Teaching in a university is no different compared to any other educational setting, except everything is politically charged.
When it comes to navigating the minefield of political correctness I feel more and more out of place lately.
Most days I feel caught up in some medieval tale about women’s place in society—and for that, I blame Temperance Alexander.
Temperance reminds me of the Wife of Bath—she wants to rule men and is perennially concerned with women’s rights and gender issues.
She has a woodcut on her office wall depicting Alexander the Great’s wife, riding bareback on the hapless Aristotle. Now you tell me, what does that prove—that women trump reason because they always play the sex card?
All of this is a preamble to my particular tale of woe.
My family has an illustrious history dating back to 1066. I recall my uncle telling me tales of our ancestors serving the monarchy as knights and the importance of manhood:
“Just as the knight rules his horse, Richard, you too must rule over circumstances and never to defer to a woman.”
That piece of advice kept me in good stead until just recently—actually, until I accepted a position teaching Literature under the Chairmanship of Temperance Alexander.
Right from the start, our relationship was nasty.
“You’ll have to revise this booklist,” she tells me.
“Excuse me?” I fix her with my frostiest glare.
“There are no strong women depicted as heroines—change it.”
I feel the crimson tide creeping up my neck. “I will do no such thing.”
“Why—are you a male chauvinist?”
I’m sitting in the faculty lounge, digging my fingernails into the soft leather arm of my chair, rather than obeying my blood and raking my nails across her smug face.
Why the hell do beautiful women always have to ride some political hobbyhorse?
“I can’t change the booklist, Temperance—it’s already been published and in the hands of the students.
Besides, the Tudor era was not exactly a hotbed of feminism and I am teaching Tudor Prose and Poetry.”
“Is that why you chose that era?”
I wanted to do her mischief, but the damnable truth was, she looked especially lovely when she was angry.
Either I was losing my mind, or my analyst was right and I was struggling with yet another approach-avoidance issue.
“Hrmph,” she said, convinced she won her point and huffed out of the room.
“You seem to be smitten by Temperance’s beauty,” Tom McFarland observed. Tom was a medievalist and of all people, he should have been the first to defend me.
“I was merely being diplomatic, Tom—I’m not blind to her beauty, but that was not the issue here.”
Tom’s a redheaded Scotsman with a thick shock of hair and a full red beard. At this moment, he sits pensively, staring at me and pulling at the aforementioned bristles.
“Aye, you are smitten—it’s a plain as the daft look on your face.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I parry, but feel my face coloring—daft or not.
“You are like Jason swooning to the Siren’s call—I’m sure you recall the story. His crew had to lash him to the mast of the ship.”
“Look, I admit Temperance is beautiful—anyone who has eyes can see that.”
“Aye, she is gorgeous, but she’s singing a song only you can hear. She wants to make you over, Richard—make you perfect, before she’ll love you.It’ll all be on her terms.”
I sighed. He had a point. Lately, I had been thinking the same thing. It seemed every time Temperance and I talked, she’d use her charms to try to sway me to see things her way.
“If she wants me to be perfect, she’ll be waiting a long time.”
“She has all the time in the world, Richard. She’ll just outwait you until you see things her way.”
I thought about that. “Maybe you’re right—maybe I need to love her more perfectly, then we’ll be happy.”
“You are mad, Boy!”
Ruby, the Caribbean custodian, had stopped her dusting and was staring at me, arms akimbo and mouth open in shock at what I had just said.
Tom roared laughing. “You should listen to another woman’s viewpoint, Richard, lest you end up a submissive fool.”
I felt chastened, but indignant—I didn’t care what others said, I was not about to become a doormat to Temperance or, for that matter, another Aristotle, offering my back for her to ride.
“Just watch, Tom—I’ll not be browbeaten by a woman—even if she’s as beautiful as Temperance.”
“I’ll be watching, Richard, and rooting for you to hold up the male side with some semblance of dignity, Man.”
I puffed up my chest, stuck out my chin and prayed my quivering innards wouldn't betray my doubts.
