I rarely get anything back from them, so that’s hardly the reason why – there’s no monetary motivation behind it – it’s just that, deep down, I really like filling in things, forms, blanks. I like putting things where they go, seeing them meld into the template of the 1040EZ, or the W-2, or the New York Times Crossword.

I like it because when things fit, I’m pleased.

I like it because, when it’s all said and done, it looks neat.

And I like it because it looks intimidating:  To think that all the hard work you’ve done throughout the year can be reduced to nothing more than a small collection of rows and shaded squares, all neatly labeled and cross-referenced by the IRS and national bank chains.

There’s a part of me, a part I do admit mostly trying to deny, though, that craves organization.

It’s true. 

One of my favorite games to play growing up was Beleaguered Librarian, for crying out loud.

I think 26 Down is "Loser."

And before you ask, here’s how it’s played: Melinda, a favorite childhood friend, and I would spend hours in her house, going room-to-room collecting all the books we could find; they’d been mis-shelved, obviously. We’d have to settle down at the kitchen table (the office), and take out all the postcard-sized bits of paper we’d previously put inside them (carrying the title of each book and Return Date, clearly legible), complain (quietly) how time-consuming doing this was and gossip about how rude it was that “most of the people who come in here don’t even bother to look at the return date, anyway,” which meant we would have to charge them overdue fees.

Groan.

This, of course, required more paperwork: more pieces of paper cut checkbook-size, which would then have to been written out with the amount of the fee expected. This would have to wait until we’d re-shelved the books, obviously, because “so few people who come in here put the books back, they just leave them lying anywhere.”

No one ever came to our library.

And yet, there was always a ridiculous load of work to be done. Before you knew it, a whole Sunday afternoon had passed.

I’m not even sure there’s room in the definition of Nerd to describe this game, but play it we did. And we loved it. And I don’t think we’re one bit ashamed about loving it either.

It satisfied a deep need I had for order, as a child. Yet, I rebel against this same sense of order today, for reasons I cannot explain fully—though in part, I have more than an ample girth of opinion.

I'm still Kris with a "K."

I think it has something to do with a fear of conformity, with the surrendering of our uniqueness to the One-Size-Fill-in-the-Blank Philosophy of capitalism.

They force us to become One by not letting us be one, you know?

Our entire careers, taxes, insurance claims, retirements, bank accounts, you name it, are all sitting, in duplicate, stuffed in large, collective boxes, stored in back rooms, looking exactly the same to the naked eye, from the shelf…when the naked eye cares to look.

You have no Name with these constructs, just a Number. And the back room itself is a last-resort, at that. The glory-holder of anonymity these days is without doubt, the computer.

Heck, it’s like that at my school, and we’re in the middle of somewhere even Verizon can’t find.

Half the people I teach, when it’s time to record grades, are faceless, student ID numbers scrolling across my computer screen. There’s very little humanity in it…but it certainly is neat, contained, and orderly, which is something of an improvement over, ahem, humanity.

And in attempt at appeasing Big Brother: I kinda like it, I have to say.

No, now, I’m not saying I don’t want to know or care about my students, I certainly do, but even more than that, I like ease and convenience. I like knowing that I can pull these obligations out of my own mind and dump them in some software whose sole purpose is not to care; a problem of mine, personally, is caring a little too much.

That’s got to stop, to some degree. Especially as I get ready to do two things: teach online and bravely face this mammoth of a Program Review Report, due by Friday (I’ve just been told).

Online teaching has its own challenges: The severity of setting a deadline is hard to manage in the physical classroom. When it’s online, however, either you do it by 3:00 PM on Thursday, or you don’t do it at all, e.g. I’m OK with that, as a professor, even if I’m more than a little bothered by it, as a human, but then, I’m not paid to be a human.

Touché, huh.

It will take some adjustment, I know.  Doing your taxes still requires intimacy. Teaching students whom you’ll never meet doesn’t.  That’s the part that I will struggle with, even against the alleged ease of online education.

Because starting next semester, my words are going to count for a hell of a lot more than they do right now.

This mammoth Program Review is a different devil. I’ve only been here for four months; this report doesn’t care, though. I’m now, among other things, responsible for figuring out who spent what monies badly over the last three years…and Why.  I’ve been staring at this thick, multipage document all morning; I may or may not have had a stroke around 11:38. I have little to no intimacy for it. Scratch that: I hate the damn thing.

But, considering that, a couple of things come to mind: either I can be afraid of it, of losing myself to and behind a computer screen (who respects a computer screen?), or I can take pride in filling out these forms, tooting my horn whatever note comes out, and creating lessons and assignments and syllabi that are creative and challenging – on my own terms.

I’ve chosen to re-institute my sense of pride in the latter; it’s less unknown.

Try to reach $1.00 without going over.

I’m intent on making my words matter. On the shelf in that back room, I might look like any other overindulgent Rolodex entry; on the bank’s computer or the hospital’s, I might be nothing more than a statistic or a blood count, but when you pull my name out of the piles to read about my medical history or educational philosophy, I better make sure what I’ve written down can stand alone…and speak for itself.

(People do still read, right)?  

No, rather than be upset by the New World Order, I plan on going down (at least on paper) in a blaze of glory. I’m determined to be a “good read,” if I’m nothing else from now ‘til kingdom come.

Which, according to some popular opinion, is December 20, 2012.

…and I can last another two years, easy.

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I wish I were this easy to erase, sometimes.

I like God, let me just say that, upfront. I even like Jesus. I don’t know when the last time was that I spoke to the Holy Ghost, but I promise he knows my name. And that you spell it with a “K.”

I happen to believe in all three of them. A lot. That’s my choice, I know. I know all about choices…I grew up Southern Baptist. Every sermon ended with a “choice.” But, given the alternative, I still would say my faith has a firm undertow despite not being “allowed” in the Kingdom, so to speak.

Faith, to me, has always been a personal, quiet, private, and sexless thing.

However, I’m older now and I recognize not just the weight of a decision, but I also see the advantages of understanding that there are more than two sides to every question; there have to be, even though we don’t like admitting that to ourselves because it’s too foreign a concept. That third+ side I’m referring to is the subject of today’s blog: witnessing – its power and its aggravation.

Witnessing is something every Southern Baptist learns, almost as rote, at any early age, like ducks to water, or crocodiles to minnows. I grew up believing that it had a very real place in every American life, and I’m sure, in its way, it does.  But, it isn’t all black and white…sometimes, it’s gray.

Much like the color of my office building.

I know I don’t lead by example all that often. I do try, but I don’t always succeed. If I did, I’d have led myself a lot further from home than a mere 60 miles south…and to a community college in Mississippi.

The problem, just one of many (and I’m only talking of problems today), of teaching at a community college is realizing exactly how much that community pervades within the college itself. That shadow of influence is, nonetheless, what gives each community college its own distinctive flare, its idiosyncracies, its memory base.

Yet, it also creates a great deal of dissonance, when the community college is, as a whole, tasked to become more “cutting edge.”

A community college, you see, necessarily serves two masters: its President and its surrounding towns.

I have no problem with religion, though I am going through a phase that seems somewhat anti-organizational. But that doesn’t mean I’m faithless, or without morals. I just happen to believe, quite stringently, in the separation of church and state. That’s what Big Colleges do. I was reminded today, though, that I wasn’t at a Big College, anymore.

Believe me, I said, That hasn’t escaped my attention.

But, I didn’t quite realize how deeply that statement’s roots truly went. No one around here has any intentions of digging even the top quarter-inch of those roots up, either. They cannot be allowed to see the sun. And, listen, that right there is an invaluable lesson that ought to somehow be explained in depth at Orientation for New Faculty.

First, look like me, but then, always stay behind me. Oh, and welcome.

For the third time in as many days, I’ve had a visitor in my office. Someone I have known since childhood, someone I love and respect, but this person has been consistently “dropping by” to encourage me to attend Fellowship at the chapel held each Monday at noon on the hour, among other well-wishes. Most of which are greatly appreciated and needed.

I teach until 12:15, but that doesn’t matter, I was told, I should just come late. So long as I come. That much was strongly encouraged and expected.

I forgot about it, today. And, right at 1:00, there they were at my office door. A look of bemused disppointment in the eye. Ironically, yesterday, on the way to Nana’s, Amanda and I had an entire Biblical discussion about Peter and the Number 3.

We concluded it made him more humanly symbolic of accepting the vitality of the Trinity in the day-to-day. I really wish I could make that make sense here. But, no such luck.  My 3 was just plain aggravating, day after day after day.

Last week’s visit nearly ended in prayer, (during Convocation, the entire staff prayed before each session and lunch – which is touching and also disturbing), but today’s visit came with a gift: a Bible to put on my desk, from the Gideons, to serve as a silent witness. All I had to do was just leave it laying around, was the suggestion.

I’m embarrassed at myself that this gift bothered me. That’s almost as difficult for me to admit to as it is to say I’m an alcoholic (except sometimes)…or gay, every now and again.

Why, I had to ask myself when she left, did it bother me so much to have a Bible on my desk? Why was I so frustrated and put-out by her constantly inviting me to the Chapel for worship? Why was I aggravated at her asking if I’d mind doing the Seven Stations of the Cross at Easter, on campus? Why, why, why?

(I figured if I didn’t get this out now, it’d merely fester and create a scar).

Am I merely a heathen, now? Is that what this heartburn is indicating?

For whatever reason, though, I’m very upset by this insistent behavior. And it’s irritating to me no end. This is not a person I feel I can say no to. And, so, I’ve decided that what I’ve entered, what I’ve been cast into, is a silent, polite, Battle of Wills.

I don’t want to be affiliated with any organization other than the one I came here for: theatre. I don’t want to conform, or be molded, I am a whole person, as is. (How do I get that on my contract?) I simply want the opportunity to prove myself, without being bound to anyone else.

And that’s sort of the crux of the issue. Because I think what’s bothering me is that I feel like I’m not quite an adult yet…the reminders of church, or witnessing, routine attendance, church-influenced theatre, it’s all set me back. It’s instantly made me feel like an adolescent, not the least of which is because this is someone I’ve known since adolescence.

I think despite her good intentions, all it does is make me feel like a kid again. And that tends to rebellion. It’s the opposite of responsibility in my mind. 

Why can’t I just get to grow up? Saying No would really come in handy today, huh?

It also feels, to be honest, quite invasive. I see her and I feel instantly less holy, less genuine…you know Southern Baptists have always put so much stock in social standing and faith-based convictions and above all, they have mastered, far more than my Jewish side of the family has, the Art of Likable Guilt. (By likable, I merely mean it’s couched so sweetly and comes often from an elder which makes it nearly impossible to refute…at least publicly). Truth is, I don’t feel like a Southern Baptist anymore…I don’t agree with that denomination, and trying to separate from it has been a little like what I’d imagine squealing on the Mafia would be like.

Helen: housewife and heathen. And a Pisces.

I hate it. I hate that entire feeling. It’s like a residue that can’t be scraped from the stucco. And so now, I’m sitting here feeling awful about feeling this way…wondering when I became an evil person who turned so far from his upbringing that he can’t even see his own shadow anymore. I just hate it.

I hate it. I hate it. I hate it. I hate it. I hate it.

How do you grow up when you’re done growing?

Answer me that…while I say a little prayer.

*Amen*

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