Love in the Time of Climate Change (5 page)

Consenting romantic and sexual relationships between faculty and student are deemed unprofessional. Because such relationships interfere with or impair required professional responsibilities and relationships, they are looked upon with disfavor and are strongly discouraged. Codes of Ethics for most professional associations forbid professional–client sexual relationships. In this context the professor–student relationship is properly regarded as one of professional and client. The respect and trust accorded to faculty by students, as well as the power exercised by the faculty in giving praise or criticism, grades, recommendations for further study and employment, and other benefits or opportunities diminish the student's actual freedom of choice such that relationships thought to be consensual may, in fact, be the product of implicit coercion.—Policy Against Sexual Harassment and Discriminatory Harassment, Pioneer Valley Community College

C
OMMUNITY COLLEGE TEACHING
is an awesome gig.

Unlike in k–12, classroom management consists of
keeping students awake, not keeping them from going at it with each other. I can't recall ever yelling at anyone. Discipline is a piece of cake.

Unlike universities, there is no pressure to “publish or perish,” no constant scrambling for elusive research dollars. With the focus exclusively on teaching, faculty relationships lack the competitive edge that can be so negative and disruptive. Department meetings, at least ours in the science department, are remarkably devoid of hair pulling and throat lunging and other academia barroom battles.

Of course, truth be told, incredibly dull, boring, and unproductive as those meetings often are, a stab in the back now and then would liven things up.

As long as it wasn't my back.

And then there's the class of company I keep. Surrounded by students who are excited, enthusiastic, eager to learn. Well, most of them anyway. It's nothing short of inspirational. I totally feed off it. I know it sounds like hyperbolic bullshit but it's a privilege, it really is, to be in constant interaction with people who truly want to learn.

I have no tolerance, none, for those colleagues who constantly bitch, bitch, bitch about this or that pain-in-the-ass student. God knows I've had my share of bad apples out there, but, for the most part, they are truly few and far between.

If I ever to get to be that cynical, that heartless, that mean about my students, then somebody, please, shoot me.

Like I said, it's a privilege. Being a catalyst for those “aha!” moments when things really click in student minds is awesome. The onslaught of awareness is like a thunderbolt. One moment they're on their feet, naïve as hell, oblivious to The Issue and then … bam! They're flat on their asses.

New mental jigsaw pieces locked forever into place. And once they know, once they really get it—there is no
turning back. Ever. The old brain will never be the same again.

Every semester I get students coming to see me during my office hours, reeling from the early stages of OCD.

“Oh my god!” they gasp. “Did you know that temperatures might rise ten degrees by the end of the century?”

“Wow!” I reply.

“Ten degrees! This is not good!” they gasp again.

“It is not good,” I agree.

“We have to do something! We have to do something right now!”

Yes! Got 'em!

Of course, what that really means is that they're now doomed for a lifetime of extreme anxiety, possible depression, constant angst, and a whole host of other intellectual trauma, a.k.a. OCD.

But hey, such is the price of education. Right?

If ignorance is bliss then knowledge is … chaos?

Not that I don't have occasional bouts of severe misgivings over this. I often think to myself, what the hell am I doing? I mean, who am I to sear these images of global catastrophe deep into my students' consciousness? Who am I to shake the foundations of innocence and naïveté and force them to confront demons and devils?

Better to let sleeping dragons lie, you may argue.

Trouble is, like it or not, dragons do wake up.

My sister Cheryl is obsessed about when to reveal to her kids the curse of the human condition, the reality of life's sorrows and tragedies. The Holocaust. Genocide. Racism. Abject poverty. Death.

The
Issue.

When to let the proverbial cat out of the bag?

“You are not to mention climate change when you're around them!” she forever admonishes me. “Do you understand me? Not one single word!”

“Relax.” I reply. “The oldest know about it already and
the youngest are four and two, for Christ sake. They don't even know what the word ‘climate' means!”

“I'm quite sure you'd figure out a way to explain it. Anyway, Jennifer is very smart.”

Jennifer is my four-year-old niece.

“Last time you visited, she had nightmares for weeks about the monster stories you told her. She doesn't need you to feed her new ones. And true ones at that.”

“That's why I give her fake ones! Think how wonderful it is to be tormented by things that aren't real! She needs to enjoy it while it lasts!”

“She doesn't know they aren't real.”

“Of course she does. You just said how smart she is. Last time I tried to read her
Winnie the Pooh
, she threw the book at me. ‘Monsters or nothing!' she demanded. She forced me into it. It's not like I had a choice. I'm trying to be a good uncle. Christ, what am I supposed to do?”

“You're not the one she's climbing into bed with, whimpering, at two in the morning.”

“Look, Sis, the real demons are a few years away. Chill. I promise I won't tell her a thing. Just yet. But damned if I'm keeping my mouth shut about that two-headed, oozing-eyed, projectile-vomiting monster lurking, lurking, lurking, under her bed!”

“Humph,” humphed my sister. But she knew I had her.

Back to being a professor.

There is a perk to the job that aids considerably in its enjoyment. One that makes all of the inept bureaucracy, the administrative bullshit, the absurd paperwork, the never-ending multitude of gross, petty annoyances so very much more tolerable.

One that truly makes it a joy to teach.

Women.

I am surrounded on a daily basis by the most striking, sparkling, attractive women on the planet.

That first day of class in the fall, when the weather is
warm and beautiful and my female students, fresh and new, come to class dressed the way they dress.

Oh my god.

The wonderful thing about the community college scene is that, not only do I get the gorgeous nineteen- to twenty-two-year-olds, but I get women in their thirties, forties, sometimes even fifties. The diversity is overwhelming.

There are times when I walk into class, take a look at those stunning bodies, and think to myself: And they actually pay me to do this?

“How's this year's crop?” the Roommate eagerly asked, as he's wont to do, after the second day of school.

“Christ, that is so sexist. Leave it to you to objectify women, to treat my students as objects instead of the vibrant, intellectual beings that they are. How dare you degrade and denigrate half my class! What do you think I am? A pervert? Jesus, give me a fucking break!”

“How's this year's crop?” he asks again.

“Oh my god!” I gasp. “Amazing! Every single class I have a few 10s! Seriously. Could be the best semester ever!”

Oh well, so much for holding the moral high ground.

Thank God, what I share with the Roommate stays with the Roommate. I pride myself on keeping my relationships with my female students professional, exemplary, free of any sexual innuendoes or potentially uncomfortable interactions that could lead to any sense of inappropriateness. I do an excellent job confining my saliva to my mouth, keeping my eyes focused on their eyes, not letting my mind wander, when I'm in the classroom, to forbidden places. In the rare (very rare) cases that students flirt with me I am pretty good at shutting it down immediately with a minimal degree of awkwardness.

I know and value my role. I know my place. I am aware of the power dynamics, the position I hold, and the responsibilities it entails. I'd be a fool to screw that up.

Of course, none of that negates the fact that it truly is a joy and a wonder to be a daily witness to such beauty.

And this semester I certainly had the beauties.

Jesse can't get enough of it. Working in the IT department at the Medical Center, most of his day is spent hunched over desks looking at computer screens, dealing with technological fuckups. Make no mistake, he certainly has his share of doctors and nurses to lust after, but he's got nothing like I have.

Every semester he insists on making a “visit” to my classes to check out the particular hotties that I have described in considerable detail to him. He's good about camouflaging his ogling leers and looking just generally goofy as he strolls in at the end of lecture and fades into a corner, slyly surveying the scene.

His presence in the classroom for the above reasons is so wrong. Just plain wrong. No ifs, ands or buts about it. And so politically incorrect. I would never, ever, dream of doing something like this with a colleague. And if the dean found out? Christ!

But the fact is, appropriate or not, having him come in gives me an outlet to talk about the women in class with someone. Otherwise I'd lose it.

“Who's the beauty in the front row?” he asked after his scouting mission to my Introduction to Climate Change class.

“Left or right?”

“Left. Blond pigtails. Freckly. Late twenties. Scarf. Weird hat.”

“Yeah,” I sighed. “Phewwww … oh my. She's a looker. And so totally into The Issue. She's the one who teaches middle-school science in Glenfield. God, so age-appropriate.”

“They're all age-appropriate, for Christ sake. Every single one of them. Jesus, I don't know how you can stand it. I'd have to masturbate before every class, otherwise I'd
have a continual hard-on. I wouldn't be able to stand up in front of them. I'd have to sit with a jacket on my lap.”

“Nice,” I said. “Very nice. There's an image I can live without.”

“Seriously. How do you do it? How old is she again?”

“Who?”

“The teacher.”

“Twenty-nine.”

“Twenty-nine? God, that's perfect. The total prime of womanhood. Old enough to be confident, self-assured, experienced. Young enough to still glow. Is she married?”

“Stop it! How am I supposed to know?”

“You know she's twenty-nine, you know she's a teacher, you know she's hot. Wait, she's not even a real student, is she?”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“She's a teacher. She's got her degree. She's there for some professional development deal or whatever. Right?”

“And your point is?”

“Dude, you can ask her out!”

“What? Are you serious?”

“Totally. I mean, there must be like a special category for people like her. You know, students who aren't really students. Askoutables.”

“Oh. Yeah. Right.” I slapped myself on the side of the head. “That is such a brilliant suggestion. Why didn't I think of that? You are so smart! I'll do it right now! Hmm … should I call her, or text? Wait. Better yet, you could do it for me! Tell her you were the one with the boner drooling in the shadows the other day. Brilliant!”

“All I'm saying is that it's not like she's a real student. She's a teacher. It's a different thing.”

“Good to know. Thanks. Now, refresh my memory—how much do you take home a week again?”

“What are you talking about?”

“How much money do you make?” I asked.

“What's that have to do with dating the hottie?”

“I'm totally serious. We need to talk finances right now so when I get FUCKING FIRED you can support the two of us!”

“Don't be so melodramatic, Casey. You wouldn't get fired!”

“Are you nuts? Are you totally whacked out? Christ, I don't care where she's coming from, she's still a student! It's clear as day what the boundaries are. One step over the line and I am out of there. I couldn't even pull that shit off with tenure!”

“Jesus, Casey, don't go ballistic on me. It's just a suggestion. Maybe after the semester's over. Think about it. She teaches the stuff. You said she's in to it. She's cute as hell. God, maybe she'd even say yes!”

“Stop. No more! Enough already! Case closed!”

Ask her out.

My god, the ignorance of people!

Ask her out.

Humphhhhh!

I
CAME HOME TO FIND
J
ESSE ENGAGED
in his favorite after-work pastime: getting stoned while Facebook-stalking his colleagues.

“Christ!” he bitched. “The shit people put out there for all the world to see. As if I give a flying fuck about the ER nurse's indoor miniature golf score. My god, they need to get a life!”