The Classroom Is Now Open (Part 2)

Leo turned to see who the late arrival was, regarding me with a contradictory mixture of welcome and suspicion. I’ve been told that Leo was indifferent teacher, that he regarded his classroom as simply a venue to recount stories of borderline stalking incidents involving a middle aged Leo and long dead Broadway legends.

Leo:  Have a seat young man.

Turdling: Uhh, Leo, this is my class.

Leo: Oh I had a hell of a time, you know.

Confused, I played along.

Turdling: With what exactly?

Leo: At the Richard Rodgers Theatre, just last week. (Pounding his fist on the table)  Music was in the AIR! There was never such a NIGHT!

Somehow Leo had secured tickets to Hamilton and he had been regaling students with his interpretation of the title song. Age has not diminished Leo’s voice, nor his enthusiasm for musical theatre.  It has however lowered the gas on his memory, and his take on the song was a discordant goulash combining a vague recollection of Hamilton lashed with dollops of Wicked and the Wizard of Oz.

Leo: (Singing) Evil Margaret Hamilton, Margaret Hamilton.

Turdling: Leo. . .

Leo: I tell ya, it’s the stuff of dreams, a must see.

The Classroom is Now Open

The college, and by the college I mean Vestibule Plowden-Wardlow, announced on Monday that this is Open Classrooms Week, “an opportunity for all faculty to visit classes and share pedagogy.”

I didn’t pay much attention to this, like most of the faculty I’m too busy to duck into the classroom down the hall, and like most of Vestibule’s initiatives I assumed this too would burn off with the morning sun. What I hadn’t counted on was the abundance of time available to the herd of emeritus faculty who hobble onto campus most days. Vestibule’s initiative was litnip for these aging boomers looking to fill up their empty schedules; they could hit up the subsidized faculty lunch, wander off to a class and still be home in time to catch All Things Considered.  And so Open Classrooms Week became not an exercise in cross disciplinary inquiry but a disruptive, college sponsored October surprise.

I thought I’d managed to dodge any involvement in Open Classrooms Week but as I ran into class yesterday—late—there, sitting at the head of the table, was Leo Papadakis.

Leo Papadakis taught musical theater here for three hundred years, retired, and now refuses to go gently into the ether of assisted living. Instead he wanders in every Tuesday and Thursday, locks himself into his office and cranks a recording of Brigadoon until his 11.30 soup break. After soup he blasts the The Fantastiks until exactly 4, locks up and makes his way to the train. And now he was here, in my classroom holding forth to a table full of utterly mystified undergraduates.

A Visit with Colm

The door to Colm’s office was partially open, something that’s unusual for him. Most of the time he hides behind a closed door and, like most of us, he has pictures taped up on the inside of the door’s sidelight, blocking inquisitive colleagues or students from catching a glimpse of whatever might be going on inside. Most professors use photos at least tangentially related to their field–elaborately  costumed actors or brooding authors are the usual favorites. Colm has an action shot collage of former Manchester United anger management candidate Roy Keane, although there is a book jacket photo of political philosopher/theorist Frantz Fanon at the very top of the window, a nod to his other specialty. I gave the door a push and let myself in. Colm sat at his desk, feat up, wearing shorts, those strange sandals that Norwegians wear and a Barcelona football shirt. He was in high dudgeon, pointing at his computer monitor and cursing:

Colm: These fucking people.

Turdling: Who?

Colm: Do you get these emails?

Turdling: I get emails, yes.

Colm: But these, this sort, I shouldn’t have to do this any more. What’s the point of tenure if I still have to write recommendations.

Turdling: Tenure doesn’t mean you give up on being human.

Colm: The fuck it doesn’t.

Turdling: Haven’t you always ignored recommendations?

Colm: Of course, but I thought I’d seen an end to this.

Turdling: Forward them to Nathan.

Colm: Ohhh, that’s fucking brilliant. Right, here we go (he starts typing).

Turdling: Hey, what’s with the sandals.

Colm: What about ’em?

Turdling: You’re a pair of socks away from being a Reiki instructor. You used to wear suits.

Colm: It was expected, but this is me from now on, I absolutely don’t care anymore. Yesterday I wore fucking swim trunks to class.

Turdling: Jesus.

Colm: Don’t shake your head at me, you’d do the same if you could.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Alpha War: The Poet and Turdling

An ugly feud has developed between me and the Muppet haired relic who teaches in my classroom after my 2.00 o’clock class. It started quite plainly on the second day of the semester. My class had ended at exactly 3.45 and as I shoved scholarly debris into my bag and fielded the usual after class questions that I’d already answered, in barged The Poet. Shaped like a butternut squash and smelling like the inside of a vagrant’s skull cap, The Poet needed the room vacated:

The Poet: I teach in here at 4.00.

Turdling: Congratulations.

The Poet: Are you about through?

Turdling: What time do you start?

The Poet: I just said, 4.00.

Turdling: Shit, are you sure you’ll have enough time to set up?

Stray Student: Professor, can you sign my Add/Drop form?

Turdling: I would, but Professor Von Stroheim needs 15 minutes to open his book to page 12. Can it wait?

Stray Student: I guess you could do it Thursday.

Turdling: (To The Poet) Does that work for you?

Ignoring me, The Poet started removing ancient paperbacks held together with rubber bands from his bag.  I read over the Add/Drop form as if it were a binding legal document and signed it after a prolonged search for a pen. The Poet seethed. I resisted the temptation to ask him if he’d look over a few limericks I’d written as a teenager, although I have taken to leaving incorrect, poetry related information on the whiteboard. Last week I put in big, careful script the heading Italian Renaissance and underneath I wrote: Nikki Giovanni–Puppetmaster to the House of Medici.