As the graduation ceremonies begin, so do the parties. Last night I went to a gathering hosted by the most interesting gay couple at school. One of them is a professor with whom I took a class. He perhaps is the only person who has ever read me so quickly and accurately. In fact, the experience was so impacting that I was left for a six weeks just disoriented, dazed, and confused.
Its funny that this blog is about vanity—b/c that’s initially what screwed up my getting to know this professor.
Sophomore year I was scrambling to find one last class to complete my schedule. Professors seem to hate it when you start coming to their class during the latter part of the browsing period. At that point they assume the class is a second choice.
I walked in to a full seminar room with one large table. One seat was available and I quickly made my way there. I wasn’t late but I wasn’t early either. Having sat down I looked at the professor and it seemed as if he had just looked at me and wiped an astonished look off his face. I brushed it off at the time, although I made a mental note of it.
These intros are starting to wear thin on me too. But, I can’t disregard how it really started.
Class began and the experience was more like what I expected at college. Everyone was not only really intelligent, but participated systematically without needing to be pushed and the material was both thoroughly lectured upon and discussed.
After class, I went up to the professor to state my intentions. The class disassembled and those needing to talk to him were approaching. As I made my way up, his mouth was halfway open and he just stared at me.
After I got in line in the circle around him, he returned his attention to the other students. Finally, it was my turn to speak and I told him that I was looking for one last class and that this class was very good (I was SOOO fucken naïve at the time). He smiled and said great and that he thought I would be a great addition to the class, and that he would have to see if there was room still available.
That last comment was a sharp twist I didn’t expect. He waited for and enjoyed the reaction on my face. I said, “Oh, I thought there was a room.” He smiled sadistically and said, “Well, you always have to double check those things.” I had immediately gone from happy-go-lucky to shit—I have to line something else up. I said I hoped I that I could find a place in his class, glumly smiled, and left.
I got a spot, and the following class he again just stared at me as I walked in and went to my seat. There’s a reason why I started developing eyes behind my head. The class went well—it wasn’t easy. The reading was pretty heavy and his questioning thorough.
The class I eventually came to know was made up of all the most interesting students on campus. Many had already published major works multiple times and most of them ran a major organization both on and off campus. I was deeply intimidated—but fucken enjoyed the discussions.
As I had enrolled late during the browsing period I set up a meeting with the professor to discuss the timeline of the assignments and ask for advice. He blew off my e-mail for a fucken week. I was pissed but got over it before I arrived. These people are busy.
When I arrived we went through the syllabus and all the formalities. Afterwards, he said, I do want to ask you one more question. I looked at him and with my expression asked, “what?”
“What do you think of the class members?”
I told him—I loved the intense people in it and went through my reasons. Then he asked about how I was getting to know them. I said that I found them to be rather shy despite all their accomplishments. I said that I even noted that in class at times. I told him I sort of felt like an outsider—but that I understood that I had joined the class late and that breaking the ice would take a little longer.
He said that often times over-achievers like that were really shy when they were not in their element of authority but that he thought there might be some other reasons why their trait would persist still more. He again asked if I had any idea about why such a reaction would transpire beyond the typical over-achiever-type profile—his vocal tone made it obvious that he had already given this thought.
I again, didn’t know where the fuck this conversation was going, knew something was up, but just kept my eyes really wide open as I moved my head from side to side, and said, “No—not really.” With my look and tone of voice, I simultaneously asked, “What are you thinking because I gather you have something else in mind?”
“Have you noticed any reaction in the class when they hear you speak?”
Again, I was very startled that the conversation was becoming about me and just looked at him wide-eyed and sort of moved my head from side to side. He said that his guess was that they were intimidated by me. At that point the shock totally set in, and he had me pinned with curiosity and I was very uncomfortable. I thought to myself, “Why would such crazy accomplished people find me at all different than any amongst themselves? I certainly was the one intimidated. Why is the prof bringing this up?”
He said that I had certain qualities that would make that sort of thing predictable. I was like—WHAT??? But again, just remained quiet, and allowed my expression to speak for me.
He went there—and my original premonitions about his stares were confirmed. He outlined how that was related to the classes’ reactions on multiple levels. He explained the mediations between the instinctual and intellectual spheres of these dynamics. He was straight-forward and pithy. I was blown away by someone so authoritative and insanely articulate just one by one pulling apart the components of my identity and how others would perceive and react to them.
He hit my gut with incredible incisiveness and directness. The air had been knocked out of me long ago and yet my mind’s lungs continued to fall in on themselves. I knew I wouldn’t start gasping until after I left his office. He was a little annoyed by my reaction. He said he had surmised me to be sufficiently intelligent and perceptive to have picked up on it.
I said that the class provided multiple reasons for their reactions because they were a complex group. Moreover, the unlikelihood of the idea he proposed was far too great in my mind for me to seriously entertain. He said that me—now being privy to its realistically probable truth—could empirically ascertain its merit on my own.
Although I didn’t speak much in class prior to this meeting with him, I had not been shy. I had welcomed the challenge of the class and despite my intimidation gone forward with my comments. Henceforth however, I was more attentive not in class but to the class.
I began to notice that the professor was right—at least facially on a broad scale it seemed that way. Then again, I might have just been reading into it because of the discussion with him.
I gradually began to get to know the members on an individual basis and in small groups outside of class. Not until then did I admit to myself that the professor was right. During these other times, people were more honest and their reactions far more precise and transparent. Despite all of their distinguished backgrounds, most people in the class responded to me according to the professor’s “model”. I became extremely self-conscious as the interactions continued along that path.
I checked out of class for a while. I always attended but I fell off the way-side. I did not take to well to my “role” there and allowed the many capable others to instead take it. Moreover, the whole situation was making me face some personal demons I had wanted to put off for far into the future. That’s ultimately what this was about.
However, this kind of procrastination was a luxury I didn’t have. Over time, the class began to annoy me. I hated how they saw me. My social trajectory took a severe blow for my own internal reasons. The professor noted it and brought it up the next time I was in his office.
He looked at me sort of confused and with an endearing look as he heard me out. His response agitated me further. I asked, “how is it that having all these things going for me is supposed to make me happy?” My question was uttered out of the conviction that I was obviously troubled.
I could tell he was somewhat bored. He said, “No. You haven’t understood. It is not these things that will make you happy—it is how you use them to make yourself happy.”
I was sort of shocked—again. His reply made sense, but how I didn’t know. It did bridge the gulf between identity and endowment.
The class wrapped up and I never came out of my confusion or perturbed state. The professor tried to be my friend. His liking for my outward appearance however was usually rather overt. For a myriad of reasons, that was too much for me. He could see that and unfortunately, although he tried, he seemed not to be able to hide it perfectly.
He was largely confused by my inability to just accept or enjoy it. In another discussion, he finally addressed the point. He noted that in our interactions I seemed to be not cold but rather “un-human”. I could be open without any sort of emotional reaction.
He was right, and I admitted it. He also sort of correctly prophesied that such a reaction would get me into trouble. People would be very attracted to me on more than just one level—and that my inept coping skills and identity-issues would cause confusion that they would misinterpret and for which they would fault me. They would interpret it as rejection.
He tried to weave me into a particularly powerful net within the university. But I declined—just as I had within the class. I was an idiot.
After my social phase and subsequent self-imposed ostracized period, I was more comfortable with myself.
We stopped talking for a long time, but last week he sent me this invitation. I felt compelled to go because he had followed it up with a personal note hoping I would attend. I guess he didn’t want to see me leave without some conversation.
I was scared to go to the party. I know he has madly influential friends both in the university and across the country. However, it was that combined with two other facts that made the party a difficult thing. There would be lots of girls there who had previously crushed on me and lots of gay bois who would likely draw from me telling reactions. I didn’t want to face my sexuality. I went anyway.
Although I enjoy attention, there has to be something said for attention from those who can look into you with piercing insight. At this party, many would have the ability to read me. And I was for some reason in no mood to front and dodge. Worst of all, I had arranged for a date, and she cancelled.
The house was large with insane vaulted ceilings. However, the residence itself was not ostentatious in the monetary sense. The typical extravagances in construction had been omitted—though spacious, the house itself was humble.
Instead, the interior was mostly artwork. Sculptures served as sign posts for each living area. Some of them comprised a set while others were individually displayed. The paintings were awesome, and I stared at several for close to an hour. Beyond the artwork, the house also was a library. Reams of books lined every square foot of wall that was not occupied by the art.
The house was in many ways reflected the paradox of the crowd. In spite of excellent form, it sported incredible content.
No one was chauvinistic for the sole sake of arrogance. Everyone in the room could boast of achievement or resources, but what everyone most wanted to discuss was their passion—something outside themselves either here or elsewhere in the world.
It was unbelievable. Absent was the need to one-up the fellow converser and instead the goal was truly to share experience, insight, and possibly even advice. I had never seen anything like it.
All the major issues were being discussed—socially, politically, and economically. Many major industry players were represented although people identified themselves beyond their job. Although the crowd leaned liberally, a good many staunch conservatives were in attendance.
The professor still exhibited his customary reaction to me. And so did others at the party. However, thankfully more people whom I didn’t know where present than I had expected. I was comfortable in my anonymity, and was only briefly drawn out of it as one particularly beautiful blonde boldly stared at me for a few prolonged periods of time with a very intense and lusty look. I avoided it at first. But then I decided to acknowledge her and the dynamic between us with a reciprocal glare ending with a politely dismissive nod. From thereon out she ignored me.
Alone and with few acquaintances there, I schmoozed the crowd. From local business folk to international activists, I was just jumping around from group to group. I was silent most of the time. I didn’t want to say anything. I was both intimidated and wanted to just listen and absorb. I asked a lot of questions. Some people were weirded out by it.
I was about to leave when the professor pre-empted my parting greetings and spoke into my ear, “You can stay a little bit longer can you not?”
I complied. The crowds thinned out and eventually everyone began to find places to sit. I joined the crowd where the professor’s spouse was talking. He would stare at me often not with attraction but instead with suspicion and confusion. Something was up—but I was too overwhelmed to deal—again.
All the other students spoke with the professor on and off. He was adept at juggling the many—except for one—a tall cute boy who was a recent graduate. He seemed to know the couple very well and would be the only one who had long conversations with both of them.
He and the professor came to join our sitting group. The cute boy sat next to me.
Everyone has shells I think at parties where older folk will attend. However, when these folk are in academia the air of propriety seems to harden these shells even more.
Cute boy was brilliant and accomplished. He was in an interim period waiting to hear on several responses. He was funny, witty, and humble. The attraction I felt was severe.
To my undoing, I was feeling particularly disconnected. All this shit had come back to me. All the shit that the professor had brought up in the past and that I was supposed to have been done with resolving. I caught cute boy staring at me. And in his eyes, I thought I saw vulnerability—and that scared the shit out of me. I know—I take myself far too seriously.
As the professors spoke, they began to get heavy with their topics, introducing high concepts that most intellectuals reserve only for their writings and not for casual conversation. The salon session was beginning, and despite the cute boy sitting next to me I was hungry to engage the forthcoming exchange.
It’s exhilarating to me to hear certain behemoth names and ideas begin their entrance into a conversation of few. Perhaps its like sex for me—it’s a form of intimacy.
One former student’s claim about an old grade started the discussion—hilarious. The professor then began talking about a philosophy course he took in graduate school. Turns out it was my favorite topic. I questioned him on it and we started talking. Cute boy sort of just smiled cocked his head to look at me and asked—“You’ve read this before?” I cited what I had read and continued in the conversation. We went on for a little while before the conversation turned and went in different direction again.
Again, the topic became heavy regarding the status of the nation’s political consciousness. Again, a topic I had only recently worked on at great length. One of the former students questioned me on my perspective. I outlined my model on the nature of political consciousness and how it evolves. She came back at me with an anthropological perspective seemingly pleased by my reply. Cute boy still seemed straight as an arrow until I caught a clear yet subtle mannerism.
The professor abruptly left the conversation. Soon there after the crowd split. I approached cute boy about his own work and mentioned a friend of mine who had done similar stuff. It was a girl and he quickly found a way to ascertain whether she and I had been involved in the past. My response in similar coded terms was that I swung both ways. He is single.
He and I were the last ones to leave and we helped clean the place up. He seemed really interested in one particular author I had brought up and I said I could send it to him if he wanted. He was noticeably taken aback by my offer and gave me his contact info. We left at the same time without saying good bye to each other inside. We obviously should have hung out afterwards. But I abruptly left. I was tired and overwhelmed. I should have expected this situation from a party like this one—but I came and left afraid. How fucken retarded.
