The score stands William James, 3, Spider Man, 22; while beyond the classroom windows rain falls hard enough to deck a turtle. Across the small quadrangle of the small college Kate stands at the window o f her own classroom. She wrinkles her face, seems to be stamping her foot, and then she signals ‘time. ’ It is football season, road season, monsoon November. Daylight fades. I nod to Kate, then turn back to the class. “Three of you have done well on James and his Varieties of Religious Experience. You now have mortal lock on heaven.” The three Jamesians shuffle papers and look uncomfortable. One is a sailor, one a sa ilo r ’s wife, and the third a shipyard worker. This is Olympic College in Bremerton, Washington. Some members of this class serve on Trident submarines. “Twenty-two comic book readers have not completed the assignment. You do not know that God is a banana, Chiquita is the virgin mother, and all chimpanzees are high priests. No other creature suffe rs a banana so well as does a chimpanzee.” P u z z lem e n t . E x c e s s iv e p ap e r shuffling. “To atone,” I tell the unhappy twenty- two, “ after finishing the James, you either report on the autobiography of Herbert Spencer, or write about Thomas M e r to n ’s essay on e x is ten t ia l ism . Spencer’s autobiography is a thousand pages long and ugly. I advise the Merton. Papers are due a week from Wednesday. The three of you are to read anything— a n y th in g—th a t you en joy . C lass dismissed.” Walking through the northwest rain (Seattle is across Puget Sound, twenty miles eastward in the mist) I watch Kate's small figure half trot, half dance between puddles. Kate wears a red coat that is not quite long enough to cover her blue skirt. She wears a white scarf. If I tell her she looks like a a flag waving in the storm, she will pop me squarely and I will have it coming. She is brilliant, pretty and thirty- nine. I am tall, bearded, obtuse and fifty- three. We share a common mission. We are gypsy scholars, circuit riders, itinerants of a gospel, missionaries in English—or in math, social science, history— “ Exactly like John Wesley,” Kate claims, “ except I’m flogging a ‘70 Dodge instead of a friggin’ horse.” Peripatetics, jack-in-the-box intellectuals carrying no fewer than forty lesson plans in our heads at all times, teachers for all seasons. The people who employ the tens of thousands of us across this country call us part-time faculty. The people who employ us are only moderately aware that, collectively, the Kates and Larrys and Janets of this trade are rather wonderful—lean and agile academic cats. At the cafeteria Kate—shown here slightly disguised so she will not get canned—carries two cups of coffee from the serving line. She is smirking and wicked, brown skinned and warm as Jamaica. Her face is narrow, her eyes wide and filled with sass. I know the signs. Kate and I exchange bad sentences, as English teachers have done for centuries; it being one of the few fringe benefits. “ It’s true that there’s a crisis in education,” she says, “ because this week I’m having it.” Wide grin. “ Top this. ‘He should not have and also everybody agrees ought never took his guns to town like his momma says he shouldn't.’ ” “Your student, Erasma,” I say. “ I love her.” I search my flagging memory. Reach for something worthy. “ The best-worst I’ve had lately was: ‘He tripped and fell in it pretty good.’ ” Around us students sit, slurping coffee, chain smoking. This used to be one of the best colleges in these parts, and still has one of the best student bodies— blacks, Japanese, Chicanos, Samoans, American Indians, whites in a variety of flavors, black hair, brown hair, green hair punk. These students are realists. They are Navy people, shipyard workers, hungry for education because they want the hell out. Get their attention and they work like chipping hammers. But, you have to get their attention. A few years ago Olympic College had one of the best English departments in the west. It had one of the best music departments. Then, as happened in most of the west, people retired, people We are gypsy scholars, circuit riders, missionaries in English—“ Exact/y like John Wesley,” Kate claims, “ except I'm flogging a '70 Dodge instead o f a friggin’ horse. ” took other jobs; but were not replaced. Former Governor Spellman decided not to waive the higher non-resident tuition for military people. Governor Gardner seems hell bent on trashing the community colleges. Enrollments have crashed. Now Olympic College—which I loved since we first met—depends heavily on part-time faculty. Fine teachers are being turned into exhausted teachers; the exhaustion coming not only from work, but from lack of support. In the past five years four full-time English faculty have left. None have been replaced. Four people constitute more than a third of that former English department. That once championship music department now has only two teachers, both choral. This college could hire Kate who is a superb teacher. Students with broken legs get out of bed to attend her classes. Olympic College pizzles along from one year to the next, certain that if Kate is hired elsewhere she can be replaced, maybe by someone mediocre. It drives the permanent faculty nuts. It drives Kate nuts. The story of this college is the story of a great many other colleges. What continually fascinates me is that it is also the story of the gypsy scholar. “Where are you headed,” I ask Kate. I have my own schedule taped to the dashboard of the car. “ I turn Seattle, Tacoma tomorrow, back here come Wednesday, turn Seattle Wednesday night, Tacoma Thursday.” She smiles, just barely. “And here it is, only November.” “Are we having fun?” “ I had an affair once,” Kate says wistfully. “ Back when I wasn’t so busy. As affairs go it wasn’t much, but I’m finding that I miss it.” She slurps at the coffee, checks her watch. I wait for the parting shot, because parting shots are the only kind she has time to deliver. “ Henry James and William James were not biologically related,” she tells me severely. “Your assignment is to figure out who was the foundling.” Then she is gone, briefcase swinging, red coat diving into the rain and mist to disappear gradually like a fading spot of fluorescence. A guy sits down at my table. It is getting pretty dark out there, Soon it will be time to get into the car and head for the main road. By the end of the week I’ ll have driven 700 miles and taught five classes for 15 contact hours (in the classroom) at Clinton St. Quarterly 33
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