Okay, all you people out there in the real world, you’ve been writing off the whackos in the academy, grinding your teeth through that freshman composition class where you had to write an essay about gender, nodding along as the teacher explained why yellow wallpaper would bother some lady, reading those dreadfully dull essays about “caring” and “empathy” and “feminist theories of justice,” and writing down “phallologocentrism” dutifully and regurgitating it back in a research paper that you were told to write in “a different voice.” Now you are just happy to have escaped the insane asylum called college to finally get into the real world where you design, build, or sell things and count your bottom line at the end of the month.
Whew! You wiped your brow on that day you went to get the sheepskin. The only time you think about those days and maybe mention the crazy teacher is when you share a beer with an old fraternity brother. Then you go on to more important things like stock tips or how your alma mater’s team is doing this season as you grill the shish kebabs in your backyard.
Well, as more than one infamous professor has said, “The chickens are coming home to roost!”
Yes, you are going to get that whacko feminist Latina professor who’d walk her motherly bulk right up to your desk and tell the class how oppression makes one more sympathetic. About “women’s ways of knowing.” About the evils of linear thought (whatever the hell that meant). She’d mix it up with statistics about women’s biological superiority and the “struggle” of her “people.” It made your head hurt. It made you glad you were wearing a baseball cap when she started going on and on about “womb logic” versus “phallic logic.”
And you didn’t want to listen to me when I cornered you at a party and told you about the nonsense I had to go through just to get my Ph.D. I saw you nodding at me in that polite but dismissive way as I prophesized about the end of Western civilization, all due to our educational system. I even named you the four horsepersons: Gilligan, Butler, hooks, and Foucault. I tried to be a witness, but you just said that you needed to take something out of your eye. (But no ash was falling from the sky, yet.) You thought that outside of a few eccentrics in English and sociology, most teachers wore tweed and taught novels with plots, the value of logic, and that 2 + 2 = 4.
I don’t want to say it, but I told you so!