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.