Gators People Live in the River, 3.3: Who Are You?

And you? When will you begin that long journey into yourself? ― Rumi

When we struggle against our energy we reject the source of wisdom. -- Pema Chodron

My mistake was in checking my email.

I ought to know better. No good can come from reading email or looking at the news before my feet even hit the floor. It's bad practice. But I also suspect I'm not the only one who checks email, checks Facebook before doing something incredibly wise like 1) put on pants or 2) drink a cup of coffee. The first is simply a matter of form; I do not engage with my fellow man while my manhood is showing. The second is a matter of self-knowledge and common sense. Everyone who knows me knows that the world will have a much better version of me after a cup coffee. (Black, please. No cream. No Sugar. If you must add something, add bourbon.)

But because I sometimes use my cell phone as my alarm clock, I've gotten into the habit of putting it in Airplane Mode and keeping it bedside. (This is a habit I need to break.) I know there is nothing important enough I can learn from my phone that won't wait long enough for me to stand up. Humdrum habits.

This particular time, like most mornings, I didn't do that. I took it off Airplane Mode immediately, and once the phone found WiFi signal, I had a new message waiting on me. The subject line: Who Are You?

Hello, Mick:
I'm writing because I found out you were hired to teach composition at the University of Louisville, where I was formerly the Director of Composition.  I have connected with you on LinkedIn but that in no way qualifies as an endorsement of your teaching qualifications or skills.  I am not a reference for you, nor will I be used as one, so I hope you didn't list me as a reference.
Do you have a master's degree in English from an accredited university, and do you have graduate coursework in Rhetoric and Composition?  Be honest and forthright because I will find out the truth and you will NOT be teaching at UofL without proper credentials.

My reaction -- as described by Amanda -- was visceral. 

If he had been in front of me, I could have ripped his tongue from his mouth. And I haven't raised a hand to hurt a human being more than a decade.

I'd nagged and prodded and somehow talked my way into a little work that would allow me to set up a home base in Louisville. The Universe had been kind enough to let me have that, and I was (and am) grateful for it. The whole identity theft issue made me laugh because while some may find my lack of traditional ambition and my politics criminal, I am not one. 

Not yet, anyway. Give it time. We will all be criminals eventually.

My response was immediate and relatively articulate for as livid as I felt:

Hello,
I did not list you as a reference. I reached out over LinkedIn when I assumed (because the website indicated as such) that you were still the Writing Program Director at U of L.
I attended Morehead State University and earned my MA in 2003. I have taught developmental, first year, and creative writing. I have been and still am a writing tutor. I have been a working journalist, and I'm a damn fine poet.
I neither wanted nor asked for your recommendation, and I don't care if you were the the Director of Composition or the Wizard of Oz. I am a fine teacher, a good human being, and you are an ass.
Regards,

That response didn't do much to wash away the waves of hatred and wishes for a voodoo doll in his likeness. You want to be a stick up my ass? We'll see, we'll see...

I sent a second response, in which I gave him my phone number. I told him if he had any more questions that he was welcome to call me and I would be more than happy to tell him off via the phone.

After that, I sent an email to the current Director of Composition at U of L and copied the secretary and departmental HR rep, explaining that 1) I am myself and 2) that somehow, I managed to receive the most unprofessional contact from a colleague since having to interact with that pompous ass of an English Department Chair at Arizona State.

He -- the former Director who emailed me at 7:30 in the morning on a Saturday -- apologized. We have each made our conciliatory gestures. At this point I am more annoyed by someone's breach of professional ethics in disclosing my identity theft debacle to someone outside the university than I am by his reaction. 

Annoyed, but not surprised. Just because I'm back in the classroom doesn't mean I've swallowed the Kool-Aid, Dear Readers. I am there to teach. That some other people are there to maintain tenuous little fiefdoms is part of the minefield we have wrapped higher education in.

Gator People Live in the River, 3.2: Blue Horse

There's nothing worse than being put in a position where you have to explain yourself to someone who may not be worth the time, the effort, or the energy expenditure. I make it a habit to NOT explain myself. I think of self-explanations as the same as having to tell someone why a joke is funny. If you have tell someone why the horse being blue in August is funny, then you've wasted your time.

When I left JCTC after concluding the first half of my HR Paperwork Blitzkrieg, I drove back down Third Street to the University of Louisville. After finding some creative parking, I made my way onto campus and into the Bingham Humanities Building.

The building is built in the shape a rectangle. This would lead one to believe that the building is easy to navigate.  Once inside, however, the combination of knock off Frank Lloyd Wright minimalism, asynchronous office numbers, and Dantesque signage is clearly designed to confuse the first time sucker rather than inculcate him with a sense of warmth similar to the last stage of hypothermia.

After stepping off the elevator and walking far longer than I thought thought I should have needed to down off season academic hallways, I found the right office. But Linda, the person I was supposed to talk to, wasn't there. Instead, I was greeted with a Post-It note informing me that she was in some room in the basement.

Fuck me, there's a basement to this place? Is that where they imprison failing graduate students and abandoned developmental writing programs?

My intention was to try and find Linda in the basement. Except that I couldn't find the elevator again. It was as if the wall had simply swallowed it up, along with any hint of a stairwell.

Salvation came eventually in the person of Linda, who said she was glad she hadn't missed me.

Is there really an exit, I asked, or is it just an existential concept?

Linda blinked the way a dog blinks after being told to stop chewing on a slipper. I have been told before that I should not tell jokes because my delivery stinks. I reject this criticism, however, based on the fact that humor is as much about context as tone. And within the context of being new to the university, being new to Louisville, as a matter of fact -- something that was very much known to my new soon-to-be bosses at U of L -- and being a last minute hire to teach a class, I figured that I'd have a shot at a chuckle. Sartre references almost always work, and secretaries are not immune to the malaise of academic idea entendre.

And she blinked.

I have the utmost respect for secretaries and janitors because they run the world. The people who file your W-2 and the people who clean public bathrooms are more important to the overall running of the world than any administrator, politician, or cop. And I had no intention of confusing or upsetting Linda. I was merely trying to relax, be friendly.

We rolled past the awkward beginning and into the paperwork. When we got to the I-9 I produced both my Ohio Driver's License and my passport card -- the latter of which should have been enough (as per Column A.)

She blinked.

I think I need your social security card.

I don't carry it. The passport usually works.

She blinked.

I'm pretty sure I need your social security card.

I don't carry it. It's ragged. It's my original social security card. You're not allowed to laminate it. It's as thin as toilet paper.

She xeorxed a copy of both my driver's license and my passport, but would not let go of the social security card.

Fine, I said. I'll bring it with me to orientation.

On my way to U of L, I had decided to tell them about the criminal background check snafu at JCTC.  I considered it a form of professional courtesy. Though my initial face to face contact with Linda had given me some reservations about following through, I ignored that instinct and went on ahead with my well-intended disclosure. After all, it was funny. Right?

She blinked.

I explained it again.

She blinked.

I asked if I needed to write a note to HR or something, just to keep on file.

She blinked. Then she sat down at her computer as if she intended to write an email to HR herself. She offered to let me write an email myself. But, she pointed out, the HR person was gone for the day (after 2pm on a Friday) and would not see it until Monday anyway.

I told her I'd send it over the weekend or some other time. I had her lead me out to the elevator --which, magically appeared not 20 steps from her office door.

Once I escaped, I made for a nice well lit place with cold beer.

Gator People Live in the River, 3.1: The Question

Americans may have no identity, but they do have wonderful teeth. -- Jean Baudrillard

The moving finger writes, and having written moves on. Nor all thy piety nor all thy wit, can cancel half a line of it. -- Omar Khayyam

Apparently 1996 was a good year to be me.

Or, it wasn't, depending on your point of view. To be honest, I remember very little of 1996. There was a lot worth forgetting. I had somehow managed to talk myself back into school, with the intention of finishing my Bachelor's degree. My only intention was to get out of the Blue Ash, Ohio pillow factory I was working in. The job itself wasn't bad, but I was tired of leaving at the end of my shift looking like I'd been tarred and feathered. Moreover, I was tired of FEELING like I'd been tarred and feathered.

The late 90's for me were mostly a matter of trying to untangle myself from the decisions of the early 90's. An early marriage that had turned into a bloody fucking divorce. Attempts to drown unanswered grief, self-loathing, and anger in cheap beer and even cheaper whiskey.  Failed attempts at college in spite of having every tool and reason to succeed. I was socially awkward, a secondary character in my own life, and I felt overshadowed by the large personalities around me.

My life was turning into Bret Easton Ellis novel -- which, if you've read him, is bad on every narrative and aesthetic level.

But, apparently, I still had one thing going for me.

My credit rating was still good. 

At the time this didn't seem like anything worth celebrating. Someone else felt differently, however, because he (or she?) promptly stole my identity only to be arrested and convicted in New Jersey for felony conspiracy. (Case #96000890)

Sometimes life shifts whether you see it or not. And even though I wasn't aware, my life had gone from Less Than Zero to The Sopranos. Better writing, to be sure. There's always that.

I was blissfully unaware of this shift, however, until last week. I discovered my felonious status thanks to the Department Chair at one of my new The-Universe-Is-Kind gigs at Jefferson Community and Technical College. Thanks to some last minute shuffling, a class needed teaching and I nagged enough to merit consideration. Stacy, the Chair, hired me on the merit of my CV, which, I admit, makes me look pretty good.  I have a lot of experience in spite of appearing to do very little. A criminal background check is part of the screening process. This is nothing new -- I've signed off on plenty of these forms over the years. Most of the time, they look for felonies, which I have personally never been arrested, tried, or convicted of. On the tediously repetitive HR form I always indicate that I have never been convicted of a felony. Sometimes I get the job. Sometimes I don't. When people don't hire you, they aren't really obligated to tell you WHY. Generally, this is a good thing. If you screwed up the interview or if you smell or if they just aren't that into you, it's not always something you want to know about.

When I came back from visiting The Kid in Virginia, I packed a few things and drove down river to Louisville for an HR Paperwork Blitzkrieg. Two institutions. Two sets of paperwork. I also wanted a sit down with the chair at JCTC, and she wanted one with me.

The English Department at JCTC is housed in the old Louisville Presbyterian Seminary... an interestingly gothic structure that I would not have thought a Presbyterian would want to house anything in. There are no water fountains or snack machines in the building because that would make the hallways too narrow to conform to city fire codes. But it is an architecturally interesting building.

from hellolouisville.com

I knew I'd get along with Stacy because she was wearing jeans and because she has a nose ring. I realize those things, in and of themselves, seem superficial. But sometimes superficial details can offer a wellspring of information about a person.

We chatted for a bit. James, the Writing Center Coordinator (where I am also getting some work hours) sat in for a while. Then he left.

Then Stacy brought up the criminal background check. She was a bit uncomfortable. She referenced a conviction in New Jersey. A felony conviction.

Now, Dear Readers, you probably remember when my travel journal and ID were lifted in a Minnesota casino. Identity and being able to prove who you are is increasingly important in these, the early days of the Nationalist States of America. Even Facebook (the free market arm of the techno-fascist empire) requires that you use your "real name" on your profile. And I won't go into detail about the various ways in which the NSA has the ability to invade our privacy and track everything from the color of our socks to the consistency of our bowel movements.

So when I heard that I was apparently convicted in New Jersey -- a state I have never been to, unless the train rolled through it at night once -- in 1996 of felony conspiracy, I laughed.

Stacy told me she looked at my CV when the check came back and saw that there was no way it could have been me -- I was in Morehead, finishing my BA. Which, of course, I was. We had a chuckle about it and moved on. James wandered back around.

Oh, so I guess you asked him the question?

We all had a chuckle. And I took some solace in knowing that when I was the least interested in being me, apparently someone else felt differently.

Not bad for my first day of living in Louisville.

Gator People Live In The River, 2: The Ballad of Judy and Cynthia

Do you know any ... Kentucky songs? - Cynthia

It seems like bluegrass people have more great stories to tell than other musicians. -- Dan Fogelberg 

My Best Angle: Image By Amanda L. Hay

Whenever I roll into down SR 32 and onto Main Street in Morehead, Kentucky, the mountains in the background bring back a wellspring of memory. My daughter was born in the shadow of those hills. Two marriages, two college degrees, an invaluable education*, a host of friends, and a connection to place that I am only recently coming to terms with.

I take in the hills and remember the leaves splashed in fall colors, and the stark beauty of winter -- the kind of beauty you have to know intuitively to understand. The apocalyptic summer when the hills burned, and seemed to burn for the entire season, leaving a scar on the hills that took years to heal. On a clear day, I think I can still see it there, even though the treeline has grown back in. Rolling down 32, I see and feel my own scars, too. Though I am was not born nestled by those hills, I am bound there by failure, by success, by enlightenment, by mistakes, by some good decisions. I am so bound to it that I avoided returning for nearly a decade. It wasn't time, I told myself. It wasn't time, and I wasn't ready.

The Morehead Old Time Music Festival takes place on the Jaycee Farm. $20 for the entire weekend, and that included camping. Considering any nearby campground would cost at least that for one night, Amanda and I thought that was a pretty good deal. The weather was supposed to be cool, with a chance of rain. We found a good spot along the treeline, and set up the tent.  Campfires weren't allowed, but we packed in some simple food and our own booze. Kentuckians For the Commonwealth had a food tent there, selling coffee, tea, hamburgers, hotdogs, and wonderful brown beans and cornbread. We had everything we needed.

We could sit in front of our tent and listen to the music, drink beer, our homemade mead, and bourbon. Friday night I ran to a remnant of an old ghost of myself -- Ryan Perkins, (one of the festival organizers)  who remembered me though I didn't remember him at first. Once upon a time, he had dated Posie, my first ex-wife's sister. That sort of thing happens often when I go back there, running into echoes of an old life. Saturday, I got out my guitar to pick around. I don't have any illusions about my talent; I only picked up the guitar again less than a year ago. But I love music, and I enjoy playing.

Will you play with us?

I looked up to find a banjo and a violin, each attached to a bone skinny, silver-haired Old Timey aficionado.

You may regret that. I'm not very good.

They were desperate, though. I was sympathetic to their plight. There were more than a few musicians around, all of them enormously talented. I didn't feel anywhere near qualified to sit in with any of them. Amanda was, as always, a gracious hostess, and we sat around and tried to find something to play. They introduced themselves. Judy played the violin and Cynthia -- who might be the most androgynous person I've ever come across. They weren't from the area, and weren't even from Kentucky. I knew that quickly because of their accents. They were from Indiana. But since I was born in Ohio, I try not to hold that against them. We don't have any control over where we're born. But we can decide where home is.

I played one of the songs I know fairly well -- a John Prine song called "The Great Compromise." Cynthia and Judy liked it just fine and we managed to get through a 3 piece version of it.

How long have you been playing? I asked.

Oh, Cynthia said, if you put it all together over the years, it probably amounts to about two weeks.

They tried to teach me The Tennessee Waltz, but my recall for music theory hasn't improved even though I can play a bit better than when I started. The sad thing is, I used to understand the circle of fifths; but even when I played guitar before -- back when I wanted to be a rock star -- I never applied music theory to playing guitar. I don't even know why. I studied the piano. I studied the trumpet. I can still sort read note music. But not with guitar.

Judy and Cynthia were used to people with more experience. But they asked me to play another song anyway and I played "Poncho and Lefty." They had apparently never heard of it. And I could tell they weren't all that impressed.

Do you know any... Kentucky songs?

Cynthia asked me that, and it took me back a bit.

You're around a bunch of old people here, she said. You ought to learn some.

I didn't quite know what to say. I know quite a bit of old country and bluegrass, but not to play it. I grew up listening to George Jones. I found Hazel Dickens, Woody Guthrie and Hank Williams, and T. Texas Tyler and Lefty Frizzell, and Doc Watson and Bill Monroe and the Carter Family. But not to play it. Not yet.

After "Poncho and Lefty," I played an Old Crow Medicine Show tune, "Wagon Wheel." I didn't know all the words by memory, though -- which was too bad, because I play that one fairly ok. Cynthia and Judy wandered off, leaving me to wonder what the hell a Kentucky song is. Bluegrass is regional in origin and there are different flavors of it all over Appalachia. The south has taken it up, but still -- the music I identify as Bluegrass was born out of the hills, with that echo of sad Irish songs, the mixture of spirituals, hymns, and traditional English Ballads. I didn't -- and I don't -- understand what Cynthia was talking about.

But when I was there, nestled by the hills, with Amanda, it was the first time in a very long time that I felt like I was home.