First Person

A License to Clean

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By Julie Crosby

My Mom firmly believes that it is a genetic disorder. She calls it the family curse. Sometimes she scorns the very ground we walk on -- "so clean you could eat off it," she'll say, dexterously brandishing her artillery of Scrubbing Bubbles, Pledge, and Murphy's Oil Soap bottles. But I'm fairly convinced that bad DNA is not the cause of my latest bout of maniacal housekeeping.

It all began on Good Friday, after I had spent weeks working feverishly on the final chapters of my dissertation. Doleful organ music wafted through my windows, courtesy of the Lutheran church next door. I lit incense smelling vaguely like moldy cheese, dimmed the lights, and poured myself a sizeable glass of good Bordeaux, a truly sacred spirit if ever there was one. In this ritual setting, I printed out the defense draft of "Divas of Dark Ages: Women and Early Medieval Drama." I examined each page for smudges and creases, stacked the approved pages in the middle of my desk, and watched the pile grow. Then, quite suddenly, the printer spit out the last page. It was finished. It was done. Yes.

I began to weep. These were not pathetic whimpers; these were guttural cries that left me gasping for air. I sobbed because I felt liberated from the dissertation, and because I felt crushed by fear of its inadequacy. I sobbed because eight years of my life had been reduced to 187 pages, and because the same eight years had produced countless, positive changes within. I sobbed because the dissertation meant everything to me, and because it meant nothing at all. I sobbed until the wine was, alas, consumed. I went to bed sobbing. I sobbed in my dreams.

And then I woke up. And I was ready to clean.

The external purge began. Out damned drafts with illegible marginalia. Out wretched overdue notices from Butler Library. Out cursed Post-it Notes camouflaging the fridge, the bathroom mirror, and the photo of Mom. Out, out, out, I said. Dust bunnies were plaintively dying under the blunt force of my mop. Library books were callously deported in several giant suitcases. Coffee stains were evaporating under an acid rain of lemon oil. How potent the dust rag! How happy the Hoover's hum! How terrified the boyfriend!

I didn't stop with the dissertation detritus. I gave a big heave-ho to the stack of college catalogs and pile of rejection letters that I had collected in response to 12 applications I had sent in search of that elusive tenure-track job. Seven of the campuses sent me tidy form letters, and only one of these misspelled my name. Three universities never responded in any manner; I assume the committees are buried in their own rubbish. One private college, where I also happen to be teaching as an adjunct, decided to ignore the karmic recycling laws. They interviewed me for the job, and then didn't contact me for three months. I finally received an impersonal rejection letter (with a typo), which made it sound like I was living in Alaska and had never set foot on the campus. As if that response wasn't chilly enough, the faculty members have greeted me with cold shoulders ever since. Out, out, out went these shoddy souvenirs from my journey to nowhere.

The garbage wasn't good enough for two of the letters, both from the same private conservatory. First there was the form letter explaining that, before my application could be considered, the committee needed written confirmation that I would be willing to accept $30,000 to $31,000 a year, depending on experience, for a teaching commitment of four classes each semester. I spent some time wondering why they hadn't mentioned these conditions in their ad, and even more time trying to fathom what kind of experience was required for the high end of that profligate pay scale. I pondered these mysteries for so long that they had time to issue a second, personalized letter, wherein they giddily announced that they had found not one, but 75 candidates with far better qualifications than my own. I cackled with glee as I relegated these two letters to a small bonfire in the kitchen sink, hoping to rid my apartment of the undignified odor they emitted.

By the time Easter Sunday rolled around, I felt spick-and-span, both inside and out, but I was still itching to clean. I wanted to tackle the ivory tower itself, airing out some of the dirty laundry that seems to be piling up there. Maybe I could wash the windows so that outsiders could get a glimpse of the way adjuncts are mercilessly crucified by hydra-headed administrators, and how little hope these adjuncts have of any meaningful resurrection.

And, I thought, why stop there? We are a nation in need of deep cleaning, with so few cleaning agents capable of doing more good than harm. Indeed, too many jobs have lost their luster: Undertaker. Priest. Airport Security Screener. Butterfly Ballot Designer. Enron anything. Hey, it was bad enough when I recently realized that I'm decades too old to be an Olympic figure skater, but now it seems I can't even aspire to being a skating judge unless I'm willing to ice dance with the devil. Where does the dirt end? When will our houses be in order? Aren't there any floors so clean you could eat off them?

I don't know if I was high on Windex fumes, or simply tired of fuming, but eventually, my frenzy ended. In the weeks that followed, I watched the dust bunnies cautiously regroup in the corners of my living room while I attempted to figure out what to do with myself now that I'm officially a doctor. Surely no amount of dirt can make my title less dazzling than it is, but nonetheless the dirt seems so much more powerful, more prevalent, more proficient. I am scared of it. I am committed to conquering it. But I am also Julie Crosby, Ph.D. -- I have more than a license to clean.