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So far the reader has been treated to a dozen or so examples of how
my
own foolish mouth has caused me to terminate Interviews, and another
dozen
in which I waffled on matters of Discipline. Does the reader suspect
that
Firing is the third member of this troika? It is indeed.
The notion of "being fired" has something sudden and final about
it: it
is assumed that a person who has been fired must leave their workplace
posthaste. For this reason, the term seldom applies to teachers, unless
they
have been caught molesting students. No - in the field of education,
the
termination is decidedly less blunt: the teacher is told that their
contract
for the following year "is not to be renewed". This usually takes place
months before the end of school, for the humane reason (forced upon the
administration by the teachers' union) of giving the teacher so
notified
time to find another job for the following year. This is why the
character
in my Journal entry is so sure that that day at the end of March will
be The
Day of Reckoning (in the non-mathematical sense.)
That multi-month hiatus leaves the unrenewed teacher a lame duck
for the
rest of the school year. He must still teach his students and interact
with
fellow faculty and staff. But now there is a kind of sadness which
envelopes
all this: everyone else will be there next year doing all those things,
but
he won't. And of course he must answer questions like "What courses
have you
been assigned for next year?"
I have held around a dozen teaching positions. Of these, I was
fired
(yes, let's be blunt here!) from five of them. Four of the five persons
who
administered the coups de grace I despise to this day; the fifth
remains one
of my dearest friends: his name is Phil Lewis.
I think that Phil and I quietly and mutually decided that our
friendship
was too valuable to allow some bagatelle like his firing of me to end
it. To
this day we continue to meet for conversation every week.
Below are two contemporary -- reactions -- of mine to that
traumatic
event in 1983 when I was denied tenure at Lincoln-Sudbury Regional
High
School. One is my (five-and-one-half-page) Journal entry which purports
to
report the event; the other is a fictional rendering of the causes of
the
cataclysm.
Phil has said, "Every man constructs a drama in which he is the
hero."
This certainly seems to apply to those two documents.
The entry below from my Journal is the only one, as far as I can
recall,
which is written in the third person. This seems to act as a protective
device for the writer, a form of psychological removal (just as I am
doing
now by slipping into the third person here!) Is this entry an account
or a
confession? Is it self-enlightenment, self-indictment, or
self-aggrandizement? Can it justifiably be termed "psychopathological",
or
is it a sign of robust psychological health? But, then, perhaps the
whole
thing is nothing but an elaborate façade, a smokescreen on the part of
the
writer to mask (Phil prefers "reveal") his/my true feelings...
The story "Lost" (which could be called a premonition, as it was
actually written a year-and-a-half before the actual firing), like most
fiction, contains a lot of fact. For example, I really was the pianist
at
the church which Phil attended; and our reactions to the two spaces are
accurate as they are described there. The fiction enters when I suggest
that
two disparate situations - the church and the school - were related as
cause
and effect. They were not, of course: as Phil has been at pains to
point out
to me, he always went to particular lengths to keep his various "boxes"
separate.
The notion of posting meta-comments by a protagonist of my tales
seemed
a grande jest to me. So, when I received the following moving sonnet
from
Phil, I knew I had to include it here as a sort of coda:
à la recherche du temps perdu (With apologies to M.P.)
If I thought then ‹ how many years ago?
that we would reconnect, and bare our souls
on reconnecting to confront the show
in which we played out designated roles,
then I too might have written down
a record of the part I thought I played;
might now put on an academic gown
and criticize those dramas that we made.
But record-less, alas, I knead the clay
you fired in the formal kiln of art,
and still re-work the substance of that day:
compose the drama to improve my part.
So which is closer to the truth today:
this work in progress or your finished play?
11 April 2005
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30 March 1983
Lost
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30 March 1983
Today was the day that he had been waiting for. Or at least
anticipating
- if the term could be used for an inevitable outcome to which he was,
at
least part of the time, oblivious. For it had often seemed to him that
he
was surprisingly indifferent to the nature of the outcome - that
absolute
yes or no. The exclusive "or": it had to be one or the other, but not
both.
Yes - he had been remarkably free of worry about it all - probably that
lack
of consternation would have surprised his superiors had they known
about it.
Probably in their indecisive agony they assumed that he too was in
agony.
But how can one be in agony who has nothing to do, no pros and cons to
weigh, no ultimate, binding decisions to make? One could, of course -
if one
saw oneself as the victim of forces beyond one's control - forces which
would decide one's ultimate destiny. Clearly, he did not see it this
way at
all, for he scarcely worried at all, ever. Indeed, he had placed the
whole
Situation and their Ultimate Decision apart from himself, removed it
neatly
from the circle of impinging disasters. He simply persuaded himself
that the
outcome, whatever it would be, would not have a decisive influence on
his
life: it just was not all that important. And so, in the days leading
up to
this fateful day, he caught himself remembering that it was to occur
only at
random far-spaced moments. Each of these times he registered surprise
that
the time that seemed utterly far off before, even infinite (because
indefinite, ungraspable) now was finite, measurable; then, almost
immediately, he recalled that there was nothing he himself could do,
and
then promptly forgot about it.
"Nothing he could do": this was not strictly true. He was at least
theoretically of the opinion that each person has the capability of
altering
his own destiny, his own way of behaving, by sufficient force of will.
In
practice, however, it turned out that he chose to be limited by his
character, his needs, his personality, his taste as to how to live and
function.
True - he had changed in the past year - radically - or so it
seemed to
those who observed him. Yet what had caused that change? A force of
will?
Hardly. He had, almost by coincidence, it might be said, chosen to
teach
some courses differently; this involved more work, more preparation -
more
attention to the skill-needs of the students. This he had done - yet he
couldn't say why he had so changed (he couldn't even be sure if the
change
was qualitative or quantitative.) But he had - and the effect on his
superiors was impressive. At heart, though, he thought of himself as
basically the same person.
He knew that he was a "tough case" for his superiors, in several
ways.
His work was uneven, ranging from sloppiness to brilliance, often in
the
same class-period. He had an excellent, even profound (so they thought
- he
was not so sure about this) command of mathematics, yet often could not
explain it clearly; or, rather, the clarity was so profound as to exude
an
icy brilliance which, in language, could not be comprehended by most
students. He had a good intuitive sense of organization - but he was
often
so lazy that he failed to prepare and thereby exploit it to the utmost.
He
relied upon the spontaneous, the improvised lecture, whose Truth was
too
often a Whole out of reach of the student. He also exuded an
aristocratic
attitude of laissez-faire, making demands but not following up on
failures
to comply - a method more suited to college teaching. Even his humor,
far-ranging and often subtle, worked against him, as the younger
students
took offense at what seemed like personal affronts. While his very
"off-beatedness", highly individualistic, became less desirable in an
increasingly homogenized context.
And so it was with humor - even a sort of fiendish glee - that he
observed the writhings of his superiors as they tried to decide: hire
or
fire. And they writhed right up to the last possible moment, visiting
his
classes, as if looking for some crucial piece of evidence which they
had
failed somehow to see in the three years he had been there.
Did he have a real preference for a positive outcome? He could not
say
for sure that he did. Certainly there was security - economic mainly.
Stronger, though, was the element of choice: that he would have the
alternative to stay or leave, the decision being up to him. Then, too,
he
could say that he liked his job - the casual atmosphere, the geniality
of
his colleagues, the degree of autonomy he enjoyed. He also posed often
for
himself a sort of utopian teaching schedule, wherein he would devise
true
open-ended courses: "utopian", both because the Times were contraction,
and
because he knew he was not a real "go-getter" in that sense. Finally,
he
loathed the prospect of the chore of reorganization, of having to go
through
the onerous task of finding other jobs.
Yet - he did not fear a negative outcome. Indeed, in certain ways
he
welcomed it. Why? There was the prospect of being once again "free", of
being in a position (even if forced upon him) to reevaluate once again
the
whole course of his working life, to choose once again what he wanted
to do.
He did not envy those veterans of long years of service in one school
system
- no, rather, he saw them as slaves of tradition, of stability. But
there
was a deeper reason for this lack of fear of a negative outcome: it
would
relieve him of the need to succeed at a task which he by no means
sympathized with. He relished, in some strange way, the condition of
being
new at a job, of being an object of curiosity and freshness; for such a
person is significant, not in what he does, but in what he is. What was
the
nature of his psychological makeup, that he wanted to be liked for
himself,
rather than what he could do?
Here, at this particular job, he also did not fear the feeling, in
the
event of a negative outcome, of being rejected. He had been told many
times
that he was highly valued, as a person in his own right. Herein he was
respected, liked, perhaps (on the part of his friend the Department
Chairman) even loved. The neat separation into individual versus
institutional needs suited him: he would almost not care if he were
rejected
out of the latter reasons, if the former remained intact.
Today had, finally, come. At times during the course of the day he
remembered, and felt a vague apprehension, a sort of excitement. He was
surprised that he did not feel more wrought up, more nervous. Or
perhaps he
knew well enough why he wasn't. Certainly he felt that, in this
business at
least, No News was Bad News, even if the possibility remained for
Anything
to Happen, merely because Nothing had yet.
When the Chairman P- came back to the office at 3:15 P.M., he tried
to
read in his demeanor the outcome. P- was clearly nervous, started
toward his
desk, changed his mind, walked back. He was not in an absolutely "good
mood", as he chattered about running out of gas this morning - luckily
near
the top of a long hill. Finally, however, P- edged over to his desk,
and in
an undertone said, "Wanna talk?" He jumped up as if a coiled spring.
Walking down the hall, P- babbled about "a decision I feel just
terrible
and depressed about", "the need to have you with me next year" and the
like.
It was a masterpiece of ambiguity. Yet, finally one could read in the
speech, the demeanor, the verdict: it was no.
The Principal and P- exuded a mood of sad resignation in the
former's
office. There came about the strange situation, wherein the person just
rejected cheerfully had to mollify his two superiors with assurances
that
they had "done what had to be done" and that he "felt no antagonism"
towards
them. It was as if the best friend of the two superiors had died, and
the
teacher was reassuring them of a life after death. P- had tears in his
eyes,
spoke movingly of "friendship", of "the need to talk as friends soon".
He left the office. And about his lips hovered the faint trace of a
smile. He danced down the hall, humming a fugue he had written the day
before.
It was the end of another phase of his life, the beginning of a new
one...
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Lost
I assumed the position as pianist at the church about two years
after it
burned. The old organist had left sometime before, having found it
impossible to accept the fact that his instrument had gone up in smoke.
At
the time of his resignation a small fellowship wing of the Church had
been
rebuilt, with the main edifice awaiting additional insurance funds.
That relatively small room in which services were held was never
viewed
by the membership as anything but a temporary situation; all waited
eagerly
and impatiently for the work to begin on the spacious new sanctuary
they had
each had a hand in designing.
It turned out, however, that this room -- the vestry -- was a
blessing
in disguise. In its very smallness it helped create a kind of intimacy
which
is usually absent from the large barn-like rooms which, vestiges of
other
more church-minded times, seem to dwarf the handful of worshipers in a
more
secular age.
It was in this casual, intimate space that I first met the teacher
L-
one Sunday. This man was head of the mathematics department in a local
high
school -- a place I had long desired to teach at due to its excellent
curriculum and relaxed atmosphere. Since math was my certified field, I
found L- a congenial partner for conversations on mathematics and
education
during the coffee hours.
Due to his busy work schedule and (as I gathered from talking with
him)
hectic family life, L- was a somewhat irregular visitor on Sunday
mornings.
Nevertheless, I soon realized that he was a most intelligent and
discerning
listener on the Sundays he did attend. Being an amateur writer, he
could all
the more appreciate the nuances of performance which, for the sake of
people
like himself, I labored to make manifest.
The space of the hall was perfect for such nuances. It was, in
truth, a
chamber-music space -- a sort of large drawing room. Playing there, I
felt
myself in direct, intimate touch with each listener (many of whom were
forced to sit very near the piano.)
As the weeks wore on, I noticed that L- was beginning to attend
every Sunday. He confessed to me that the whole mileau had a soothing
effect
on him -- an effect which served to relax him from the trials of his
weekday
chores. In that relaxed state, he was able to close his eyes and allow
his
mind, spurred on by the subtle and sublime webs spun of my playing, to
weave
fantastic shapes which later found their way into his highly original
writings. Apparently, the combination of that intimate community and my
playing served as a catalyst for L- to exist on a higher, more creative
level.
I could see this effect on him in his laughing eyes as, almost
every
Sunday, he would come forward after the postlude to grasp my hand in
grateful thanks. And so it was, on one such Sunday, he told me of an
opening
in his department at the high school for the coming Fall. I thanked him
profusely, and within a few days had completed my application to the
school.
L- kept me informed regularly concerning the progress of my
application.
I gathered that he was fighting for my appointment in a situation of
uncertainty on the part of his colleagues and the administration. I
heard
indirectly that he was so set on me as to be almost inflexible -- and
at
times curtly rude. In the end, he must have won everyone over, for one
day I
received the happy news that I was a member of the faculty of the
school.
The Fall semester began, and L- and I enjoyed a friendly working
relationship. Almost simultaneous with the opening of school, the
ground was
broken for the new church sanctuary and, before the leaves had dropped
completely from the trees, the superstructure was up.
The church membership were for the most part jubilant, waiting for
the
time when they could slough off cramped quarters which entailed many
inconveniences. And, while I shared in the general anticipation and
excitement, I began to feel, as the building neared completion, a
slight
sense of sadness, of -- disappointment? -- at the prospect of leaving
that
ad hoc space which had provided us all with such a feeling of
togetherness.
I noticed that L- also was not totally positive concerning the emerging
new
space, which he called "pretentious and a waste of money which could be
used
for other, better ends."
The structure was finished with surprising rapidity so that, one
Sunday
in early Spring, the Church moved as a body out of the old, small space
to
the new, large space next door. The choir intoned the anthem "Build
Thee
More Stately Mansions, Oh My Soul!".
That first service in the new sanctuary was calculated to be a
stirring
experience for all of us. Yet the hyper-enthusiasm of the minister
could not
completely dispel the looks of uncertain discomfort, even terror, on
the
faces of the parishioners.
It was a huge, forbidding space -- austere in its glaring
whiteness, its
mausoleum-like sterility. Voices and music droned up into, reverberated
about in, and became lost in the emptiness above. Reports were quick to
come
from those who felt swallowed up, who could make neither hide nor hair
of
spoken word or phrased musical passage. Everyone felt hopelessly,
frighteningly removed from his fellow next to him -- to say nothing of
the
performers.
I continued to play each Sunday, but without the enthusiasm
experienced
in the old space. I played without hope, knowing that virtually none of
my
gestures, even the grossest, would be communicated to any potential
listener.
I noticed that L-'s visits were becoming irregular again -- even
infrequent. He now confessed that he could not even think in that space
which seemed to swallow everyone and everything -- that, in fact, it
was a
tortuous experience to come there at all.
The laughter had gone out of L-'s eyes; he ceased coming up to
greet me
on the rare Sundays he attended. But, even worse, he impotently vented
his
rage over the church to me at work. And, when after such a tantrum he
looked
at me carefully and asked, "What do you think?" there was an accusation
hidden in the tone of the question and in the very look he dully fixed
on
me.
My teaching seemed to have gone well throughout the year, and so it
was
a shock to me when I was informed by the school committee a few weeks
later
that my contract would not be renewed. And, from the filtered reports I
heard from those who attended the meetings on staff hiring at the
school, I
was able to ascertain that, in a situation wherein the other committee
members sought any sort of suggestion or recommendation, the Department
Head
L- had maintained a stubborn, weary silence.
1981
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