Chapter 71
— Chapter 71 —
When I went to talk to my American History professor about my Old Bet paper, I had a swirl of hope and fear churning in my stomach. I’d realized by then that declaring American history to be a lie was probably not the way to win at college. But I went because I was eager to talk with someone about what I’d learned. I held vestigial awe for the institutions I’d been taught to worship and believed that being a professor must mean that at his core Dr. Hutchinson loved ideas. I wanted our meeting to be like the kind of movie where the cantankerous professor bonds with his firebrand student and they both learn important lessons about life. I wanted the lessons. I wanted to understand. By the time I got to his office, hope was winning.
“Ah, yes, Miss Arnalds,” Dr. Hutchinson said when I knocked on his open office door. “I see you got my note.” It sounded like he was reading from the script of what a professor would say in a meeting with a failing student. “Have a seat.”
The chair was too close to his desk, and when I pulled it away, the legs made a horrible scraping sound on the floor. Dr. Hutchinson looked at me, nodding, as if he saw everything he needed to understand the full picture of me, and I felt the kind of failed-math-quiz-missed-homework embarrassment I carried around all through high school.
“I’m going to do you the favor of not grading your paper,” he said. “If you’d like to put time into actually researching your subject, I will give you the grace of reading that paper. But my advice? Pick a topic that allows you to secure the facts.”
My embarrassment was quickly drowned by rage bubbling through my veins. “Whose facts?” I asked, my voice disembodied, like someone else in the room was saying the words. That person had the courage to confront this man in front of his framed PhD and his wall of important-looking books, and I was awed by her.
Dr. Hutchinson narrowed his brow in a way that made him look both annoyed and amused. I wondered if he practiced that look in the mirror or if condescension came naturally to him.
“Are you going to continue harping on this elephant mythology nonsense, Miss Arnalds? Because I assure you that’s a waste of time for both of us. Obviously, the pertinent historical perspective revolves around the man, not the elephant.”
“But why?”
Dr. Hutchinson snorted. “Why? Miss Arnalds, I assure you from my perspective, whatever point you’re attempting to make is not the zinger you believe it to be.”
“No,” I said, feeling a twinge in my nose, willing myself not to cry. “I am asking because I want to know. Because I don’t understand. Why is a man more important than an elephant?”
Dr. Hutchinson’s laugh was gross and phlegmy, adding droplets to the collection of toast crumbs in his beard. “Why is a man more important than an elephant? Is this a joke, young lady? Is this some sort of feminist performance art?”
No. I shook my head. No. And then my words stopped. And I pushed my chair back, making that horrible noise again. I walked out of his office and down the hall and sobbed in a stall in the women’s bathroom, feeling like my heart was trying to work its way up my throat so it didn’t have to live in my body anymore.
I didn’t write another paper with secure facts . I didn’t go back to American History at all. I failed Dr. Hutchinson’s class. Barely passed the others. When I moved out of the dorm, the only place I had to go was home, where I felt even more like a captive.
One time, I did the calculations of how much money I would have made if I’d spent those semesters waiting tables full-time instead. I could have saved up and moved to an apartment on my own that spring. Paid all my bills. Spent my days off taking the train into the city to visit the lions at the library and learn about any subject that caught my interest.
That question still bounces around my head all the time:
Why is a man more important than an elephant?
What if… , I think, again and again,… what if he isn’t?