The Writer's Notebook

I got in trouble once, in school, for getting a D on some quiz. My teacher, fired years later for abuse, a town scandal, my teacher made me stand next to my desk as she circled, her heals clacking, as she berated, with her witch eyes staring: They said you’re supposed to be so smart, Charlie. So, what’s this? This quiz is just pathetic! When I finally started crying, she turned to my shocked classmates and declared: At least HE cares about his grades! Second Grade was a long year.

via @CharlesBivona

(Source: charlesbivona.com)

By Charles Bivona

Then the new President of Drew University hired a consulting firm to evaluate the two PhD programs. I had just finished my three years of coursework. I was preparing for my translation exam, then comprehensive exams, then dissertation and oral defense, then Dr. Charles Bivona—two or three more years. I was excited.

But then I saw my advisor screaming at one of the Deans outside the grad office. They didn’t see me. They were too heavily engaged in the argument. I stood off to the side, watching them, awestruck. These weren’t just colleagues. These people had a history. She was waving her hands in his face, and he, her superior, was just looking at his shoes and saying, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

A week later they gathered us, their doctoral candidates, into a small classroom. We sat at awkward high school desks. They fed us pizza and broke the bad news. The two PhD programs may be discontinued. Some people actually gasped. It’s just an evaluation, the newest tenure-track professor interjected. He had kids, a wife he really loved. He told me so. And now the two PhD programs at which he taught were on the block. The man was pale with fear. I really felt for him. By now, the rumors about the English program’s certain death were all over campus.

Still, when the department head finally said what everyone knew, when she actually put it into words, the students in the English program began uni-sobbing. One woman whimpered, “how could they do this to us?” I thought that was hysterical and struggled not to laugh at her.

My program, the Modern History and Literature PhD, they said, would likely be collapsed into a straight history program—not what I signed up for—or it might be discontinued along with the English program. We will just have to wait and see, the faculty sulked. The consulting firm would be observing our classes soon, they added. More people cried, and their professors rushed to console them.

You will still get the full support of the University as you finish your degree, they cooed.

A degree that won’t be worth shit, I thought, barely staying silent. I was sitting off to the side: agitated, disgusted, watching.

Don’t cry. You’ll still get your PhD, they said.  From a program that no longer exists, my mind scoffed.

Were these people joking? Academia is a giant clique. Every university in the region would soon know about the doctoral program that couldn’t, not to mention its final graduating class of “grandfathered” scholars.

This was a disaster. I was too old to start over somewhere else. This was outrageous. I mean, these people had just told me—with sympathetic faces over pizza and soda—that the education I had taken out student loans to pay for was most likely a worthless piece of shit. And to solidify that point, they might just call the whole god damn program quits! Just like that. Sorry, Charlie. Your career is over before it even got started.

 By Charles Bivona

—and so just ignore
the wolves—the lacerations
to the groin—the bleeding
on the hardwood—on the
plush love seat and Indian rug
from Target—and ignore 

the earthen stone plastic
bowls of pork rolled
tobacco garbage—served w/
carbonated carcinogenic oil water—
just choke it down and 

ignore—the teeth—the pressure
on the jugular—the pulse
pushing panic—pumping red jets
of spurting on your crisp
white linen—like a bloody striping—
but just ignore that—and please—
go shopping.