Knock Out

Since my marathon weekend spent grading essays (that is what pushed me off the edge, no doubt) I have been boxing with myself. I think we are in round 3, but my brain is so rattled I'm not sure anymore.

Returning to school from playing hookie, I was called to a disciplinary meeting because a parent had complained about a short story her daughter was required to read (See "Going Native"). I would like to go into detail about this "verbal reprimand", but suffice it to say I have to submit anything in my curriculum that might be controversial to the principal or vice principal. It is so hard to tell what may be controversial these days! I would tell you the "offensive word" that started the uproar, but a google search might bring someone from the most conservative school district in the universe to my blog, and I need my meagre salary.

And that is the reason I stay where I am. You see, I have become my father. He had dreams, began college and then got caught up in the "model life", the one that "good Americans" are supposed to live. (See "Selfless Demons from Hell") He got married, fought in WWII, came back to a wife and kid, took over his dad's barber shop and was a depressed alcoholic when he died at 65.

It's not only my job. Many of our customs seem foreign to me. Georgia and I were remarking on my visit to Oregon that it seems very strange to see heterosexual couples everywhere. I suppose it is all about biology and procreation, but it is such an exclusive model. Starting a new life and making new friends seems futile because everyone is tied up, busy, doing what "good" couples are supposed to do.

No one wants to give their whole life to that model and then admit that it might not be the way to go. But haven't we learned yet that another person can't make us happy? People want to fill the emptiness. This marriage didn't work so I'll try it again. This job is making me sad and sick so I will stay at it for 30 years. It is the noble way. Good thinking.

Mallory thinks I am afraid of connection, but how can that be? I just want a different kind of life. I have never been able to conform to any of the roles that were expected of me. There must be people out there living in creative tribes or communities, or whatever. I miss those experimental communities of the 60's. Communes made so much sense. Am I dreaming or are there women in the world who live in travel trailers in modern equivalents of gypsy caravans? There should be.

At some point I have to make a decision either to win this bout or fall down. Shall I resign myself to working a job that is killing me for another 20 years so that I can retire and collect some insufficient check in the mail every month? Or shall I walk to South America?