What Grows in Your Garden

by Carolyn P Schriber

  “It’s not a bad idea, but I wonder . . .”

  “. . . how many will forget to come back for a two-day week? There will be some, I’m sure, but then, these kids miss a class or two at other times. We can ignore the violators, so long as it doesn’t become general practice.”

  “And if it does. . .”

  “Then we’ll hash it out in one of those interminable faculty meetings.”

  “Groan. Wait! I just realized . . . Is this what was behind that squabble in the first meeting, when the guys in the short-sleeved white shirts were fighting over whose classes had fewer meeting days?”

  “You got it! With this change, the Tuesday-Thursday courses added an extra class period, gaining an hour and a half of instruction. The Monday-Wednesday-Friday courses lost one class period, which is just one hour's worth. You’re starting to understand the institutional culture around here, Sarah!”

  Chapter Eleven

  Protest

  Mid-Semester, October 11–22, 2008

  After Fall Break, the atmosphere on campus seemed charged with more energy, more pressure to get things done, more worry, more frazzled nerves. Sarah’s graduate seminar was full on that first day back, and the class had lots of questions about their final project—an annotated bibliography of research materials on a topic of their own choosing.

  “Anything? We can choose any random topic?”

  “The short answer is, yes. But if you’re being smart about it, you’ll come up with a subject upon which you might want to write a real paper—maybe even your master’s thesis. If you do that, you’ll have a head start on your research. It’s known as the ‘you’ll-thank-me-later’ topic.”

  “Are we limited to sources in our own library?”

  “No. I expect you to go beyond the campus. You have access to a good public library, a local newspaper with files that go way back, people whom you could interview, books you can order through interlibrary loan. Show me your ingenuity.”

  “What about this annotation business? Do we have to have read all our sources? That’ll take forever.”

  “No, but you have to give me some indication of the pertinent contents, which will require you to examine the source itself. You can’t just copy a bibliography from somewhere.”

  “What else will you be looking for?”

  “Correct bibliographic formatting. I’ve already fielded this issue once. I don’t care whether the English department allows AP style or what the psychology department uses. This is a history methods course, and historians use the Chicago Manual of Style. Period. That’s why the list of books for the class included a paperback copy of Turabian.”

  “Turabian? I thought you said Chicago?” Cassie was challenging again.

  “Kate L. Turabian was a graduate school secretary at the University of Chicago when they formalized their rules of publication. She wrote the first easy-to-use guide, and her book has become our authority.”

  “Oh. ‘She-who-must-be-obeyed?’”

  “Correct.”

  The next morning, Cassie was off on another tirade. She stomped into the Grub Hub and threw a clutch of papers onto the table. “Have you guys seen this?”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s the schedule of classes for next semester. We’re supposed to do early registration next week. But it also includes reminders of the courses that Smoky Mountain expects everyone to take.”

  “So?”

  “I just learned for the first time that all candidates for a master’s degree in history must take another foreign language besides the one they had to take as an undergraduate. So, last year, I had to finish my Spanish classes and pass an exam in the language to get my B.A. Now they expect me to start over again and take another language, too?”

  “So they do.” Sarah was trying to defuse the issue by treating it as an unimportant issue. “That’s standard across the country for an M.A. degree. It gets worse at the doctoral level. That’s when someone tells you that you need to learn Sanskrit or Mandarin Chinese.”

  Cassie was not in a mood to listen to reason. “But look at the schedule. First, there are no stupid languages offered at the master’s level, so if I’m gonna have to go back and take French 101 and 103, those hours ain’t gonna count as some of my 36 required hours for a master’s degree. That adds more time to how long it’s gonna take me—all of us—to get outta here.”

  “Maybe you could claim English as your second language,” Toni suggested. She might have been trying to be funny, but it came out as a rather cruel gibe.

  “What do you know? You’re not in this for a degree, anyway. But for the rest of us, it’s serious, so butt out.”

  “Ladies . . .”

  “And that’s not all! There are no night classes in the foreign language department. I even went down there and asked, and they said they had no intention of ever offering night classes. So what happens to all our graduate students who have day jobs and have to rely on late classes? Has anybody thought of them? I doubt it.”

  “I understand why you are angry, Cassie, and I have to admit that I’m not happy about it myself.” As ever, Jean was the peacemaker. “But I don’t see what we can do to change university policy.”

  “The department can.”

  “I doubt it!”

  “Well, I’m gonna protest, anyhow. I’m starting a petition demanding that the history department challenge this rule and get it changed. And I expect every one of you to sign it. We have to stand together.”

  Sarah took that declaration as her cue to leave the Grub Hub and the breakfast group. “I hope you’ll understand that, while I may sympathize with your arguments, I cannot as a member of the faculty take a public position against faculty and university regulations.”

  “You could. You just won’t.” Cassie snarled at her. “We thought you were our friend.”

  “I still am your friend, Cassie. But in this case, I don’t agree with your decision. Protest and rebellion will not change the policy. You would be wiser to figure out how to fulfill the requirement.”

  “Go ahead. Leave. We’ll do it without you.”

  By Monday, Cassie had her petition printed out, and she hunted down every one of the department’s graduate students. “Sign it!” she demanded. “We have to stick together.” And sign it they did. Doctor Brokowski received their demands when he arrived at the office on Tuesday morning. He first raged at their impertinence and then put a quick end to the protest. He did so by calling an emergency meeting of history faculty and graduate students for that same afternoon.

  “I will not stand for insurrection in my department,” he announced. “Protests and unreasonable demands fall into that category. I will listen to each of you who can present a personal conflict regarding the foreign language requirement, but you may not act as an impromptu bargaining group. We will find solutions to your individual situations, but we cannot—and will not—consider trying to change a policy that comes down to us, not from our own decisions, not from the Smoky Mountain administrative offices, not even from our parent institution, but from the national accrediting board that determines such things. Do you understand me?”

  His speech met with stubborn and resentful silence from the students and with some surprise from the faculty. No one had expected such a strong reaction. When no one commented, he continued. “I’m waiting. You all signed this petition. Let me hear what you cannot do.”

  Jeff was the first one to rise. “I’ll go first because my situation is clear and unfixable. I am a junior high school teacher and a baseball coach. My contractual duties require my presence at Roosevelt Junior High every weekday from 8:00 AM to 6:00 PM. I can only take classes that start at 6:30 or after, and, even then, I can do so only by missing dinner. It is a demanding schedule, but getting my degree is important to me. I can take day classes during the summers, but I can’t expect to learn enough in a single summer session to pass a competency exam in a foreign language. There just aren’t enough hours in the week to
let me comply with this ruling.” He sat down.

  “Who else?”

  “I’m free during the day—heck, sleep is optional.” As usual, Matt's approach was to defuse the argument by adding a small dose of humor. “My goal is to get my doctorate in ancient civilizations. I realize that will require knowledge of several languages—Hebrew, Sanskrit, Greek, Latin, who knows what else. But I can’t get any of those languages here at Smoky Mountain. Like most of you, my undergraduate language was Spanish. That will not help. The only other languages offered here are French and German, both useless for my plans. Taking the time and spending the extra money to learn either is a complete waste of my time and resources.”

  Denise was next. “You know I started out in the English department, and they do not require a second language. That’s why this ruling caught me by surprise. After this semester, I’m just two courses away from my degree. I don’t have time to add a new language. Further, as most of you know, my husband is running for Congress, and he expects me to be out on the campaign trail with him by June. He has paid for my education so far, and I cannot ask for another year. This regulation may force me to quit.”

  Cassie was now on her feet. “You see? We’re real people with real lives, and we can't allow you folks to disrupt our plans on a whim.”

  “Sit down, Mrs. McGehee. Your challenging tone does nothing to help us solve this problem. This is not a ‘whim.’ The two-language requirement has been in place for years. It is not the faculty’s fault that you did not read the rules.

  “Now let’s try to tackle the problems instead of pointing fingers. The rule states that every candidate for a master’s degree in history must show competence in two languages beyond that of his or her native tongue. It does not state how the candidate is to demonstrate that competence. The usual path involves taking and passing two courses in the language, but the degree-granting college does not have to teach those courses. You can go elsewhere to take your language instruction. You can hire a tutor, or use on-line software, or take a correspondence course. Further, the rule does not define competence or how to show it. It can be oral fluency or reading comprehension. You need to claim that you know another language. How you prove it is up to you. Let’s look for solutions.”

  To everyone’s surprise, Toni raised her hand. “I know you all think I’m just a gadfly around here and not a serious student, but I know a few things. For example, I attend the local Greek Orthodox church, and our priest conducts free classes in spoken Greek every spring. I took the course when I was in high school, and I can still converse with him in Greek.”

  “Yeah, but what if we’re not Greek Orthodox?”

  “It doesn’t matter. His classes are open to everyone, and they are always at night.”

  Sarah’s eyes lit up. “The same thing is true at the local Jewish high school. They offer evening lessons in reading Hebrew to anyone who is interested. That might suit your purposes, Matt.”

  Now it was Jean’s turn. “I have an idea, too. I’ll bet many of you took Latin in high school. Maybe you don’t remember a lot about it, but it would come back with a refresher course. All you’d need is a qualified Latin teacher who would spend a few hours, maybe on the weekends, to walk a group of you through the basics. And there are great books available now, too. Have any of you seen Winnie Ille Pu?”

  “So where are we going to find a Latin teacher?” Michael McGarrity sounded more irritated than usual. “I thought they went out of fashion with high-top shoes.”

  “My husband has his doctorate in Latin, and I have almost enough courses to declare a major in the language. Help us pay for a baby sitter, and I know we could do it.”

  “And that, my dear future academics, is how we find solutions to our problems when we face them with logic rather than emotion. The lesson for you Americanists to remember is one from our Founding Fathers. Rebellion is wise only when it meets two standards: (1) the cause is just and (2) all other solutions have failed. Today’s protest met neither of those requirements, although it has served the purpose of showing us all some clear paths ahead.”

  Dr. Brokowski picked up the petition and handed it back to Cassie. “Here you are, my dear. The petition is unavailing, but the paper can still serve as a scratch pad.”

  Cassie’s anger flared. Her face flushed with red blotches, her lips curled away from her teeth, and her eyes narrowed. She stood, tore the paper into shreds and flung them in his face before she stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

  Chapter Twelve

  From Protest to Revenge

  The Last Week in October 2008

  Silence reigned as Doctor Brokowski picked a few scraps of paper from his suit jacket. Then he cleared his throat and continued. “I would like each of the graduate students to send me a memo explaining how you plan to meet your language proficiency requirement. Toni, you may not be planning to pursue a degree, but as I remember, you have both Spanish and French on your undergrad transcript. And Jean, both Latin and French, I believe? Then the two of you have met the requirement. For the rest, if I know what languages you are looking for, I’ll be able to help you make the arrangements, such as seeking permission to audit a course. Let’s clear the air on this before Spring registration. If there are no further questions, we’ll let the students go. The faculty needs a short discussion about handling the end of the semester.”

  The silence continued, except for the shuffle of departing feet. Brokowski pulled a chair from the table and straddled it.

  “Does anyone need a few minutes before we deal with some other departmental matters?”

  Trevor stood and moved to the coffeepot, while Julia held up a finger and scurried out the door. Still no one wanted to be the one who made the first comment.

  As all settled back into their seats and Brokowski opened a folder to address the next issue, the door flew open. Ellie stood in the doorway, her face pale and eyes wide.

  “We have a problem.”

  “What now?” The department chair's tone showed his irritation.

  “Our cars—mine, Matt’s, and several others, I think—someone keyed them. And it’s not just random scratches. These are hateful words—nasty name-calling.”

  “Where? In the faculty lot?”

  “Yes, although you know that lot is open to everyone after four o’clock. I don’t know which cars belong to each of you, but I think you’ll want to check before it gets dark.”

  The damage was clear, even in the fading twilight, and each of the vehicles involved belonged to a member of the department, teaching assistants and the secretary included.

  “Mine uses the N-word, just as I might have expected.” Julia’s face was grim.

  “And mine says JEW BITCH.” Sarah was near tears.

  The other terms were no less descriptive. Trevor Monroe’s was FOP, while Kevin Chalmers was COWARD. Brokowski’s was OLD FOOL. The Vietnamese secretary was GOOK. For the other grad students in the lot, the terms were a little more generic but no less insulting: WHORE for Denise and SLUT for Ellie; FAG on Matt’s little bug, HAWK on Michael’s truck, and FATSO on Jean’s serviceable sedan. Only Toni and Jeff had escaped involvement because they had taken a bus to campus.

  “Someone needs to lend me a cell phone,” Brokowski demanded. He punched in the number for Security. “This is Brokowski in History. Get some law enforcement folks over here to the faculty parking lot and have them bring some lights and a camera. No, not just the campus cops. Call the Birch Falls Police Department, too. Now! We’re looking at a lot of vandalism.”

  “Is it necessary to involve the police, Bob?” Kevin grimaced at the thought.

  “Yes. It is! One little incident of scratching a car we might handle. But this—this involves, what—eleven vehicles in all? It will take at least $100 to buff out and repaint each one. That’s over $1000 in damages—a major felony.”

  “But with no evidence of who . . .”

  “Oh, come on. We all know who it was,” Trevor sne
ered.

  “Dr. Monroe, we know nothing yet.”

  “Bah! Cassie had motive and opportunity. Plus, she’s a well-known trouble-maker. What more do you need?”

  “I’m no lawyer—yet,” Jeff answered, “but I know you need some physical evidence—a witness, possession of the tool used, something beyond a general dislike.”

  “That’s what the police are for. And here they come, such as they are.”

  A golf cart chugged to a stop in the parking lot, and two security guards approached, notebooks in hand. “We’re here to see the vandalism and record it while we wait for the police. Can we get each of you to stand by your vehicle so we can get pictures?”

  “What? You want to see if we match the descriptions?” Julia was becoming more indignant by the moment. “You may take a picture of my vehicle, including the license plate, which will identify me as the owner, but if you think a black woman will stand next to the N-word and let you take a picture to pass around, you’re . . .”

  “Sorry,” said the older of the two. “He didn’t mean . . . uh, if we can just get your name and a picture of the damage . . .”

  The arrival of a genuine police vehicle saved that encounter from escalating.

  “Good evening. Sorry you’re having a spot of trouble. I’m Sergeant David Cohen and this is my partner for the evening, Patrolman Marzetti.”

  Despite her fear and anger at the damage to her car, Sarah had heard the name with a frisson of interest. “A nice Jewish boy” was the thought that crossed her mind before her logic added, “but he’s a cop.”

  As he approached her vehicle, Sarah saw the young policeman wince at the words scratched into her door. “I’m sorry,” he said. “This must be very painful. Sometimes . . .” He shook his head as if unwilling to finish the thought. Then he grinned at her. “Let’s at least take care of the formalities. I’m David Cohen, and you are . . .?”