uncollegiality

I know what the Dean thought and have audiographic memory at times referred to as eidatic.  

 

 I sponsor a line of communication to reach the bell averages to put it in brief, they still require several other languages added in the assay, to become a full tongue.  The mystery not who can write the great american novel but who can do so using the language of its home before evaluating a master?  I began reading on sight with one lesson later than I would have wanted to--the main gist of this association--at kindergarten.  For the schools contrived to debase me with precepts such as childhood games, moats of simplification and their development.  I doubt mine was the cause of the mix-up.  It was not the first time the normies had done so.  THey look fresh for cuttings they think of as their brains dreamt over.  

 

The bunch is not too bright.  Poor souls among them must realize the natural truth.  We have come to detest the grip of their sycophanies, tiresome as moats of oil on sheen.  The entire crew devises a way to assay another.

Once upon the crossing of the green lawns with a sudden rush to my visage, an ambiguity of racial misgenenation such that thought mine was less mindsome than theirs, approached with findings of my percentiles and rankings.  They’d created an algorithm for my specific biological parturition abaiting the governer it was hot, passion reflex with admixes of missions-- schools--residencies--religion camps--trains.  The truth had been ventured out quite deep into my genetics, like the bedsheets of my parents were masting a fetish--I know--this isn’t even the beginning.

The two had met out in Sante Fe from a mutual form of exile or ostracism and brandishing a tragicomedy that stretched their tender souls through borders that born across the alternatives were nothing.  The average among us are burdensome.  They assay a leashed dog with a pedicure more illustrious than Narcissus and that’s why it is difficult more than anything to speak of what should wish to be the writing of the day but a purgative -- a Dante without rhyme--the reason for Homer’s blindness--and how though it feathered a world couldn’t prevent the same from going to blunders.

Upon review of my experience and work, the Dean said, “what now would you need?   You’ve done everything.”

How the opinion turned around is the bit this manuscript chews to the crumbling crumbs for that’s what’s germaine in these letters.

Who's The Real Indian? Modern or Primitive

Back before the time when American Studies was more than a viable field, I joined the faculty with another Americanist, Bill Anthes.  He was at the time married and shortly afterward divorced and remarried.  

As many of the professors do, they share information of no interest with their colleagues thus forcing them in tawdry undertones and bias laden entreaties to give a MF about their dickload.  

The more bias the better neutralization, sterility, and thus domination of opinion more ostentatious than a Barbie backpack but less celestial than a holy roller.  Yet something of the pedant and the priest resist digression.

Due to the incessant want of a worth or a contending bone, this dross angle fishing mucker--a Native Art collector with a failed art studio, endues himself with farther ranging agility.  

Stranded in a sea of monstrous erector sets, lining the vapid hallways, and dunge pits of a rape realm from Pluto's fecal sample cut out reassemblers, I look across the hallways teeming with discarded undergarments poised as stencil letters draped between the onset of a leakage valve frontal.

To stave off the staining and the wetting--loins hold out vestige prices per private parts--let's get this off of us.  Admissions to artlessness and a New York publisher--the Modern pounds out 100 years of tribute.

I look for my wings.  Let's GTFO.  As they are occupied they sorta shake NO, this requires Legs.

Leaving the pitch bunk and settling in next to my library, I recoil at the words not once.  Though repulsively dingy and squalid as wet dreams apotheosis and flounder ups, he angrily glares through spectacles at once yawning through his nostrils, a flagrant toss up, unthinkingly toddling through a rapture of rape envy.

SCHADENFREUDE AND CHARLATAN

After I signed my contract, a congratulatory note arrived in my e-mail. "It doesn't look like much of an English department but what great news, Edith."  My reaction was familiar to me.  There was something I couldn't put my finger on about the place. By all accounts, this was a dream job.  But for me, it was an assignment that came with eerie ruminations.  They were unclear and rather unthinkable, yet they were there. Disquieting omens proved to be true. These were fully explained by the two "senior" colleagues:  Masilela Ntongela and Laura Harris. Putting aside the additional specters of Albeit Wachtel and the top dog, another Petrarchan prolapse, President Trombley, the remainder equaled up to what was known as an African and/or African American literature field.

One cornered Harlem plying its Renaissance as a shady sledgehammer and was notable to herself for slaying a Noble prize master, William Faulkner, with an apt intervention stating that while Faulkner did create powerful portraits of black women in the south, he was also known to her to have inhumanely designated one of his characters as a victim of rape.  Using a page from the novel --whose title she had forgotten--to thus accost Faulkner with evidence his fictional characters had been raped by a character of his own making, and to prove his racist agenda, she rattled off mention of a page concordance through her frontal canines with the relish she had been convinced of her forte in raw close readings alone enough to prove her as both an authentic Black woman defending her fictional sisters from their fictional rapists, she festooned the elongating bridge of her nose with cackles of triumphant snorting, and another dead white man was to blame.

The other, Masilela Ntongela, was her nemesis and counterpart. At the startling news that a dead white male author had lived an apogee of master performance and was being for all intents and purposes, maligned by an all BUT-Black radical feminist, heretical enough to condemn a fictional rape as she was taking great advantage of an apt intervention, his vehemence in favor of white authors who he saw as civilizing hordes of tribesmen and their vainglorious free slaves of the South, with proper education in English imperialism through Biblical allegory, he seethed in his bow tie and stoic grimace, pleading with patience for the success of the best, the boldest, those without eccentricities, repugnant and rightfully so.

The economy and the symbiotic equality brewed to perfection between them. As she was ALL but biologically black while he was ONLY biologically black, the two possessed an impeccable symmetry to which she was half owner and contributed a worthy and astonishing simulacrum to his quandary for being with her own quandary for being.  Indeed, the two members of this fantastical field of African and African American letters had been destined to attract in each other what neither could throw off completely-- the teleological end-result of U.S. and South African apartheid-narcissism.  In the incredulous likelihood that each and independently of one another, would so attach themselves to the cultural production and illustrious legacy of two entire continents and through such noxious reaction, nullify one very small but certain flourishing of two masterful intellectual meccas, it only took one look at each of them for me to know, their mercies had been few, and their miserliness profound.

LEGAL RAPE

There I sat, the two attorneys and their staff, grilling me.  It took hours and hours.  They threatened with more to come.  Edith, as I see her, who is me, held up.  She held up with the classic accuracy and intricacy of truths without tarnishing them.

It was clear then as it is today.  Neither had one bone of honesty in their composite human figures.  They appeared just as any other human being does.  They were neither fish nor amphibian.  They were clearly mammalian.  All outer appearances--the symmetrical anatomy, the pair of occular organs in the upper quadrant of the face, and were bipedal, that is they had two legs each that they used to tread across the floor.

It was where they placed their forethought that distinguished them from other people.  For they, much like the literature faculty, were agents of a vacant, wasted, and wanton set of partial sensibilities, thwarted cognition, and absent discerning.  They were nothing but the flesh-moving instinct of brutal blunt instinct.

Against my pacifism, they festered with an oozing and bellicose supremacy.  Two hired guns who violated my confidentiality in the process of sating their viciousness and mutilating commodity-- two shallow and defunct souls for the mating of terror--we spent day after day in a waltz dancing in disgust.  They would be compensated.  I would have the last word.

Last week, I wrote to the California State Bar Association for a full investigation of the botched legal procedure.  But as I don't put faith in the state nor does it concern itself with me, I intend to tell the story as though it told itself and the court records illustrate.

A 2-second arm twisting is nothing!  Try it again!  

MENTOR RAPE

It's common practice, indeed, even an academic standard, to institute mentorships for untenured professors.  While I had little use of advice from the highly unstable, toxic, revolting, and mediocre English and World Literature faculty --their morals were absent and horrors were forms of daily entertainment--I did everything fathomable to enforce high standards, create an ethical environment where only haunting was permitted, and shepherd my students toward their goals--that is, I had to do without adequate, professional, and appropriate collegiality and my gender/sex/ability identification was in fact the sole fixation on which these "mentors" would fixate. 

Never could I expect that they would engage in enlightened or polite conversations on the latest theories, new methodological advances, or best practices in instruction.  Far more remote were chances my own particular practices in manuscript analysis, translation, philology, and archival projects, would distract them from the single obsession they placed on my anatomy--moral, physical, ethnic, and intellectual.

The marring of my atmosphere, the squelching of my student research products, and the continuously-nearing proximity of their menacing mendacity, administered at an intensifying frequency. The hazing was acute, repetitive, and grew to include officers of the college, its board, administration, and faculty committees. This experience was a nightmare of insomniac persistence.  

It began with persistent propositions from another professor and the spouse of the President Trombley both of whom I rejected vociferously and to no avail for Trombley took it upon himself to ignore my rejections and sexually assaulted me.  He groped my ass with a disturbing and horrifying claw that traced the entire length of my spine just before it found my glute muscle and demonically squeezed me as though I were an animal about to be butchered.

This pattern of atrocities would follow the hierarchy of command from the sordid President's office down to the two professors just below her on the scale of salacious ambition.  The ominous perversity paired with abysmal intellectualism grew closer and closer to what I call mentor rape, a term I will define in a series of blogs on the topic. Rape on sexual grounds commuted to intellectual ones. This form of rape demands not only the excessive use of power to acquire forceful consent, but also, the farcical defeat of knowledge by racial and ableist fantasy forced sex.

Sex was the single fascination that presented itself in their imagination, collective and individual.  As a scholar, these regularly occurring group rituals of humiliation based around my biological being, were so shocking that they inured me to a state of "numbed terror"-- a phrase I borrow from the poet, Dr. William Carlos Williams, who, after all, had never grimaced at or demurred to, the sensuality of an aesthetic life.

The scenes in which the mating of my scholarship with the obsessive sexual predation of the literature faculty--are as clear in my memory as they day they occurred.  I can still see Laura Harris slithering on the open door of my office as she asks me for a lunch date after several bullying incidents in which she laid bare her agenda to discredit me for rejecting her inculcation in what was clear to me was an exploitative pecking order. 

Though she claimed she was a lesbian, it became clear she was merely marketing herself, for she is a four foot tall Napoleonic macho midgit without even a shred of femininity. Her emasculated omnipotent butchy hysteria she tried with the might of an infantile ego complex, to sate by annihilating any appearance of beauty, wisdom, or education in her realm of treacherous perversity.

 Given that she passes as white with a ludicrous theory of herself as a radical black woman who pulled down welfare while borrowing money for student loans, all of which she boasts in a laughable track record of feminist quasi-confessions regarding her femininity, femme claims, and feminist ethics, her proclivities are particularly bizarre.   

And in her case, the Pinocchio effect has had its full epidemiology expressed.  A nose larger than the size of a padded CV added to her height, may have been the cause of her dire tactics. Altogether this assembled puppeteer holds to the reins with a debased career in letters, the supplicants of her macho command structure using it to recruit to her "tormentorship."

Yet, she was not alone in her racial masquerade.  But teamed up with her as her own best frenemy--was Masilela Ntongela, a South African who promotes the benefits of English colonization of Africa and even of apartheid's ultimate helpful legacy on the enemy of his fathers, the Indigenous African cultures, expounds upon a comprador sentimentalism for the black plantation, its righteous antecedent and legacy in his view, and the dire picture of any innocence that will have to be dismembered by a precolonial brutal fantasy he sees and both desires and abhors in the African village, the African tradition, or its African philosophical heritage which he converts to what he sees as basely superstitious and laughable. He annihilates Africa and with that power, seduces through "mentorship." 

He refers to his own minstrelsy as "Modernity."  I recalled the horrific grimace a European scholar expressed at a conference at the annual conference of the regional Modern Language Association, held that year in Riverside,  when Ntongela Masilela assured the European scholar that there were no lingering feelings of dispossession or dismay of Africans for European colonization. 

The young slattern who had flown from Vienna to present his research, was left with a staggering jaw-drop -- a below-the-belt blow for the blond and blue-eyed research scholar.  Clearly, he had never fathomed that he'd find a supporter of colonialism in Southern California. But it must have been the sight of him that must most perturb him today: for he looks like a vile spider-bellied house servant of hell's ugliest creatures which in itself may have been the cause of his dire tactics.

More to Come

DOT DOT DOT : VENGEANCE OF ONLOOKERS

When returning to the classroom in a sexually hostile environment and while most professors quip, "I need to finish my syllabus, " or "my books aren't in the bookstore," my concerns were identical with theirs but went far beyond the normal anxieties.  My genuine fears included sizing up the perpetrators, their alliances, and their silent observers, meanwhile teaching as though my days in the classroom were numbered.

I soon gained enough perceptual acuity and ease with omni-vigilance that I could soon see around corners and distinguish shadows by the figures that cast them.  I could sense but not necessarily process these phenomenon as they occurred.

One by one any semblance of a higher moral authority, from "friends" who watched my mobbing without relinquishing any shred of protection or intervention, to state and federal authorities, courts, agencies, and ultimately a set of lawyers, all attuned to the sound of my misery, cruelly and sadistically turning the tables on me.

I became the target for a growing army of vengeful, angry, and undoubtedly weak moral characters.  They covered their ears to the sounds of my misery, averted eyes at the sight of their colleague, neighbor, or fellow human being, never to consider what the toll might be on one so outnumbered.

Indeed, there were women who resented the "attention" I received albeit the attention a cow may receive while being fed to the slaughterhouse.

So too, there were men whose research had long floundered in the provincialism of a disciplinary trend torn asunder by the globalization of fields in which they perhaps felt they'd been antiquated.  The brute competition for ideas, methods, and techniques had only a dulling effect on them, privileged as they were above women, by the masculinity they perceived they possessed as a natural outcrop of their biology.

Were I to describe it, this was a world where bench warmers festooned their dreary dilemmas with the avarice of wouldve's couldve's and shouldve's.  If they only had a brain.

WHEN PROFESSORS VOID STATE LAWS FOR SEXUAL HARASSMENT

The Administration was finding that the more you allowed students to write at larger volumes the more profound their education. 

I was crazy for my student writers. They taught me more than my own teachers about going off the page. I read their papers with profound jealousy for the world that did not that could not know the pleasurable passion of these writings. I felt great pity and compassion that whatever nearby human being I passed in the store or the lane of the freeway, did not have what I had: access to the writings of my students. So, I could never -- was not able -- to betray that love by acquiescing to sex by my employers. I was also jealous of their writing as the focus that my pursuers had for me because I felt my soul was now equal to their writings, and that I, only I, had the right to that love.  I love my Students Jealously and I love their Writings Jealously.

This terrified the Administrators and Professors in a perturbingly irrational manner. Nothing would alert them to their own conduct. They lost their moral discernment.

I began a war of dissent and moral deprecation of the entire milieu and at times it included friends of friends or what have you, neighbors, everyone, all my human shields--as I had been a human shield for my students-- and my combatants. I would make them suffer as they had defamed me: in general, by random attack, in strategem with tactical efficacy, in eternal terms, in present tense, in hyperbole, I would appease the soul they tortured. 

Once they all agreed to reject the state law on sexual harassment training, the English professors began canceling and cutting the degree into easier requirements which most affected me and my students. We were working on original theses that would no longer be required or offered.  But more than that, these works were excoriated, made as though "illegal" by professors who voided state laws.

My War was Waged by my Enemy against my Entropy. Soon magnitude was just a square away. There is no secret to success but doing it. Which can only come once in a Lifetime. Hate is UnderRated my friends, it is a Powerful Passionate Agent and it is never Sated. I try to Forgive but... ah... then I FOrget.

In fact, these are emotions long placed aside for the purpose of which is the following: to admonish and to teach, to instruct and to illustrate.

At Once they all agreed to reject the state law on sexual harassment training, I was raw meat in a shark's mouth. 

While this did not stop us, and my students and I continued what we did, whether or not there was "credit" for it, the attacks would continue. The censorship was enforced overall and by increasing degrees, would eventually be administered within the very courses themselves and against my research by procedures including faculty votes and faculty rumors.

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I had a look of terrific outrage on my face as the Dean told the faculty that though the state law required it he would not enforce the requirements for sexual harassment training. All of those who agreed, including everyone, should sign the sheet in agreement.

The Professors agreed to break the law together and I would bear that weight alone on me as the living example of what happens to they who refuse to break a law designed to protect me and others, my student writers.

I overreacted in moments. Due to an alarm my son who had been at a party that later turned out to be a CIA academic writing on the arming and organizing of narcotics cartels, 

I quickly defriended and broke ties with mutual acquaintances which affected things at home. 

I overreact to the Gov when it comes to the Kids. 

Otherwise I laugh in its Orifice!