understood was that he was miserable, the well-known poet was miserable, even the department chairman was miserable and, after graciously footing the bill for us all, tried to force his tongue deep down my girlfriendâs throat while dry humping her against the side of her car, telling her, telling everyone within half a mile who couldnât help but hear his plaintive blubbering, that his wife taught at Bennington while he was stuck at a state college and she was sleeping with a physicist from Dartmouth. Iâm pretty sure it was that night that I decided not to pursue a teaching career.
Some years after graduating, however, it was difficult to pass up the promise of money available for an assignment with an intriguing job title, Artist-in-Residence, as if there were grants for hanging out in my apartment. The theory was that the creative world of public school children, circumscribed by rigid syllabi and teachers who were at best well-meaning dilettantes, would be broadened by contact with working artists. Poets, in my experience, do particularly well at stints in the
schools because children rarely speak in complete sentences anyway. Likewise dancers: how hard is it to play a CD and watch them twirl around the classroom? As a novelist whose own small reputation came by way of an autobiographical novel with frankly sexual material I doubted I had anything suitable to offer but was encouraged to apply by an arts administrator who assured me that children could learn self-esteem and advanced language skills by interacting with arts ambassadors who sowed the seeds of aesthetic expression by duplicating their creative ritual in the classroom. I was not naïve. I knew this was pure grant-speak and that I could not possibly be paid for drinking three mugs of black coffee and spending an hour on the toilet reading newspapers, which constituted my usual creative ritual. But I convinced myself of the educational impact of observing a real novelist at work, albeit an activity with all the attendant drama of a sea cow grazing in a shallow Florida river.
Getting the job would not be easy. The pay was first rate at the time, more than double what I made waiting tables, but the interview was like a cut-throat gong show for desperate MFAs. Here were dancers in leotards, a slam poet in a dashiki , and a cowboy songwriter with a harmonica and guitar; a photographer in a khaki safari vest and bush hat, a storyteller with a cockatoo on his shoulder, and a basket weaver from Nantucket with a leather bagful of black ash splints. With five minutes allotted each applicant I knew from the start I hadnât a
chance. I had drawn number twenty-two and took the stage only to stare into the weary faces of fifty school principals stealing glances at their watches. I couldnât have pleased them more than if Iâd screamed Fire! and given us all an excuse to bolt. With that in mind, I didnât read the piece I had prepared, an insipid story about my cat that in itself begged the issue of my suitability for a job in the schoolsâhis name was Jim Beamâand resigned myself to a quick exit. âIâve written some plays,â I said, âIâm working on my second novel now. My first one was published by a small press but we did sell the movie rights to Universal.â I immediately sensed a sudden stirring, a faint invigoration of interest. âMy agent is working on a deal for me to write the screenplay.â
They began shuffling forward in order to hear. Some even raised their hands with questions. It was as if fifty glazed doughnuts became faces with eyes and ears. It took me a moment to comprehend the change, but the other artists understood. Their expressions cried, Unfair! I hadnât pretended to any expertise in working with children, as had been the strategy of their dog-and-pony shows, but accidently connected with the fantasies of the people who did the hiring. Ambitious bureaucrats whose careers
Some years after graduating, however, it was difficult to pass up the promise of money available for an assignment with an intriguing job title, Artist-in-Residence, as if there were grants for hanging out in my apartment. The theory was that the creative world of public school children, circumscribed by rigid syllabi and teachers who were at best well-meaning dilettantes, would be broadened by contact with working artists. Poets, in my experience, do particularly well at stints in the
schools because children rarely speak in complete sentences anyway. Likewise dancers: how hard is it to play a CD and watch them twirl around the classroom? As a novelist whose own small reputation came by way of an autobiographical novel with frankly sexual material I doubted I had anything suitable to offer but was encouraged to apply by an arts administrator who assured me that children could learn self-esteem and advanced language skills by interacting with arts ambassadors who sowed the seeds of aesthetic expression by duplicating their creative ritual in the classroom. I was not naïve. I knew this was pure grant-speak and that I could not possibly be paid for drinking three mugs of black coffee and spending an hour on the toilet reading newspapers, which constituted my usual creative ritual. But I convinced myself of the educational impact of observing a real novelist at work, albeit an activity with all the attendant drama of a sea cow grazing in a shallow Florida river.
Getting the job would not be easy. The pay was first rate at the time, more than double what I made waiting tables, but the interview was like a cut-throat gong show for desperate MFAs. Here were dancers in leotards, a slam poet in a dashiki , and a cowboy songwriter with a harmonica and guitar; a photographer in a khaki safari vest and bush hat, a storyteller with a cockatoo on his shoulder, and a basket weaver from Nantucket with a leather bagful of black ash splints. With five minutes allotted each applicant I knew from the start I hadnât a
chance. I had drawn number twenty-two and took the stage only to stare into the weary faces of fifty school principals stealing glances at their watches. I couldnât have pleased them more than if Iâd screamed Fire! and given us all an excuse to bolt. With that in mind, I didnât read the piece I had prepared, an insipid story about my cat that in itself begged the issue of my suitability for a job in the schoolsâhis name was Jim Beamâand resigned myself to a quick exit. âIâve written some plays,â I said, âIâm working on my second novel now. My first one was published by a small press but we did sell the movie rights to Universal.â I immediately sensed a sudden stirring, a faint invigoration of interest. âMy agent is working on a deal for me to write the screenplay.â
They began shuffling forward in order to hear. Some even raised their hands with questions. It was as if fifty glazed doughnuts became faces with eyes and ears. It took me a moment to comprehend the change, but the other artists understood. Their expressions cried, Unfair! I hadnât pretended to any expertise in working with children, as had been the strategy of their dog-and-pony shows, but accidently connected with the fantasies of the people who did the hiring. Ambitious bureaucrats whose careers
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