notes on an academic bad ass.

Is it horrible to say that I feel profoundly liberated by Dyer's delineations of dusty academics as harbingers of death, as morticians, and desiccators of delicious literary fruits? Not to mention wankers. To be true, a rebellious part of me delighted in Dyer's hilarious vituperations of wraith-like academics that theorize the meaning right out of texts. To read him rant recalled the fantasies that occupied my mind at the holiday tables of my childhood, where I sat each year for decades choking on the diplomatic silence of family get-togethers; fantasies of family brawls, instigated by wine thrown in the face of an up-tight aunt- fantasies of some anal relative laid out on a platter with parsley and spices stuffed up their rear, or an apple jammed in their trap. As a kid I knew even as my mom politely patted the sides of her mouth with a starched white napkin and nodded her compliments to grandma's cranberry salad she was visualizing the old bag with the bowl on her head, sticky red mess streaming down her hair. We all were. But no one said it. No one came out and said: "You're all just wankers!"- no matter how true or relieving it would have been. Reading Dyer "say it how it is" provided the sort of relief I've been waiting for every year that passes in polite quiet. I felt at last like someone had finally said- what we were all thinking. I lived for a moment in his shameless rant, I cooled my face in his flying spit, I fanned my frustrations on his breath, and felt the strain of so much frustration ease on my own laughter. I wanted to give him props: "hey Dyer, whoop! whoop!" "Amen."
But of course my position as an "academic fledge" seems to demand some explanation of my sympathy for him and his- uh, harsh?- portrayal of certain intellectauls as frigid, creatively impotent masturbators. How is it that as one who not only professes to want, but works every day to locate at least her professional identity and energies in the very intellectual community Dyer jabs would exalt in such criticism of that community? My strong sympathy for his criticism comes from an equally strong, and newly born angst for the reality of academic work. Call me naive- I am, I was- but before I came to school I visualized graduate study, and indeed the whole profession of literary scholarship as a bustling realm of passionate- well, geeks- like me, whose work if not always pretty or monetarily rewarding- is mostly a work of great love. As I say, I know, and perhaps I knew in some way then that I am naive- naive and achingly romantic, but recognition does not ease the frustration of my awakening. I say awakening because truly these past few months have felt more like an education in jolts and shocks- like starts that bring you sweating from a dream to the reality of your room, its dark, and limitations, its ceiling staring blankly at your hot face- than an education in books and theories. At times I've felt I was in training for a stale, sexless future- a life in which intelligence is defined by how well you pretend it than by your experience and deep awareness of the pains, the passions, the blood, and sweat that are the progenitors of the books you "study". I suppose the truth is I sympathize with Dyer's frustration, not as a seasoned professional, but as a young thing. A young, young thing struggling to understand and to assimilate to the reality of academia without forfeiting the sweet pulpy parts of her heart. I admit it, I want intellectual work to be sexy, fulfilling, generative. I want to feel my powers as a woman meet and mingle with the powers of my mind and heart in the work I do. I want to teach in red stillettos, and spend hours in passionate converstaion about Rilke or Dove or the beauty of a single word. I want to touch the graves of great artists and commune with their ghosts. I want life and living to fuel the work I do- to get out there, to create, to feel, to write for the purpose of revealing something amazing and important about something beautiful. I guess, I'm just sixteen all over again; the difference is the authority I struggle with now is the authority I want to become a part of.

So maybe, the better use of my energy and idealism is to, like Dyer, channel it into my work, rather than let it seethe, and possibly shrink away. More than the balls he has to call certain other scholars "wankers"- I respect that he channeled the idealism that fueled that "sheer rage" in to his intellectual work. Without the project that his rant I believe intends to justify his criticism would be I think just hot air- still somewhat valid (in my opinion), but largely bodiless. His frustration finds purpose, I think, in the form of his work with Lawrence. Does that make sense? I will put it this way, what is criticism like Dyer's if it does not do something- if it does not lead to something- some project- some creation- some work that enacts and invites the very values he so loudly champions? It's like my Mama always said, "If you're going to complain and criticize, you better offer something constructive." Who knew the advice she gave me as a chubby-faced young child (confronted oddly enough with the same sensation of frustration and stifled desire) would be so appropriate now? I suspect she likely knew this would be the case- though hardly that her advice would come in handy as I digest Dyer's innovative academic work and my own feelings as an intellectual neophyte. In the end, it isn't so much his frustration that moves and lingers with me now but what he did with that frustration. I admire, and believe in the creative potency of the jolts, shocks, and disappointments that accompany our struggle to understand and respond to the realities of our dreams, our work, and our world.


Rock on Dyer. Rock on.