Bonfire of the inanities

We've heard the legend of the professor so disgusted with his lot that he burned his bridges when he left academe--by burning a pile of books in the middle of campus. This happened before my time so I can't attest to the truth of the story, but I've heard from people who claim to have witnessed the feat and I believe the prof in question was capable of making such a dramatic gesture. 

I thought of that prof this morning while I was clearing out the bottom drawer of my filing cabinet and found years of student course evaluations and annual reviews, from back when we did it all on paper. Do I want to know what my students thought of my teaching in 2003, or what my department chair wrote on my annual review in 2007? Not really. Off to the shredder!

Except for that one set of student evaluations containing comments so toxic that I persuaded the provost to remove them from my tenure file. Yes: in the semester before I came up for tenure, a first-year composition class sat in the classroom together writing course evaluations and somehow several students wrote very similar complaints stating that I shouldn't be allowed to wear short sleeves in class because the big hairy mole on the back of my arm was so disgusting that it prevented students from learning. Coincidence or conspiracy? Either way, I'd like to do something more satisfying than sending those evaluations to the shredder. Bonfire?

I couldn't bring myself to burn books, but I feel like lighting a match every time I run across a book with mold growing on the pages. What else would I toss into the bonfire? My old tenure file? A pile of instruction manuals for various software programs I've been required to master over the years? The carpet where the mold festered? Probably I ought to burn all my angers, resentments, and grudges so that I can proceed into retirement free of the burdens of past pain.

And what shall I do with the things I don't want to take home but don't want to burn? I'm resolved to hold a Giveaway Day, when I pile up the books, toys, and random coffee mugs I don't need at home and invite all and sundry to saunter in and grab what they want. I'll keep my stained-glass kaleidoscope, of course, and my Jane Austen action figure, but do I really need a Barbie rubber stamp or miniature Etch-A-Sketch? Surely someone would gladly take these things off my hands.

But first I need to sort through all the things and pack up what has to go home. Every once in a while I stumble upon buried treasure, but when instead I find toxic waste, I'm grateful I don't keep matches in my office.