Diary of a Mad English Professor

“A man may take to drink because he feels himself to be a failure, and then fail all the more completely because he drinks. It is rather the same thing that is happening to the English language. It becomes ugly and inaccurate because our thoughts are foolish, but the slovenliness of our language makes it easier for us to have foolish thoughts.”

—George Orwell
“Politics and the English Language” (1946)

oday was one of those days. Rebel Girl’s head cold continued to linger, a blizzardy winter in her skull occupying what should be a sunny So Cal spring but instead perseveres as a drizzle-filled season of no-name.

I drove home, picked up the mail, heated leftover pizza, and read Patricia J. Williams’ column in my latest issue of the Nation (May 15, 2006), standing up in the kitchen, warming myself by the stove.

Last March, Red Emma was in Chicago, attending the Conference on College Composition and Communication (aka the 4 C’s) courtesy of UCI and his own talents. He bought me Williams’ latest book, Open House: of Family, Friends, Food, Piano Lessons and the Search for a Room on My Own. I’ve been making my way through it in the evenings since.

It’s a wonderful and inspiring mix of the personal and the political. Williams is a professor of law at Columbia University and holds a BA from Wellesley College and a JD from Harvard Law School, but I know her mostly through her regular columns in the Nation, which appear under the heading: “Diary of a Mad Law Professor.”

This week’s column is titled, “The Deciderator” and begins with the epigraph below courtesy of President Bush, followed by the text I quote after:

“I hear the voices, and I read the front page and I know the speculation. But I'm the decider, and I decide what is best. And what's best is for Don Rumsfeld to remain as the Secretary of Defense." —President Bush, April 18

“I wish I could stop over-analyzing everything President Bush says, but since his pronouncements so often require deciphering, I just can't seem to stop myself at plain meanings. For instance: What on earth's going on with his self-inflicted depiction as our fearless ‘decider’? A preference for Germanic rather than French suffixes? A penchant for verb-lers rather than noun-atives?”

A moody English professor who seems to be in perpetual despair, I identified with William’s tendency to over-analyze the President’s rhetorical stylings.

Naturally, I kept reading. A few lines later, Williams admits that her “worry is not solely about language.” She points out, “This Administration has circumvented the thoughtful, the consultative, the diplomatic with phraseology so twisted that one indulges the temptation to laugh at it as meaningless rather than to unpackage the purpose behind the mangled mots.”

She cites Bush’s endorsement of “affirmative access” over affirmative action during one of the presidential debates, describing it as “an artful dodge…a refusal to engage as well as a refusal to commit.”

“That maneuver,” she writes, “has in it the ingredients of so much of what I find troubling about this Administration: there’s a whole lot of decideration and precious little consideration. This is an Administration that has leaped without looking, that has prized efficiency (or the idea of it anyway) over equity and enshrined secrecy over communication at every turn. Competence is unquestionably sacrificed in that kind of bunkered, blinkered governance. And accountability—which is, after all, what we should be debating when it comes to Rumsfeld’s performance—is not even on the table.”

My impulse is simply to present you with her entire essay. But there are laws against that kind of thing, and besides you can pursue Patricia J. Williams yourself: buy the Nation, find it in the library or read as much as they will let you online at: www.thenation.com)

But some of you know where I’m going with this. Of course. Perhaps you recognize the syndrome too. For indeed, as much as I found myself nodding in agreement with Williams’ assessment of the Bush Administration, I also found myself seeing the sorry state of our college district reflected in her words:

“…there’s a whole lot of decideration and precious little consideration.” —Yup

“This is an Administration that has leaped without looking, that has prized efficiency (or the idea of it anyway) over equity and enshrined secrecy over communication at every turn.” —Oh yeah.

“Competence is unquestionably sacrificed in that kind of bunkered, blinkered governance.” —You got that right!

“And accountability…is not even on the table.” —Uh-huh.

And, in terms of the “mangled mots” uttered by our own local fearless leaders, well, dear reader, simply cast your eyes to the sidebar of this blog, where Chunk usually has the doozies posted. “Stop living in an ivory castle!” Indeed.

This regime—the board and Chancellor, the administrators in charge of the commonwealth, public education, our cultural and political lives—have done to language what they have done to our nation, our state (Der Terminator) and our county. They are foolish people for whom language is something less a tool than a destroyerator of tools. As Orwell claims, “Political language—and with variations this is true of all political parties, from Conservatives to Anarchists—is designed to make lies sound truthful and murder respectable, and to give an appearance of solidity to pure wind.”

“Pure wind.”

Brrrrrr.

Oh, the indignity!

Last Wednesday, at 2:00, Chancellor Mathur met with the School of Humanities & Languages at IVC.

Now, it’s obvious to anyone with half a brain that Raghu meets with Divisions/Schools for one reason and one reason only, and that’s to get leadership cred with Dave Lang and the other trustees.

Nevertheless, I show up to this thing, and I’m sitting there with the new and totally untenured guy, plus three or four female faculty—I’ll call ‘em the “Girl Scouts,” ‘cause they’re pretty dutiful.

I guess women are more dutiful then men when it comes to School meetings. Most of the time, when I attend an H&L meeting, I’m the only guy in the room, or very nearly so.

For about ten minutes, me ‘n’ the new guy and the Girl Scouts are just twiddling thumbs. I start looking at the door. But then, finally, Raghu shows, with Glenn in tow.

So, there we are: the dean, four H&L faculty (out of twenty-five or so), and Raghu & Glenn, sitting together in a goddam circle. The dean gets the new guy to explain about the new Religious Studies courses he’s written. That’s good for maybe 1 minute. After that, Raghu gives his standard speech about how he meets with all the schools and divisions.

Then he says: “Is there anything you’d like to share?”

Silence.

Right about then, Lisa, the chair of the English Department, joins the meeting, and she’s got something on her mind. According to the rules, she says, there’s no reassigned time, and so she’s gotta teach a full load plus all this chair stuff. Somebody’s got to do it, and it’s her turn.

As English chair, she’s gotta schedule and staff and evaluate part-timers and mentor them and who-knows-what-else! Plus: how’s she supposed to evaluate part-timers who are teaching when she teaches?

Chairs get a stipend, but them are measly bucks, which makes sense, because they’re for ten hours per month.

TEN HOURS PER MONTH? ARE YOU KIDDING?

This reassigned time ban, she says, is “completely unworkable.” Under the existing circumstances, the English chair job “simply can’t be done.”

Well, Raghu asked for sharing, and he got sharing.

Lisa made her points calmly, professionally. But if you know the Gooster at all, then you know that he flat hates women, especially women who’ve got something to say and they’re saying it to him. So, as Lisa ticks off her points, Raghu’s ears turn redder and redder until they're spurting blood across the room.

Then Jeannie says, “Yeah, the chair of Languages has the same problem.” To be a chair, she says, you’ve gotta be a martyr. You end up shortchanging your students, cuz something’s gotta give.

Mathur can hardly stand it. He’s got women coming at him from left and right. Oh, the indignity!

—But, for now, he holds his temper. He explains that this “reassigned time” business is a union issue, that he’s working with the union president, and they’ll be “collecting data.” Plus: lots of us (he means RAGHU) put in time “above and beyond the call of duty.”

—Not that he’s refusing to talk about this issue. “I’m open to the whole topic,” he purrs.

Open? OK, so Lisa pursues the matter. She reminds him that he was among those who advocated eliminating reassigned time. OK, fine. “So how is this supposed to work?” she asks.

He doesn’t answer the question. He’s got no ideas. We’ll be gathering data, he says. “I’m keeping an open mind.”

Then Brenda brings up another problem. There’s this new practice: when enrollments in part-timers’ classes fall below 22, they’re paid proportionally. Thus, in a class with only 17 students, the instructor is paid 17/22 of regular pay.

Others join the chorus of complaint. We seem to be alone in adopting this peculiar practice, they say, and so we’re losing part-timers to other colleges. “Let’s do what is ethical and good.”

Mathur offers: “We’re not violating the contract, are we? So what’s the problem?”

Glenn enters the fray. He explains that there’s the “humanistic” side and there’s the “business” side of the issue. During a time of declining enrollment, the business side is important. We’ve either gotta offer part-timers courses under these unattractive “contract” terms, or we’ve gotta offer them nothing.

Mathur, who makes about a quarter million dollars a year, explains that he is not “philosophically opposed” to keeping courses that fall below 22. But he fails to say what, if anything, he might do about “contract pay” for part-timers.

Someone notes that writing courses are capped at 25. And that means that, even when they are full, they can easily drop below the magic number, and then the “contract pay” business kicks in. That’s “unfair,” she says.

Steam starts whistling out of Raghu’s crimson ears. Didn’t he just say he was “open”? What is WITH these women!

Lisa raises the issue of summer. Chairs have duties during the summer, but they receive no compensation.

Glenn and Raghu commence blathering. One of ‘em refers to when they were a chair. So Lisa asks: OK, when you guys were a chair, what did YOU do?

For a moment, the two just stare into space.

But Raghu coughs up an answer: Well, he got a stipend. But that was in the old days, before summer stipends and such were eliminated. “I worked within the system,” says Raghu.

Yeah. But the new system “isn’t working well for me,” says Lisa. How are we supposed to make this work—without a summer stipend, without reassigned time?

At this point, Mathur’s temper begins to show: “I gave you my answer,” he declares, a tad too emphatically. “No system is a panacea!” he adds, grumpily.

Panacea? In Raghu World, evidently, to find fault is to demand perfection.

Raghu next asserts that reassigned time was eliminated because it is “expensive.”

DON’T THINK SO: In reality, in 1997-8, during its corrupt years, the Faculty Association secured the elimination of reassigned time for everyone but union officers. The Old Guard rejected reassigned time, not because it was expensive, but because it was a “scandalous system for the favored few,” or so said Bill Heffernan at board meeting (8/97).

During the same meeting, Tony Garcia declared that “the community should erect a statue to [Raghu] for his courage” in “condemn[ing] the obscene and immoral practice of release time.” Obscene? Immoral? Yes. According to the Old Guard, teachers should teach. It is “immoral” for teachers to administrate.

When Raghu became interim President of IVC in 1997, he had been the chair of his school for years. He received 80-100% reassigned time.

Suddenly, Raghu’s phone starts playing Bach’s Minuet in G. He inspects it and then shuts it off. Meanwhile, Lisa presses for an answer. What about these problems? she asks. What can we do about them? Things aren’t working now, that’s for sure.

“I gave you my answer,” says Raghu, peevishly. Besides, he says, making sacrifices “all comes with the territory.” “I’m listening, I’m open,” he adds.

So what. “Something needs to be done to make [the system] more reasonable,” respond the Girl Scouts.


“Nobody has all the answers,” responds Raghu. He commences speechifyin’. He asks a rhetorical question: how come faculty don’t come to board meetings and tell the trustees “Thank you”?

Raghu begins to describe his heroic labors on behalf of the colleges. He portrays himself as going up against miserly trustees. They don’t want to use basic aid money for ongoing expenses. But there’s a big problem: we’re $700-800 million short of what we’ll need to carry out the master plan.

Lisa asks: would the board support a bond measure?

Raghu yammers about that for a while. He seems to say that he’s trying to get the board to see that, sooner or later, they’ll have to pursue that option. I’m “trying to raise their awareness,” he says.

Lisa leaves. She’s got a kid to raise.

Frank shows up. He says, “I don't know what you’ve been talking about, but I think we need to do something to adequately support department chairs!”

Amour-propre

As I was leaving campus this morning, I came across a small group of people loitering near a pickup truck on the sidewalk. One guy was monkeyin' with a fancy hand-held camera. His T-shirt said, "MTV2--local VJ search."

Small clusters of students at varying distances stopped and stared.

So I figured that the MTV people were on campus to do auditions. I didn't ask questions. I just put my stuff down and took pictures.


My camera seemed to make these people come alive. A very tall fellow with exotic hair walked right up to me. He asked me for a cigarette. "Don't smoke," I said. Why ask me? Do I look like I smoke?

Then I noticed the mask in his hand. He stared at the camera in mine. I asked if he would don the mask. To my surprise, he immediately pulled it over his head. Pretty soon he was voguing:


I trained my camera on the pickup. Immediately, a gal in black--she was wearing some kind of ape or monster mask--jumped out and started posing:



'm reminded of the time that a film crew descended upon UCI to film Mel Brooks' "Silent Movie" (1976). Like many of my colleagues, I loitered at the periphery of the action (near the old "commons"). As I recall, the film crew spent literally half a day filming one measly shot: Brooks racing his motorized wheelchair around a corner. Mostly, they just stood around and waited.

I got a few glimpses of Brooks, who looked angry to the point of silence. He was like that for hours.

"Wow," I said.

Eight years later, I was a grad student, again at UCI, and this time a crew came to the campus to film a Peter O'Toole movie called "Creator." On the day I was there, they were filming a scene in which an enthusiastic Mariel Hemingway runs up to a group of huddling men, joining in the huddle. She did this maybe fifteen times over about two hours. Each time, she looked enthusiastic.

Between takes, she looked like she wanted to kill somebody. The crew kept away from her.

Ten years after that, I was living near downtown Orange. Tom Hanks and his people descended on the Orange Plaza to film "That Thing You Do," which was set in Pennsylvania, 1964. For several afternoons, I walked downtown to check out the action. I saw lots of people on the periphery, hoping to get a glimpse of Hanks or some other famous face. Mostly, they saw only the usual film crew loiterers--no movie stars.

It occurred to me that I was watching a group of people watching a group of people doing virtually nothing.

I took this picture and then I walked home.

Spring Haiku (Rebel Girl)

“Prefer vegetable broth to duck soup.” – Basho’s advice to writers

Yes, spring has arrived and, like a drunken hummingbird to a swollen trumpet flower, Rebel Girl marks it by returning to the word, in this case, a few words. Haiku. The seventeen-syllable poem is rooted in the Japanese tradition of the close observation of nature--but in other elements as well. As the noted American poet and well-regarded translator Robert Hass points out, “If the first level of a haiku is its location in nature, its second is almost always some implicit Buddhist reflection on nature…At the core of Buddhist metaphysics are three ideas about natural things: that they are transient; that they are contingent; and that they suffer.” So, here for you, loyal Dissent readers, a spring bouquet of higher education haiku, full of nature, transience and suffering.

The long spring meeting Raghu says nothing so so many times A fishy smell the room where we sit for years waiting for nothing The spring we don't see the marked trees await their fate the ax, the death which arrives for all The chancellor! not interested in oak trees, teachers or students without classes The clock tower rots A-quad rabbits stare ahead still, waiting to run

Disclaimer: Most English majors will tell you that haiku are supposed to scan five syllables, seven syllables, then five again. Rebel Girl asks your indulgence and begs you to remember that in the original Japanese these would have worked--it’s the translation that renders them a bit off!

Serafin Zasueta

Some at IVC will remember Serafin Zasueta, a Vice President of Instruction at IVC ten or fifteen years ago. I barely remember the guy, but I asked around, and I could find few who had anything good to say about the fellow. I was told that he was tight with Glenn Roquemore, so I guess Glenn liked him. Most seemed to think that he was a rat bastard.

Said one colleague: "He's as rotten as Mathur, only a little smarter."

Well, smart or no, the fellow has gotten himself into serious trouble.

Back in the early years of the new millennium, Zasueta was the President of Southwestern College, in Chula Vista. But, soon enough, faculty complained that he left them out of decision-making.

Imagine that!

They took a dim view, too, of Zasueta’s use of district vehicles and his purchase of $1 million in life insurance with district money.

With the help of the CTA, faculty backed and secured the election of a trustee candidate who, upon joining the board, tipped the balance against Zasueta. After a board "no confidence" vote, Zasueta was placed on “administrative leave pending investigation of a personnel matter” (CCA Advocate, March/April, 2003).

Personnel matter? What was that about?

Well, not long after, Zasueta was indicted together with a political consultant named Larry Remer:

A high-profile political consultant illegally conspired to spend public funds on a commercial promoting a community college bond campaign five years ago and then tried to cover it up, a prosecutor told jurors yesterday.

“This is a case about abusing power and violating public trust,” prosecutor John Rice said….

Defense lawyer Michael Pancer [said] that there was nothing illegal about the way consultant Larry Remer went about getting a bill for $5,890.47 paid following the successful campaign for an $89 million bond…Pancer didn't dispute that college funds were used to pay the bill, but he said it was legal because the school wasn't paying for the production of the commercial, but rather to purchase outtakes for education and marketing.

It is illegal to use taxpayer money to advocate positions in political campaigns.

Remer and former Southwestern College President Serafin Zasueta were indicted on conspiracy, theft, and wire and mail fraud charges in 2004.

Both have pleaded not guilty. The trial of Zasueta, who was fired in 2003, is scheduled to begin April 24…Zasueta claims he didn't know anything about how the bill was paid and that Remer defrauded him and the college, according to court documents.

The case centers around a bill for a television commercial for Proposition AA, which passed with 69 percent support in November 2000.

The commercial was produced by an Alexandria, Va., firm and shot on Southwestern's campus. It shows several students talking about how the money from the bond would be used.

A month after the election, the Virginia company, Murphy Putnam Media Inc., sent a bill for editing and production of the ad to Friends of Southwest College, a campaign committee set up by Remer.

However, the committee had spent all its money.

At that point, the prosecutor said, Remer and Zasueta had a choice to make. They could have raised more money. They could have told the company the bill was late and couldn't be paid. Or Remer could have paid the company out of his own pocket.

“But there was a fourth option,” Rice told jurors. “An illegal option.” And that was to use school funds, the prosecutor said.

“They couldn't use public funds, but they did,” he said.

Rice said that after Zasueta decided to disguise the payment as the purchase of outtakes, Remer asked the company to send the college a bill for “dubs and commercial footage.”

The bill was paid out of the school's theater budget.

In the fall of 2002, Carla Kirkwood, a theater professor, reviewed her department's budget, found the payment to the Virginia company and alerted a trustee.

That prompted an inquiry, during which Remer sent Zasueta a memorandum stating different uses the college would have for the video outtakes.

That, Rice said, was part of a cover-up…. (“Legality of funds’ use contested,” San Diego Union Tribune, 3/29)

Here, then, is the last chapter of this story. Yesterday’s LA Times (“Consultant Admits to Misuse of Funds”) reported as follows:

In a plea bargain, a political consultant Monday pleaded guilty to one misdemeanor criminal count stemming from alleged misuse of public money in exchange for six felony counts being dropped.

Larry Remer, 55, agreed to pay restitution to Southwestern Community College in Chula Vista and a fine of $5,000, and to perform 100 hours of community service.

Serafin Zasueta, 63, the former college president, pleaded guilty to the same count and accepted the same conditions.

…On April 7, a jury deadlocked 10 to 2 in favor of convicting Remer of six counts stemming from $5,890.47 spent by the college for outtakes from a TV commercial favoring an $89-million bond issue for improvements at the college on the 2000 ballot.

Zasueta was awaiting trial.

Prosecutors alleged that Remer and Zasueta improperly spent public money for political purposes by arranging purchase of the outtakes.

A probation report will be done before prosecutors make a sentencing recommendation to the judge. A possible recommendation could range from probation to six months in custody, said Assistant U.S. Atty. John J. Rice....

UPDATE:

• OFFICE OF THE UNITED STATES ATTORNEY, SOUTHERN DISTRICT OF CALIFORNIA:

NEWS RELEASE SUMMARY - May 1, 2006

United States Attorney Carol C. Lam announced today the guilty pleas of Lawrence “Larry” D. Remer, a San Diego political consultant, and Serafin A. Zasueta, former President and Superintendent of Southwestern College. Both defendants pled guilty before United States District Judge John A. Houston to an Information charging them with illegally using public funds from the Southwestern Community College District to pay for political activity in relation to the Proposition AA Bond measure which was on the November 2000 ballot. Proposition AA was a bond measure seeking $89 million in bonds for Southwestern College

• OFFICE OF THE UNITED STATES ATTORNEY
SOUTHERN DISTRICT OF CALIFORNIA: NEWS RELEASE SUMMARY - July 21, 2006:

United States Attorney Carol C. Lam today announced that Lawrence “Larry” D. Remer, a San Diego political consultant, and Serafin A. Zasueta, former President and Superintendent of Southwestern College were sentenced today in federal court in San Diego by United States District Court Judge John A. Houston to serve three years probation for violating18, United States Code, Section 600, Promise of Benefit for Political Activity, a misdemeanor. As part of his guilty plea, each defendant agreed to pay full restitution to Southwestern Community College in the amount of $2,945.24, pay a fine of $5,000, and perform 100 hours of community service.

Breaking news

Americans celebrate May Day

Rebel Girl, along with Red Emma, and pulling Limber Lou in his little red wagon, joined thousands of others marking the Day Without An Immigrant in Santa Ana yesterday.

You should have been there.

Maybe you were.

Earlier that day, on her morning drive to the college, Rebel Girl was struck by the sight of the Sand Canyon strawberry fields sans workers—rows and rows of green plants and red berries, but nary a worker crouched among them. Closer inspection revealed that the gates were locked, the pallets stacked, the cars that usually park in the dirt missing.

The asphalt and construction crews raising the nearby new community of Portola Springs seemed thinned as well.


It took her fifteen minutes to drive from the college to Santa Ana, to rendezvous with Red and Lou and a visiting friend from Germany. Five more minutes to get to downtown, locate parking, and feed the meter its diet of quarters.

The sidewalks were full of white-shirted people but businesses were closed. Cars drove by with horns blaring and flags flying. The spirit was festive, celebratory, proud.

May Day had come to Santa Ana.

Rebel Girl reminded Red of the time they arrived in the Greek port city of Patras on May Day—there, a national holiday with long roots in both labor and pagan traditions. Wreaths of yellow flowers adorned the doors—months later, in the heat of summer, they’d be tossed on bonfires to commemorate St. John’s Day. Families picnicked, paraded.

Reb and Red found dinner in one of the few restaurants open for business—someone had to make sure the sailors got to eat, the owner explained. —Sailors and wayward travelers like us. We feasted—broad beans in tomato dill sauce, stuffed peppers, fresh Greek salad, tasziki, good bread, cold restina. The owner didn’t believe us when we told him that May Day wasn’t celebrated in the U.S. “But it began there,” he said, clearly a Greek who knew his history and ours.

Yes, we agreed, but most Americans don’t know that and, somewhere along the way, someone designated a day in September to honor labor, allowing a nation to begin to forget the American anarchists and Haymarket while the rest of the world kept remembering. At the end, I think he still didn’t believe us.

That was ten years ago.

In Santa Ana, over 10,000 gathered in the Plaza of the Flags to hear speeches, to see each other, to stand together and be counted by whoever was doing the counting. It was impressive: families; mothers with strollers or babes in arms; beaming children riding on their fathers’ shoulders; working people wearing t-shirts emblazoned with their union logos or, more often, their own handwritten messages; working people carrying the tools of their trade: tool belts, spades, rakes, brooms, mops. Flags fluttered above all. Lou sat in his wagon, waving his banner of choice: the Jolly Roger.

Our German friend commented that he never imagined being at a rally with so many American flags. But where, he asked, were all the white people?

He had a point.

There were few. But that’s a topic for another essay.

As the march began to move out, I looked up. In the wide set branches of a tree, sat a broad-chested young man, in clean, well-pressed khakis and a white button-down shirt. His tie was red, white and blue. His hair was clipped close to his head. His brown face was gleaming with sweat. He shouted down at us, urging us forward, like some figure out of Greek mythology.

At the plaza where we paused for speeches in English and Spanish, we met up with three colleagues from Saddleback. We congratulated each other on being there as it was clearly the place to be. Solidarity, indeed.

Media reports cited counter protesters, but I saw only one, a single fellow, singularly unhappy, standing there with his own bitter hand-lettered sign. He had, Red noted, obviously more problems than one.

The march continued, winding its way around the Civic Center. At the corner of 901 Civic Center Drive, the crowd looked up and noticed a group of men on the roof, arms crossed, watching us. Clearly business men, they had taken off their suit jackets to better bear the heat, but their ties remained tight around their necks, their shirts tucked into their belted trousers. Standing there, arms crossed, they watched us, the slowly moving sea of white shirts and red, white and blue flags. We started waving, calling out “Hello!” “Hola!” No reaction. We shouted louder. Nothing. We called, “Come join us!” and realized how absurd that request was, but still, we repeated it. “Hello!” Come join us!”

One fellow finally waved, but then backed away, ashamed either by his reaction or, more likely, because he was making fun of our own waving hands and had to back away to chuckle with his pals.

On the way home, hungry and realizing that the sink was full of dishes, we decided to stop at Taco Mesa for our favorite quick dinner: beans, rice, grilled calamari tacos. Pulling into the parking lot, we realized our mistake: Taco Mesa was closed.

What were we thinking? It was May Day!