by Ted Bernard
“That’s it in a nutshell?” she asks.
“Yes. It is easily spoken, but it may be difficult to achieve. It comes down to tapping into student wrath, channeling that wrath, and building solidarity, despite the odds, despite the fear of failure. Street actions around the world these days have been propelled by social media. Twenty-somethings have written the playbook. I know nothing of it. But when this strategy works, as it did in Tunisia, other media are drawn like ants to honey. Once a critical mass has gathered, there’s no telling how it will behave. It will be hard to contain let alone manage. Leadership must be nimble, inclusive, reflexive. Circumstances will constantly change. Egos will assert themselves. They must be squelched as must those who would brandish weapons or torch or loot.
I remember a quip going around at the time of the 2003 protests against the invasion of Iraq. Somebody said, ‘This may work in practice but will it work in theory?’ My point is that protests theoretically can be perceived as complex systems with untold emergent properties. What looks to be successful on the ground may be otherwise up the hierarchy and in the long term.”
She grasps my arm more tightly. “Oh, Stefan. This is seriously scary to me.”
“No gainsaying that.”
“Where do we start?”
“If you find what I’ve said helpful, share it with your co-conspirators. Tell them about the absolute need for confidentiality, especially if you find Tulkinghorn and Morse are in collusion. Not to frighten you, but, if the stakes are as high as you suggest, the risk of exposure could be dangerous.”
“No wonder I’m on overload.”
Arm-in-arm still, we complete the path’s circuit and return to the car. En route back to Argolis, Katherine wants more details. Using the light of her phone, she scribbles notes. I promise her that I will try to assess attitudes about Blackwood among my colleagues. Coming into Argolis on the Cambridge Road, we nearly side-swipe a cyclist dressed entirely in black and riding an unlighted bicycle. The cyclist swerves at the last moment, regaining balance on the road’s shoulder.
“That guy must have a death wish,” Katherine ventures.
By the time we pull up to 213 Spruce, it’s after one o’clock.
“This was a lovelier evening than my teenage alter ego could ever have conjured,” Katherine says in a dreamy voice.
Though it seems a moment of transcendent possibility, I can only sputter the mundane. “And a wonderful evening for me too, Katherine.” I take her hand and gently squeeze it, my first tentative gambit. “Fate willing, we will find ways to enjoy another such evening. That is, if she sees rightness in such a project.”
“How could she not?”
Our intimacy to this point had reached its peak in the arm-in-arm walk around the lake. Now I realize I need to thread my way through unfamiliar terrain, pitted as it is with emotional and perhaps legal quicksand. I say, “Were we not student and teacher at this moment, I might gently place my hands on either side of your delicate face, draw you to me, and kiss you lightly before escorting you to the door. But that’s for another semester, assuming you would not balk and you understand the wait.”
Katherine shifts subtly toward me. “I cannot wait,” she whispers. She stretches across the console and blindly lands a long tender kiss, missing my lips at first. When she slowly withdraws, her hands softly tracing my jaws, she expels a trembling breath. Retreating to her side, she giggles. “Whew, I am out of practice.”
“More practice, more practice,” I say, shivering through a smile.
She remains still, her eyes closed, her breath slowing, her knees pressed together.
We climb out of the car and walk to her door, my arm around her waist.
She says, “Much as I’d like to invite you to climb these stairs, against all my impulses, I shall resist the temptation.”
“Good call, unfortunately. Sleep well, Katherine.” We hug briefly and kiss once again.
I drive home, the pulse of a wider life thumping my temples. I pose unanswerable questions: Had we been intimate to the nth degree, would I be more delirious? Would she? What is it about her that evokes Kate?
FIVE
WE RESIST
Power corrupts;
attracts the worst and corrupts the best.
Refuse to participate in evil.
Insist on taking part in what is healthy,
generous, and responsible.
Stand up, speak out, and when necessary fight back.
Get down off the fence
and lend a hand, grab a hold.
Be a citizen, not a subject.
— Edward Abbeyviii
1
WE STUDENTS were about to launch a movement to resist evil, no matter the cost and come what may. How trite those two phrases dredged up from my musty diary. And yet.
On a rainy Friday morning, I trudged toward McWhorter Hall and my work-study job. At the base of the stairway I shook my umbrella, stomped my booted feet. It was just past eight o’clock. A soft, steady rain always lifts my spirits. Unlike most sane people, I love clouds and rain, a psycho preference, I admit. Rainy days make me think of Ashtabula, of fishing with dad on Lake Erie, of lazy summer mornings to read library books on the porch, of rain on the tin roof beneath my bedroom window. I was slightly late for work, but Greta, the administrator of the School of Conservation and Natural Resource Development, was hardly a task master. I always looked forward to my work-study hours doing tasks that required little thought and afforded time with this awesome woman with perfect skin, beautiful auburn hair, and an amazing disposition.
Greta Snyder had been with the university longer than most of the faculty in CNRD, longer by far than Dr. Tulkinghorn. She came to Gilligan as a student 25 years ago and had worked in the CNRD office as an undergrad. For the past decade she had been the school administrator doing things behind the scenes that enabled the school to serve its students and faculty, no matter the titular leadership. Greta was an even more important person than the grumpy Dr. T. She could answer virtually any question I had ever heard posed and Dr. T.’s ill temperament washed off her like invisible ink. How did she manage this calmness and capableness? Could I ever be that way? Questions like this hounded me a great deal back then.
As I began designing a small brochure on the “Fracking and Ohio’s Energy Future” symposium (What a travesty!), across the office I saw Stefan deep knee bending at Greta’s desk. They were talking quietly about matters I could not fathom. For Stefan, eye contact with ordinary-sized people, like me, was a big thing. He continued squatting as he and Greta laughed. An inside joke. You had to admire people like Stefan and Greta who seemed so at ease with each other and people generally. He stood up, glanced my way, broke into a smile. “Hey, Hannah.”
“Hey, back at you.” A warm wave washed across my breast bone causing my heart to skip a beat. I made a mental note to highlight the encounter in my diary that night: I am grateful to be a part of this impressive school, a small part, but thanks to people like Greta and Stefan, I feel appreciated, and somewhat aroused, Stefan, cunning charmer, thou art.
Stefan ambled out the door. In the hallway, I heard, “Good morning sir.” “Arghh, wet and bleak!” Dr. T. swashbuckled into the office. “Mrs. Snyder, come this way. Quickly! That email draft I sent you last night. Gotta put it in proper form.” His commands, like rocket propelled grenades, cratered the outer office, serene only moments ago. In the midst of the barrage, Greta cheerfully replied, “Oh, hi, Dr. T. Sure, I can do that.” She followed him, a steno pad in hand. How can she possibly work for this dumbass every day?
An hour later, as I returned from the restroom, Dr. T. passed me in the hall. He made eye contact. “Say, um, sorry what’s your name again?”
“Hannah McGibbon.”
“Yes, yes. Work-study. Fifteen hours a week, right?”
“That’s right.”
“Well, Hannah. Remember a couple of weeks ago you mentioned attending the Post-Carbon — what was it? — meeting?”
“Yes. Post-Carbon Student Action. I go to their meetings every week.”
He gently took my elbow and led me to a bank of windows across the hallway from the CNRD office. This creeped me out mightily. He had barely ever even acknowledged me. This cretin is up to what here?
We stood at the windows and looked down at a wet, weedy, litter-strewn parking lot between the wings of McWhorter. In a hushed tone, Dr. T. asked, “Hannah, so what’s happening with that group these days?”
Truthful and straight forward girl I used to be, I tried to explain that the group’s main activities focused on saving Blackwood Forest and helping the university see that going straight to green energy was the way forward. I told him that the PCSA had been meeting with ClimateThrong, another student group.
A smarmy smirk bared Dr. T.’s yellowish Teddy Roosevelt teeth. He looked like a wolverine. “ClimateThrong?” he asked.
I attempted to ignore his teeth but could not avoid glimpsing nose hairs growing south like lily pad roots. “Yeah, it’s a group focused on bringing down carbon dioxide levels in the atmosphere to 350 parts per million as soon as possible. That’s a pretty big challenge. Gilligan’s climate plan is one step along the way, but ClimateThrong wants to ramp up the plan.”
“Indeed,” he said. “Well, thank you Hannah. I like to know how the students in our school contribute to the betterment of Gilligan University. Let’s keep in touch.”
He turned and waddled into the office. I stared blankly out the windows trying to make sense of the whole episode. Eventually, I returned to my brochure. Before leaving for class, I mentioned the conversation to Greta. Her kind face revealed no astonishment or alarm. She simply said, “That’s nice.” Then, as I gathered my umbrella and backpack, she asked, “Say, would you like to come over for some home cooking tonight? Kurt plans to grill ribs. The kids would love to see you.”
The rain had passed. The setting sun stroked the maple and sycamore tops lending a soft glow to the Snyder’s patio. The evening was cool enough for sweatshirts. After dinner and three games of volleyball, Kurt hustled the kids off to showers and bedtime. I thanked Greta again, probably the third or fourth time, so grateful was I for this friendship and chagrined that I could never return the kindness.
I looked up and noted that Greta was casting a seriously adult look across the picnic table. I could not read it. She said, “This morning, your conversation with Dr. T. I suggest that you try to be more discreet in future.”
“Discreet? I’m not getting your drift. Did I say something I shouldn’t have said?”
“I’m not sure. What I have to tell you, Hannah, is just between us, okay?”
“Okay.”
“I have reason to believe Dr. Tulkinghorn wants to use information you may be providing about student plans for Blackwood Forest to bolster his future here. I think his goal is to work with Jasper Morse to fast track drilling there. Now, here’s something that’s a bit urgent. He plans to meet Jasper Morse clandestinely day after tomorrow to discuss ‘kicking butt’, to use his words, of anyone opposed to fracking at Blackwood.”
“Kicking butt, whoa! What’s he going to do?”
“Exactly what that means I don’t know, but I think you and your friends ought to be vigilant.”
“Do you know when and where he will meet Morse?”
“Yes, when but not specifically where.” From her bra, Greta pulled out a small bit of paper torn from a spiral notebook. The jagged edge, for some reason, caught my eye. Obsessively, I wished my fairy godmother would bring me scissors to straighten that edge. Greta handed over the still warm paper.
Scanning it quickly, I said, “Thanks. This could really help.” Then my mind melted into a chaotic mess: This can’t be real. My life is boring and stupid. Am I becoming a spy? Will this get me into deep shit? How can students possibly stop anything? What about the faculty? What if I end up in jail? Kicked out of school? Should I tell Samantha? Wow, how exciting is this?
Realizing I had momentarily zoned out, I apologized. “Sorry Greta. My mind is racing. What do you think I should do?”
Greta stood up and came around to my side of the table. She sat down next to me. She placed her arm gently across my back and tightly squeezed my shoulder. “I cannot really answer that, Hannah.”
My response was thin and hesitant; tears slowly trickled across my cheeks. Greta had been a friendly employer but never an alter-mom who could reach into the valley of my heart. “I don’t get it,” I blubbered. “This is crazy, me in the midst of some kind of thriller. This is so not me.”
Greta went into the house for a box of tissues. She returned and I shook my head in embarrassment. Greta said, “It’s okay to cry. This is all a bit heavy. But none of us wants Blackwood Forest to be spoiled, right?”
More tears. More tissues. “The problem is, Greta, I don’t know whether I’m up for this. I’m usually such a wuss. This could easily become just one more thing for me to suck at.”
“You’ll be fine, sweetie. A bit later in life you’ll realize your sense of yourself at this moment is way off. You know the people in PCSA and you know the plans. Take this information to them and tell them to be cautious. Please, don’t reveal the source. I don’t want to know what happens next; the less I know the better. I can pay close attention to what’s going on in my little sphere. If I have new information I’ll pass it on. Maybe this will be helpful in some way.”
Still sniffling, I sat there dumbfounded. My sense of self … way off?
I walked homeward through the darkening west side neighborhood of stately old homes. Nice quiet neighborhood. No student housing. Spreading oaks. Someday, I want to live in a secure place like this. Pipedream, shithead! As I headed up West Clayborne toward campus, I called Astrid. She would know what to do.
2
José Citron, on a roll, added layer upon layer of suggestions for our group project for Stefan’s class. José, Astrid, Greg, and I brainstormed in a stuffy study room in the Josiah Brownlow Library. We interrupted José frequently for translations of his Spanish-inflected African American English peppered with phrases from the hood.
When he said, “Like, man, if I had a car, it sure wou’n’d be a Prius.”
“What’s wrong with a Prius? It’s a really green car,” I asked.
“Prius in the hood means homosexual owner.”
“Yeah, but …”
“Girl, you know and I know that I’m one flashy theater and dance major. I’m gay, yeah. But don’t want boys in the hood to focus on that. As Richard Pryor said, ‘If you’re sensitive in the hood, you’re someone to be eaten’.”
And another.
José: “Yeen talmbout shit!”
Greg: “Say what?”
José, matter-of-factly: “Yeen talmbout shit.”
Greg: “Yeen? Tom? Bout? Sheet?”
José: “Got it, sort of. This means whatever you said ain’t worthy of further discussion.”
Greg: “Hmm, I don’t get the context.”
José: “It was just me runnin’ on. Like, maybe one of my ideas would get us a D 'cause Stefan thinks we haven’t done enough homework and we’re bullshitting. He’d say at the end of it: ‘Yeen talmbout shit’.”
Greg: “You done lost yo damn mind? Ain’t nobody here talmbout shit.”
José, cracking up: “You speaking my lines, man. For a white guy, yo’ one funny dude.”
Greg: “Watched every episode of The Ghetto Show.”
And another.
José: “Ay que sera!
Astrid: “Ay que sera … something about something that will be? Was that connected to your idea of a survey on GUO student responses to crossing bad thresholds?”
José: “Good memory, Canuck. Do you mind if I use the C-word?
Astrid: “It’s okay. We Canadians are known for our good dispositions. Me, I’m known for being an abrasive bitch”.
José: “Ay … la gran patrona!”
Astrid: “Si.”
; José: “Yeah, well, que sera here is really ‘whatever will be, will be’. Fatalism in English. At least that’s the way it’s often used in Puerto Rico and the way Big Pun, the late great Puerto Rican rapper, put it out there.”
Later, José to Greg: “¡Hala! bro! Yo makin’ me feel totally retarded. I need to know 'lot more if I’m gonna help with some of your topics.”
Greg: “Me too, but isn’t that what it’s all about — to get out of our comfort zone? I remember Stefan saying something on the first day of class. Like, don’t expect trigger warnings. He said he wanted us to lose sleep over the suffering and pain of encountering ideas that trouble us.”
José: “Yeah, man, I’m tight with that.”
Astrid: “Right. If I’m comfortable in a class, I’m bored and not learning anything.”
I remember mulling this over. It certainly had not been my previous experience in school, but with Stefan’s class and my Tulkinghorn encounter, I wondered if I was finally suffering my first bout with the discomfort of ideas that freak me out. None of us realized it at that moment but in a matter of weeks we had all become fluent in a new language leading to new ways of thinking about ourselves and the world. Had Stefan been there in the library, he might have said: “Here, gang, the inklings of a frightening unwinding beyond denial and despair. Scary, yes. But maybe also a doorway opening outward.”
Time ran out. Three peach-fuzzed guys peered into our study room. They wore grimy jeans, thrift store military jackets, and black high-laced boots. Two of them sported slouchy Che Guevara beanies, the other a fedora. The one with the fedora annoyingly knocked on the window.
