The Humanities Building Has Lost Its Humanity
Achievement Subjects
Try your hardest, be your best, the only competition is yourself. Every time I beat me, I win and every time I win, I lose. When the person in the mirror thinks it’s time to quit, I take a cold look in the hard mirror. How could I let that loser win? Smoke plumes over the basketball courts. For weeks the groundskeepers gathered all the fallen leaves. In the center of the bonfire, a paper-mâché goat hung slightly above the flames by a rope tied to the end of a hydraulic arm bolted to the bed of a blue maintenance truck. Tossing leaves in the air from baskets in their arms, six neon-yellow-vested groundskeepers dance around and flames lick the legs of the paper-mâché goat. Every so often a groundskeeper wearing a long green visor and flower patterned vinyl arm coverings vanishes into the burning pyre. As I approach the humanities building, behind the flame reflection licking the glass, a feeble administrator with parted hair licking his lips and a middle-aged administrator with updo hair laughing, tears rolling down her cheeks. How many of the groundskeepers have died? Several students at the edge of the basketball courts smoke cigarettes and spit between the spit and butts already on the ground. A student munching on an uncut roll of kimbap, sitting alone on a nearby bench, head down, face blue, staring down into their phone screen. The ancient history professor, who usually passes me without regard, remarks unsolicited, our gems have been corrupted. He fuddles around with his scarf. Speed addicts, their feet moving too fast to touch the ground, when they land, they are out of joint, history chopped, sampled, remixed, barely recognizable. Blip blip blip. He makes a blipping gesture with his good hand. We are feedlings for capital’s voidmouth. The history professor had recently been put on probation. He did not meet the annual research point quota. When I was younger I saw them as sprouts, he says, with the right amount of water and sunlight, I believed they could become trees. What if, I say, you could imagine your disconnection from the students as a launchpad for self-discovery. If you could look deep inside yourself you might find something in common with them. If not in your present state, perhaps in your youth. . . . Aha, a lightbulb moment, the history professor grabs my shoulder. Your ears are wet. I feel behind my ears. Two small oceans blow surf onto my neck. A tiny whale surfaces. It shoots mist out its blowhole and onto my back hair. Now I know what you know, I say to the history professor. And I understand nothing.
The University President Attends a Special Exhibition Commemorating the Life of the University President at the Museum Named After the University President
When the university president walks down the red-carpeted staircase to the opening ceremony of the special exhibition commemorating the life of the university president at the museum named after the university president, the administrator team stationed in the side aisles give the physical cue and the gathered humanities professors stand up and bow ninety degrees. Several white-dressed hotel management and tourism students place flower bouquets in front of the podium next to the red ribbon across the exhibition entrance. Say what you want about the KGB, the Russian studies professor whispers, but doesn’t finish his sentence. The chancellor administrator, head deputy of the board of directors, and regent serving dean of confections and cutlery walk to the podium. We live in tumultuous times, the chancellor administrator begins, when the political apparatus is stretching the social fabric so tightly around the national body you can hear the little threads snap. He makes scissor fingers with his hands. Snap. Snap. He cuts air with his hands. Some professor-slash-administrators seated in the front row nod. Some slowly clap. Our university family gathers to honor our shepherd. He has been a light in the tower, shining on the harvest fruit and semesterly nuts. Due to his warmth, we blossom. Some professors in the back poke at their phones. The chancellor administrator continues, in this museum named after the university president, to mark the opening of this special exhibition commemorating the life of the university president, I now have the distinct honor of welcoming the university president. The classical ensemble of music professors seated beside the podium begin playing Bach’s Der Herr denket an uns and the university’s publicity team photographers flash, snap, flash, snap, and while the university president is handed a giant brass pair of scissors by a hotel management and tourism student in a white dress, while he approaches the ribbon across the entrance to the special exhibition commemorating the life of the university president, while he cuts the red ribbon, while he pauses to take photos shaking hands with each administrator in front of the cut ribbon, and even while he walks back up the red carpeted staircase to the exit of the museum named after the university president, the administrator team stationed in the side aisles, university logo pins on their lapels, continue to cue to the professors. Stand and clap and stand and clap.
