Chapter 22

We stared at each other, each hesitating. He was wondering how much I might have heard; I was wondering how much I wanted to acknowledge. It was better to just get the hell out of there.

“Uhh…uh…Hi…Mr.Becker. Enjoying the morning?”

He coughed, cleared his throat.

“Yeah…yes.” He didn’t say anything else.

“Well…well…that’s good. It’s…it’s good to see you again.”

Not waiting for a response, I headed out the door. I put in the earphones to my iPod and turned up the volume. I needed to block out my thoughts, the screaming questions ricocheting in my head. And I walked, nearly ran, back to my apartment. I didn’t look back, didn’t want to see if Mr. Becker might follow. A conversation with him was the last thing I could handle.

I didn’t stop at my apartment. I just pick a couple of things, got in my car, and drove. I needed to be home. I needed to speak with my dad.

The time on the road, the growing distance between me and school, allowed me to settle down, breathe. It was a revelation, to know what my professors thought about me, about what I could accomplish. My mind spun out new scenarios of what I might do, where I might head. I was suddenly filled with possibility, light-headed with a sense of liberation.

Miles rolled by between me and the things that had, for months, been both a life-line and a source of unending confusion. But, I still could not shake off the shackles they had attached to my mind. I wanted to, for just a few moments, forget about the responsibilities, the impending deadlines, the consequences for the decisions already made. I felt strengthened by the knowledge of my professors’ unified belief in my abilities. I felt foolish for not being assertive enough, confident enough, to follow through. And I felt scared, frightened that I might already be too late.

I felt something else growing, as I grew closer to my destination. Resentment, turning itself into anger. I thought about my predicament, the missed chances that had practically fallen in my lap. And it had been my fault. That unyielding need to be everything my Dad had aspired for me – it had been the mindfuck that prevented any serious consideration of other possibilities. My promise to my father had built itself into this impenetrable wall, so high that I couldn’t see over, so long that I couldn’t see the end. And I had been following it blindly, believing it would somehow lead me to where I wanted to be.

I hated myself. I had made a promise that I now resented. Resented for the obligations it entailed, the cage it had placed upon me. I had reached out, in my mind, to my dad – a way to reconcile with him, to ensure him that I loved him, had moved passed those feelings I had harbored in my teenage years.

But I hadn’t. I could feel them, compounding as the miles between myself and home shortened. What right did he have to my life, MY LIFE? Regrets he had, and that should have been enough. Enough for me to absolve him of his transgressions, if they could be truly called transgressions. But I hadn’t. I still hadn’t.

I headed for the cemetery. I need to sort it all out. I needed to talk it out. I needed my father to listen.

I pulled up along the winding road leading closest to my father’s grave. Gray and cloudy weather of the typical northeast winter had given way to a mild streak, the sun setting early across the frozen hills, framed by clear crystal sky. A warm, rosy haze settled, turning snow-covered plains from chilly white to a sparkling sea of reds, pinks and oranges.

So much had boiled up on my drive, so much ready to spill forward. And now, as I moved towards the grey marble stone that marked my father’s final place, I filled with trepidation. Confrontation was tantamount to sacrilege, was it not? Especially here, at his place of rest, at his place of final peace.

I stepped towards his stone, facing him, and stared down. How many times had it been now? How many times had I been here, right here, talking to this stone, thinking I was talking to him?

“Dad. You told me that, in the end, you wanted me to be happy. That it was the most important thing to you. And I have to know…know if you really meant it.”

I paced a little, back and forth, treading a small line in the freshly fallen snow. Putting my thoughts back together, putting them into place.

“Sometimes I wish I had asked you what you envisioned for me. I know you had ideas. You had dreams, expectations. We both knew that. But we never talked about what you had in mind – what you imagined when you thought of me as an adult. Was it a white-shirt professional? Was it someone like you, whose success became measured by the title, the salary, the pedigree?

If it was, I bought into it. Hell, I still buy into it. I can’t imagine measuring success any other way. And I hate that. I hate that I can’t see past it – see success in any other way…I hate that I can’t get myself to imagine my life in any other way.”

I turned back to the headstone, bent down. And took I deep breath.
“I…I…I hate the fact that I am failing, and I can’t prevent it. And I hate that I feel this way, that…that…I feel this way because of you.”

I had said it. I had laid blame. And it sounded hollow. Sounded selfish and bitter and spoiled. And true. It was how I felt. Right or wrong, with sound reason or not, it was something I had dragged with me, baggage from a disappointed youth that still doggedly followed me. And, with the icy breeze whipping around me, emphasizing my singular presence in the vast landscape of the dead, it seemed like foolish comfort, to hold on to the resentment, the anger. Yet still, it lingered, and I hated myself for that as well.

Chapter 21

Cycles. My life cycled through phases with a predictability that was simultaneously reassuring and disheartening. I was now settled into the semester, my routine once again established. The constancy of life reminded me of a time before death, before grief, before insecurity. It was a façade, which I recognized, but one I was happy to live with for a little while.

As another Saturday rolled around, I headed straight to my favorite coffee shop. Despite the one run-in with Mr. Becker, I still found myself there each weekend morning, the weekend paper in hand. And not once since then had I happen to come face-to-face with the professor I was, right now, loathing.

Settled into my favorite chair, I never noticed Mr. Becker come in. But, I was not even there five minutes when I heard a voice, and inwardly groaned. My rather pleasant mood was snapped with a quick, sharp slap of resentment. I doubt it he saw me, as my spot ensured my privacy. The only open tables were behind me, so I burrowed into my paper to wait him out. I could spend a couple hours here easily, so I hedged my bets that Mr. Becker would be gone before I had any inclination to leave.

Trying to absorb myself into the latest headlines, I paid little attention to my surroundings – that was until I heard the scrapping of chairs, chairs directly behind me. I didn’t look, but anticipated the worst. The voices behind me confirmed it. But at least he was with someone. I heard his voice first.

“Can you believe that? He actually thought he could pass it off as his own work?”

“Sadly…it doesn’t surprise me. It’s the pleasure of teaching, nowadays, isn’t it? With the internet, we’ve become plagiarism experts as well as literature connoisseurs. Don’t these kids realize that it is as easy for us to check their sources as it is for them to google them and copy them?”

I heard Mr. Becker share a laugh with his compatriot, who I realized as my current senior thesis advisor, Mrs. Katherine Strand, or Kathy as I had come to know her. I admired Kathy with the same intensity as Mr. Becker.

Kathy had incited my explorations into Cultural Studies. My freshman seminar had been randomly assigned, and fortuitously enough, I found myself being taught by a slightly irreverent and subtly sarcastic woman whose presence more than made up for her demure stature.

I had her once more for my introduction to Gender studies; admittedly cliché as a course for her to teach, it was anything but the expected. It was an experience that initially overwhelmed me. Her teaching style, different from even her freshman course, challenged my perceptions of how professors and students could, and should, interact. She spoke her mind, shared overtly personal information, and made herself accessible in a way that never compromised a student’s respect for her. She was the first professor I felt connected to, comfortable around. I actually found myself articulate around her, able to call her by her first name, which she had insisted on with fervor. For me, it was truly an accomplishment.

I heard my name. I stopped pretending no to listen. Kathy was speaking.

“So he handed me his paper to review. He mentioned that your encouraged him to publish it.”

“I did, and I’m glad he went to you. So you’ve taught him before?”

“I have, and in fact, I am. He’s one of my thesis students.”

“It’s good, isn’t it?”

“It’s really good – his writing has matured since the last time I taught him. It excites me for the work he might produce this semester. He definitely seemed inspired by your course. That’s really good.”

“He’s…he’s done well, though, in your other classes?”

“Oh, consistently excellent. His work was never a problem. He may have been…well…too, let’s say, politically correct in his papers. They were always well argued, well presented. But he never defined a position for himself, never stated his opinion. “

I heard Mr. Becker chuckle.

“So you caught that, I assume, during last semester. He seems to have taken a step forward since I last taught him. I assume you had something to do with that.”

“Well…I pointed it out to him. I get the feeling, however, that this wasn’t a new insight for him.”

Kathy laughed this time.

“Let’s say that it has come up before. But, it’s not something I could necessarily fault, given the overall quality of his work. He had a way of making you feel as though, perhaps, it wasn’t appropriate for him to be stating his opinion. He is definitely a unique student…one who needs to find the right forum to fully mature.”

I heard Mr. Becker sigh.

“That is why I encouraged him to apply to a Graduate program. Graduate school would have been the right forum. It would have given him the time necessary to develop his skills in an environment where he could really flourish.”

“Perhaps, but it had to be his decision. And, from what I gather, he sees himself pursuing other avenues.”

“He should be pursuing this.” Interesting, I thought to myself. He seemed much more adamant about his position than I first realized.

“Jeremy, you may think that. I may agree. But, while he may be talented – as a researcher and a writer – that doesn’t necessarily mean he should pursue it. Don’t misunderstand me…I’ve casually asked about his plans, and he may be the first student I’ve taught who, though he enjoys the work, has never made a correlation between what he is doing now and what he might do in his future. And that is important to consider. Maybe there is something more important to him – something else that inspires him more passionately. I don’t feel I am in a position to promote a life as fraught with complications as academia. In this arena, you have to love it to put up with everything that comes with it.”

“It’s frustrating. Seems wasteful, even…” Mr. Becker paused. “Maybe he just needs some direction – some guidance.” Now Kathy let out a small sigh.

“Careful there…you’ll always have students who, from time to time, you want to invest in. And you should – to a point. Remember, each new semester brings a new crop of students, each with the potential to promote the same feelings you have now. You can only spread yourself so thin.”

“But there are those rare ones that are really worth it – that are actually in need of a nudge to help them realize what they should already know. I feel he may be one.”

“Well…if you feel that way, then you might want to return your comments to him sooner rather than later. From what he told me, he seemed to feel that you wouldn’t be able find the time. Seems to be a rather mixed message you’re sending.” I could hear the dry, teasing tone in Kathy’s voice, and found myself smiling. At least someone was calling him out on his behavior. I listened more intently now, waiting to see how he might explain himself out of this predicament.

“Well…hmmm…to be frank, it…it was an excuse. I wanted to have others review his work…to make sure that I wasn’t evaluating the quality of his work subjectively. I wanted to make sure I wasn’t seeing something that wasn’t really there.”

“You should feel confident then. But, you could have just asked. The faculty members who have taught him feel the same way I do about his abilities and accomplishments.”

“Good. I…I wanted...I wanted to make sure that, in the end, I wasn’t making it too personal....”

And, from there on, their conversation drifted away from me. Ten minutes later, I heard the shuffling of chairs. All that while, I tried hopelessly to get their conversation out of my head, to ignore my impulse to analyze the exchange. But each agonizing minute made me more and more stir-crazy. I needed to get out of here, away from the noise, the voices, the words they had said, which were repeating over and over. I needed to talk to someone, or at least out loud to myself. I needed to see my father.

I waited another five minutes and then, nearly bursting with nervous energy, gathered myself together. And as I turned to leave, I found myself looking directly into the eyes of a rather embarrassed Mr. Becker. Shit.

Chapter 20

My final semester arrived with little fanfare. This was it – my last term as a free-wheeling undergraduate. Not that I ever was a free-wheeling undergraduate, but that was another issue all together. I could see the threshold before me, but wished to resist its inevitable pull. Crossing over it was just too significant.

The college deadlines came and went. I was paralyzed by indecision, and surely enough, with enough time spent waiting, a decision was made without any personal input. The status quo had been upheld and my life would now continue as planned.

Only one diversion remained: that paper. It was, in my mind, the best compromised; while I hadn’t heeded Mr. Becker’s career advice, I would still accomplish something he had encouraged. It wasn’t the same, but I was working hard on rationalizations as of late. Perhaps, if it was published, then my failures wouldn’t be so great – or if they were indeed great, they might at least be forgivable.

I spent a large portion of the winter break revising and reworking my analysis. It came together in a way I didn’t expect. Maybe it was the weeks away from it – while it was being graded and while I was preoccupied by the holiday traditions. But once I began, in earnest, the paper took on its own momentum, until I found myself once again filled with a solid sense of accomplishment. I felt good about this paper, good about this work. I was once again on a firm foundation.

With a new version ready to go, I contacted Mr. Becker. His assurances had motivated me to continue on, and it only felt right that he see the results. But a week went by without a response. It was unusual for him, since he had been so prompt in our other communications. Now I didn’t know what to do. Not wanting to pester him, I left it alone. After all, he had no real obligations to me now. But, after another week, I couldn’t resist, and I sent him another short email.

Mr. Becker,

I realize how busy you must be with the new semester. I was hoping to submit this paper after some input from you, if you are available. If not, I’ll speak to another professor, Please let me know. I appreciate it.

Two days later, a reply came.

--

Sorry for my delay. I apologize, but right now I am unable to review your work. Please feel free to show it to others; I’ll try and get you comments when some more time becomes available.

Mr. Becker
Confused, I put everything on hold. I probably didn’t have any reason to feel as angry as I did, but for the first couple of days, I fumed. He had encouraged me to pursue this, and pushed me into exploring all these avenues. And now, he seemed indifferent. He had offered assistance, and now, when asked, seemed put out by the request. Bastard. I felt betrayed, even if there were no promises. Maybe it wasn’t fair, but I now felt more assured of my decision to walk away from all of it. I guess even idols are human – but, for those who idolize them, this revelation is the most bitter of insights. I may have disappointed Mr. Becker first, but now we were even.

Chapter 19

Winter break was hard on my Mom. She and my dad had met during the holiday season, and as a result, it was a time full of additional meaning.

This would be the second holiday season without my Dad. While my sister and I tried to maintain traditions as best we could, his tangible absence colored most of it. A man of routine, his habits were markers counting down the days until Christmas - like his resistance to a live Christmas tree, which he voiced each year. He always complained about the hassle of finding a good one, the growing expense, the process of hauling it off the car, through the garage, and into the living room. He failed to notice that, though he assisted in the search each year, it had been quite some time since he had actually moved a large pine. My sister and I had taken over the responsibilities several years back.

Like clockwork, always two weeks before Christmas, our family would be found scouring a tree lot within a few miles of our house, debating the fullness of branches and the ideal symmetry of a tree’s shape. Sometimes we were lucky, and found our “perfect” tree in one shot. Sometimes, we went to several places before we found one that fit. Either way, we would eventually coax Dad into buying a tree that was larger than he thought necessary and usually a little more expensive than he thought was reasonable. And then, once we had gotten it standing, he would begin commenting on how nice it looked, how great the house smelled, how happy he was.

I was by myself this year. The first time I would buy our family tree. The first time I would decorate it alone. My mom found the ritual overwhelming, and though she would appreciate the symbol once it stood, the process of creating it was still too trying for her.

I spent more than an hour at the same lot, deciding between three trees. All were quite nice fir trees, with soft, grey-green bristles and thick limbs. But, in each, I thought I could discern imperfections which could potentially spoil the most important symbol of our family traditions. The decision weighed heavily, and I felt the responsibility bearing down on me. It was crucial, especially this year, to get it right.

I finally decided on the one I felt had the best height-to-width proportions. It had a sturdiness, a strength, which resonated with me. Its limbs were straight and erect, as though they had withstood the elements well – had steadfastly faced the gales of long winters. It was full and proud and resilient.

At home, as I hung the ornaments one by one, I found myself submerged in memories, each bringing combinations of joy, grief, hope, pain. I lingered on one in particular. Dad, each year, bought an ornament for my mom, my sister, and myself. Gifts he generally left to my mom, but this one token was always a secret, which he relished in, and presented to us on Christmas eve.

This particular ornament was a small compass, with a thin silver chain, which gave it the appearance of a pocket watch. Dad gave it to me on my last Christmas in High school, right after I had fretted my way through college applications. He handed it to me with great reverence, and I quickly understood how much he treasured it. Given to him by his father, just before he left for college, my father had kept it with him until that day. His father, in giving him this gift, reminded him that a compass, while a guide, could not prescribe a path towards reaching a desired direction. A compass just reminded one of the direction they were headed.

My father handed the compass over with the same advice, adding that, while the compass would always keep the destination in mind, detours never hurt; with the compass, you could always find a way back to the original destination, if that was the desire. He hoped that I would remember that.

Holding the compass in my hand, I thought about the conundrum I was now in. We had never spoken about the possibility of not having a destination. A destination had been considered given – a foregone conclusion to a story still being written. We overlooked the white elephant of the situation; I couldn’t imagine approaching my father without a clear vision of my future, and my father never doubted that I already had one in mind.

I realized, as I felt the metal warm to the temperature of my hands, that the compass, as my dad intended, couldn’t provide any help, at least right now. But it could, and I desperately wanted it to. If I could settle on a destination, on a goal for my life, then I could find my way to it, one way or another. If I could define my future, then the compass could once again have purpose.

I moved toward the tree, hanging the compass at eye level, and near the front, where I could easily find it again. As it slowly spun on its chain, its surface reflecting sparkles of white light, I steadily watched, letting myself fall into a trance. And as I stood transfixed, my inner turmoil once again boiled its way to the surface.

Mr. Becker’s words of encouragement were a stumbling block – one that, no matter how much I tried, I still was unable to ignore. It festered, spread, teased, taunted. I could push it down, convince myself of how useless a pursuit it might be, only to return to that rush I felt when I was handing in my final paper for his class. It had been fleeting, but for that moment, I felt surer of myself, of my abilities, than I had ever experienced. It was a peek into a world where I wasn’t lost, wasn’t insecure.

But the fleeting nature of the experience scared me. As I had already seen, from the days and weeks following, my ability to second-guess myself, to breed doubt of my own abilities, had infected even that singular event. And it had led me on a rollercoaster of emotions that left me reeling in vulnerability. Imagine a life of such up and downs? I would either harden myself to the experiences, learn to blunt the effects of the emotional extremes, or succumb to them, and drive myself crazy. I was betting on the latter outcome.

Coming back....

I will post again soon...I promise.