Clambering through the claptrap

I learned the word claptrap from my high school Russian teacher, who insisted that we call him Ivan Vasilyevich even though his name was John Sheehan. As the bell rang he'd come bustling into the classroom carrying an ash tray and stubbing out his cigarette, if you can imagine high school teachers openly smoking in front of their students--or a public high school that offered three years of instruction in the Russian language during the Cold War era. 

We Russian students were a tight-knit bunch, always planning and executing cultural events: Ushering at symphony performances featuring Russian composers, sewing Russian costumes to wear whilst ushering, designing and selling T-shirts proclaiming our commitment to the Russian language, ordering daffodils to present to all the female teachers on May Day, competing in the state Russian language competition, meeting with local Russian emigres to enjoy Russian food and conversation, and much more. 

These activities spawned a constant barrage of hand-written notes stuffed into Ivan Vasilyevich's roll book detailing every possible logistical challenge standing in the way of the successful event: Who was purchasing fabric, where were the receipts, who was in charge of sewing, cooking, making calls, collecting money, and so on. At the start of every class period Ivan Vasilyevich would riffle through the scraps of paper dramatically and call out, "Time for claptrap!"

Sometimes the claptrap was so complicated that we barely had time for what we ostensibly there for--learning Russian--but we certainly absorbed a lesson in logistics. Careful attention to details resulted in events far more memorable than rote learning.

Today I see claptrap similarly cutting into my opportunity to do what I'm ostensibly here for, and it all gets worse this time of year because we have only a few weeks left to do all the things that need to be done. If you can imagine it, I'm in the middle of arranging logistics for five events over the next three weeks, each one spawning virtual sticky notes reminding me to reserve rooms, juggle schedules, distribute documents, submit requisitions, send announcements, and write reports. One of these events was unceremoniously dumped on my back late yesterday afternoon, leaving me scrambling to make arrangements during my stupidest time of day--and all because the person who should have been in charge of it is too busy to handle the details.

Fine, whatever--someone needs to get it done. The thing is, I'm good at claptrap. I get the things done and I usually do it pretty well, but I don't enjoy it. Juggling virtual sticky notes while (im)patiently awaiting responses to emails is not at all intellectually stimulating, and all those logistical details make me feel like a drudge.

Which is why I can't be a full-time administrator. Somewhere between the requisitions and the room reservations I need some moments of transcendence and meaning and poetry, which is why I'm getting ready to walk away from the current claptrap kerfuffle and spend fifty minutes with my American Lit Survey students exploring the poetry of Yusef Komunyakaa:

Our bodies spun
On swivels of bone & faith,
Through a lyric slipknot
Of joy, & we knew we were
Beautiful & dangerous.

That's what I'm talking about! Much more enlightening than claptrap.