“We regret to inform you that your history preparation does not meet our guidelines. Before we can grant your license, you will need to take a course in The War Between the States and submit proof of registration, attendance, and satisfactory grade.”
Shocked, sure they had made a mistake, Sarah had called the licensing office. “I have that course. It’s on my transcript as ‘The American Civil War.’”
“That one does not replace ‘The War Between the States.’”
“It’s the same war!”
“Interpreted in a course from Boston College, home of the Abolitionist Movement? I think not.”
Sarah finished the story and looked from one student to another. “What does that tell you about our subject?”
The students looked thoughtful but offered no quick solution. A voice from the back of the room asked, “Did you take the course?”
“No, I did not. But I got my revenge. I did my doctorate in the subject.”
Appreciative chuckles greeted her answer. “There are other names for the war, too, you know. The War of the Rebellion. The War of Northern Aggression. Landmines were a new weapon during the nineteenth century, but we historians still tread through a minefield every time we open a discussion like this one. Here’s your basic question: How does re-naming the war change the history of the war itself?”
Again the room grew quiet before another voice challenged her. “Is that what you’re asking? Wouldn’t it be better to ask how it changes the story of the war? I mean, history doesn’t change. Whatever happened, still happened. But how we tell it changes.”
“Well put. During this semester, we will be looking at 1860, not 1861. We’ll consider the Northern Abolitionists and examine how they used and misused Christianity to strengthen their arguments. We’ll listen to the loudest demands for states’ rights coming out of the South and let the supporters of secession have their say. Debates in Congress may offer evidence of popular opinions.
“Americans were not living in a vacuum, however. Other countries were watching and listening, weighing the effect a war would have on their own political and economic interests. Among the most important will be England, Belgium, France, and Brazil. Can anyone guess why those nations cared about what happened in America?'
“Well, the first three were all involved in textiles, and I’m assuming they cared about the future cotton supply.” The speaker grinned. “Hey, I’m an econ major, and the industrial revolution played a big part in nineteenth-century politics. But Brazil? I don’t have a clue.”
A young woman in a wheel chair raised her hand. She suffered from bilateral spastic cerebral palsy that made it difficult for her to walk. But with the help of a medical assistant and a wonderful golden retriever support dog, she could attend classes and make valuable contributions to her classmates’ discussions. “I can make a guess. My political science prof last semester had us looking at comparative revolutions, and both France and Brazil experienced major revolutions after the American colonies led the way. Neither of them wanted to see the United States break apart so soon after coming together. It wouldn't bode well for their own revolutionary governments.”
“You’ve both given us good reason to extend our focus. Before our next meeting, I’d like you to think about other questions we need to ask before we can determine what caused the Civil War.”
Sarah had enjoyed both of her undergraduate classes. The students were brighter and more engaged than she had expected. The graduate students, however, were still an unknown quantity. In discussions with her departmental colleagues, she had sensed a level of disinterest that bothered her. Trevor Monroe, their specialist in Modern America, had made no secret of his low opinion of their graduate students.
“That’s one thing I hate about being at a branch campus,” he had confided to Sarah. “Without a doctoral level, we don’t attract anyone who is serious about doing graduate work. What we get are the public school teachers looking for a salary bump or some extra points toward tenure.”
“But they are qualified,” Sarah had argued. “They’ve had to take the Graduate Record Exam and submit a transcript and letters of recommendation from their undergrad schools.”
“Qualified, maybe. But look at the people Brokowski has admitted. All he cares about is getting enough teaching assistants in the department so he doesn’t have to do his own grading. And if once in a while, he gets a talented teacher in the mix, he’ll be able to staff an extra class or two. I'm starting my fourth year here, and I’ve never known one of our master’s candidates to go on to a doctoral program somewhere—not even to our parent campus. This is a dead end, and everybody knows it.”
Sarah did not want to accept that as a final verdict, but as she contemplated facing her first graduate level class, she worried. The course was Research Methods in History, a required class for all master’s degree candidates. Should she simplify the syllabus? Would these people ever need the skills she planned to talk about? But what if some of them went on to a doctoral program and she had failed to give them the preparation they needed? The competing questions kept her awake as she looked forward to the first class meeting.
On Thursday evening, her first graduate students assembled in the seminar room. Five women and three men eyed one another, reminding Sarah of those first few minutes at the new faculty dinner the week before. Something or someone needed to get them working together, and she had a plan to do that.
“Good evening. I’m Doctor Sarah Chomsky and this is Research Methods, History 521. Everyone in the right room? Good, but don’t get comfortable yet because we will be doing some moving around. My first thought for this class was to go around the room and let each of you introduce yourselves—sort of the standard first-day approach. But since we are looking at research methods, we will start with one of those methods—the personal interview.”
“In history?” The questioner was Cassie McGehee. “How do you interview historical figures? If you’re planning a trip to the cemetery, I’m not going.” A few uneasy chuckles broke the silence.
“No, I won’t require any exhumations, but there will be times when an interview can guide your investigations. My first interview came in Charleston, South Carolina, where I had gone to trace the Civil War influence of the prominent Middleton family. The Middletons had a huge rice plantation and botanical gardens along the Ashley River outside of Charleston. Today, Middleton Place is a major tourist destination, with such a treasure trove of relics that they employ their own official historian. Barbara Doyle agreed to meet with me in a private interview. We sat on the porch of the Middleton guest house, and she regaled me with stories of the Middleton family. She had all the names and dates at her fingertips, and while she talked, she kept throwing out suggestions for what I should read and where I should go to look for documentation. It was all I could do to keep up with my note-taking. That kind of interviewing can be invaluable.
“So here’s your first chance to do an interview and use the information in a presentation. I’m about to give you a 45-minute break, and we’ll go down the hall to the lounge area. You’ll find some cold drinks and cheese and crackers on the table if you need sustenance. And here are your interview assignments. Cassie, you’ll be interviewing someone named Jeff. Michael, you are to get to know Denise. Toni, you’re assigned to Ellie. And Matt gets Jean. Find these people, ask them questions, try to figure out who they are and why they are here.
“Halfway through the break, I’ll call a pause and you will switch roles. Ellie will talk to Michael, Jean will interview Cassie, Denise gets to know Matt, and Jeff gets Toni. When we reassemble in the seminar room for the last hour of the class, each of you will introduce the person you interviewed. Then we’ll try to figure out what methods worked and where your efforts failed. Scurry off now and get to know one another.”
As she had expected, the group was quiet as they moved down the hall and checked out the refreshments. A few of them knew each other, but most had to go around askin
g names. Then the chattering began, and the longer they talked the more animated they became. Back in the room, Sarah sat in one of the side chairs and turned the lecture podium over to Cassie, who was to do the first presentation of her findings. As Sarah had hoped, Cassie turned out to be a confident speaker.
“Hi. I’m Cassie McGehee, and my interview target was Jeff Peterson. Jeff’s a soft-spoken guy who tried his best to make things comfortable for me. He’s a middle-school history teacher—and a coach with the baseball team—since that’s how most schools manage things these days. Jeff gave me the impression, however, that he’s going nuts dealing with all those early adolescent hormones and awkward kids who stumble over their own feet. He’s in grad school, he says, to strengthen his academic credentials and then go to law school. I suspect he just needs reassurance that there are still adults out there. In the meantime, I think he will be helpful to the rest of us and our discussions because he’s used to settling arguments. One thing I learned, though. If you see him take off his glasses, get ready to duck, because he’s not happy.”
Michael McGarrity was next. “My subject was Denise Melbourne. I gather she’s been here for a while, and some of you know her, but I didn’t. She started her graduate program in the English department and then switched to history. Why? Because this young woman plans to become the next best-selling historical novelist. Wow! I never knew someone who wanted to write a book, but I wish her lots of luck. She will need your good wishes in another area, too. Some of you know she’s married to John Melbourne, one of our fair city’s councilmen, and that fine gentleman is planning to run for congress in the 2010 elections. So Denise will have to be out on the campaign trail and may need to plan a move to our nation’s capital.”
Next up was Toni Youngblood, who was shy and feared public speaking. “I want you to meet Eleanor Curtis. I just met her, but I guess some of you know her because she’s Professor Chalmers’ teaching assistant, although I don’t know what that means. I guess I should have asked, but I didn’t want to pry. Anyhow, she’s married to a stockbroker, and they have a six-year-old son named . . . I forget. She used to teach grade school, but now that the son is in school, she’s hoping to get a job in a high school.” Cassie mumbled something about a poor performance, but Sarah frowned at her and she pressed her lips together in silence.
And now Matt Garrison bounced to the podium. “Ladies and gentlemen, may I present—ta-dah!—Jean Pentergast. You may recognize her as the harassed housewife of our group, always running a little late, books and notebooks piled high, dealing with two little boys and a husband who is the assistant head-master of the local boys’ boarding school, St. Andrews Preparatory Academy. They live on the school grounds, so in effect she has many kids to look after. In the department, she is Dr. Brokowski's TA. I gather that she’s also the top scholar of our group although she didn’t want to talk about her accomplishments. And one more thing I’ll bet most of you don’t know. Jean’s a former nun—no, just a novice—who left to marry her Latin professor, who was also in preliminary holy orders until the two of them fell in love and decided to serve their church as educators instead of clergy. Beyond that, she didn’t want to talk about her family, but I learned the hard way not to ask her what period of history she’s working on. Then I couldn’t get a word in edgewise as she went on about medieval church and state relationships. This is one interesting woman, folks.”
Ellie was still laughing as she stepped up. “My interview was with Michael McGarrity, and to tell the truth, he scared me to death. He’s so big, and he looks mean. You’ve seen him on campus often wearing fatigues and Army boots to remind everyone that he’s a retired Marine gunny sergeant. He looks like he has a chip on his shoulder and the muscle to stop anyone who tries to knock it off. I learned that he respects our Founding Fathers, and he’s studying history because he has nothing else to do. And then he told me his only family is a registered Persian show cat that needs daily grooming. When he said that, my first reaction was ‘Aw-w-w-w,’ and then I saw him in a different light. Appearances can be deceptive.”
Jean knocked her notes to the floor as she stood up. She looked flustered for a moment and then recovered. “You’ve already met Cassandra McGehee, but let me tell you a little more about her. Those of you who were here last year may remember her as Cassie Jernigan because as an undergraduate she was still using her maiden name. But she is very much married to Charlie McGehee, who works for a homeless shelter and also serves as pastor to a small congregation of fundamentalist Christians. He runs street corner worship services on Sundays and holds Bible study at the shelter on Wednesday evenings. He and Cassie inherited a small farm from her grandparents two years ago, so they live outside of town, raising cows, goats, and chickens, and maintaining a truck garden. Besides feeding themselves, they sell eggs, cheese, and produce at the local farmers market. Oh, and they have a three-year-old, a little girl called Lizzie. When I asked Cassie why she was in grad school, she said she just wasn’t ready to leave school yet.”
Denise took a deep breath and smiled at Matt before she spoke. “As a public service announcement, Matthew Garrison has asked me to tell you that he is the tattooed gay guy.” There were a few gasps and one giggle from Cassie. “And now I can tell you all the neat stuff I learned about him. Matt is a part-owner of a bar in downtown Birch Falls. I asked him if it was a gay bar, but he said it wasn’t because the town is too small to support more than one bar and grill with music. He only works from 9:00 PM to 2:00 AM, and during that time, he may help behind the bar, serve as a sous chef in the kitchen, or play the keyboard and do vocals with the band—depending on how he feels that night. That leaves him with lots of free time, which he fills by becoming an educated and tattooed gay guy. And again, I’m quoting him. When I asked what he intended to do with that education, he got very serious and said that someday he will be a professor on a college campus like this one. And he’ll be wearing one of those colored academic gowns. I believed him. He’s a go-getter.”
That left Jeff to close out the introductions. “Meet Antonia Youngblood, who prefers the title ‘Toni the Foodie.’” When a snicker broke the silence, he frowned. “Honest, guys, that’s what she told me. And before you poke fun, let me point out that she is the only person in this room with a real signed and sealed publishing contract. So pay attention. She got her B.A. from a church-sponsored college near here and then returned to live with her parents while she writes her book.”
“About what?”
“Well, she’s a vegan, which means she will only eat or use plant-based food stuffs. And her book is a vegan cookbook. But she explained that she wants to include some historical information on where and why people have eaten a plant-based diet. So she’s thinking about Indians baking cornmeal cakes in their campfires, Civil War soldiers cooking dried vegetables into a stew, the origins of C-rations, and even the meals astronauts take into space. She’s here to learn the history behind her eating habits.”
Sarah reclaimed her podium. “Thank you all. I know you much better now. As a quick evaluation, I’m going to point out a few details. The award for the worst failure of the exercise must go to anyone who didn’t ask questions for fear of prying.” Her eyes fell on Toni, who blushed. “When you are interviewing, it’s your job to get nosy. Several others of you committed a lesser sin by talking more about yourselves and how you felt rather than sticking to your subject, the interviewee. And the greatest success of the evening? That goes to the interviewers who discovered things we might never have guessed by looking at the person behind the persona. But more on that next time. Have a good evening.”
Chapter Eight
The Stalker
September 2008
“Good class!”
The words startled Sarah as she stepped into the hall to lock the classroom door behind her, but she knew who had spoken them.
“Cassie? I thought everyone had gone home.”
“Oh, I’m on my way but I thought we could walk to th
e parking lot together—it’s safer than being alone in the dark.”
“I’m in the faculty lot—it’s just outside the back door.”
“And at night, it’s also the commuter lot. We’re parked very close to one another.”
“How do you know?”
“Your car still has New York license plates on it. We don’t see many of those around here.”
“Oh. I suppose not. But thanks for the reminder. I’d better get local ones soon.”
“I wanted a chance to talk to you. The other girls and I plan to have coffee or breakfast together in the Grub Hub in the mornings. We thought it would give us a chance to get to know each other, share our puzzlements, and do some bonding. I’ve always heard professors say they made their best friends in grad school.”
“That’s a good idea so long as you keep it casual, open to everyone, and don’t let it become a clique.”
“Oh, no, we figure Matt will join us. He already calls us his girls. And we thought—we were hoping, that is—that you might join us, too.”
Alarm bells were going off in Sarah’s head. “Hmmm. That might not be a good idea so early in the semester. As a newcomer, I have to be careful about giving people the wrong impression. I want my undergrads to feel that I’m accessible—in my office when they need me. Maybe later, when I’m more settled. And here’s my car. Are you all right to get to your vehicle?”
“Sure. It’s the truck over there. Nobody messes with a blond who drives a truck.”
Sarah enjoyed the way her classes were going, and she relished her days on campus. Still, evenings were lonely, even with Elijah’s company. After trying to observe a solitary sabbath on two successive Friday nights, she decided it was time to find a home synagogue. Checking her phone book, she discovered there was a Conservative Jewish shul1—Beth Shalom—only two blocks away. Noting that the congregation still observed the custom of separating the sexes, she slipped into an empty seat on the women’s side and let the droning rhythms of the evening prayers wash over her. She recognized several texts. A few she even knew by heart. And all of them spoke to her of home, comfort, and family. At the end of the service, still feeling a need for connections, she made her way to the door where Rabbi Jacob Leibowicz waited to greet the attendees.
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