Campus confidential, p.1
Campus Confidential, page 1
Campus Confidential
An Academic Thriller
Sid Stark
Copyright © Sid Stark 2019
Cover art copyright © Sid Stark 2019
All Rights Reserved
Published by Helia Press
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
All characters in this publication are fictitious, and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
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1
They say knowledge is power. Those people must never have gotten a PhD.
Case in point: the way I sidled into the room my first day at my first job. If my power corresponded to my knowledge, I would have stridden in like a conquering hero. But my knowledge of the sigmatic aorist or the Onegin stanza only seemed to weigh me down as I slithered into the faculty meeting room, smiling like a meek little idiot and wishing everyone would stop staring at me.
“You must be our new Russianist. Rowena Halley, right?” The speaker was a big bear-like man, a rarity in a foreign language department, where the faculty tended to be mainly female and inclined to the childish or the wizened. His joviality, though, had the manic edge common in academics, honed through decades of politically correct bullying into a weapon capable of inducing suicidal depression in everyone who encountered it.
“Yep.”
“They say you’re from Georgia.”
Now everyone was staring at me, like they’d never seen anyone from Georgia before. Which was all too possibly true.
“Originally,” I said.
The all-white group did a collective grimace as they bit down on their reflexive desire to berate me about racism and segregation. No doubt it was coming.
“But I did my PhD in Indiana,” I continued, triggering another collective grimace at the mere thought of the Midwest.
“Indiana...” said the bear-like man. “That must have been...different. Was it the first time you saw snow?”
“I lived for several years in Moscow. So no.”
“Moscow! I bet you have lots of opinions about Putin!”
There was a chorus of titters.
“Is what they’re saying about police harassment true?” continued the bear-like man, his eyes avid. “It must not be safe to be an American there these days, is it?”
“It’s at least as safe as it is here in New Jersey,” I said, and sat down on the one remaining empty chair, between a woman who was vaguely familiar to me from my Skype interview for the position, and the only other man in the room. The woman was wearing chunky gold earrings and a thick necklace that hinted enough at Central America to leave her open to accusations of cultural appropriation, so even though I couldn’t remember her name, I was guessing she was from the Spanish program. The man was slender and had bristly dark-blond hair, dark-blond stubble covering his face, and looked like he hadn’t yet turned thirty.
“Good to see you again, Rowena,” whispered the woman, but didn’t remind me of her name. The man gave me a sideways flicker from his eyes, and then went back to looking straight ahead, stony-faced. His left leg, though, was quivering slightly under the table, hidden from everyone except me, as if he could barely contain his pent-up energy and desire to be out of this room.
There was an awkward silence, and then printed agendas were handed around and the meeting broke out, starting with pointed introductions to the one newcomer—me.
The bear-like man was John Greene, Associate Professor of Spanish and chair of the Department of Modern Languages. Of the other fifteen faculty members there, eight also taught Spanish, and three taught French. The Spanish instructors kept inserting bits of Spanish into their speech, some with better accents than others—John Greene’s was particularly shaky—causing the French instructors to laugh sycophantically and nod to show that they, too, spoke a Romance language.
Aside from the Romance contingent, there was one German instructor, one Chinese instructor, one Arabic instructor (the man sitting next to me), and me. We all sat in nervous silence as the Spanish contingent discussed business that had nothing to do with us and swapped in-jokes, with John Greene occasionally making little digs at Georgia until he got caught up in an argument over something that everyone kept referring to as “C. Diff.”
“Why is everyone talking about c. diff?” I whispered to the woman sitting next to me. “Was there an outbreak of diarrhea here last semester?”
She gave me a weird look, but got distracted by the argument over whether or not the Department of Modern Languages was adequately supporting C. Diff’s mission.
“It’s the Committee for Diversity, Inclusiveness, and Fairness,” the man to my right whispered, bending close enough that I could feel his stubble brush my ear. “C-D-I-F. It’s a student-faculty collaborative, interdisciplinary initiative to increase the presence of under-represented minorities and engage in town-and-gown outreach in order to encourage local members of the community, especially potential first-generation college students, to apply to TLASC.” He delivered the words in an inflectionless whisper, but when he broke away, his whole body was now quivering, I assumed with suppressed laughter.
Meanwhile, an argument had broken out between a Spanish and a French instructor over item three on the agenda, the cross-listing of survey literature courses with tempting titles such as “French Neoclassicism: An Introduction” as comparative literature, or CLIT (pronounced See-Lit), classes.
I looked down at the agenda to confirm my suspicions of the spelling of the course identifier, and then sideways at the woman sitting to my left, but she sat there impassively. If she had ever found it amusing to teach classes labeled CLIT 101, those days had long since passed. The man to my right was running his hand over his face, maybe from tiredness, maybe because his stubble itched, or maybe from the desperate need to keep from exploding with mirth. I fought the urge to ask if Introduction to Differential Equations was labeled DICQ 101 on the course bulletin, and narrowly won.
The argument was settled in favor of foreign language instructors teaching courses cross-listed as CLIT 101 as they apparently always had in the past, but with a motion to request that the courses be listed as FORL first and CLIT second, instead of the other way around, as they currently were.
“After the latest curriculum survey they’re obviously planning to reduce the foreign language courses as much as possible, maybe phase out the requirement altogether!” said the French instructor who had been arguing in favor of getting the courses listed as FORL first and CLIT second. “We need to remind them that we’re still here!”
“Which is why we want to get in on the CLIT listings!” cried the Spanish instructor who had been arguing against her. “Raise our visibility!”
“I’ve heard they’re thinking of cutting the CLIT program entirely,” put in a third person, a bird-like woman whose tiny stature was balanced out by a large mane of wispy, hay-like hair that appeared to have last been brushed sometime back in the Bush administration. The first Bush administration. I couldn’t remember her name or what she taught, but odds were it was Spanish.
There was a vociferous outcry against the perfidy of budget cuts aimed at foreign language programs, which united the room long enough for us to move on to the next item on the agenda: the promotion of our LCTL (pronounced “Lictle”) program.
“Now, I know you haven’t been here long, Rowena, if I may—you don’t mind if I call you Rowena, do you? I know how touchy some new PhDs can be, especially young women, about being called by their first names—of course you have to stand up for yourselves, I understand that, and in the classroom you should, but here we’re all not just colleagues, but friends—but you must have talked about growing our LCTL program during your interview? In fact, that’s part of why we hired you, isn’t it?—because you had some really good ideas for outreach and development for our LC
John Greene fixed me with a bright stare at the end of his speech. I smiled weakly back. Before I could say anything, we had moved on to item five, the cut in the office supplies budget and how this would force us to act in a more environmentally responsible manner by not printing out so many handouts (the man to my right looked down at the printed-out meeting agenda, caught my eye, and then looked swiftly away, rubbing his hand over his face once again) and then briskly to item six, student mental health reporting.
“After what happened last semester”—there was a pregnant pause, during which everyone, even John Greene, appeared to shrink a little in their seats—“the Office of Student Wellness has instituted a new protocol for notifying them and the authorities of students who appear to be a danger to themselves or others. There was some question over whether the new mandatory reporting rules violated FERPA, but it was decided last week that they are in fact FERPA-compliant, so everyone will need to do the online training seminar prior to the start of classes, which I don’t need to remind you is in two days’ time. Rowena, you’ll have to do your regular FERPA, Title IX, and Health and Safety training at the same time. It’s all online; shouldn’t take more than an hour or two, but it has to be done before classes start or we could be facing a potential lawsuit.”
Now John Greene did wait for me to promise that yes, I would complete the FERPA, Title IX, Health and Safety, and Student Wellbeing training within the next 48 hours.
There was some grousing about more mandatory online training, and a little tiff between two Spanish instructors, but no further explanation of what had happened last semester, and with that, my first faculty meeting as a real professor was over.
2
“Rowena, this way please,” said John Greene, bustling out of the room in an oddly feminine manner for such a burly man. “And Alex, Emma—you too, please. My office. And Kate, you come too. I know German isn’t technically a Less Commonly Taught Language, but”—he uttered a nervous laugh—“here it might as well be. So why don’t we all put our heads together. I’m sure with so much youth and brilliance we’ll come up with some marvelous ideas for promoting the LCTL program. I hope you don’t mind, Rowena, if I invite the others—I know I promised you a tete-a-tete, but this way you can benefit from hearing what some of your more experienced peers have tried, things that have worked—or failed. I’m afraid we haven’t had much luck getting students to sign up for our more...exotic language offerings, but now with you here, I’m sure that will change.”
He gave me a Hollywood-starlet-level bright smile while shepherding us through the department front office and into the chair’s office. I hoped my face didn’t betray how I felt when he shut the door behind us. After my dissertation defense, I had made a promise to myself that I wouldn’t attend any more closed-door meetings with senior faculty, and here I was breaking it already.
“Pull up a chair—do we have enough—not quite—Alex, I see you’re leaning against the bookcase anyway—pull up a chair. Now, Rowena, what were some of those brilliant ideas I heard you had during your interview?”
“Well,” I said, perching on a rolling chair with one broken armrest. “Of course, there’s ROTC...”
But John Greene was already shaking his head regretfully. “The ROTC presence on our campus is so small, I’m afraid, that that’s just not a pool worth pulling from, and Arabic already has that pretty much sewn up, don’t you, Alex? Of course, with your Navy record—can I just say once again how proud TLASC is of your service—that’s no surprise.”
Alex, the man who had been sitting to my right earlier and was now leaning against an Ikea Billy bookcase that had, like the chair, seen better days, shrugged. His earlier amusement had gone, and now his attitude was saying that he might be here physically, but mentally he was somewhere else. “Arabic has something like 50% of the current ROTC cadets on campus,” he said. He turned and focused on me, fully present for an instant. “But there’s always the other 50%. I’d be happy to talk to you about recruitment strategies.”
“That would be great,” I started, but before I could say anything else, John Greene was talking about the Chinese film series that Emma had started last semester, that had been such a brilliant idea but had suffered from poor turnout.
“I’m afraid it’s hard to get students to show up to anything these days,” he was saying, shaking his head regretfully again. “So many of them commute in or are working, and the ones that live and work on campus are already so overcommitted with social events these days. Kate, you tried holding an Oktoberfest fair, but...”
“We couldn’t get permission to hold it on the quad,” Kate told me. “Only the basement of the Union. So no one showed up.”
“Um, okay,” I said. “Study abroad—”
“Yes, of course, of course...why don’t you drop by the study abroad office this afternoon, Rowena, see if you can make some contacts there? Get a full day out of your first day on campus! Now I’m afraid I have to go. A chair’s work is never done!” And we were ushered out of the office with as much bustle and nervous laughter as we had been shepherded in.
“Well, I’ve”—he looked at his phone—“gotta run, but I’ll see you around,” said Alex. “Let me know if you want me to hook you up with my contacts in the ROTC office, Rowena.” He slung his bag over his shoulder and set off at a semi-jog. Unlike most academics, he appeared to be at least somewhat familiar with the act of running.
“Yeah, me too,” said Emma. “Welcome to Lib State, Rowena.” Her tone and the smile that followed it were not particularly welcoming, and she set off almost as fast as Alex, but less athletically.
“Do you know where your office is?” asked Kate. “Will you be with the rest of us in the adjunct office? Wait: you’re not an adjunct, are you? You’re a VAP, aren’t you?”
“Sort of,” I said.
“But only for one semester, to fill in for Professor Cahill, while he’s...out.”
“Yes,” I said.
“So no possibility of renewal, then,” she said, sounding unsure whether to gloat or sympathize.
“Not that I know of.”
“Well, they put the Spanish adjuncts in Cahill’s office while he’s...out, so you won’t be getting that. Probably you’ll be with us. Mary Beth, do you know what office Professor Halley will have? Mary Beth’s our current work-study,” Kate explained to me, as the blonde girl sitting at the department front desk frowned at being asked this difficult and unexpected question. “So are you going to be with us again this semester?” Kate asked Mary Beth. “I thought you said you might be transferring to Math.”
“They’re keeping me here at least until the end of the week, I think,” Mary Beth said. “Then I don’t know. Linda’s out to lunch; you’ll have to ask her about Professor Halley’s office.”
“Linda’s our admin,” Kate told me. “But she must have emailed you already. She’s the only one who knows how anything works. But I’ll show you around, and then you should go to HR if you haven’t done that yet. Here’s the copier. Have you gotten your copy code? Ask Linda for it when she gets back. You have to have your copy code to make copies, not that it’ll do you much good. As you just heard, they made it so we only get 100 copies a month, down from 200.”
“I have thirty students,” I said. “What do I do when I run out of copies?”
Kate shrugged. “Make your own copies? That’s what I do. Or you can have them take quizzes online.”
“For Russian 101? Asking them to type in Russian seems a little harsh for first semester.”
“Well, most of us make multiple choice quizzes.”
I bit my tongue on what I thought about multiple choice quizzes, and allowed Kate to lead me to what she, in the privacy of the corridor, called the “adjunct warehouse,” the single office, labeled simply “Adjuncts,” shared by Kate, Alex, Emma, and now, it seemed, me. There were two desks and two computers and three chairs and a futon mattress rolled up against one wall.
