What Grows in Your Garden?
Carolyn P. Schriber
Copyright © 2019 Carolyn P. Schriber.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
ISBN: 978-0-9993060-7-9 (Paperback)
ISBN: 978-0-9993060-6-2 (Digital)
Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Names, characters, and places are products of the author’s imagination.
Front cover image by Avalon Graphics.
Cover design by Cathy Helms.
First printing edition 2019.
Katzenhaus Books
Cordova, Tennessee
www.katzenhausbooks.com
To plant a garden is to believe in tomorrow.
Audrey Hepburn
Contents
1. The Hiring Seasons
2. Arrival
3. An Office to Fill
4. Adjustments
5. Moving Day
6. Orientation
7. Off to a Good Start
8. The Stalker
9. An Italian Pizza
10. A New York Bagel
11. Protest
12. From Protest to Revenge
13. Preconceptions
14. End of Semester Blues
15. Holidays
16. Two Steps Backward
17. Attitude on a Seesaw
18. Another Mood Swing
19. Second Chance
20. A New Fixation
21. New Directions
22. The Best-Laid Plans
23. Nipped in the Bud
24. A Police Matter Now
25. Investigations
26. Help Arrives
27. The Healing Process
28. The Outcomes
29. Farewell and Beyond
30. Sarah's Family Recipes
CHALLAH (Braided Bread)
APPLE KUGEL (Sweet Noodle Casserole)
NEW YORK-STYLE BAGELS
LIVER SCHMEER (Chopped Chicken Liver)
POTATO LATKES (Fried Potato Pancakes)
SUFGANIYOT (Jelly Doughnuts)
HAMANTASHEN (3-Cornered Pastry)
KREPLACH (3-Cornered Dumplings)
FLOURLESS CHIPOTLE CHOCOLATE CAKE
PASSOVER CHAROSET (Apple Dip)
Notes
Chapter One
The Hiring Seasons
April 2007–May 2008
“Well, fellow hamburger flippers. It’s Friday the thirteenth, and if you don’t have a job offer by now, you can pretty well hang up your academic credentials for another year.” That cheerful message came from someone who had been applying for teaching jobs for the past two years. “The good news is that you have enough letters of rejection to paper the walls of that shack down under the Brooklyn Bridge where you’ll be living next year.”
“Knock off the gloom talk, John. We’re all feeling discouraged enough.”
“And it’s not that late. There are still lots of unfilled positions,” the optimist of the group reminded them.
“Maybe so, Little Miss Sunshine, but I don’t like these unlucky days, and there’s another one coming in June.”
Columbia’s history grad students had claimed the fourth-floor lounge in Fayerweather Hall for themselves, and on this still-blustery Friday morning, they sought sympathy from their fellow job seekers. Sarah had listened to the comments from a quiet corner, not wanting to participate in that discussion. The Columbia faculty, most of whom were years away from their job-hunting days, encouraged their graduate students to apply for positions during their next to last year in the program. They suggested that the practical experience would teach the candidates valuable lessons to carry them into the year when they were serious about being on the job market. Sarah had tried to follow their suggestions, but her first experience had been painful.
She had sent out thirty job applications and received only four responses, three of which were rejections. The only viable offer invited her to interview at the American Historical Association meeting in January. She had prepared well—bought the pin-striped suit from Brooks Brothers, got a stylish new haircut, put together a portfolio of classes she had taught as a teaching assistant, and prepared a clear synopsis of her dissertation. She showed up on time for her interview and handled the committee’s questions with poise, even though she sat on the side of a bed in someone’s hotel room. And they had rewarded her efforts with a follow-up phone call the next week, inviting her to visit the college’s campus, teach a demonstration class, and give a public book talk.
In February, smack in the middle of a New York blizzard, she had boarded a plane bound for the Gulf Coast of Florida. Again, all seemed to go well. A representative of the department met her flight, took her out for dinner, and delivered her to a comfortable hotel for the night. He was back in the morning to take her to breakfast and hand her an interview schedule for the morning. Her first meeting was with Doctor Armitage, a full professor and former chair of the department. That meeting gave her more confidence. When Armitage learned that she had been an undergraduate at Boston College, they began to compare notes and discovered several mutual acquaintances, including her own undergraduate advisor, who turned out to have been one of Doctor Armitage’s favorite students. Sarah left that meeting with a smile on her face. It didn’t last long.
The rest of the faculty was waiting for her in the hall. “How did that go?” they asked. “Was he rude to you?”
“No, not at all. He was delightful. We discovered several mutual friends and had a fine discussion. My advisor at Boston was his former student, which led Doctor Armitage to declare me his academic granddaughter.” She smiled at the thought.
“Oh.” The following silence lasted much too long. “That’s . . . unusual. He hates most newcomers on sight. He doesn’t speak to any of us because we haven't been here forever.”
Sarah’s stomach lurched as she realized she had blundered into the midst of a family fight—and she had picked the wrong side. The rest of the visit was uncomfortable. Everyone was polite, in that cold way that suggested they were playing their parts from a script they hated. She taught her demonstration class and gave her book talk without incident, but the warmth had gone out of this sunny Florida college. As the chair delivered her to the airport for her return flight, he had wished her well in her job hunt with an emphasis that revealed they were not interested in talking to her again.
During the 2007-2008 school year, Sarah was better prepared for her efforts on the job market. Her dissertation had received rave reviews from the local faculty and stirred some interest among academic publishers. She was surer of her qualifications and much more aware of the pitfalls that lurked behind the surface friendliness of interview committees. This time, she had approached the AHA meeting with several interviews lined up and her own set of questions for the interviewers.
Not all went well, however. One college announced at the start that they were seeking unmarried candidates who would live on campus and serve as dormitory counselors on top of their teaching duties. Another wanted to know if she had been a sorority girl, and if so, in which sorority. A third kept asking her if she subscribed to various popular schools of history. “Are you a Marxist?” the interviewer asked and ignored her protest that the term had nothing to do with her Civil War research. Another wanted to know who she planned to vote for in the upcoming presidential election. The wors
t questions, however, came in connection to her religion.
“Chomsky? Sounds Jewish.”
“Yes, sir, I am Jewish, although I don’t think I have to answer that.”
“What kind of Jew are you—Orthodox or Reformed?”
“Conservative, although that has nothing to do with my teaching ability.”
“Well, if you expect to take all your High Holy Days off, and then another eight for Passover, we need to know that in advance.” The questioner huffed his displeasure and his colleagues nodded their agreement.
“With all due respect, I don’t believe you can ask . . .”
“In this private hotel room, we’ll ask whatever we please. If you try to lodge a complaint, someone will ask what you were doing in a professor’s hotel bedroom.”
“I don’t have to answer that, either.”
“Well, tell me this. Are all you Jews people . . . of color?”
For Sarah, that was the end of the interview. She gathered her shoulder bag of credentials and walked out of the room. She didn’t cry until she was back in her room.
There were, nevertheless, bright moments during the interview days, and none of Sarah's encounters were as bad as that suffered by one of Columbia’s older graduate students. A senior professor pulled that woman in her late forties aside at a cocktail reception and told her she would never get a teaching job because of her age. “You can't compete with our ‘Young Turks.’ If you insist on having some contact with a university campus, you might apply for a job as a fraternity housemother. Your degree would make you a good candidate for that position because you could help the athletes with their history assignments.”
“Sometimes it feels like they mean to break us,” Sarah complained. Her discouragement lingered, but in the following weeks she received two phone calls inviting her to campuses for further interviews. Both those visits went well, but neither ended with a firm job offer. March passed, then April, and even Doctor Kaplan, her graduate advisor, began to look worried.
“You might think about applying here for a post-graduate assistantship,” he suggested. “We can find something for you to do.”
“No. To me, that would represent giving up, and I’m not ready for that. I’ll find another way to spend my time—maybe even use the year getting a book ready for publication.”
To Ruth Chomsky, the telephone was an evil instrument, one used by ha-satan1 to trick the unwary into avoiding close personal contact with their fellow human beings. It didn’t matter to her whether the telephone in question was an old-fashioned one with twisty cords or one of the new-fangled walkabout handsets. When that familiar ring sounded, it meant one of two things—someone was in trouble or someone wanted something from her. When the phone jangled this rainy spring morning, Ruth hesitated before she answered it.
“Hello? Chomsky residence. Who’s there? . . . What? . . . Who? . . . No. This is a family, not a doctor’s office. You should hang up and try again.”
“No, Ima! It’s for me!” Sarah screeched as she reached for the handset, fingers splayed out in silent pleading. She was too late. The caller had disconnected. Quick, unreasoning tears blurred her vision for a moment.
“Mother, please. If someone asks for Doctor Chomsky, they are looking for me. That’s my academic title now. I know this is something new for you, but I’m waiting to hear a result of my job search. Let me answer the phone from now on, OK?”
Then the ring came again, and she grabbed it before her mother could repeat the mistake.
“Hello. This is Doctor Chomsky. How may I help you?” She had to remind herself to breathe.
“Yes, Dean Henderson. I remember you from my visit to the Birch Falls campus. You’re the gentleman with the big orange office cat.” It was a lame response, but it popped out before she could control her reaction. That cat, so out of place in an academic setting, had been the most memorable thing about the rather nondescript college administrator. The college itself, however, had made a lasting impression.
She heard him chuckle. Then came the words she had been hoping to hear. The pitch went on for some time:
. . . Tenure-track position . . . Assistant Professor . . . Three-year probation, followed by performance review . . . Tenure and promotion after five full years . . . Three-course load each semester . . . Two undergrad, one graduate level . . . Student advisor and faculty committee assignments expected . . . Research grant during the first year to supplement library holdings . . . Travel expenses to one academic conference each year . . . Yearly salary of $48,000, spread over ten months . . . Three-year contract requiring a signature within ten days from receipt . . .
Sarah scrambled to make notes of the details on the back of the nearest envelope.
“Hello? Are you still with me, Doctor Chomsky?”
“Oh, yes, sir. I was just . . . uh, trying to find a pencil and paper while I listened.”
“Well, are you?”
“Am I . . . what?” This was not going well.
“Are you still available? Are you still interested in the position?”
“Yes. I enjoyed my visit to Smoky Mountain University and the town of Birch Falls. The location seemed to offer the perfect combination of an intellectual community within the charming atmosphere of a small town.” She knew she was babbling, but she couldn’t stop. “I’d love to teach for you.”
She glanced up to see her mother shaking her head and signaling that she should get off the phone. “I’m sorry. You were asking . . .? Yes. That’s my correct mailing address. I’m graduating from Columbia, but I live in Brooklyn. I will look forward to hearing from you . . . What? . . . A special delivery? Yes, someone will be here tomorrow. . . Thank you. Goodbye.”
Sarah, not sure her legs could hold her up any longer, sank into the nearest chair. Her hearing, however, was still alert enough to realize her mother was carping at her.
“What were you thinking, meshuggenah?2 A job offering and you accept it right over the phone? Whatever happened to negotiating a better deal? . . . Or letting them think you have other offers?”
“For mercy’s sakes, Mother, it’s a job offer, not a date for the prom. College job openings are scarce. Applicants can’t afford to play hard to get.”
“All right. Don’t listen to me. What do I know? I’m just your mother. But at least wait till the rabbi3 gets home. He’ll be able to tell you what to do.”
Sarah drew a deep breath to control her impulse to scream. “I’m willing to take father’s advice on matters rabbinical. But I’m a grown woman, and I can accept a job offer with no one’s approval. Now I’m off on a quick dash into the city. I need to talk to the people at Columbia.”
Sarah hesitated outside Professor Les Kaplan’s office door and shook the remaining raindrops from her umbrella. She could still remember her first meeting with the scholar who would guide her doctoral studies. She had learned to adore the man, but she had never lost the awe and respect he demanded from her. When the familiar gruff voice responded to her knock with a short grunt, she turned the knob and peered into the gloomy room. “It’s Sarah, Doctor K. Can you spare me a minute? I have some news.”
“Ah, Doctor Chomsky. Are you here to tell me you don’t want to graduate after all?” He snapped on the desk light and warmed the room with his smile. “Come in, come in!”
She grinned back at him. “I’m here to tell you I have a job.”
“Splendid! Which institution of higher learning made that wise choice?”
“Smoky Mountain University at Birch Falls. It’s in the heart of Appalachia, but not too far from Nashville and Atlanta—a perfect location for someone working on America’s Civil War.”
“And a good school, too, I hear—a branch campus of the state’s premier university. If I’m not mistaken, you will be a de facto member of the parent faculty, which will enhance your academic credentials.”
“I don’t remember the dean mentioning that, but I was so flustered at his call that I may have missed details. They are
sending my contract by special messenger, and I will check the faculty designation.”
“You’ve already decided?”
“Yes. I visited there in March and loved the area. It’s so different from New York—set in a green mountain valley, with wide open spaces and fresh air—no city smog and more bird calls than car horns.”
“I congratulate you, Sarah, and them, too. They’ll be lucky to have you join them. May I offer a few words of professorial advice?”
“I was hoping you would. I confess I’m excited but also scared to death.”
“Nonsense. You’ve had extensive experience here in the classroom, and your students have loved your lecture style. You’ll be fine as a teacher, but you must step with caution as a new faculty member. The first three years can be fraught with dangers because you are always on trial.
“If you’ll allow me to wax poetical for a bit—I think of your life so far as your growing season. For almost thirty years you have been a seedling, a tiny sprout at first, guided by the holy words your rabbi father spoke over you at the beginning and ending of every day. Your teachers nourished your mind as your mother nourished your body, so you might grow strong and vibrant. During your undergraduate years, your professors pruned you and shaped you as a student. And we here at Columbia have put the finishing touches on your academic scholarship.
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