When no one moved, Martin picked up a piece and handed it to the closest student, who happened to be Ximena. She closed her hand around it and looked down. Her lips moved as if in silent prayer. Then she hugged Martin.
“You can each have a piece,” Martin said.
Bruce bent down for one. “Can I hug you too?”
“Why not?” said Martin, and opened his arms.
Bruce gave him a man hug. “Thank your uncle for us.”
All the students took a piece, even Apache.
While the students compared their shards, I walked Martin and Octavius back to my office and said to Martin, “You know I understand a bit of the Tanoan languages.”
“And you know our language isn’t in that group.”
“Right. But neither is yours a language isolate, like Zuni. So when you and your uncle talk, I sometimes pick up a word or two. Today I didn’t understand anything.”
“Neither did I. He was faking it.”
“Why?”
“Because our words are never spoken for outsiders.”
“Then why did he agree to speak at all?”
Octavius spoke and Martin translated.
“He thinks you honor the ancient ones by copying their work. He wanted to help you teach the students how to do pots the ancient way.”
“So the words were just gibberish?”
“Yeah. But he sounded good, don’t you think?”
“Yeah. Even Apache was eating it up.”
Octavius said, “Apache easily fooled.”
I couldn’t tell if he was joking. The Pueblo peoples historically had a low opinion of the Apaches.
Octavius took off the buckskin shirt and put on the blue cotton one he had arrived in. Then he took one of his own pots from a bag and handed it to me.
I looked at Octavius. “How much do you want for it?”
He didn’t answer. He almost never does. But it would be impolite not to ask him directly.
“Five thousand,” said Martin.
“I never should have mentioned Harte Hockley.”
Martin smiled. “Just kidding. But he would like to get more than the usual twenty-five hundred.”
“How about three thousand?”
Octavius nodded.
“You gonna price it at five thousand? That would give Uncle Octavius his three thousand, and you would make forty percent like Hockley’s galleries.”
I shook my head. “Don’t want to be greedy. I’ll price it at four and make twenty-five percent.”
Octavius handed the buckskin shirt to me.
“How much you give us for the turquoise?” Martin asked.
I examined the buttons. “These are not real turquoise.”
“I know. Got them at Hobby Lobby. Got the feathers there too.”
“And the shirt?”
“Goodwill.”
“You going to keep it?” I asked.
Octavius shook his head. “Too hot.”
Then he said something in his own tongue.
Martin translated. “He says he is worried about the silent one.”
13
Another suit was waiting. He was standing in the hall next to the door.
At least he wasn’t carrying a clipboard.
“Are you Hubert Schuze?”
Now what? I thought.
He introduced himself as Garrett Stevens and told me he was from the Office of Environmental Health and Safety.
The card he gave me listed his particular duties as outdoor fire procedures, dry-ice usage, fluorescent lightbulb safety, tent policy and field-trip safety.
A true Renaissance man.
It was that last one he wanted to talk about.
“It has come to our attention that you used your personal vehicle to take students on a field trip.”
“I sure did. The place we were going is about six miles away, too far to walk.”
“You should have used a university vehicle.”
“I didn’t know there were university vehicles available.”
“You should have asked.”
I decided to take the offensive. “Or maybe someone should have told me. It would have been a good thing to include in the new-faculty orientation I attended. But instead of useful information like university vehicles being available for field trips, I learned that the Counseling Assistance Resource Center is called CARS and the Sexual Assault Nurse Examiner is called SANE.”
He chose not to comment, handing me some papers instead.
“Please distribute these to your students. They are forms releasing the university from responsibility for any harm they may have suffered on the unauthorized field trip.”
“That won’t be necessary. No one was harmed. We even stopped for Italian ice on the way back to campus.”
“Nevertheless, they need to sign the forms. They may have suffered some harm that has not yet manifested itself.”
“Good point. Perhaps one of them might have a delayed allergic reaction to the pistachio gelato.”
He evidently missed the humor.
I took the papers and entered the studio.
“Wait,” said Aleesha after I explained the forms to the class. “You refused to sign the form saying you had received a copy of a complaint filed against you for violating the Equal Educational Opportunities Act, but you want us to sign a form releasing the university from any liability for that field trip?”
“I don’t want you to sign it. I’m just the messenger. The person who wants you to sign it is Garrett Stevens from the Office of Environmental Health and Safety.”
“Forget the field-trip form,” said Bruce. “I want to know about the EEO violation.”
I shrugged. “Someone filed an EEO complaint. The office that deals with that wanted me to sign a form acknowledging I had received a copy of the complaint, and I refused to do so.”
“Why?”
“Because I didn’t know for sure if I had received a copy. It was in a sealed envelope.”
“All you had to do was open it,” said Aleesha.
“I didn’t want to open it.”
“Why not?”
“Because I was in a hurry. And frankly, I didn’t want to see the complaint.”
“Why not?” she insisted like a cross-examining attorney.
“Mainly because I wanted the office that handles those things to just do what they do and not bother me. But also because … well, I didn’t want to know who filed it.”
“You know who filed it,” she snapped.
Marlon glared at her. “You did, didn’t you?”
“Why you asking? It’s none of your business.” She looked back at me. “I’m not signing that release.”
“Fine,” I said.
“Are we going to do anything else today?”
Between the twenty minutes of aimless conversation that started the class, Octavius’s performance and my explanation about the release forms, most of the class time was gone.
“Nothing else. Next time, I’ll show you how to shape a pot without using a wheel.”
“I’m leaving,” Aleesha said, and stomped out.
“What did you do to her?” asked Apache.
“I have no idea.”
“You must have done something.”
“It sure looks like it, but I can’t think of anything I’ve done or said to upset her.”
“Then why didn’t you read the complaint?”
“Because he didn’t want to know which student filed it, Apache,” said Carly. “He doesn’t want to risk having the complaint subconsciously influence his grading.”
She looked at me. “Am I right?”
I nodded.
“And it’s just a coincidence that she’s black?” said Apache.
; “I’m black,” said Marlon, “and I haven’t seen or heard anything that would justify an EEO complaint.”
Apache turned and left.
“I guess you didn’t convince him,” I said to Marlon.
His casual slap on my back almost knocked me down. “Don’t worry about it, Mr. Schuze. We’ll all stick up for you, won’t we?” he said as he looked at the others.
They all said yes. Of course, given his size—about six-seven and pushing three hundred pounds—who’s going to argue with him?
“See?” he said. “It’s unanimous.”
“That’s because neither Aleesha nor Apache is here. I do appreciate your support. But let’s not let this EEO thing get in the way of the class. We spent the first Tuesday getting to know each other and talking about what the class entails. We spent the first Thursday gathering clay. We spent the second Tuesday test-firing the clay, and today we had a little ceremony to put us in the right mental and spiritual frame of mind to make some kick-ass pottery!”
I felt awkward using the slang, but Nathan said, “Sweet,” Carly said, “Right on,” and Marlon fist pumped.
Yet another stranger was waiting at my office.
He introduced himself as Buddy Keys. Both his handshake and his smile made me realize he had not come to scold me for some transgression of university policy.
“I’m the offensive-line coordinator for the Lobos,” he said. “I’d like to know how Marlon Johnson is doing in your class.”
I pictured Marlon lined up with some wolves and Mr. Keys being offensive to them. It made about as much sense in my imagination as it makes in words.
He must have seen the confusion on my face. “I’m his coach,” he said.
“What do you coach him in?”
“Blocking schemes.”
I pictured Marlon using toy blocks. Maybe it’s another form of therapy like riding horses or playing in a sandbox, although Marlon didn’t show any signs of needing therapy.
“I don’t understand,” I said.
“Marlon is on the football team. He’s an offensive lineman. I just need to know how he’s doing in class.”
“He’s doing fine,” I said. “And he’s never been offensive. Quite the opposite. He is cheerful and cooperative.”
“Great to hear it,” he said, and handed me his card. “Call me if there’s ever an issue.”
14
I was back in the Art Building the next day even though it was a Friday. It was the first departmental meeting of the semester.
I grabbed a chair next to Helga, who smiled at me and asked if I enjoyed circuses.
There was a table at the front of the room. It held a large urn, a cooler of ice and Styrofoam cups with straws inserted through plastic lids.
Milton Shorter’s desk was to the left of the table. It was large enough to be visible from outer space. I wondered if the desk was some sort of subconscious compensation for his diminutive stature.
Then I remembered Sharice saying she was profiled and pigeonholed. And here I was doing it to Shorter. Height, skin color, gender. Why do we obsess over things we don’t control?
We demand diversity in everything from Supreme Court justices to UNM cheerleaders. But diversity has no intrinsic value.
The Lobos men’s basketball team sorely lacks diversity. They are all over six feet tall and all athletically gifted. The team would be more diverse if they put me on it. I’m short and can’t dribble, much less shoot. But the point of basketball is not to have diversity. It’s to win games.
UNM has a Division for Equity and Inclusion. They were responsible for the workshops I attended as a new teacher. One of their stated functions is “bringing together diverse world views.”
Importing a few Taliban to campus would add a world view we don’t currently have. But I don’t think anyone in the Division for Equity and Inclusion really wants people on campus who think it’s a good idea to throw acid in the faces of little girls who dare to attend school.
When it comes to ethics, I don’t want diversity. I want everyone to refrain from violence and assist people in need.
I suppose the faculty at the meeting would qualify as diverse.
Helga Ólafsdóttir added both gender and ethnic diversity because she’s a woman and also a Viking or whatever ethnicity hails from Iceland via the Faroe Islands.
Jollo Bakkie is a gnome, a race I suspect is underrepresented in the art world.
The two “small metals” teachers were a Native American man named Fe Solís and a Hispanic woman named Ana Abeyta.
Melvin Armstrong was black, so that added to the mix.
Also in attendance was Jack Wiezga, the retired painting professor who retains a small studio where he paints even though he no longer teaches. He was old. I think old may count as diverse.
I’d met Wiezga several years ago when I was trying to figure out who killed Gerstner. He’s a big man with thinning silver hair that he tucks behind his ears in lieu of trimming. At one time, I suspected he might have killed Gerstner.
He returned the favor by suspecting me.
Although there was a perfectly serviceable chair behind his desk, Shorter had done a little hop to gain a sitting position on the front of it, his legs dangling a foot above the floor. A man of the people.
“Thanks for coming. The first order of business is to approve the minutes of our last meeting.”
“No,” said Armstrong. “The first order of business is to serve tea. According to the rotation, it’s Junior’s turn.”
I whispered to Helga, “Tea?”
She whispered back, “Freddie started the tradition hoping it would foster civility. He wanted it to be like high tea in England.”
“But they drink hot tea.”
She shrugged. “Too hot for that here.”
“What about crumpets?”
“What’s a crumpet?”
“I have no idea.”
While Helga and I were whispering, Junior was filling the cups with ice, pouring in tea and inserting the straws back through the lids. He delivered the first one to me and said, “This one is yours.”
“So you’re talking to me now.”
“No. I’m just delivering tea.”
I sat my cup of tea on the silver coffee table with the designs on it. Milton Shorter jumped down from his desk, lifted the cup and put a coaster under it.
“Can’t be too careful,” he said.
Junior gave everyone tea. Harte Hockley doodled on his cup. He must have been terribly thirsty. And driven to doodle. He helped himself to a second cup of tea and doodled on that one as well. I suppose the artistic urge can’t be stilled for something as dull as a departmental meeting.
After the last Styrofoam cup was delivered to Wiezga, Shorter again asked that the minutes of the last meeting be approved.
“The last meeting was in May,” said Armstrong. “No one remembers it now.”
“I remember it,” said Helga. She looked at Shorter. “It was when you announced you had been reappointed acting department head for another year. I move that we approve the minutes and reject your continuing appointment as acting head.”
“I’m the parliamentarian,” said Jollo Bakkie. “You can’t combine those two motions.”
“Okay. I’ll make two separate motions. First, that we approve the minutes. Second, that we reject the reappointment of Professor Shorter as acting head.” She looked his way. “Nothing personal, Milt. I just think we should have a studio artist as head and some new blood.”
He smiled at her and nodded.
“You can’t make a second motion until the first one is seconded and voted on or until it dies for lack of a second,” said Jollo.
A guy I didn’t recognize seconded the motion to approve the minutes.
“Okay,” said Helga, “Let’s vote.”
“First we have to open the floor for debate.”
Helga shook her head. “What’s to debate? It’s just approving the minutes.”
“It’s required. Any debate?”
When no one spoke, Jollo said, “Now we can vote.”
Shorter said, “All those in favor say aye.” There were a few ayes.
“All those against say nay.” There were no nays.
“Motion carries.”
“You can make your second motion,” said Jollo.
“I already made it,” said Helga.
“You made it out of order. If you want it discussed and voted on, you need to make it now.”
“I withdraw it.”
“You can’t withdraw it until it’s officially made.”
“Okay, I move that we reject the appointment of Professor Shorter as acting department head.”
Harte Hockley seconded the motion.
“Any discussion?”
“Yes,” said Helga. “Now that it has been officially made in the correct order, I wish to withdraw my motion.”
“You cannot withdraw a motion after it has been seconded. Any discussion?”
This could take forever, I thought.
Milton Shorter said, “I fully understand that some of you would like to see an open search for a new department head. I too would like to see that. But after Professor Freddie Blass was … um … left the department, the university took his line out of our budget on the grounds we are overstaffed.”
My new colleagues turned to look at me. Not only had I sent their department head to prison, I had done something even worse—cost them a position. Many academic departments measure their prestige by how many faculty members they have, especially those departments that lack any more meaningful earmarks of excellence.
“We are not overstaffed,” said Armstrong.
“I agree,” said Shorter. “But we produce far fewer graduates than the college of business, and their classes are five times larger than ours.”
“Can’t the bureaucrats who run this place understand that you can’t put fifty students in a studio?” asked Ana Abeyta.
“I’ve explained that to them. But they point out that in some of our studios, only half of the slots are filled. In fact, one of the ceramics courses this semester had to be canceled because no one signed up for it.”
The Pot Thief Who Studied Edward Abbey Page 8