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Theater of the Absurd

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By Julie Crosby

My dog, Jojo, freaked out on September 11. Within an hour of the second tower's collapsing at the World Trade Center, Jojo had successfully gnawed off a good chunk of his tail. We live a mile and a half from ground zero, so perhaps he felt the earth move, or he sensed the raging fear, or he smelled death. I know I did.

In the weeks that followed -- while my dog howled and my city mourned -- I attempted to prepare my curriculum vitae and cover letter for the academic job market. As I wrote in my first column, I've been working as a theater manager by night and pursuing my Ph.D. in medieval literature the rest of the time. Now, as I searched for my first tenure-track job, the application deadlines were looming. I needed to soldier on. As it turned out, writing my CV proved to be an incredibly cathartic experience. I laughed. I cried. I was totally relieved when it was over. Here was the sequence of my emotions:

Mirth: The first major category on any academic CV is "Education." OK. Let's face it. How long have I been attending school? And yet, after taking so many courses on 12th-century romance, after writing so many essays on five minutes in literary history, and after so many hours wishing the stacks were better lit, I truly know nothing of importance.

What is the difference between the F-14 and the F-16? Whom do I call for a Cipro prescription? How many members of Al Qaeda does it take to screw up a country? It seemed to me that listing my educational accomplishments on a CV was something of a joke. Sure, I have a wall covered with diplomas, a drawer full of awards, and an incalculable student loan debt, but I am appallingly ignorant about this new world chaos.

Guilt: Next I was supposed to list my "Teaching Experience." My recent encounters in the classroom had proved overwhelming. On September 13, I had made my way up to Columbia University to teach the "Great Books" course. On the day of the attacks, we were supposed to finish Homer's Iliad. A mere 48 hours later, our oldest epic -- a story of humans coping with death and replacing anger with compassion -- resonated with a profundity that I had never experienced in the classroom. This singular occasion made all previous student-teacher encounters seem superficial. I briefly considered converting to Catholicism so that I could ritually atone for my prior pedagogic posturing.

Angst: Describing my "Teaching Interests" on my CV gave me the jitters. I could not possibly justify my desire to conduct a feminist study of drama from the Quem Quaeritis through Shakespeare. How many women in Afghanistan have ever even seen a play? Do they really need lessons in misogynistic trends in the theater? Surely my feminist impulses were wholly misdirected.

And it was just plain ridiculous to plan a course in professional American theater and international touring management. I was regularly hearing the horror stories from my managerial colleagues on Broadway: Ticket sales were plummeting, producers were demanding huge cuts in union personnel salaries, and closing notices were being posted faster than anthrax-laced mail. It seemed unlikely that students would be rushing to join the ranks of the unemployed in the theater world. Perhaps I would be better off if I expressed a profound interest in teaching "The Theater of War."

Anger: I reached the "Languages" category on my CV, and I began cursing those countless years spent in French classes, learning to compliment a perky girl named Paulette on her beautiful blue beret. Oh, blast it! At the very least, Paulette could have been wearing a gas mask or donating blood to the Red Cross. I needed a wartime vocabulary, not a fashion statement.

And how on earth would Latin, Provençal, and other arcane medieval tongues help me now? Would a vague proficiency in the lyrics of the troubadours assist the country in its search for the evildoers? Could I bring about peace and tolerance if I quoted the venerable Bede in Latin? I am quite sure there was a good reason that I never considered learning Arabic or Urdu, but that reason was lost in a sea of resentment toward perky Paulette.

My resentment quickly turned to exhaustion. So many emotions, so little to show for them. I printed out my CV and took a nap. This proved to be a bad idea, since I dreamed that I went to an MLA job interview and wept uncontrollably throughout it while wearing only my fuzzy-bunny slippers. I awoke feeling fairly confident that I would never, ever get a job. Seeking solace, I shared a pint of strawberry Haagen-Dazs with my dog, who promptly threw up once the carton was empty.

Maybe it was Jojo's visceral display of sympathy, or maybe it was too much sugar, but I suddenly felt revived enough to tackle the cover letter. I had already combed through the job listings and determined that an infinite number of universities are in search of scholars who possess expertise that I clearly lack. But should that stop me from applying? Is it not possible that -- after reading my letter -- search committees all over America will discover that they really want a managerial medievalist rather than another postmodernist? Is it not proved that the more you gamble, the more likely you are to win? And given the times, is it not my patriotic duty to send out vast quantities of mail?

In the euphoria that accompanies any string of inane rhetorical questions, I typed "Dear Most Praiseworthy Search Committee Member" and smiled. The words were flowing. I would pound out a paragraph or two on the brilliance of my dissertation. I would write prosaically yet concisely about my pedagogic vision. I would report in my most humble voice on my theatrical accomplishments. I would prevail. I just knew it.

In this new age, in this uncertain time, I think it is impossible to sustain any one emotion, good or bad. As quickly as I had whipped myself into a fanciful delusion, I came plummeting back down to reality. On the streets below, sirens began roaring -- I count the number whenever I hear them now in a vain attempt to ascertain the severity of the situation -- and I rushed to tune in CNN. The cover letter still sits unfinished in a file. I hope that there will be another moment of optimism when I can confidently convince search committee members of my relevance. I hope that the moment comes sooner than the deadlines. I hope, but meanwhile, my dog chews his tail, my city licks its wounds, and I feel more than I ever imagined.