As I look back over a year's worth of blog posts, the biggest surprise is not how little I wrote in 2022 (104 posts!) or how rarely I wrote about books in any depth (maybe twice?). No: I'm most surprised by the number of times I threatened to bash on something with a crowbar--or, once, with a space heater.
I am not a violent person! I can't remember the last time I hit any person or thing--intentionally, that is. I have a gift for unintentionally smashing things, from my own knee to my own noggin to a cup of vanilla latte to a stranger's car. But in 2022 the prospect of wielding a crowbar against various objects kept coming up in my blog posts, and I think I know why: in a year full of difficult events I couldn't fully write about in public, my pent-up frustrations manifested as imaginary crowbars ready to do some smashing.
The year had its wonderful moments, often involving birds, butterflies, beaches, wildflowers, grandkids, or some combination of these things. But even some of the most delightful moments featured unpleasant intrusions--like the time a stray dog tried to put its herding skills to work on my grandkids.
My students sometimes surprised me with delightful writing and discussions, their willingness to sample pawpaws or their ability to create art inspired by literature. In the spring I enjoyed my Tuesday afternoon discussion and laughs with the retirees who signed on to learn about the history of comedy in my Learning in Retirement class, which I was reluctant to teach until I saw how much fun and perspective my students brought to the table.
And my colleagues continued to provide enlightenment and encouragement, proving, as I wrote in one post, that even in the face of disaster, we can "grit our teeth and carry on" if we work together.
But let me tell you: we've really needed that skill this year. Early in the year, we all thought that the biggest controversy we would face on campus would be whether to move to a mask-optional policy, but then in February we learned that the campus was facing a serious financial crisis that would lead to unprecedented cuts in positions, budgets, and benefits. One sudden personnel change made me wonder whether we'd entered the kind of universe in which anvils can suddenly fall from the sky to crush whole careers.
All this uncertainty led to discord between various campus constituencies and a multiplication of long, anguished meetings in which we flailed away at Gordian knots without finding the proper tools to slice through them. As a member of Faculty Council, I
developed survival strategies for three-hour meetings and often found myself privy to all kinds of information that I couldn't share in
public, and often I just couldn't find the words to deal with the difficult issues.
As the long-term impact of this crisis became apparent, I struggled with a lot of angst about concluding my career "not with a bang, but a whimper." Not only is it unlikely that I'll ever get another raise, I also see enrollments declining in courses I care deeply about alongside an insistence that tenured faculty are too expensive and ought to be replaced by adjuncts or technology. I fear that if we can't quantify our intangible qualities in a spreadsheet, we will sacrifice the essence of a Liberal Arts education.
But despite all this extracurricular angst, I still keep teaching--and writing about it. Early in the year I faced some rough academic weather, and I soon found myself facing some unexpected challenges--students secretly recording classes or relying on spinbots--alongside the usual failures to understand basic instructions. I struggled to say yes to students, convey bad news effectively, and avoid the hazards of Grading Brain, and sometimes technical difficulties were an albatross around my neck, from malfunctioning Zoom links to faulty hybrid teaching for snowbound students to an intransigent internet connection that led me to make a nuisance of myself.
Covid still had an impact, both in and out of the classroom. My students sometimes cheered me in the dark times as the virus kept rearing its ugly head even in times that should have been joyous. I've been sick with nasty sinus infections or colds several times this year but still have never tested positive for Covid, despite frequent exposure.
The worst time, of course, occurred around my father's death. I'd endured a desperate road trip to try to reach him before he died, followed by the task of helping to clear up his effects and settle his estate, followed by cataract surgery, followed by another road trip to Florida for the funeral, all suffused with my attempt to understand his life and death, so I guess it's no surprise that I was sick and glum for most of July.
But thanks to Dad's estate, we've managed to take care of some deferred maintenance projects this year, from a new bed to a massive painting project to new flooring in several rooms--and let's not forget the septic-tank cleaning! Not exactly the highlight of my year but definitely a task that needed to be checked off the list. Sometimes household disasters provided needed distraction from knottier problems.
Other distractions arrived in the form of pleasant surprises: an unexpected tax refund, an encounter with fond memories at a reunion, an opportunity to revisit a checkered work history. Although my work on editing the collection of essays on teaching comedy pushed my stamina to the limits during the copyediting process, I found great pleasure in moving the work ever closer toward publication. In a year when helping a colleague jump a dead car battery counts as a major success, I'm giving myself a gold star just for showing up--because sometimes mediocrity is the thing for me.
All told, it's been the kind of year that inspires the desire to bash things in with crowbars--but I'm pleased to report that I haven't hit or kicked or walloped anyone or anything intentionally. In fact, in 2022 I wrote about flowers and birds and butterflies far more than bashing things with crowbars, so as I look toward 2023, I'll take inspiration from a post I wrote about recharging my own depleted batteries with a hike among the wildflowers at Lake Katharine, during which I found a rare and droopy but still surviving blossom: "Today I'm that showy orchis,
battered by the elements and exhausted by the demands of this
train-wreck semester but still standing in front of my classes and
pointing toward beauty and growth."
That's a goal I can get behind--but I'll never accomplish it unless I drop the crowbar.
