COLUMN: A misuse of professorial power

From Karen Pasternack's, "Effective Immediately," Fall '97 From Karen Pasternack's, "Effective Immediately," Fall '97 The floor of Williams Hall is cold today. I have been sitting on these marble floors for I don't know how long. In class, he told me to be here at 10 a.m. sharp. "Women always take too much time getting ready in the morning," was his scholarly offering for me yesterday. As I wait, I only hear the tap, tap, tapping of heels as students and professors walk by. I don't even have to be here, I think to myself. I know I'm competent enough to write this paper. After all, I'm a junior. Hell, I'm a second-semester junior. If I can't write a decent paper by this point in my University career, I might as well get a refund. I hear the squeak of the office door. His face appears. He nods in my direction and motions with his hand. It's finally my turn to have a voice. "How are you?" I ask sweetly, trying to be polite. "Fine, my dear. Just fine." He answers succinctly. "My dear, those are really some interesting jeans you're wearing. Where's the rest of them?" Why is he referring to my slightly ripped jeans, I wonder. Is he trying to be humorous? I guess I'll just change the subject. "So, what did you think of my paper?" I sit down next to his desk. "Ah, yes, my dear. The paper." He slides his swivel chair next to mine, casually pushing my thigh over to make room for his leg. "Well, it's not bad, not bad." His words go through me. I am concentrating on what just happened. Was that an accident, a momentary lapse? But the queasy feeling in my stomach told me otherwise. Just forget about it and move on, I tell myself. I came here for his help, after all. "Well, for example, what do you think I could work on? You see, I'm trying to argue that the story doesn't represent?" "Yes, yes, I know what you're trying to say, sweetie. It's just that you're writing, it's, it's," he pauses, scrunching up his face as if he's looking for the right words. "It's just not on the level it should be." "Well, it's a rough draft. I mean it's not meant to be perfect. So, getting back to my argument. Do you have any suggestions about how I could expand it?" Why isn't he listening to me? He's looking at my face, but he doesn't seem to hear my voice. Am I not communicating my point well enough? I feel my body slouching in frustration. "Sweetie, it worries me that someone like you could get to this point at Penn and still write this way." "What way?" I don't doubt that this isn't in the best shape. In fact, I'm an advocate of rough drafts, but what's with that look in his eyes as if to say, "I think you're not good enough." And why does he keep calling me "sweetie?" I'm not his sweetie. I'm not anyone's sweetie, especially not a professor's. It's not the worst name I've ever been called, and yet the sound of it is stirring up anger from every region in my brain. Why don't I call him "sweetie" and see how he likes it? "It's going to be all right, sweetie. No need to worry, my dear. I can teach you a lot. Oh, here's your paper. Read over the remarks, then come back tomorrow, and we can discuss the issue further." He is standing over me now. His left hand rests on my shoulder, wanders down, caresses my back. His eyes peering down at me, piercing through me. Perhaps summing me up, or wondering what more he can expect from me next time. I want to say thanks for nothing. Thanks for making me feel like an incompetent idiot. But instead I hear myself say "Thanks, thanks for your time." Where is that precocious voice I've earned through my years at Penn? At least the door is looking more appealing. I make my exit, quickly, dodging his hands, his eyes, wanting to be out of that space. He says "see you later sweetie, and remember to wear clothes next time," followed by a chuckle. But I am shaking my head, clenching my teeth in a frenzy. Terrified of what I've just encountered. That I am only 20 years old and this is the beginning of my life as a woman. And this is not how I want to begin, what I want to look forward to when I leave this world for another one. What right does he have to laugh at me, to make me feel as though I should be apologetic for my femineity? Since when does the University have a dress code? I deserve to be treated like a person whether I'm in ripped jeans or a skirt to my ankles. Why must he let me in his space only to torment me? Or perhaps he thinks I'm asking for it. After all, I am a woman. I have breasts and hips so it doesn't matter what's in my mind, what kind of ideals I have or that I'm a hard worker. Am I inherently weaker to him because of the sexuality he perceives in my smile? Is the exposure of my flesh just an expression of my feminine weakness? I need to get out of this building, away from the feeling that my form has trapped me into a responsibility I am not equipped to handle on my own. But already I am thinking of a recourse.