The Campus Visit Pt. 4

After the teaching demo, three of the professors bid me goodbye, one for good, and the remaining professor, an older woman, said that she could take me on a tour of the campus if I wanted, or I could go back to the hotel--whatever I wanted. My feet by this time were aching--If aching is really the right word. They were burning and swollen on the bottoms from walking uphill in shoes with a wedge. I had gel thingies to put in them, but hadn't had a chance to sit down without being watched. So I requested just to be able to sit and rest for a little while (I was exhausted), and then perhaps to see parts of the campus.

So we went to her office. I said something in reference to the teaching demo, but I can't remember what. Her response made me feel that the whole thing was not important--in a good way. This was the only one-on-one time I had with any member of the English department the entire time, except when I was picked up in the morning by the male professor, and I think I managed some appropriate small talk. But this time, I was able to ask about the students, and we covered a wider range of topics relating to the town, state, university, and this professor's own interest and background. Because I didn't feel interested in being a "good candidate" any longer, I was able to talk. I almost wrote "proving myself," but I never did see it in those terms. This wasn't "proving myself," as there was no goal and no challenge, it was just coming across well--presenting a favorable image. And so I was polite--like a guest in someone's home when I was young. Travel makes me timid too, I might add.

So finally, we talked about her political causes, as there were posters on all of her walls with Spanish quotes. She likes to protest the School of the Americas with students; she visits Colombia to promote peace. So you must be fluent? No. Not as fluent as she would like to be. And there is no Spanish department at the college, correct? Right. All the time I am thinking about my husband, who is a definite participant in my intellectual life, and his own expertise in political science and in Spanish, and wondering what his take would be on all of this. Then I started feeling bad again about the "not talking about your family" constraint. I thought perhaps my feet had recovered well enough, and we left the office.

Descending the stairs, I decided to go for it. You know, I said, I'm going to break with convention and mention that my husband has a Master's of Spanish and a Master's in Political Science, and I couldn't help thinking of him while looking at your posters. This was greeted with much surprise. Yes, I said, and the hardest part of this visit was when I was asked what I do for fun at lunch and I couldn't help thinking of my three children. That's a job unto itself, she said, and I agreed and said yes, with the Ph.D. and the children, "fun" isn't something I have time for too often. She didn't have any interest in my family, which was fine. I didn't expect it. But I had come clean, and didn't really care about anything else. She asked about the children's ages, though and did mention that she has a 28-year-old son who lives somewhere else but was a Spanish major in college and she practices her Spanish with him sometimes. We were proceeding uphill to the chapel and the library. My feel were not as bad, but were steadily worsening as we ascended. As I reached the door of the student ministry area, leading to the chapel, I wryly thought of joining my suffering to Christ's, which of course reminded me how minor and how futile my own "suffering" was. That wry attitude characterized my mood just then.

The chapel was singularly unattractive. I mentioned that I had seen stained glass windows from the window of the room where I was first interviewed. I did have the opportunity to look inside that room. I asked the department head if I could take a peek into the chapel when I saw that I had to pass it in order to go to the bathroom. She had no problem taking me inside. It was very pretty. A traditional rectangular configuration with a central aisle. What would have been the sanctuary was empty--no crucifix, no tabernacle, no altar. It was bare and sad. The windows were stunning, though. Eight saints, arrayed four on each side. The ones that stand out to me are St. Therese (The Little Flower) on my right and St. Patrick, with a flaming green chasuble on my left. The images looked like antique holy cards illuminated by the sunlight and gleaming. It was truly beautiful--a shining moment that had nothing to do with me, but which made me sad for all of its splendor. The old chapel was built in 1923, I believe, and abandoned in 1971, when the new chapel was built. If you are familiar with 1970s church architecture, nothing I describe will surprise you. It was dark. It was circular, which deemphasizes the focal point. To stress that deemphasis, one enters from the side rather than from the rear, and the visitor is not obligated to gaze on either the crucifix or the tabernacle, both of which are offset. In fact, I was so disoriented that I did not know whether or not to genuflect, which of course I should have done. There was holy water. And for all of its ugliness, there was peace. I gazed at the tabernacle, and wanted some time to myself there, but was still timid, and did not request it. The stained glass was non-representational--mere chips of blue and red. The seven cardinal virtues adorned the wall opposite the entrance, so instead of focusing on Christ's sacrifice, upon entering one focuses on words without symbols: Prudence, Justice, Restraint, Courage, Faith, Hope, and Charity. That is, one focuses on the values of the particular religious order and not on Christ as the head of the Universal Church. My escort commented on the beauty of the place, but I could not assent. I did not find it beautiful except insofar as it contained the Body of Christ. Which of course is everything.

Next was the library, which occupies the other wing of the same building. Though I was told that it was built about the same time as the chapel, it looked newer, fresher, more modern. We entered on a second story, and there was a square balcony of sorts overlooking a carpeted staircase and the floor below. There was a very large skylight above. My impression was that rather more care had been given to making the library attractive than the chapel. I was told that the ceiling had leaks, and that when it rained, the pretty interior was punctuated by buckets. It was an inviting space nonetheless, suited for parties rather than lectures, for which the chapel, as the largest gathering space on campus, was sometimes used.

From there, we descended the hill again, and my feet were once again hurting so badly that I was taking small steps, as if I lacked full use of my limbs. To my left was something I very much wanted to see, but could not have walker there without first removing my shoes, which I had very much wanted to do for an hour or two at this point. It is a bridge-like structure that is featured on the college web page, and dates to the founding of the college by the Sisters. It has been restored recently, which I knew, but by the art department, so for its aesthetic beauty rather than its spiritual significance. It is called The Grotto. I was told that it was part of the "green space," a meditative spot. "It's a shrine, correct?" I asked. Hastily and clipped, "Yes, it's a shrine to Mary." "It's a reference to Lourdes, right? The Grotto?" Silence. We proceeded downhill and I was in such obvious discomfort that I was allowed to sit for a moment while she brought her car around to drive me to the hotel.

The ride to the hotel was pleasant. We talked about Big State School known for creative writing. Some of my undergrad professors had gone there. I almost went into creative writing. Good thing I didn't, 'cause the wellspring of poetry has pretty much dried up. We talked about that a bit. I was myself with this member of the faculty, for some crazy reason. It's not that I particularly trusted her. She was a bit less threatening than the others, just because she did not seem to be judging me n quite the same way(s). I have asked myself a few times why I was able to be chatty. I asked about health food & organic farming. I admitted to having interests. And then I shook her hand and hobbled into the hotel, dreading what was to come. . .

I promise, the next installment will be the last.