EPH HEADED BACK down the hall to his office. He wasn’t sure what to make of the meeting, other than that keeping his mouth shut had seemed the sensible thing. Treating college students like coddled babies didn’t strike him as the best idea, but this was no time to tilt at windmills. He would keep his head down and teach.
The other day, Devon’s newly formed Committee on Art in Public Spaces had used plywood boards to cover up part of a monument dedicated to Devon students who had lost their lives in the Civil War—but only the half with names of the Confederate students. Planks of wood literally covered up half of this beautiful bronze plaque. You could stand against racism and slavery, Eph reasoned, but still think some of this was overwrought.
Eph certainly thought of himself as a progressive, and by the standards of the Deep South, he certainly was. He hated guns, was supportive of abortion rights and the environment, and so on. Mostly, his politics were representative of what they weren’t: the gun-toting, pickup-driving, shit-talking, revival-tent world of his youth. If progressive was the opposite of that, then that’s what he was. But something about the latest winds blowing through campus had a dark edge, as if a subtle transition were going on from the American Revolution to the French. Devon had no shortage of Robespierre wannabes. Maybe when he had tenure, he would express these thoughts more. For right now, though, he didn’t care much one way or the other about the political winds, be they blowing from the left or right. Politics would come and go, but literature was forever.
“Hello?”
Someone was knocking gently on his open door. It was his four o’clock, the girl who wanted to talk about her paper. He immediately recognized her, now matching the face with the name. She was the striking girl who normally sat on the left and didn’t speak much. She was one of the few frequently late for class, he recalled.
“Come in, Miss … Harris. Have a seat.”
Lulu shut the door.
“Uh, would you mind just keeping that open a bit? School policy.” Eph recalled this point made rather emphatically in his HR training. Lulu opened the door about six inches and sat down in the chair next to Eph’s desk. Eph didn’t like to put the visitor’s chair on the far side of the desk because he felt it made him too intimidating, less accessible. Not that he felt intimidating, but he remembered his own reluctance around teachers when he was younger. “What can I do for you today?”
“Well, first I wanted to say just how much I enjoy your class. It’s my favorite. I find it … stimulating.”
“Thank you.” That’s nice. A bit suck-uppy, but nice.
“I wanted to ask about my paper. I was thinking about contrasting the role of women as depicted by the Realists and the Romantics.”
“Excellent idea.”
“For my Realist, I thought I would go with Louisa May Alcott.”
“Another great idea. She wrote about very spirited, independent women. Do you know she was from Massachusetts and actually grew up around Emerson, Hawthorne, and Thoreau? Right there you have an interesting angle.”
“Well, that’s where I’m having trouble. Women in the Realist era I get. Writers like Alcott portrayed strong women who defied the conventions of society to pursue their own dreams. But the Romantics portrayed them as either succubus bitches or silent sheep who served at the pleasure of their men. Or as victims to be chopped up, like with Poe. And Thoreau apparently didn’t think women existed at all.”
Eph chuckled and was impressed with Lulu’s breezy knowledge of the subject, not considering the information that fifteen minutes with Google might confer. “So what’s the issue?”
“Which Romantic do I pick? Their women were so much less interesting.”
“I think you already answered your own question. The Romantics’ views were not monolithic. Just a second ago you listed at least four approaches they had toward women. Pick one and run with it, although you’re right about Thoreau—he may not give you much material.”
“What about Emerson?”
“Emerson was quite progressive for the time. There may not be enough contrast there for an interesting paper, but you’re welcome to try.”
“You like Emerson, don’t you?”
“One of my favorites, yes,” Eph replied.
“Alcott was in love with him, wasn’t she?”
“It’s true. Thoreau as well.”
“And they were both much older men, weren’t they?”
“Yes, in Emerson’s case, three decades.”
“How interesting.” Lulu leaned forward, smiling slightly, right at Eph.
The sudden shift in the mood made him uncomfortable. Why is she looking at me like that? “Well, I have a five o’clock, so…”
“It’s four-fifteen,” said Lulu.
“Uh, yes, I know, but I have to, you know, prepare.”
“Okay, Professor. Thanks for your help.”
She left, but just before she did, she winked.
What is it with winks around here? He was pretty sure this one was different from Titus Cooley’s avuncular wink. Was he still attractive to a girl that age? The thought pleased him.