Fumes-Jeremy Trimble
Fumes
By Jeremy Trimble
With my assigned reading on the seminar table, I open his binder, grab a sheet of paper and date it, hoping very much that the next seventy-five minutes won’t be an exercise in sitting frustration, wishing I could hit something or run screaming with every step a kick to the instructor’s face. Those thoughts sting and burn, because I’m not that student; I’m political, the kind of grad student who knows how to flex into any class and be the good boy who gets the good grade whether or not I deserve it. And then he comes to this class right at the end of my graduate career. And there’s something particularly painful about sitting in a class, ready to graduate, with your perfect transcript and a teacher who looks at you with pity, ready to give you the B- that she sees as charity.
Deep breaths, deep breaths. Say something. Participate enough to show her that you care. Then you can go back to doodling and hope you can still have children when this is all over. I write the date and watch as the teacher comes in; there’s a groan in the back of my throat when I see that there isn’t a video cassette tucked under her arm, but I don’t make a sound. Instead I smile like I respect her. This was the first grad class where the instructor had them spend half of almost every class, almost every day, watching her favorite parts of her favorite plays. Forty percent of this semester: watching movies. It started out as a joke, something I didn’t expect because this was supposed to be a grad student’s seminar. This was supposed to be scholars and colleagues discussing and dissecting, learning and growing. It wasn’t supposed to be movies and fuming about the teacher’s comments. And today I don’t get to stare at a screen.
I’ll have to look at her lecturing like an angry five year old for seventy-five minutes. Okay, deep breaths. Say one thing. Participate enough to show her that you’re trying. And I know she thinks I was an idiot, the special kid who doesn’t know how to write, but might start on the path to her enlightenment if I try really, really hard. It doesn’t matter I teach English 1A as one of those graduate students sucking on the department teat for a job and something else to put on my CV. My publications don’t matter. The awards I’ve won are irrelevant. All that counts is that she looks at my writing and doesn’t get it. And I have to remind myself that I’ve done well in my other nine seminars, that I can write the discourse and be a scholar. It didn’t matter that this professor would screw up my name.
She sits down, sorting her papers and Happy Guy, the bulky dude to my right, asked, “Did you have a great weekend Professor?” That’s her official title, but that’s not how I thought of her. With one of those instructed deep breaths, I think of her as Pino (Professor in name only). Happy Guy waved his hands with each word because he’s the kind of guy whose excited at every comment and question, especially his own.
“I did have a good weekend,” Pino says with a wide smile aimed at no one, “I reread the play. And it was fantastic! Fantastic! One of the best plays ever. And if you disagree, that’s fine. Because you’re wrong!” Everyone hears the exclamation points, the little shouts that would’ve been appropriate from a child or an intoxicated preacher. Deep breaths. Slow breathing. Ignore her. Moments like that made me wish I had a happy place.
A glance at the other students and I run silent chants because garroting an instructor, even Pino, would probably look bad: Deep breaths. She doesn’t matter. What she says doesn’t matter. Calm thoughts. Across the table was Breeder, the pregnant woman who loved telling other people they were wrong. Breeder was the same chick who didn’t believe in evidence because it got in the way of the truth. Then there was Gray, the old chick who knows that a teacher is always right. After all, a teacher couldn’t be a teacher without being right. It’s one of her many articles of faith, like how Jesus loved her and profanity can only be used by gang bangers and retards. With Happy Guy and Pino, those are the people who like to talk. When the semester started, I used to discuss the arguments and interpretations that make literature interesting until I realized the teacher doesn’t like arguments. She doesn’t like interpretations either. I still haven’t figured out what she wants. Maybe that’s the problem.
“What did you all think of this fantastic piece of literature?”
“Uh,” asks Happy Guy with a beefy arm in the air, “can I ask a question about the paper first? Please, I promise it’ll be good.”
“Why of course you can,” answers the cheerful Pino, magnanimous in all of her infinite wisdom to help a poor grad student. On the first day, I thought that tone was supposed to ring with postmodern irony; that was probably my first mistake.
“What are you looking for?” Happy Guy laughs, waving his hands like he needs a second more when he says, “Look, I know you don’t have a set answer to that, but I’m really nervous about this midterm ‘cause I really want to do well, so what can you suggest? I mean, do you have any hints or pet peeves we should know about?”
Pino’s answer: “Good writing.” I lean forward, breath held, waiting to laugh. That’s not supposed to be a real answer; she’s supposed to grin and give us real information about the kinds of arguments she wants to see. It was supposed to be an inside joke for people who know that writing is dependent on context and audience, that there is no such thing as good writing outside of every situation.
Oh my god. That’s her answer. That’s really her answer. I’m not used to that sensation of shock.
“Do you have anything, uh, more helpful?” asks Brit, another grad student teacher. She was usually exhausted, reading with blurry eyed concentration because most of her effort drained into preparing for her comprehensive exam, but Pino’s answer stunned her awake.
“Good writing,” Pino repeats like she’s talking to children, “You guys all know what you’re doing. You’re grad students. This stuff isn’t new for you, so just use what you already know. Just make sure that you use the text. Remember, that’s the most important part. Theory’s good, but you don’t want your ideas to get in the way of your writing.”
“So I’m thinking about writing about how Pinter breaks up the idea of betrayal. I want to argue that his play argues for a relativist point of view by demonstrating that we don’t have any concretely defined priorities for different kinds of relationships. Like he’s deconstructing the idea that we have clearly defined hierarchies in our relationships, and when we realize that we don’t, any relationship could suddenly be the most important which in turn undermines any ethical claims we want to make,” says Happy Guy because he assumed everyone would like to hear about his paper. Not a bad idea, andI would’ve been lying if I said I didn’t like the distraction from Pino’s lecture either.
“Where do you see that in the text?”
“Well, I’ve got some good quotes that demonstrate how everyone is betrayed, and from that I wanted to say that if everyone is betrayed and betrays, then we see that there is no way to assign any real blame or substantive judgment to any of these characters. It’s kind of like if everyone’s a murderer, then you can’t judge one of them more than the rest.”
“But where do you see it in the text?”
“What do you mean?”
“Where does it say that?”
“Explicitly? Like where does Pinter write that this is the argument?”
“Well,” Pino said with a shrug that may or may not have negated her comments, “it doesn’t have to be like that, but yes, you need to make sure it’s somewhere in the text.” Oh my God, I thought that clichéd phrase for the second time in as many minutes. She won’t take anything that’s not on the pages. No reading, no interpretation. Just what? Summary? Masturbatory declarations of brilliance for writers who’ll never hear us? And she put her hands on the table, looking around at everyone in her most teacherly look, silently promising that this would be another piece of the greatest wisdom we would ever hear: “Grad students are smart,” But of course we’re not as smart as you “but sometimes you guys get stuck in your theory. You’re so worried about making arguments that you forget that reading is about the text. Everything has to come from the text. Remember that,” she said sliding the backs of her hands across the table and lifting, “your paper needs to come up, and out of the text. You can’t try to make your ideas fit what’s there. You have to make sure it’s already there.” To what degree? Do we assume that if it’s not in the text, like if it’s subtext, that we don’t get to use it? I guess “Hills Like White Elephants” wasn’t really about abortion. After all, it’s not in the text. Fuck. What the fuck? What the fuck is she saying? Staring at her with lifeless fish eyes, I probably looked like I was wondering what it would feel like to punch her in the face.
“Would you be willing to take a look at our papers, you know, give us some feedback?” asked Happy Guy. No one looked bored watching the conversation as they read her reactions, calling on all of those other experiences with other teachers to figure what she wanted and how she wanted it. Everyone would do what the teacher wanted; willingness was never an issue, nor was obedience.
“Um, no.” Pino paused and grinned because that’s when she wanted to be funny. “That means I’d have to read everyone’s paper and I don’t think I have time for that.” You must be so busy, teaching one whole seminar. A whole eight students taking up your time, and I thought about my twenty freshmen, how I’d read their papers, offer suggestions and encourage revision. A glance at Britt, and I remembered her twenty-five writers.
“How about an outline? I mean, I know where I want to go, so maybe you could give me some feedback about the overall argument?” his voice cracked a little, not so much as to compromise his absent dignity, but plenty to tell everyone that he was nervous.
“An outline? No. No, I don’t think so,” she said like it was a terrible idea for fools and freshmen. Happy Guy dropped his head to the table with a booming clunk. “But don’t worry,” said Pino, “Outlines aren’t really a good idea anyway. I mean, you can’t plan out what you’re going to write beforehand. You know, I’ve never understood why anyone would try that. It’s like you have to start writing and then learn to explore and discover what you’re going to say. You can’t plan ahead; that’s not what good writing is all about.” You can’t plan your paper? Of course you can! I do it all the time. You don’t have to, but who the hell are you to say that my writing is bad because I like having a destination before I start my journey of mystical honey and magical berries? “Just remember, you’re writing about your particular interpretations and not arguments. This isn’t a philosophy class; you don’t want to get too abstract. Just remember, don’t get abstract. Don’t use too much theory,” Or thinking. “Just do your best and I’m sure you’ll all do fine.” Normally, to me and every other conscious grad student, that would’ve read that as a promise everyone would get an A. I would’ve felt better if I hadn’t already seen the way she assigned grades. “So what’d you all think of the play for today?” A glance at each student, remembering each grad student’s grade because everyone’s willing to share: B, B-/C+, B+, B, C, B-, B-, C, C+. And let’s not forget grade inflation. Let’s not forget that B’s are the new C’s so anyone who sees our transcripts are going to see we’re illiterate idiots.
“It was great!” replies Happy Guy.
“Definitely,” I agree, so she thinks I’m connected with my fellow classmates, that I’m not someone sitting here with his arms across my chest seething, It’s official. PhD’s don’t mean anything. Who gave her one? I hope they’ve been shot. Hung from a McDonald’s arch and shot. That of an explosive case of testicular cancer. But that’s not what I say: “The elements of science fiction were pretty compelling.” Some of my other classmates complained the class was too much like book club; I could use that, “I mean, this play raises some interesting questions—”
“It does,” interrupts my instructor, “And that is really the purpose of good literature. Only good pieces of writing know how to ask questions. If it tries to give an answer, and not ask a question, then it must not be very good, right? I mean, that’s why we keep coming back to these brilliant, brilliant plays. They ask questions!” Eyes wide, she scans across the different students. And I nod because that’s the appropriate thing to do, because giving her the vacant stare she deserved would’ve earned me another bad grade. Nodding means I agree; I wish it didn’t.
Britt has her hand in the air, maybe tired of listening to the teacher and asked, “Talking about the sci-fi, I think it’s interesting that this playwright made it work—”
“Definitely. That is part of what makes this such a great play. You know, I don’t know if it’s my favorite. It jumps back and forth from day to day, but it might be. Yeah, it is. It’s official,” she slapped her palm against the tabletop, “This is my favorite play. Let it be known,” she waved her hands out, skimming the air for silence for her announcement, “My favorite play. Ever. For today. No, ever. It’s the best.” Congratulations. “But what makes it so good is that it captures the man versus machine element of science fiction that really makes it such an incredible genre.” Again another sweep of her excitedly bulging eyes and another nod. Make your nod human. She has to believe you. Don’t look mad. Don’t look like you’re hoping Karma exists so she’ll get run over by a bus. “Go to any science fiction show and you’ll see how it’s always about man versus machine. Occasionally you might get something silly like Star Trek which really isn’t much more than a melodrama in space, but go to something like Star Wars and you’ll see the man versus machine theme and how that makes a great storyline, something worthy of study,” Have you ever seen Star Trek? Read the papers? Done the research? No, you’re just smoking out of your ass. Quiet. I shouldn’t think this because then she’ll see my face twitch. Put your arms on the table. Look relaxed. You’re having fun. You’re in English, an English major discussing important ideas, learning the retarded teacher’s retarded ideas. Don’t look mad. Don’t look mad, “Look at the Terminator movies. Again and again you see how it is man versus machine.” Man versus machine my ass. Before I can think, can remember not to be annoyed, my hand’s in the air. Pino nods at me like she was surprised someone would say something. Maybe it’s just me.
“The first Terminator movie was man versus machine, but the majority of the Terminator canon is centered on man and machine versus machine. The second and third movies are both about one machine fighting another. Then one of the main chunks of the TV show is all about how a robot becomes more human.”
Pino’s face looks stiff even when she forces her lips to say, “I only saw the first movie.” Exhale slowly. Don’t sigh like you’re talking to an idiot. Don’t grind your teeth. That’s probably bad for them. Don’t let her do that to you. “Anyway, what are some major themes in this play?”
“Robotics,” someone says. Pino nods.
“Man versus machine,” someone parrots. Then Pino nods like a parrot.
“The nature of humanity,” I say. Pino doesn’t nod. Damn it. Stop talking.
Quiet Girl, the chick I never remember because she sits at the table of the corner, raises her hand and adds, “It seems like a lot of this play is about what is a good play. Like it’s really meta-theatrical because they keep talking about what makes a good play a good play.”
“Definitely,” Pino says with fluttering nods like a turtledove on speed. “Say more about that.”
“Uh, that’s all I really had.”
“But say more.”
“That’s really all I had.”
“Okay,” Pino says, staring down at the center of the table, processing whatever chunk of wisdom she’d dispense next. “Yes,” she stretches that sound out, “Yes. Yes, okay. So here’s the thing. This is a great play because it asks about what makes good art, so I want to ask you all, what makes good art?
What makes good writing? Hey, we already started talking about that.” No, you started talking about that. We listened in dumfounded amazement that someone lets you teach.
The grad students glance at one another, half nervous, because we’re implicit relativists. Talking about the idea of good writing is like trying to talk about why brunettes are hotter than blonds. That kind of conversation can be fun, but everyone knows it won’t go anywhere. “So what’s good art? What’s good writing?” Pino asks again.
Brit raises her hand before trying with, “Good art is something that communicates. Something that tells us a little more about ourselves.”
The other guy who sits next to me, the guy with the glasses, narrow face and pointed chin, the guy who never speaks, he says, “The idea of good seems kind of strange. Good is dependent on your perspective.” He’s a relativist, poor fool. Understanding relativism, even artistic relativism, requires that you acknowledge the possibility that other people could be right and that you could be wrong. She’ll never go for that. “I might see the play’s opening joke as really funny, but someone else could just see something stupid.”
“No!” Pino half-shouted. Then she laughs because it’s funny to pretend to be a teacher-centered instructor who tells her students what to believe. “But seriously, this is some brilliant stuff.” Then she leans back and laughs at one of the jokes without telling them which one. “So what makes literature good? How can you tell this is brilliant?”
“It’s funny,” someone says.
“It’s hilarious!” Pino snaps. “That is definitely a component of what makes this play so incredible. There’s no way you can see this without just absolutely cracking up. That’s why it deserves to be studied.”
“But how do you make that determination?” the quiet guy asks. “Just because you find it funny or great doesn’t mean that everyone would think of it like that.”
“I don’t know,” Pino answers with a rolling shrug, “There are some writers we can all just agree are completely brilliant. Look at Shakespeare, no one thinks he was anything but a genius.” Definitely nothing you’ll be accused of anytime soon. “There are some things we can generally agree about that are just plain good.” Like what?
A sound broke through my throat; all that freewill and the sound still got out there, like closing my eyes for a sneeze. Pino motions at me; I could stay quiet, could mutter something about a cough or how I don’t really have something to say. Instead, “But who decides that?”
“You can see a general consensus.” She makes it sound obvious.
“Of who?”
“Of everyone, of course,” Pino stated.
“But, please don’t fail me for saying this,” I say, laughing nervous because I can’t stop. Don’t say it. Don’t say it. Don’t say it, rings in the back of my skull. But my lips move anyway: “Isn’t that kind of a bandwagon fallacy?” Face hot, I want to talk, want to speak and raise real questions the way my other professors suggest. “You can’t justify a claim with just numbers. Just because a lot of people say something, that doesn’t make it true. Two hundred years ago, there was a general consensus that brown people were better of as slaves. That didn’t make it true. The same thing applies to using numbers to justifying claims about art.”
“Oh no, it’s not evidence,” Pino says, “It’s not rational.” And I think that she’s going to say something else, something to clarify her position. Instead she continues, “It’s not rational. But still, we can see that there is a general consensus about great literature. We can all agree that there is such a thing and that certain pieces of literature clearly fall into this category.” I want to hit you. That or I want to hit the person who hired you.
“I see.” It’s hard to force those words past my lips as I pick up my pencil. New rule. Don’t talk. Just don’t do it. It’s a bad idea, obviously a bad idea. Shut the hell up. Outline short stories on your notes. Look like you’re doing something, but don’t engage her. Don’t talk. Let her go. She screws your grade, fine, you can’t control it. Accept it and move on. Grades are made up anyway, remember? Scratching my pencil into my paper, I doodle poems, story ideas, essays, anything to pull me away from that room. But she can grade me. She can grade me; she can grade me and that hurts.
Damn it.
Pino keeps talking, saying things that sound dumb. And then I think maybe I am idiot. Maybe all of my other professors were wrong. Thirty minutes to the end of class. Perhaps I didn’t deserve those writing awards. I could be an idiot; she could be brilliant. Twenty-five minutes.
“Just remember,” Pino says, another joke that no one will laugh at, “there are some really intelligent people who appreciate American literature. They’re just wrongheaded. Completely, but we still love them.” And she’s laughing so hard she dabs her eyes with her pinkies. I’d like to jab her eyes with something else.
Thirteen minutes.
Eight minutes.
Hurry up.
Four minutes.
Stop talking.
Stop talking you pretend professor.
Class should’ve ended a minute ago. Stop it! Stop talking! No one cares. No one cares what you’re saying. See all those notes no one is taking? Yeah, that’s ‘cause we don’t care. See how we’re all staring at the clock? Take a hint and let us go!
“Okay, well, I’ll see you guys next week,” and there’s the screech of chairs against the linoleum floors.
“Take care,” I say, making my way for the door, each step too short and too slow. Hungry for air that wasn’t touched by Pino’s ideas, I rush, almost running and there’s only the flimsy chance I don’t look rude. Past the door the world tastes different. It doesn’t smell like the arrogance of someone who’d been told she was so smart she didn’t need to think anymore. Oh yeah, I’m pretty sure I’m dumber for this experience. Then I’ll have to do it again for five more weeks.
Copyright C. 2008 Jeremy Trimble