Fields of Exile

by Nora Gold

  At the front of the room he waits. The silence becomes awkward. Finally he answers his own question. Proudly, like a five-year-old triumphant at knowing the answer. “The solar system!” he cries, drawing on the board a big circle and some smaller surrounding ones. “The sun with the planets revolving around it —”

  Judith nearly groans out loud. I can’t stand this, she thinks. I really can’t. I know I promised Daddy I’d do this M.S.W., but there’s no way I can take a year of this. I can’t stand even another half-hour. It’s unbearable. She doesn’t dare glance at Cindy, or even Pam or Aliza, for fear that if they make eye contact, she’ll roll her eyes, giving herself away. So she keeps her eyes lowered to the page, like an ox with its eyes glued to the ground as it circles endlessly with its yoke. But after a minute she picks up her pen, and on the blank page before her, writes: I can’t stand this. I can’t stand this. She continues writing this over and over, like a pupil being punished — which is exactly how she feels — and forced to copy the same phrase a hundred times. She isn’t counting, but she writes this many times, punctuating it now and again with Stupid stupid stupid or Fuck fuck fuck. Once she writes Weick is weak. Weick’s a freak. Then there’s the sound of chairs scraping the floor, and it’s over. Weick has dismissed them early because it’s the first day. She approaches Cindy, who introduces her to Pam and Aliza. They all chat together politely, waiting in line to get out of the classroom. But once in the hallway and safely out of hearing distance, the four of them, huddled together, explode.

  “Do you fuckin’ believe it …?”

  “Systems Theory?! Fuckin’ Systems Theory!”

  “Not one new idea — not one — I didn’t already know.”

  “God! So boring! I thought I’d die!”

  They go on like this in joyful outrage as they leave the building and then cross the quadrangle toward the cafeteria.

  “What if all the other classes are like this?” Aliza asks.

  “They’d better not be, or I’ll quit this program,” says Pam. “Can you believe they’re still teaching Systems Theory? It’s shocking. Hasn’t anything new happened in social work in all these years?”

  “Apparently not,” says Aliza.

  “Anyway,” asks Cindy, “what is Systems Theory doing in a course on knowledge and values?”

  “Well, theories are a part of knowledge,” says Aliza. “But it’s probably the only theory he knows — that’s why he’s teaching it.”

  “Or maybe he doesn’t have any,” says Judith.

  “Any what?”

  “Knowledge. Or values.”

  “Ooooh …”

  They arrive at the cafeteria. Entering the door, they all agree this is a class to be merely survived, nothing more, and the one good thing about it is they’ll probably all get A’s. Soon they’re carrying their coffee and donuts to a small, square table.

  For several minutes there’s silence: they just slurp, munch, and swallow. But soon they’re sharing how anxious they were about coming back to school after years spent out in the field, and how relieved they are to have at least one easy course, though they hope their other classes aren’t quite as vacuous as Weick’s. It turns out Pam and Aliza, like Judith, are feminists, and while Cindy listens, they talk about the deadly style of the traditional male lecturer — Weick being the perfect example — and then about men in general. Including their own men, past and present — except for Pam, who gets completely silent for once, making Judith wonder if she’s a lesbian. Then Aliza starts telling funny anecdotes. She’s almost like a comedienne, and for a while they just sit around and laugh as she entertains them. Judith flashbacks to how her father loved to just sit around and “chew the fat,” as he’d call it, listening to people tell funny or fascinating stories and throwing in some of his own. Without warning it’s back: that grief that’s always waiting, crouching and ready to pounce, like a cat hidden in the pit of her stomach. She sits, stunned and staring, for several minutes. Then it passes, and she’s back again. Aliza is now in the middle of telling a dirty joke — Judith missed the beginning, so doesn’t fully get it when Aliza delivers the punchline — but it has something to do with a leaning tower of penis. Pam has a high-pitched screech of a laugh, like a monkey’s, and this, with all the glee and giddiness from the others, makes Judith start laughing, too. Then Cindy says, “Look at the time! It’s five to eleven,” and they hurry back for their second class.

  From eleven o’clock to one, it’s “Introduction to Social Justice” with Greg Smolan. Greg is short for Gregory — he’s named after the saint, he tells them with a grin — not that he believes in any of that stuff anymore. If he believes in any religion now, it’s the religion of social justice. This class is fun: a cross between a gossip column about the Canadian elite — the rich-and-famous (or the rich-and-infamous) — and a detective thriller built around a conspiracy. Greg, although he doesn’t use this exact word, sees everything as a conspiracy. For two hours he describes how the white, Christian, male elite of Canada uses its power, influence, and wealth to shape virtually all of Canada’s social and economic policies, which in turn help to maintain, and even extend, this same power, influence, and wealth. “Of course,” he explains, “these policies also maintain and extend the marginalization and oppression of those who are poor, old, female, ethnically diverse, GLBT, and/or disabled, physically, intellectually, or psychiatrically. This is just how things work.”

  Sitting in Greg’s class on a wooden chair as hard as a pew, Judith listens to his succession of stories about the connections between government, business, inherited wealth, social celebrity, and the media. He describes as vividly as a scene from the movie Howard’s End how, even in Canada now in 2002 — no different, in fact, from the British upper classes in Victorian times — the rich and powerful intermingle familially, socially, professionally, and financially. At their golf games and formal dinners, fundraising galas, garden parties, and weddings, they interact and intermarry, thus keeping within their little circle all that wealth and power. It’s been ten years now since Judith left Canada and became active on the Israeli left, and in all this time she hasn’t had direct contact with any Canadian leftists. So it’s fascinating for her to now hear what their issues are. The left in Canada and Israel have certain obvious similarities, but here the concerns of the left have nothing to do with war and peace, national survival, security, or land. Their issues all seem relatively theoretical to her, and removed from everyday life. She glances at Cindy to see how she’s reacting to this class, but Cindy’s face is bent low over the page she’s scribbling notes on, and Judith can’t make out her expression.

  Greg is getting more passionate by the minute, waving his hands around in the air as he speaks, and his voice is rising in volume, and soon he’s so carried away he completely loses track of the time and continues straight through until one o’clock with his charming amalgam of Marx, Freire, and Foucault. Judith hasn’t studied in depth even one of this trinity of guys (of course they’re all guys), but they don’t seem to fit very well together. She can’t picture them being in the same room and having anything in common. But Greg keeps saying he’s “eclectic,” and in his eclectic electric blender, Marx, Freire, and Foucault mush into a kind of sweet social justice strawberry milkshake that has its own internal logic. Greg’s political views seem to Judith not very different from her own, so she doesn’t feel he’s convincing her of anything new. But listening to him speak in his flowing, persuasive, almost poetic way, she wishes Bobby could hear him. She’s sure Greg could make even Bobby, defender of all things capitalist and corporate, see things differently.

  As soon as this class ends, Judith asks Cindy to hold a seat for her in the next one and races to the bathroom. There she pees with immense relief, and then for another minute sits on the toilet, daydreaming. Bobby may see her as a left-wing freak-o, but to the people here she makes sense, and they make sense to her, too. This might turn out to be a good year, after all. It could be interesting,
even fun, to spend some time here in Canada. In exile, but just for a while. It sounds like the title of a song, “Exile but Just for a While,” and she starts humming a tune to go along with it. For the first time since promising her father she’d return to school, she doesn’t feel trapped or resentful about it. Maybe her father knew something she didn’t. Maybe he was smarter than she thought.

  From 1:30 to 3:30 she has the last of her three courses: “Social Work with Individuals, Families, and Groups,” with Suzy Malone. (Or “’mAlone,” as she now thinks of that name.) Arriving from the bathroom, Judith gets stuck behind a dozen students filing slowly into the classroom, most holding sandwiches and drinks. When there’s no longer anyone ahead of her blocking her view, and for the first time she can see the teacher standing at the front of the room, she does a double-take. She knows her. They’ve met before. But where? It takes several seconds to remember, and then it all comes back. It was at a country club in May, at a boring retirement party for a founder of the law firm where Bobby had just begun. Suzy’s husband worked there, too, but as a senior partner. She and Suzy met in the bathroom — a gorgeous, spacious bathroom full of elegant peach-coloured gladioli — and after they somehow discovered they were both social workers, they chatted for about ten minutes. There was something very intimate about standing together in that bathroom while other women came and went, and the toilets kept flushing over and over. Suzy was very interested in the work Judith had done in Israel at a kindergarten for developmentally challenged children, and she told her about the problems of her eleven-year-old daughter, Natalie, who had autism, and how this was affecting her other two kids. Judith, coincidentally, had just heard from a friend of her father’s about a new summer camp for “special needs” kids, and she passed this information along to Suzy. They had a long, lovely conversation — the kind you have when you never expect to see that person again — and she hasn’t thought about Suzy since.

  Now Suzy is smiling brightly at her. As Judith approaches, she is struck by how pretty and petite Suzy is. A short, pretty woman in a fuchsia silk shirt.

  “I didn’t know you were coming here to study!” Suzy says.

  “Neither did I,” says Judith. “It was sort of last-minute.”

  “Well, welcome to Dunhill. How are you finding it so far?”

  “Okay.”

  “You’ll be fine,” says Suzy. “There’s a lot to absorb at first. But you’re so smart —” Judith looks at her in surprise. “You are. You’ll be great. You’ll see.”

  “Thanks.” Then Judith feels self-conscious. Glancing around, she sees some of the other students are listening to their conversation. Awkwardly, she says, “I should probably sit down.”

  “Sure,” says Suzy. “We’ll be starting soon anyway.”

  Judith sees Cindy waving at her from the middle of the room and goes to the chair Cindy has saved for her.

  “How do you know her?” Cindy asks as Judith sits. “I thought you didn’t know anyone here.”

  Judith starts to explain, but stops abruptly as Suzy says, “Good afternoon,” and begins teaching. In front of a class Suzy is the same person she was in the bathroom: unpretentious, friendly, and open. She’s a good listener, too, obviously sincerely interested in students’ points of view, allowing lots of time for class discussion, and apparently not minding at all — even liking it — when students interrupt, make jokes, or briefly take over. In response to something funny that one student, Tyler, says, Suzy laughs — a natural, tinkly laugh, and now Judith feels happy and at home. Part of this, she knows, has to do with the content of this course: her B.S.W. and all her field placements were in the area of “individuals, families, and groups,” so here in Suzy’s class she feels on solid ground. But more than this there is something about Suzy that makes Judith feel comfortable and safe. Like who she is and what she knows is good enough. Suzy now says she believes in empowerment and androgogy. Judith wonders if they’re back to GBLT.

  “Not androgyny,” says Suzy, startling Judith as if she’s read her mind. “Androgogy, the theory of adult education. Androgogy as opposed to pedagogy. I don’t believe in teaching adults as if they were children.” She goes on to explain that in this course she wants to help them retrieve, organize, and utilize the rich stores of knowledge they’ve all acquired from their years of experience in the field, and from life in general.

  What a relief, thinks Judith, and what a contrast to Weick. Suzy’s going to treat me like an adult. An equal. Instead of like I’m in grade four.

  Suzy tells them about her own professional background. “You have a right to know where I’m coming from,” she says sweetly. She’s worked in a number of different jobs, but currently has a private practice, specializing in therapy with single women in their late twenties and thirties. That’s me! thinks Judith, feeling embarrassed, and more than that, a bit naked, as if Suzy, like Supergirl, has X-ray vision and can see right through her. The rest of the class passes quickly, with Suzy doing a cursory run-through of all the most important theories and models used in working with individuals, families, and groups. Then she asks the class what other theories they know about and like. Judith puts up her hand: “Cognitive Theory,” she says.

  “Sure,” says Suzy approvingly. “This is another very useful approach. Coincidentally, a new book just came out called Cognitive Therapy for Social Work, and yesterday I received a complimentary copy. So if anyone’s interested in borrowing it” — she looks straight at Judith — “I’d be happy to lend it.” Judith vigorously nods. “Just come by my office after class.”

  Then Suzy says, “Before we finish today …” and Judith, glancing down at her watch, notes with astonishment there are only five minutes left of this class. Suzy reviews the assignments for her course. There’s a term paper worth 75 percent due the last day of the term, and for the other 25 percent they’re supposed to keep a weekly log. “A running dialogue with yourself,” Suzy explains, “about everything you’re learning. A place to begin integrating theory and practice, including your reactions to the readings and class discussions, your thoughts and feelings, and anything else you want to write about. Your logs will be kept strictly confidential,” she assures them, “so feel free to express yourselves there. I’ll return them each Monday to your box.”

  After class is over, Judith waits for fifteen minutes while Suzy attends to a lineup of students with questions. Eventually she and Judith, alone in the classroom, talk. To Judith it feels not so much like a conversation between a teacher and student, but like they are just picking up where they left off, back in the bathroom of the Toronto Country Club. Suzy thanks her for the name of that summer camp for her daughter — it worked out very well, she says, and gave them all a much-needed break from each other. Judith tells Suzy how much she enjoyed her class. Suzy says it was great for her to have someone there she already knew. Then, walking together to Suzy’s office to get the book, they commiserate about the major restructuring at the law firm where Bobby and Dennis both work. It’s called “Bonham Bailey Bomberg” (which makes Judith think of the Barnum & Bailey circus). She says BBB should no longer be called a firm, but a shaky, and Suzy laughs. Judith follows her up two flights of stairs and along a gloomy, serpentine corridor with two bends in it right before the end. Inside Suzy’s office, there are red flowering plants hanging from the windows, bright and cheerful French Impressionist posters on the walls (all Mediterranean sun and sea, with ships in the harbour), two bookcases filled with books and knick-knacks, and a deep cream-coloured carpet on the floor. The carpet looks so inviting she wants to kick off her sandals and wiggle her toes in it. But instead she stands politely in the doorway while Suzy searches for the book. Judith is star-struck by the many thick, professional, knowledge-filled books, and the two framed diplomas on the far wall. Suzy, she guesses, is only a few years older than her — maybe five, eight at the most. More the age difference of a big sister than another generation. But look, she thinks, how far ahead of me she is. I’m a stud
ent and she’s a professor.

  “Here it is,” says Suzy. “Hot off the press. The publisher just sent me this. But keep it as long as you want — I’m not in any rush for it. Just let me know what you think of it when you’re done.”

  “Sure,” says Judith, taking the book. “Thank you.”

  Suzy stands there silently, apparently waiting for her to go.

  “Bye,” says Judith.

  “Bye. See you next week.”

  She starts down the long, dark hallway. She feels strangely emotional, almost ecstatic, yet also wanting to cry. Something about the way Suzy stood with her back to her as she searched among the books reminds her of her mother. She had that same lightness, slightness of build. Trim, tidy, and self-contained. She and her mother were never close, but now for some reason she misses her. And this missing her is laced with guilt. She was in Israel when her mother first got sick, and no one at the time realized how serious it was. So she didn’t rush back to see her, and the next thing she knew, her mother was dead.

  ”How could you have known?” her father said. “None of us knew. Don’t blame yourself.”

  But of course she did. She could have known. She should have known. Now she forces herself to keep walking, and to distract herself, she opens Suzy’s book and starts reading. She skims the Table of Contents, then starts on Chapter One: “Cognitive Belief Systems and Their Impact on Emotion.” It’s engagingly written and very interesting, and she gets immersed in it as she walks down the deserted hallway. She’s going at quite a good clip, frowning down at the page as she reads, when, turning a corner, she crashes right into someone coming toward her.

  “I’m sorry!” she cries, leaping back.

  “Well, well,” says Weick. “A student already engrossed in her schoolwork. How admirable. What are you reading?”

  “A book,” says Judith, immediately feeling foolish. But she doesn’t want to share Suzy’s book with him (even its title), as if it were something secret or private, like an intimate gift.