I recall the day I enter the first floor of Broad Hall, named as it
is for Eli Broad, it makes sense it's sterile, inhuman, drenched in
excessive A.C. I note the way the walls mute the peaceful sounds
of students gathered about on the grounds of Pitzer College. I take the
central hallway to a door near the back and stand in front of it for a
moment.
I feel like a strange combination of animal and machine. I know I am alive but I no longer feel I am. The head games and the sex games of Pitzer have taken their toll.
All faces turn to me. I feel naked, afraid, ashamed. This feels like going to a dentist who plans to remove your jaw.
Two psychologists are present. One of them is a social psychologist and the other practices. "organizational studies." The former is a gambler with an eye for hot ladies. The latter is some twisted up version of Bert combined with Ernie minus all the good.
They ask questions, they don't listen to answers.
The Bert/Ernie chimera who has overseen all of my sexual harassment investigations has a nasty habit of visually undressing you as he passes you in the narrow hallway. Along with the fact he is a twin, he is also the son of Jerry Lewis, a local GOP politician. But more than anything else that you may remember about him, are his bulbous eyes fixated at breast and thigh level. "There's nothing more I can do for you," he will say to me when I receive the unsurprising news that his investigation has proven "inconclusive."
I found it rather telling that neither the Psych nor the Philosophy department offer anything whatsoever in the major foundations of 20th Century thought in their fields. Lacking continental philosophy AND psychoanalysis, the social sciences are shot to hell and replaced with Sex Roulette.
I struggle to keep myself intact as we enter into the topic of my harassment.
A sound that's part animal and part machine, emits from my mouth. I have never heard my body make this sound, not even in childbirth. For I don't recognize it as my voice even as it takes my breath away. Then I double over in pain.
I feel like a strange combination of animal and machine. I know I am alive but I no longer feel I am. The head games and the sex games of Pitzer have taken their toll.
All faces turn to me. I feel naked, afraid, ashamed. This feels like going to a dentist who plans to remove your jaw.
Two psychologists are present. One of them is a social psychologist and the other practices. "organizational studies." The former is a gambler with an eye for hot ladies. The latter is some twisted up version of Bert combined with Ernie minus all the good.
They ask questions, they don't listen to answers.
The Bert/Ernie chimera who has overseen all of my sexual harassment investigations has a nasty habit of visually undressing you as he passes you in the narrow hallway. Along with the fact he is a twin, he is also the son of Jerry Lewis, a local GOP politician. But more than anything else that you may remember about him, are his bulbous eyes fixated at breast and thigh level. "There's nothing more I can do for you," he will say to me when I receive the unsurprising news that his investigation has proven "inconclusive."
I found it rather telling that neither the Psych nor the Philosophy department offer anything whatsoever in the major foundations of 20th Century thought in their fields. Lacking continental philosophy AND psychoanalysis, the social sciences are shot to hell and replaced with Sex Roulette.
I struggle to keep myself intact as we enter into the topic of my harassment.
A sound that's part animal and part machine, emits from my mouth. I have never heard my body make this sound, not even in childbirth. For I don't recognize it as my voice even as it takes my breath away. Then I double over in pain.
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