Waiting for Disaster in Vain

The following is a revised version of "a day in my life," originally written a few days ago at a friend's request for her blog project. Since my mother's hospitalization last December and then my return to work in March, it became increasingly difficult to make myself sit down to write. Since mom's passing at the end of April, I was even afraid to come to my own blog. Writing this, however, reminded me how much I needed this. Thanks, Cheryl, for dragging me back here; you may not know this, but you did.

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6:50 am. I wake up without much trouble. No nightmare or weird aftertaste of strange dreams. No active pain in any part of the body. Not a bad start of a day.

9:00 am. After breakfast, I walk out the door to go to work.

9:25 am. In office, the usual grind begins. I look through the file of mid-term exams but put off grading. Read excerpt from The History of Sexuality for Monday's class.

1:00 pm. I rummage food in the office, find organic muesli + soybean milk + cranberry scone + coffee, instead of bothering to go out for lunch. Keep reading for class, outlining a teaching scenario and making notes of usable examples.

3:00 pm. Prof P arrives on campus and calls me. I go downstairs to greet him and escort him to the faculty lounge. He's the speaker of today's Special Guest Lecture, an ongoing program that I design and implement as part of the department's extracurricular academic projects. It is over two years since I saw him last. He seems glad to see me well. I am grateful that he doesn't say much about the past two years during which time I was out of radar for most of my professional acquaintances. His face, when gazing at my prematurely greying hair, is telling, though, and I appreciate that subdued sympathy in his gaze. We mostly talk about work, for we are both involved in a theatrical production of a classical text as academic counsel.

3:30 pm. P's lecture begins. About 20 grad students show up, plus a few faculty members and a few undergrads. A pretty good turnout, and my anxiety somewhat subsides. I never heard him speak publicly before, and P turns out to be funny and engaging. A known sexual harasser with interesting scholarship, better than expected. Not just good showmanship but substance that he deftly deploys in his delivery. A girl in my undergrad class asks smart questions about desire for knowledge in the text and I feel proud as if her smarts were all my doing. That foolish moment is my fix for the day.

6:00 pm. After the 2-hour lecture, I take P to dinner as is customary. Not too excited, for a few days ago two close friends in other departments, who also know P, politely declined my invitation to dinner. It was actually their boycotting of P's visit to our campus altogether. While it's understandable that those two do not want to fraternize with P, I feel ambiguous about them making me entertain this P by myself. Then I feel bad about myself feeling ambiguous about them. This is my responsibility and I should be able to handle the situation instead of expecting male friends to shield me from possible problems. For lack of choice I invited P despite some reservation about his reputation, thinking that words sometimes circulate without ground. It's just unfortunate that the two friends confirmed his reputation with what they know (not merely "heard") of him only after P's visit was finalized and publicized. Still, it's better to be alerted; and I respect my friends for refusing to hide their judgment, when many people I know would do otherwise. 
   As for me, I find it difficult to act upon my principles here, since I am the one who unknowingly invited P for his academic expertise. For now, however, I prefer to think that I need to maintain a neutral ground of formal hospitality at least while I perform the role of a good host. I am not worried about being harassed myself. It is extremely unlikely, for I am well past that desirable therefore vulnerable age and even in my youth I had (and still have) a reputation for verbal impatience at unwanted advances. Now my medical history adds a new twist to it. But I am careful not to invite graduate students to dinner as we sometimes do. Fortunately two colleagues willingly join in, and my burden considerably lessens. I tell them nothing, for only a preposterous fool would misbehave in this setting now.
   I stay politely watchful nonetheless, and I can see that he is a big drinker, silently picky with food. With us three women, even after a few drinks P is so well-behaved throughout dinner that it's hard to decide whether I should be relieved or disappointed. I almost feel like a villain waiting for disaster in vain. He's suave and clever. Charming, even. I wonder what I would think of him under different circumstances. But he too seems a little different from before. Though P never offended or bothered me before, from my few previous encounters I remember him to have been intensely attentive with the kind of slick nicety that could easily morph into sleazy flirtatiousness, and I assumed that was the extent of his reputation. His reputation turns out not without ground, but after all, a man like P gets tired and mellow too, I suppose, which isn't too bad a thing. Maybe he smartened up, which would be even better. All the while, though, I lament inside that, in this day and age and even in this profession full of self-appointed progressives, gender and sexual dynamics still causes such headaches and still requires such a maneuvering. I also ponder upon the fate of a man whose reputation always precedes him and exceeds his reality.

8:00 pm. I drive P to his destination after early dinner. Nothing but gentlemanly propriety with a suitable amount of conviviality. Perhaps he realized that I am close friends with the two who did not show up today? Despite my usual sensitivity to other people's emotions and inclinations, I cannot figure him out. Good news, though, is that I don't have to figure him out. More significantly, my students seem to have enjoyed his lecture and with that my mission is accomplished. What a load off. In early November, I'll have to see P again on the play's opening night, but it should be fine.
   I am glad that the day's event is over. I am thankful that there was no need whatsoever for outright hostility or cold withdrawal or even tactful mediation on my part. I am happy not to have been exposed to anything inappropriate or unpleasant. Yet I cannot shake off the idea that it is cowardice that I did not cancel the whole thing and uninvite him right away, or at least turn him a cold shoulder instead of the poker-face congeniality. But a known incident of sexual harassment--is it all he is? Then again, it speaks of what he is, if not all; and in many cases, one known incident is an indicator of multiple unknown recurrences, and not just an isolated occurrence. One of the friends who told me of P's incident is SK, who rarely ever talks about others, must less speaks ill of them. Coming from SK, the story carries especial weight. My non-reaction may not be all that different from an overall endorsement of P. How, then, should I adjust my relationship with him? Why do I keep thinking that theoretical, textbook answers are not enough? In my dealings with sexual harassers and offenders at the Center for Gender Equality, none of them were my personal acquaintances. Passing judgment and acting upon it is less difficult when there is no personal interest at stake. This entire situation puts everything in a different light. I should reconsider whether I am level-headed and fair-minded enough to serve at the Center for Gender Equality. These heavy thoughts wrap up a long day without giving me answers.
   

"It isn't terminal, is it?"

On my way to the eye glasses shop--the place is right next to the campus--I found myself watching for familiar faces I might run into at the busy intersection.  Since my diagnosis over a year ago, the few times I came to campus to pick up mail or books from my office, I came late in the evening lest I should run into colleagues.  Mostly I did not want to be seen with the hairless, steroid-induced moonface, or to have to explain anything to the ones not yet in the know.  When the moonface is long gone and the hair is long back, however, the dread of running into random acquaintances lingers.  Most people are generous and kind; and you think you are somewhat used to that "oh I'm so sorry" conversation.  But actually you never know where that interaction might spiral down to, and you're a bit afraid of what you might learn from all that--about yourself, and about the other person.  Serious illnesses like cancer will put you in situations where you get to see things that you wouldn't normally see in other people.  It's either that, or with a new, unprecedented degree of self-centeredness you develop this uncanny ability to be offended and find fault with others.

An older colleague wrote me a long email on hearing about my diagnosis.  As a person who had had breast cancer some years before, she was most sympathetic and I was grateful. But her repeated insistence upon visiting me at home was quite out of line.  We weren't that close, and having guests like her over was out of the question in my condition then.  Chemotherapy puts your general social life on hold.  You try to carry on with a normal routine but there are many days when you just can't see people, period.  Of all people she should have known that.  I begrudged the time and energy I had to spend in politely diverting her offers to visit me.  Then she wanted to give me the hats from her own chemo.  In general, I'm in favor of recycling.  But her hats?  Truth be told, I didn't want to inherit the relics of her cancer.  I could make my case with the obsessive compulsive disorder plea, but I guess I never did like her.  When I told her that I already had more than enough hats and that she shouldn't go out of her way, she said she'd send them via someone else.  She just wouldn't let it go.  A few weeks later, another email.  The hats couldn't be dry-cleaned for there was no parking space in front of the dry cleaner's she had to go to.  She was going to send them as they were, and told me to wash them or have them dry-cleaned before use.  Too tired to be polite, I finally said outright that I didn't want them.  She gave up that idea then, but ended up sending me a book about anti-cancer food.  The only problem is that the book is in Japanese and I don't know Japanese.  The book came with her message that my sister could translate it for me.  She could, indeed.  But in all honesty I cannot imagine any cancer patient willing to slave one's sibling to translate a common sensical book about healthful foodstuff.  That book is now rotting away in the cupboard.  All the same, long minutes on one of those sick, white blood cell alert days had to be spent in writing her a thank you note for that precious, thoughtful gift.

One day in December, I received an email from a professor I know from a feminist scholars association--in the same discipline but another university.  In the email she said she had heard I was sick.  Surprisingly, though, it wasn't one of those "get well soon" notes.  Without even asking me how I was holding up, she asked for a copy of my essay on Walter Benjamin, PDF file preferred.  It was necessary for her research.  It would have been understandable if she had had no idea what I was going through.  But she did state that she had heard.  Yet she was asking me to make photocopies and put them in the post or sit up in front of the computer and sort through my files for her convenience.  Why did she not go to the library or use web databases?  Was she being considerate and treating me as if I wasn't sick?  I never got to ask, for I didn't bother to write back. 

A few weeks ago, on my way to the garbage recycle spot in my apartment complex, I ran into a professor in another department.  She'd moved to the same complex and was disposing of her recycle materials.  We had had coffee or lunch a couple of times a couple years back.  Then she wanted to hang out more but I extricated myself from her invitations with some sense of guilt.  Her complaint about not having friends at work made me wary, although I didn't care enough to figure out why.  I preferred to think that she was just boring or something.  And I hadn't seen her for a couple of years until that day.  In front of the recycle spot, the first thing she asked me when I mentioned my illness was, "It isn't terminal, is it?"  I was baffled that someone of her age and education was capable of uttering something so inadequate.  She was smiling, too.  The extent to which that question baffled me is matched only by the extent to which her parting words disturbed me: "Be careful.  They say it recurs, you know."  When careless curiosity about what stage my case was can be easily upsetting, it's hard to say what to make of such remarks.  I never could tell whether she was malicious or colossally clueless.  On the other hand, I could see why she would complain about having no friends.  My lingering sense of guilt about blowing her off couldn't have dissippated any faster.  Now I am extra careful on the garbage recycle day so I wouldn't run into her and her inadequacy. 

And when I went to the faculty meeting for the first time in over a year two weeks ago, they were glad to see me well again.  But one colleague seemed noticeably displeased with my appearance.  The visible discomfort in his face invited a lot of questions on my side.  Maybe I was just another possible obstacle to having his way, or maybe he was unhappy to suddenly find his all-important self in company that required some form of acknowledgment.  I don't know.  I can come up with a thousand theories, but in the end it boils down to him not knowing how to properly address others as the occasion calls for.  There are people who honestly don't know what to say to me--but these cases are all different.  Some can't find the right words for what they feel; some are too afraid to hurt my feelings with quick words.  But there are awkward silences and wrong words caused by serious social ineptness or a simple lack of sympathy.  Being on the receiving end of these latter cases is never pleasant even when you're not afflicted with a life-threatening illness.  One might think, having cancer does not entitle one to special treatment from all quarters.  But I object.  Who would want to live in a world where everyone thinks even a cancer patient shouldn't get a little special consideration?  I'm not talking about wanting to get away with murder, am I?  His reluctant inquiry after my health was the worst of the kind, delivered five minutes after I sat down next to him, the only empty spot.  While I was answering him, he even stopped listening to me mid-sentence, and began talking to someone else.  He didn't know how to, or didn't care to, put up a passible performance of politeness.  I realized that, in our supposedly collegial interaction of the past seven years, if there was anything he valued in me, it was my service to him.  I can't say I didn't know it, but it was as if that ugly truth I never wanted to acknowledge even to myself suddenly came to light then and there.

Work is a strange place where it's best to keep most people at a reasonable distance and most personal feelings and thoughts under the surface.  Sure, a few friends who will watch your back are essential; but I'd rather not think too much or too deeply about the rest of them, unless it's absolutely necessary, and not show too much of myself.  I would have liked to stick to that particular way of maintaining a friendly yet functional relationship with colleagues.  But since last fall, some things couldn't be helped, and it's too bad.  Certain details about my body became casual knowledge to many people at work and beyond.  I don't like it.  And I can't say I like certain things I've come to see about some of those people.  Not to mention the (lack of) depth of my own character.  It was more (and worse) than I needed or cared to know.  This is part of the unexpected and unwelcome fruit of going through a crisis.  Sure, it's not like everyone has to tiptoe around me 24/7, and I often resented being treated too much like an invalid.  I admit that my frequent inability to handle the strange emotional kinks made me super bitchy.  You try to objectify things, reminding yourself that this was a situation as difficult for others to handle as it was for yourself.  Still, inexplicable incidents make you wonder what it is with academics, including yourself.