By the time I would unveil my
research on William Carlos Williams for the faculty of Pitzer College, March 6, 2009, I was once again under their investigation. It was nothing new to me, and however Kafkaesque it may seem to you, I knew, like Gregor, how to wield a carapace.
--
I launch Power Point, pass around my hand-outs, then can't resist writing a poem on the chalkboard.
Two of my harassers are in the audience; among them are members of committees that follow their lead.
Despite the negative climate, my research is flowering. It lines the bookcases of my offices, at home and at work. My Williams collection started off greatly blessed by the contribution of three or four books by Jack Agüeros. I can still here him say, "don't call them professors, call them torturers," when he reflected on some of his own struggles with academics.
Two of my harassers are in the audience; among them are members of committees that follow their lead.
Despite the negative climate, my research is flowering. It lines the bookcases of my offices, at home and at work. My Williams collection started off greatly blessed by the contribution of three or four books by Jack Agüeros. I can still here him say, "don't call them professors, call them torturers," when he reflected on some of his own struggles with academics.
I have a great memory of walking with Jack through East Harlem, and he's telling me how he was often compared to Williams based on his appearance.
And up at the Paterson falls, I was also made out to resemble a Williams character. When in one of her spontaneous observations Dr. Theodora Graham (or as she prefers Teddy Graham like the chocolate covered cookie) looked me
dead in the eyes saying, “you’re just the type of woman Williams would have loved, a Latina like Elena."
Though I didn't talk about it at Pitzer due to the chances it would be skewed, Williams loved to love the human form and would not shy from drawing portraits of nudes in his work: himself, Elsie, Flossie, mothers in labor, housewives in slippers,
newborn infants, the erotic dancer in "The Desert Music."
It’s been a long week.
I’m wearing my usual: a suit. I enter the stuffy room. It’s late afternoon. I see all around me, the faculty of
Pitzer College. Reaching for their
conscience, I tell them Williams came under an investigation for the same work I present to you today.
Just for the simple pleasure of it, I look at Alan Jones and say, "did you notice those lines there? Can you read them out loud for me?"
"Beauty is the Defiance of Authority, " I hear him say as he repeats after Williams.
Later that year and half way through fall semester, when he comes to my office to notify me that I am not to return to my courses, by decision of the faculty, he adds that as he censors me, he "must wear another hat."
With that miserable announcement, all I can see is a surreal joker's hat in two tone colors. In a flash, it appears and in the next disappears. He casts a mock piteous glance at me, while I cling to my students' research proposals.
Like my own research, my students' research, is now undergoing a process or dimension of censorship. I think of Ovid's Persephone, as the pain of my own and my students' research are effectively silenced by Pitzer professors: "I cried for myself but more for my flowers!"
Just for the simple pleasure of it, I look at Alan Jones and say, "did you notice those lines there? Can you read them out loud for me?"
"Beauty is the Defiance of Authority, " I hear him say as he repeats after Williams.
Later that year and half way through fall semester, when he comes to my office to notify me that I am not to return to my courses, by decision of the faculty, he adds that as he censors me, he "must wear another hat."
With that miserable announcement, all I can see is a surreal joker's hat in two tone colors. In a flash, it appears and in the next disappears. He casts a mock piteous glance at me, while I cling to my students' research proposals.
Like my own research, my students' research, is now undergoing a process or dimension of censorship. I think of Ovid's Persephone, as the pain of my own and my students' research are effectively silenced by Pitzer professors: "I cried for myself but more for my flowers!"
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