MORNING: "Intensification"
"Something urgent?"
"No." I caught John's eye and realised that he might've grasped that I was frantically putting the phone away when he entered the room. Guilt entered the picture. I forced myself into greater composure. "Something at home. No big deal," I calmed the waters.
A few seconds of hesitation. His eyebrows went down. "Alright." He pulled a chair to sit opposite me. I watched him intently, waiting for the purpose of his visit to be revealed.
He took a break. "Alright. There is no other way to say this. There have been complaints about you."
Dead silence seemed to follow that statement, instantly and temporarily wiping out any memory of the morning rendez-vous and the digital exchanges later. "What? Who?" was all I manged to utter. His countenance was serious enough to suggest this wasn't a minor thing he was bringing up.
"Apparently two students claiming that the content and the manner in which you conduct your lectures denies them, quote unquote, their lived experience."
I would've gone paler on my face. My muscles felt tenser suddenly and I couldn't tell whether this was due to the implications I knew this news would bear for me professionally or because of how angry it was instantly making me.
"Excuse me?" Dead silence again. "Is this a joke?" More silence and attempts at averting looking at me. "What specifically are you talking about?" This was not a question, really, but a counter-attack on my part. "Hold on—Why are you telling me this? You're not my superior."
"The Dean is otherwise engaged at the moment." Ok, so now I had a bullet-proof piece of evidence that this was serious enough.
"I need to know more about these accusations. Who exactly is complaining and what is it about?"
"I don't actually know much about it. I was simply asked to communicate to you—" he hesitated, and it was clear that it brought him no pleasure to do so. "Communicate to you," he went on nonetheless, "that you are required to attend a disciplinary meeting headed by Dean Withers, Dr Cortez and Dr Carruthers tomorrow morning at 9am." He was now looking down at his feet, avoiding eye contact. "You'll receive a formal letter in your pigeonhole by the end of the day."
My mouth went dry and lost the ability to speak for a moment. "I am sorry," he said. "You don't deserve this." However he wished this to come across, it sounded like a death penalty.
He rose without a word and took the steps between the desk and the door. He stopped there and opened his mouth to say something, but visibly changed his mind. I was on my own a few seconds later.
I clenched my fists as the world swirled around me. Rage and confusion reigned supreme. No information, no formal anything, and being informed by a third party nothing to do with anything. Wasn't this just typical of this place! And the idea that I'd be outnumbered 3 to 1 in the meeting on the following day topped it all up.
Some "offended" young mind decided to be "appalled", I was sure, that some part of history of Stalinism, suggesting that others in history before his or her life had suffered more than the life she had, was denying her oppressed life. I had no way of knowing this now, but I was certain some part of the debate was taken in the wrong way by someone, and the university supported them in this. Geez.
I don't know how long I sat there, raging in the empty room, trying to rake my memories for what this could've been, in this mist-like deranged state of mind. It could be 5 minutes or 30 minutes.
"Fuck," I eventually cursed under my breath. It was dawning on me that it would've been one of the group I had just taught who had voiced that "grievance" to the university's authorities. This likely explained the bizarrely good behaviour today during that session. They probably knew already they were about to get their revenge.
