Ghost Doc, Ghost Lock, Ghost Virus

The dean said she was moving Women’s Studies to Simpkins Hall to promote our visibility.  I might have contemplated the Simpkins ghost stories that had chilled the spines of many Macombie Homies, but I didn’t have time for ghosts.

No Time for Ghosts

No Time for Ghosts

I brushed aside warnings from a journalism professor about the noisy “draft” in the quirky west-facing office I was set on. My junior and senior colleagues chose warm and quiet offices that faced north.

I soon became acquainted with the draft, a long and whistling moan that steamed out of the radiator.  On a windy morning in November, I opened my office door to a room as cold as death. An ashy black dust covered my desk.

The office was haunted and I was cursed: in December, I was laid off.  My junior colleague continued to teach Women’s Studies.  Maybe I should have chosen her office.

In the deadest of winter,  my name was on a brown envelope with no return address.  Inside, I found typed-up “notes” from a meeting in Sherman Hall.   I held the thin, white paper and read the names of assistant provosts, other high administrators, and staff.  The “notes” expressed disapproval with some of the faculty’s open support for the Liberal Arts.

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Upper adminsitration said WIU was suffering from “overstaffing in the faculty area.”  This quote haunts me:  the only essential employees of an educational institution are educators, and university educators use rigorous theories and texts to provide students a space to think, ask critical questions, and make meaning of their lives and the world.  The political elite have had enough critical thinking from the public.

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The notes were already highlighted.  At a university, “overstaffed faculty” is an oxymoron.

Because these notes arrived with a complaint form, an attorney said someone might be trying to set me up:  at Western Illinois University, official complaints are frowned upon.  An unfriendly ghost was haunting my end of Simpkins Hall.  Ghosts started to make me feel unhinged–were they friendly or evil?  Who could I trust?  Each colleague or superior   was a ghost or at the service of one.

My computer was also haunted.  Attempting to apply for a chair position, I checked  all the required qualification boxes, but the next day, the qualifications changed in a way that excluded me from elligibility.  When I complained, I was told that the qualifications screen I had seen the first day had never been there.

Ghosts spook me most when I can’t see or hear them–when they leave no hard evidence.  The week before final exams, with two or three weeks of my contract to play out, I arrived in the morning and inserted my key into the lock, but didn’t feel any resistance.  The door was already unlocked.

“I must not have turned the bolt all the way yesterday,” I thought.  When I closed my office, I began to test the bolt.  But the following day, it would be unlocked.

I reported the unlocked door to my chair, who said it was probably absent-minded custodial staff.

“But we empty our own trash.” I said.  She told me to email the facilities office.  Right.  Maybe Harold did it.

In 12 years at WIU, and 5 offices, I had always, ALWAYS, arrived to a door just as locked as I had left it.  What had changed?

You don’t believe in ghosts, you say.  Fine.  Then who has been bullying me and why?

A ghost was trying to scare me and make me feel unsafe.  A ghost had violated my privacy. A ghost was bent on sending a chill down my spine.

GET OUT!

How the Ghost of Women’s Studies came to Haunt Simpkins Hall

In the Simpkins seminar room on the campus of Western Illinois University, Dr. Karen Mann introduced us to Women’s Studies, though she didn’t call it that- she called it “General Honors Seminar,” but she taught mostly novels by women, like P.D. James’s An Unsuitable Job for a Woman and Ursula K. Le Guin’s gender-bending Left Hand of Darkness.

That was Fall of 1987. I was 18, impressed and impressionistic.  I later signed up for Dr. Mann’s Women and Literature (a class I’d teach) and Dr. Wong’s Third World Literature (which featured fiction by women.)

Now, Fall of 2017, I have returned to the seminar room to admire the molding on the ceiling–squirrels, acorns, ivy and birds.  Beauty for beauty’s sake– no wonder ghosts love this building.

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A Women’s Studies Memorial Walk.  I start and end at Simpkins Hall.

Next, I approach Memorial Hall, where Dr.  Simmons taught his Women and Religion class.  When God was a woman, societies were more peaceful.

Today, as the sun warms my hair, I trek down to Morgan, where I took Feminist Theory and Women and Crime with Dr. Polly Radosh.  Guess what I learned in Polly’s class?  The criminal justice system guarantees no justice for women.

In 2007, Morgan Hall 109 would be the site of the first Women Studies class I would teach.  I learned  that 21st-Century Western students were even more conservative than my cohort.

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Southeast entrance to Morgan Hall. Save for recycling bin and students on cell phones, it looks the same as in 1987.

 

I make a U-turn and head for the University Union where Eleanor Smeal, president of the National Organization for Women and a fierce advocate for the Equal Rights Amendment, drew a full crowd in the Grand Ball  Room in 1987 or 88.

After living in New York City a decade, with PhD in hand, I crossed paths with Dr. Polly Radosh at the 2005 WIU New Faculty Orientation.  I had a Master’s in Women’s Studies, I said.  She was the chair of the Women’s Studies department, she said.   A WS Major??? At WIU???  Too good to be true!  When Dr. Lori Baker-Sperry, associate professor of Women’s Studies, addressed the new faculty, I longed to teach Women’s Studies as well.

12 years later, I am tenured in WS, but laid off, so I have all day for my memorial walk.  I climb the hill to Seal Hall, where I taught my first successful WS class:  Introduction to Feminist Theory.  That was exactly 10 years ago, when I didn’t have to compete with cell phones, when students read books and attended class.  Teaching was wonderful.

I take the outdoor stairway to Western Ave. and Currens Hall, where I kept a WS office from 2007 to 2015.  An Asian beetle bites my arm.

The Women’s Studies department truly worked as a team during those years, and I met and mentored many great feminist students, like Margaret Hasselroth.

I circle around Currens and head the half mile back to Simpkins. In 2015, the dean moved Women’s Studies up there.  My office whistled, and sometimes when I’d open my door in the mornings, a biting cold wind would greet me.

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West end of Simpkins Hall. My 2015 office was three rows up, on the left.  My office had two windows, one of which has a brown vent under it.

A few months after the department move, the dean told me I was being laid off.  Next, the Board of Trustees eliminated the major in Women’s Studies.

Last May, when my contract neared termination, I’d arrive at my office in the mornings and find my door unlocked.

And that’s how the ghost of Women’s Studies came to haunt Simpkins Hall.

 

 

 

Universilandia

My layoff arbitration inches along– hinging on procedural details—what date something was postmarked, or whether an automatic search of one’s sent box is a great burden.

Communication crawls up and down ladders that move from the University Professionals of Illinois Local 4100, to the UPI’s attorney, to the arbitrator, to Western Illinois University’s attorney, to the administration.  I am confident that the UPI represents me well.

I’ve learned that the arbitration over my position does not pivot around academic questions, like what a university is. “University” requires a strong intention towards academic broadness and inclusion.   We’ve lost four humanities-focused majors , and many Liberal Arts faculty, who are not replaced.

At what point does a university become a universilandia?

 

 

 

Sweeping the Paths

I let my gaze sink into a watercolor print on the wall.  I was 27 and lying on a couch while attempting to explore my psyche.  The voice of my psychoanalyst, from behind, had just asserted that I’d already experienced more than my fair share of suffering.

Refugees suffer.  Torture victims suffer.  Cancer patients suffer.  I denied mine.  My brother had not yet drowned.  I hadn’t started a PhD, much less struggled to finish it, land the tenure-track job and the Grand Tenure.  I had not seen it undone.  Plenty more suffering lay ahead.

I have spent much of my life searching for ways to alleviate suffering.  Prozac and Effexor didn’t work, so I try to develop feel-good habits, like running.  Sometimes I am misguided, like when I rush though my day or try to do five things at once.

On the first day of this month, I might have wallowed in a toxic pit of shame and inadequacy:  for the first time in 13 years, Western Illinois University did not deposit my monthly salary in my checking account.

Instead of succumbing to despair, I fasted and met my writing goal for the day.  I was learning “Intermittent Fasting” (I.F.), and much to my surprise, I.F. has softened the pain around my layoff and its unresolved arbitration.

I.F. cleans out brain and body.  The Nobel Prize has recognized this science of cellular self-cleaning.  One review of the scientific literature concludes that folks who practice I.F. report improved mood and feelings of tranquility.

With I.F., I’m gently sweeping the paths of layoff feelings:  anger at the unfairness, traumatic shocks from being lied to and about, wariness that follows betrayal, the raw vulnerability of having been stripped of the career I’d invested three decades in, anxiety about my future, and deep fears that I’m unworthy.

Repeated attacks over 22 months had kept me in an exhausting state of elevated cortisone.  My status as the only tenured professor in WIU’s recorded history to be laid off has reinforced feelings of shame and self-inadequacy that I’ve carried inside since childhood.

I have hoarded layers of pain that have crowded out good feelings. I did not expect I.F. to help me sort through the rubble and make way for feelings of peace, safety, and health.

I.F. has opened me up for “flow” in life and work.  For example,  16 hours into a 20-hour fast, I played from memory the entire Chopin Waltz in C# minor.  My piano teacher clasped her hands together and exclaimed, “Dr. Stovall, you are playing with much more focus and concentration now! I like you better this way.”

I hadn’t told her I had been fasting:  people respond both curiously and skeptically, and I don’t always want to interrupt the task at hand to explain.  Some people react defensively, and I understand that response—I hate feeling hungry and deprived.  I, too, had feared I.F. would induce unnecessary suffering.  Instead, I.F.  makes me feel good– like a child on the last day of school before summer.

A Low Carb/High Fat (LC/HF) diet facilitates fasting.  Even more remarkable, a growing body of independent research suggests that a lifestyle of LC/HF plus fasting is the most elegant method of preventing western diseases like dementia, cancer, diabetes, heart disease, and anxiety/depression.

I.F. with LC/HC, together, offer one solution to many problems.

For more information on I.F. and LC/HF lifestyles, read Dr. Jason Fung’s The Complete Guide to Fasting and The Obesity Code or check out Dietdoctor.com.

 

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A supportive spouse also alleviates suffering.  We took this on our 20th Anniversary in August.

Sanctuary

After 22 traumatic months of an unresolved layoff arbitration, I have finally recovered enough to wonder where the intensity of my response came from.  Did my early childhood set me up for outrage?mind made

I stood on the tips of my white patent leather shoes to peek over the pew in front of me in the little sanctuary in downtown Camden, Arkansas.  I held a heavy hymnbook and harmonized with the congregation in verses I heard my way:  Christian soldiers marched onward like wooden nutcrackers, and the “life savior” to be praised “all-the-day long” sparkled like a roll of hard candy in assorted colors.

A trio of tall jeweled windows hovered above each of my shoulders.  The morning sun infused the deep hues of the east glass with iridescence–a monarch with wings transposed into crimson and purple.

I followed along through the first half of the service easily:  we opened and closed hymn books, stood up, recited the Lord’s Prayer, and sat down. Little cups of grape juice and plates of tiny crackers passed in front of me.

During daddy’s sermon, mommy gave me a pen and a service bulletin. If I shuffled the papers loudly, Mommy would look at me with her index finger over her mouth, and then return her gaze upwards to daddy behind the wide pulpit.

Daddy usually preached about love, compassion, hope, community, grace, and justice—values that as an adult I would lose and recover repeatedly. Every week in Sunday school and church I heard we must “Follow Jesus.” Jesus chose torture and execution over silence. I could not fathom such intense and prolonged suffering, but would do my best to follow him.

Daddy kept preaching.

I slid to the end of the pew, took the outer aisle to the piano, and fluttered my fingers into random keys.

With my father’s sermon now interrupted, a flash of judgment and fear struck his eyes.  At once, my mother dashed towards me, and daddy recovered his smile.

“Well, then, it must be time for the closing hymn,” he said, re-connecting with the congregation.  They laughed easily.

Later, the silent sanctuary was mine.  Pews smelled like dry forest. Running and skipping down the center aisle, I felt the high iridescent windows tingle along my spine and lift me up.

I was flying.

“Holly honey,” daddy called from the top of the sanctuary.

Light as a butterfly, I fell onto the dark red carpet and my giggle box turned over.

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The east stained-glass window.  This church is no longer affiliated with the Christian Church (Disciples of Christ)

The Feminist Movement was growing fast: even in the Arkansas Bible Belt, women were organizing the first state chapter of the National Organization for Women.

Katharine Graham became a Fortune 500 CEO and women now ran in the Boston Marathon! The Supreme Court ruled that states can’t force women to be mothers, and Title IX established an equal playing ground for girls and women in education– theoretically anyway.

I would reap the benefits that the feminist movement was sewing.  I was entitled to equality in marriage and work.  How could I know that sexism and misogyny would seep into my bones just as it did to my feminist foremothers?  How could I know the feminist struggle would last forever? We would constantly need to re-envision a world that values our common humanity– and work for it.

The work is rigorous.  I get tired. I need sanctuary.

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White patent leather shoes and loopy braids –my favorite.