept me focused; focused and ambivalent to the world, and more importantly the people, around me.

With the goal laid out, the gears of my mind were greased with a sense of purpose. It felt good to write with clarity, with direction. It made the research easy, the writing fluid. I felt, somehow, closer to the person I was two years ago, when I had taken joy in both the work and the process of accomplishing it.

The remaining three weeks of the semester were a blur of Microsoft documents, color-coded notecards and red inked drafts. Wrapped up the momentum of an ending term, it was easy to forget the other, more abstract obstacles that lay off in the horizon.

You can imagine the relief – the night I handed in my paper. Two months of aggravation, stress, and self-doubt were officially at an end. No matter the outcome, at least the task itself was over. Stapled and wrapped in one of those ubiquitous report covers, it just needed delivery.

My period of rejoicing was intense but short. Giddy as I set off towards school, the euphoria of completion died down by the time I arrived at Mr. Becker’s office; my walk allowed me time for introspection, which was always a fast way to kill any joy. My mind kept coming back to a single question: What was this so important? The time spent, the effort expended – all for some 40 pieces of white paper filled with double spaced, 12 pt, times roman text. What was the big deal?

I struggled with this; it is hard to evaluate the significance of this type of work. Unlike other majors, where the results might have some tangible product to hold and admire, the work in my hand might, in its final appraisal, might be reviewed as nothing more than kindling for a camp fire. I couldn’t worry about that now. Now, I could worry about other things.

Emily’s, let’s say, keen insights into my behavior, had gnawed at me every since she stopped by my place. Emily had stated the obvious, but I am not sure if the explanation was quite as simple. For the most part, I could rationalize everything over the past couple of months, create arguments that had everyone, including myself, believing to be true. But, even when you want it to be true – even when you are telling yourself that it is true, there is a hollowness in the argument that reminds you that it isn’t – that more is required to fully satisfy the question.

I was getting close to the English Department offices. Late as it was, the hallways were dim and quiet. The paper was really due at the end of the day tomorrow, but I wanted it out of my hands as soon as possible. As I approached the office corridor, I was suddenly wondered if he might be there. A split second of panic struck me; I looked at the base of the door, looking for a spread of light which might indicate he was there. Nothing. I was in luck…I slipped my paper into through the slot in the door and left.

I made my way outside quickly, and checked my watch to make sure I wasn’t running late. I was meeting Emily for a mini-celebration of sorts. I completed my final research paper, she had just been promoted. Not really equal reasons for indulging in some late night food, but good enough for each of us to make time on a weekday night. It was a small dessert bar I had found my sophomore year, and was the place I returned to often, when I wanted a pick-me-up for when I was down, or a reward for anything event that made me feel like my world was headed in the right direction.

I arrived early and spotted an open booth. After picking up a paper I went to wait, anticipating at least a twenty minute wait. Emily was always punctual in her tardiness; whatever time you set, you could always count on here to be exactly 10 minutes behind. Five minutes later a shadow fell across the table, startling me. Looking up, I found Mr. Becker standing next to me.

“Aren’t you suppose to be frantically finishing your paper for my class?”

I sat stunned for a second. That same sense of awkwardness rushed through me, leaving me flustered.

“I…ah…I’m, well, done.” What else was there to say?

I was more unnerved as he moved to sit down. A silence settled. Emily would be here soon, which would then require some explanation, and Mr. Becker wasn’t making any move to explain why he had chosen to stay around. Another minute passed.

“I’ve…well…been meaning to speak with you.”

It sounded ominous. Not that there was anything in my actions over the past weeks that might have merited concern; I had, since receiving his email, been the ideal student: quiet, reserved, without being completely reticent. I attended every class, answered questions here and there to maintain a certain level of participation, and had now handed in the final assignment early.

Not sure where he was headed, I waited. Mr. Becker tapped his fingers for a second, glanced away, and then looked back at me, somewhat nervously. This was ridiculous; I had to break the silence or else find a new seat.

“You needed to speak with me…” I prodded. “Is something wrong?”

He sighed. “Not wrong…” and trailed off. It was the first time I had seen Mr. Becker so, well, out of sorts. In the past, he took the lead, directed the tone, speed and topic of conversation. Now he struggled. I guess it was up to me.

“Well, I…I should really thank you Mr. Becker. I’ve been so…so busy finishing finals that I never said anything…but…well…I really appreciated your advice and encouragement.”

That seemed to stun him a bit. He smiled back and relaxed.

“That’s really nice to hear. And I am glad I could offer you some guidance…” He paused. “I wasn’t sure if I was, well, rather…Well I guess I should ask if I demanded too much…”

Huh? “Umm…what would you mean by that, Mr. Becker.”

“Well…first, just call me Jeremy. You never had to call me Mr. Becker. You just didn’t seem to follow the other students. But, well, I wanted to clarify that, when we were reviewing your draft, I felt I needed to push you. I felt that, as your professor, it was my responsibility to help you reach the potential of your work. I thought you might be stuck, so I was hoping to get you unstuck…I certainly didn’t mean to say something that might offend you.”

I shifted uncomfortably. I was torn between the compliment and his observation of my actions that day at the coffee shop. I felt vain for enjoying his words, humiliated that I could be so easily read, and conscious of the fact that he was likely reading everything I was feeling at the moment.

“No…no…I probably, um, need the push. I really appreciated it. I just hope what you read tomorrow meets with your expectations.”

Mr. Becker shifted forward a bit, as the background noise began to inch upwards.

“Good. I wanted to make sure, since you seemed to draw back from class towards the end.”

He noticed. Damn.

“Um…well…it got really busy at the end…and….” That sounded stupid. “But, that’s not a good excuse.”

“No…that’s fine. Like I said, I was concerned I may have pushed too far, which is why I was unsure if I should come by and speak with you right now. I don’t generally feel like I force my students to pursue things. I may have with you.”

I shook my head.

“Well, that’s good. I’d hate to think I pushed away one of the most interesting students I’ve had the pleasure of teaching…”

I stopped. Froze. What did that mean? I looked at Mr. Becker; I saw Emily walking up behind him.

“Hey you…ten minutes late as always…” She stopped when Mr. Becker came into view.

“Hey…uh…uh…Emily, this is my professor, Mr. Becker. “

Mr. Becker rose, shook Emily’s hand, and stepped out of the booth.

“Let me get out of your way.” He turned to me. “I’m glad I caught you. I, um, look forward to reading your paper. I’ll…well…I’ll see you around.”

Sidestepping by Emily, he rather awkwardly left. As Emily sat down, I stared after him, dumbfounded. Emily looked at me.

“Something just happened. You want to tell me what’s up?”

Chapter 14

I never responded to Mr. Becker’s email. I walked into the next class as though I had never been absent. I figured, feign ignorance, and let the world continue on. Lectures were winding down; for the final three weeks of class, we would be free to work on our individual papers, with personal meetings available to anyone who needed the time. I was almost in the clear. Two more classes, and I could just hole myself up in my apartment and work.

Much to my chagrin, the lecture was covering Mr. Becker’s personal interest in television; specifically, he was reviewing the paper I had asked him about weeks ago. I should have realized if I had looked at the lecture schedule; now I faced a fifty minute session proving my own inadequacies as a researcher.

Mr. Becker lectured casually through a series of television clips. After each clip, he would draw out a specific argument and ask various people to formulate reasons to agree or disagree. It worked well; discussions were generally animated and would continue on after class, as many would walk out still debating with one another.

I wasn’t a debater, but I usually had one or two comments which I would interject in a lull. This way, I got my two cents in without directly addressing another person’s comment. It kept me from being drawn into a one-on-one battle of wits.

After the second clip, a short minute and half interchange between Will and Jack of Will & Grace, Mr. Becker opened up a new line of argument – one that seemed remarkable close to my own work.

“In that clip, we have, what many argue, are the two standard stereotypes of gay men in television today. One flamboyant, one understated. Notice, however, that the main character is rather conventional, while the secondary character is extravagant.

Now, if we argue that we watch specific shows for our like or dislike of central figures, then the more mainstream characterization of Will is understandable. Having an outrageously gay figure, like Jack, be centralize in the sitcom would probably be too much for those families sitting around enjoying quality time together in front of the television.

However, while they can be considered dichotomous of one another, the interchange itself emphasizes the fact that these two men are indeed gay, categorizing them by the subject matter of their discussion. By doing this, does the show lead the audience to conclude that gay men, regardless of their “gayness”, are bound together by certain, let’s say, specialized interests?”

The comment was obviously meant to spark rapid fire comments. And a slew of students jumped in, heatedly. And, as I sat back and took various notes, I noticed that Mr. Becker’s eyes continually drifted back to me, waiting, it seemed, for me to dive in.

I hesitated, waiting out the others. The arguments went back and forth, as the students took Mr. Becker’s bait. It was leading; regardless of what you said, you would be aligned with one view or another. You were forced to take a side.

One student, who had developed the reputation of long-winded, though usually well developed, diatribes, was winding down one as I brought myself back. Something about the how today’s popular television wasn’t ready for “real” portrayals of minority figures. Something about how television was being irresponsible for continuing to promote the ideals of a bygone era.

Something struck me, and I interrupted. “That’s the whole dilemma, isn’t it? Without the stereotypes, then, especially in the case of Will, how else do we know he is different? After all, we never see him on dates with other men, so how do we know that he is gay? Without playing up those characteristics we all stereotype as gay, then he is just another guy – a guy like any guy in this room. And that means that gay isn’t something so transforming that it defines the person. It’s just another characteristic to add to the entire package. That means, for the audience, that being ‘gay’ shouldn’t be an issue.”

The room fell silent for a moment. It wasn’t a ground-breaking statement, though the silence seemed to give what I said impact. It was more that what I had said was so basic, so fundamental, that everyone seemed to be kicking themselves for not getting to it first.

Mr. Becker looked at me in a rather peculiar way, as though it was assessing something more abstract than the conversation at hand. He seemed thrown for a minute. I thought, maybe, it was because I had actually spoken out of turn. That had thrown off some of the other regular class contributors. He regrouped when he noticed the time. Class was over. He reminded us that this was the last week of formal classes and which readings should be completed for Wednesday.

Feeling conspicuous, I absorbed myself in the task of gathering my notes together. I rose to leave just as Mr. Becker was making his way towards the door. He paused, and waited for me to pass, and then fell into step with me as we headed down the corridor. He didn’t say anything for a while, our feet pounding out the same rhythm as we made out way towards the beckoning daylight of a sunny winter morning.

“That was a pretty tidy way to end that discussion.” He slowed down his pace, and I followed.

“It…well…just struck me as, uh, the most obvious point. It just needed…hmm…to be said. The discussion…well…it shouldn’t have been about whether stereotypes are good or bad. Stereotypes, I guess, are…well…based upon perceived truths, however suspect those truths really are. The conversation...at least, well, to…uh…me…should…should have been about what stereotypes…what stereotypes mean to culture, to audience, to…well…the people who need them.”

Mr. Becker nodded with me, grinned as well.

“That…that was the…the point of your question, wasn’t it?”

Now he was smiling. He turned to me. “Yes, I was hoping we’d get there. I didn’t realize we might go off on the tangent we did. It was good, and it got people worked up, so I don’t mind exploring it. But, yes, I did want to get at the heart of what stereotypes mean to us as a culture, as a society. You caught on to that, so I’m hopeful that others didn’t miss it.”

“I’m…I’m, well, sure everyone…uh…got it. Like…like I said, I was just…well…stating something, uh, obvious.”

“Sometimes, it’s the obvious that we overlook – since it’s the easiest to get in the first place. But, when we overlook the obvious, we miss out on very important things.”

I just nodded in response. We had come to the campus quad. Sun streaked across a clear sky, sparkling off the icy-crust of the previous evening’s coating of snow, and slowly kept the chill at bay. I would need to make a turn towards the bus stop any minute now, and I wasn’t clear as to where this was heading.

Awkwardness settled, as it usually did when I was alone in Mr. Becker’s presence. I hesitated, anticipating. It felt like more was to come.

“So, I think I should state something obvious. You were disappointed with some of my comments on your paper, weren’t you?”

I sighed.

“Uh…well…I…I guess it showed.” So here it came. I steeled myself for the inevitable, distancing myself mentally from the conversation. It I was to make it through this without embarrassing myself, I knew I would need to be objective, analytical, distant.

“Maybe, a little.”

“Well…I appreciate…um…well…you explaining. I’m…uh…well…glad to know that it wasn’t as…as bad as I first thought.”

“No, not at all. That’s why I wanted to clarify. I wanted to encourage you for the final stretch.”

“I…well…thanks. I…uh…well…uh…hope that I can…well…do your…uh…expectations justice.”

He laughed.

“Don’t say it that way. Remember, this should be for you. Your interests should drive the work. Let them lead your forward. And, keep me up to date. I’m happy to assist if I can.”

“Well, I…ah…appreciate that…but I don’t want to take up too much time. I’m…I’m sure you have a lot…a lot on your plate as the semester winds down.”

He stopped, turned towards me. I looked up at him. He was silent, and I watched as he gathered his thoughts. He seemed to be very conscious of each word he spoke.

“I am always open to helping my students. I also enjoy discussing the subject matter, so I don’t consider it a hardship. After all, it is always nice to go over ideas with others who are interested in the material, interested in finding out more. It helps me learn more, find out more.”

He seemed to linger on that sentence – as though it were essential for me to understand the full meaning of it, the sincerity that he wished to communicate. I nodded, but I had missed something. I could tell. Something hung in the air that made me feel as though I had failed to recognize something that would be, to others, quite obvious. I looked towards the street, saw my bus waiting at the stoplight. It was time to go.