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.