[From the ‘Vine 12, 11/30/98]
[Originally entitled:]
THE MATHURIAN CANDIDATE: MY LIFE AMONG THE WEASELS by BIG BILL
You hand in your ticket
And you go watch the geek
Who immediately walks up to you
When he hears you speak
And says, “How does it feel
To be such a freak?”
And you say “Impossible”
As he hands you a bone.
And something is happening here
But you don’t know what it is
Do you, Mr. Jones?
—Bob Dylan
Glenn and Glenda
On Tuesday, at about 1:45, I had finished my Intro lecture in A400 and then, after speaking briefly with one or two students, I headed out the west door on my way to a press conference over in the temporaries that I had heard about that morning. But there were no signs of any such event—and then I realized that it would be at Saddleback College, not IVC. I turned around and headed back to my office.
Fifteen minutes later, I was standing in front of the duplicating machine in A200, reading an article that someone had taped to the window. Suddenly, I heard my name.
Who can say why some events seem so utterly strange? I looked to my left, and, to my great surprise, there stood Glenn Roquemore, the acting VP of Instruction, sporting an insincere smile and an envelope marked “Confidential.” Somehow, in my mind, I saw Flipper, offering a sardine. I stepped back, nearly falling into the sea.
Glenn and I have never been friends, but I had spoken with him once or twice over the years and then, in the summer of ’97, together with Howard “Boom Boom” Dachslager, we began our ill-fated tenurette as new school chairs. As was her custom, Dean Pam Deegan provided a series of seminars to get the Newbies up to speed, and so, for a brief period, this cozy little group—Pam, Glenn, Howard, and I—met on a regular basis.
During one session, I challenged Glenn and Howard to explain to me the basis of their evident distrust of the School of Humanities and Languages, an attitude shared by many, it seemed, at their end of campus. I assured them that, in my experience, and contrary to what they seemed to think, I had never encountered nor even heard about plots against them or against anyone else by the School of H&L. As far as I could tell, I said, H & L has always pursued its goals and agendas openly and directly. (I could have added: without the use of anonymous petitions, enemies lists, or secret backroom deals.) I added that, whatever anyone else had allegedly done, I was determined to be completely open about anything I was contemplating doing as chair.
I suggested—naively, I suppose—that the troubled relationship between the faculty of the two “poles” of campus stemmed in large part from the failure of both groups to get to know and trust each other. Unfamiliarity had bred suspicion, said I.
I challenged both Glenn and Howard to spend time with me—perhaps on a Saturday—so that we might come to understand each other and our motives and agendas.
Upon hearing this, Glenn and Howard seemed at a loss for words. As my father, an earthy fellow, might say, “They didn’t know whether to shit or go blind.” As I recall, however, they neither shat nor went blind; instead, they agreed that our getting together informally was a good idea.
Naturally, Glenn and Howard responded to my conciliatory pass with ball droppage. I never again heard from them. After a time, I left messages with Glenn and, I think, Howard to try to set something up, but they failed to respond.
Which is fine. But a few months later (Jan. 1), Glenn had a letter in the OC Metro in which he defended Mr. Frogue and Mr. Goo. He blamed the controversy surrounding them on “political left-wing activists that have lost power as a result of the reorganization.” Here, Glenn revealed his preferred fighting style: slimy, dishonest, sophistical. Never mind his opponents’ position or their arguments; better to attack their alleged motives and pander to the prejudices of the Metro’s entrepreneurial readership.
Then Glenn became a key participant in last summer’s efforts to harass me. Flouting district procedures, he actually shopped around for a dean—ignoring my own dean—to help him to pursue alleged “complaints” against me—such as my failure to take daily attendance!
So it was this duplicitous colleague who now confronted me with a smile and a fishy envelope. Overcoming his tight cetaceous grimace, he used both lips to explain that Richard P., my latest dean, would have been the one to hand me the document, but the fellow simply could not be found. It was up to Glenn, then, to perform the task. He said that he waited for me to exit the east door of A400 after my class, but I had confounded him by exiting the west door.
Yeah, sure. I took the letter and opened it. I realized that it was from Raghu and concerned the Nov. 4 “rat bastard” episode, and so I smiled, thanked Glenn—I had no fish—and then walked to my office.
Here’s what the letter said:
On Tuesday [sic], November 4, 1998, at approximately 9:25 A.M., you were talking with my Executive Assistant…right outside my office. During this conversation, you were overheard making the following comment in a loud and disruptive manner: “I feel like saying something loudly. Rat bastard. Of course, I am not talking about anyone around here.” Your comment was meant to be overheard by me.
Hmmm. How could Mr. Goo possibly know how my remark was meant? Actually, it was meant to be overheard, not by Raghu, but by friends in the vicinity. As for its being “disruptive,” I deny that anything or anyone was thrown into confusion or disorder by my utterance. At most, one or two employees in the building heard it, and they seemed to respond by going about their business as though nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. “Rat bastard? Yeah, sure.”
Sure, you can “screw” a guy; but don’t use the word!
Mr. Goo’s letter continues as follows:
I would like to state that such comment is unbecoming of a professor, and is therefore unacceptable.
It is amusing--and disturbing--to encounter people who conceive “acceptable conduct” entirely in terms of decorum and civility—“small morals.” It is as though they don’t even recognize larger, more significant, morals—the standards of conduct that concerns justice, fairness, weal and woe. As far as these people are concerned, you may screw a guy—falsely accusing him of a hate crime and then running for the protection of an administrative “privilege”—but you may not say “screw a guy.”
Within my field (Ethics), “right conduct” refers generally to larger morals. Here, misconduct refers, not to violations of protocol, but to violations of decency such as: schemes and deceptions born of a need for glory and a willingness to treat others as means, not ends. Or: having people fired out of pure vindictiveness or insecurity. Or: acting to secure personal goals at the expense of the community and its institutions. But not: saying “rat bastard” in the A100 building.
Do I contradict myself?
The next part of Raghu’s letter is particularly interesting:
I would like to remind you of my admonishment placed on your last evaluation on November 26, 1997 that “It is recommended that Professor Bauer assist with the establishment of a positive, healthy, and professional environment which will be most conducive for faculty and staff to serve our students.” [My emphasis.]
About a year ago, Raghu had inserted the above “recommendation,” or something very like it, in the teaching evaluations of several instructors. Curiously, each of the instructors—some of them quite decorous—was a critic of the Mathur administration.
When I met with Raghu last fall to discuss the matter, he denied that the remark was critical. It was only a “recommendation,” he said. I am told that, in the course of a grievance procedure on behalf of one of the other instructors, he again stated, addressing a CTA official, that the remark was not critical.
But, in his letter to me, he describes that same remark as an “admonishment,” that is, he implies that it is critical.
So, Raghu, were you lying then, or are you lying now?
Now you see this one-eyed midget
Shouting the word “Now”
And you say, “For what reason?”
And he says “How”
And you say, “What does this mean?”
And he screams back, “You’re a cow;
Give me some milk or else go home.”
And you know something’s happening
But you don’t know what it is.
Do you, Mr. Jones?
—BB
[Originally entitled:]
You hand in your ticket
And you go watch the geek
Who immediately walks up to you
When he hears you speak
And says, “How does it feel
To be such a freak?”
And you say “Impossible”
As he hands you a bone.
And something is happening here
But you don’t know what it is
Do you, Mr. Jones?
—Bob Dylan
Glenn and Glenda
On Tuesday, at about 1:45, I had finished my Intro lecture in A400 and then, after speaking briefly with one or two students, I headed out the west door on my way to a press conference over in the temporaries that I had heard about that morning. But there were no signs of any such event—and then I realized that it would be at Saddleback College, not IVC. I turned around and headed back to my office.
Fifteen minutes later, I was standing in front of the duplicating machine in A200, reading an article that someone had taped to the window. Suddenly, I heard my name.
Who can say why some events seem so utterly strange? I looked to my left, and, to my great surprise, there stood Glenn Roquemore, the acting VP of Instruction, sporting an insincere smile and an envelope marked “Confidential.” Somehow, in my mind, I saw Flipper, offering a sardine. I stepped back, nearly falling into the sea.
Glenn and I have never been friends, but I had spoken with him once or twice over the years and then, in the summer of ’97, together with Howard “Boom Boom” Dachslager, we began our ill-fated tenurette as new school chairs. As was her custom, Dean Pam Deegan provided a series of seminars to get the Newbies up to speed, and so, for a brief period, this cozy little group—Pam, Glenn, Howard, and I—met on a regular basis.
During one session, I challenged Glenn and Howard to explain to me the basis of their evident distrust of the School of Humanities and Languages, an attitude shared by many, it seemed, at their end of campus. I assured them that, in my experience, and contrary to what they seemed to think, I had never encountered nor even heard about plots against them or against anyone else by the School of H&L. As far as I could tell, I said, H & L has always pursued its goals and agendas openly and directly. (I could have added: without the use of anonymous petitions, enemies lists, or secret backroom deals.) I added that, whatever anyone else had allegedly done, I was determined to be completely open about anything I was contemplating doing as chair.
I suggested—naively, I suppose—that the troubled relationship between the faculty of the two “poles” of campus stemmed in large part from the failure of both groups to get to know and trust each other. Unfamiliarity had bred suspicion, said I.
I challenged both Glenn and Howard to spend time with me—perhaps on a Saturday—so that we might come to understand each other and our motives and agendas.
Upon hearing this, Glenn and Howard seemed at a loss for words. As my father, an earthy fellow, might say, “They didn’t know whether to shit or go blind.” As I recall, however, they neither shat nor went blind; instead, they agreed that our getting together informally was a good idea.
Naturally, Glenn and Howard responded to my conciliatory pass with ball droppage. I never again heard from them. After a time, I left messages with Glenn and, I think, Howard to try to set something up, but they failed to respond.
Which is fine. But a few months later (Jan. 1), Glenn had a letter in the OC Metro in which he defended Mr. Frogue and Mr. Goo. He blamed the controversy surrounding them on “political left-wing activists that have lost power as a result of the reorganization.” Here, Glenn revealed his preferred fighting style: slimy, dishonest, sophistical. Never mind his opponents’ position or their arguments; better to attack their alleged motives and pander to the prejudices of the Metro’s entrepreneurial readership.
Then Glenn became a key participant in last summer’s efforts to harass me. Flouting district procedures, he actually shopped around for a dean—ignoring my own dean—to help him to pursue alleged “complaints” against me—such as my failure to take daily attendance!
So it was this duplicitous colleague who now confronted me with a smile and a fishy envelope. Overcoming his tight cetaceous grimace, he used both lips to explain that Richard P., my latest dean, would have been the one to hand me the document, but the fellow simply could not be found. It was up to Glenn, then, to perform the task. He said that he waited for me to exit the east door of A400 after my class, but I had confounded him by exiting the west door.
Yeah, sure. I took the letter and opened it. I realized that it was from Raghu and concerned the Nov. 4 “rat bastard” episode, and so I smiled, thanked Glenn—I had no fish—and then walked to my office.
Here’s what the letter said:
On Tuesday [sic], November 4, 1998, at approximately 9:25 A.M., you were talking with my Executive Assistant…right outside my office. During this conversation, you were overheard making the following comment in a loud and disruptive manner: “I feel like saying something loudly. Rat bastard. Of course, I am not talking about anyone around here.” Your comment was meant to be overheard by me.
Hmmm. How could Mr. Goo possibly know how my remark was meant? Actually, it was meant to be overheard, not by Raghu, but by friends in the vicinity. As for its being “disruptive,” I deny that anything or anyone was thrown into confusion or disorder by my utterance. At most, one or two employees in the building heard it, and they seemed to respond by going about their business as though nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. “Rat bastard? Yeah, sure.”
Sure, you can “screw” a guy; but don’t use the word!
Mr. Goo’s letter continues as follows:
I would like to state that such comment is unbecoming of a professor, and is therefore unacceptable.
It is amusing--and disturbing--to encounter people who conceive “acceptable conduct” entirely in terms of decorum and civility—“small morals.” It is as though they don’t even recognize larger, more significant, morals—the standards of conduct that concerns justice, fairness, weal and woe. As far as these people are concerned, you may screw a guy—falsely accusing him of a hate crime and then running for the protection of an administrative “privilege”—but you may not say “screw a guy.”
Within my field (Ethics), “right conduct” refers generally to larger morals. Here, misconduct refers, not to violations of protocol, but to violations of decency such as: schemes and deceptions born of a need for glory and a willingness to treat others as means, not ends. Or: having people fired out of pure vindictiveness or insecurity. Or: acting to secure personal goals at the expense of the community and its institutions. But not: saying “rat bastard” in the A100 building.
Do I contradict myself?
The next part of Raghu’s letter is particularly interesting:
I would like to remind you of my admonishment placed on your last evaluation on November 26, 1997 that “It is recommended that Professor Bauer assist with the establishment of a positive, healthy, and professional environment which will be most conducive for faculty and staff to serve our students.” [My emphasis.]
About a year ago, Raghu had inserted the above “recommendation,” or something very like it, in the teaching evaluations of several instructors. Curiously, each of the instructors—some of them quite decorous—was a critic of the Mathur administration.
When I met with Raghu last fall to discuss the matter, he denied that the remark was critical. It was only a “recommendation,” he said. I am told that, in the course of a grievance procedure on behalf of one of the other instructors, he again stated, addressing a CTA official, that the remark was not critical.
But, in his letter to me, he describes that same remark as an “admonishment,” that is, he implies that it is critical.
So, Raghu, were you lying then, or are you lying now?
Now you see this one-eyed midget
Shouting the word “Now”
And you say, “For what reason?”
And he says “How”
And you say, “What does this mean?”
And he screams back, “You’re a cow;
Give me some milk or else go home.”
And you know something’s happening
But you don’t know what it is.
Do you, Mr. Jones?
—BB
