I’m watching a prospective student tour from a corner in the library. I usually get a surge of joy when I see these things. The excitement of possibility is a sense-memory. It hits differently when I know some of these nervous, overwhelmed young people will likely end up in my class.
The tour guide is energetically telling the uncomfortable new adults about all the resources available to them. “All included!” he exclaims while explaining how libraries work. This morning, I explained the scholarly peer-review process for roughly the 17th time this semester. “You are paying to have access to the real research, so use it,” I said, as I say almost every day of my life.
A woman, more nervous than her kid, has lots of questions. She’s frankly talking too much, forgetting that her kid is the one looking at schools.
“If a student may or may not know if they are neuro-divergent, what should they do to be successful?”
I try to see the look on her kid’s face, but he’s facing the other direction.
“First things first, reach out to your academic counselor, but also talk to professors. They’ll help you find supports.”
They can see me, so I squelch my eye roll.
Professors and counselors cost money.
When the tour walked in, I was taking a break from grading to do the other thing I do all day: check the New York Times. The markets are falling again today, after the creepy rally yesterday following Donald Trump’s supposed head fake on tariffs. The strings attached to the arms of the Masters of the Universe have become not just visible but neon and flashing.
I look forward to seeing that woman’s kid in my class, where I will identify resources, adjust modalities, and accommodate him. The first thing I will do is cut the strings tying him to his mother, her diagnostic impulses, and her power.
I don’t know when success became defined by one’s ability to acquiesce to power. The excitement of possibility has been replaced by dread that possibilities, not puppet strings, have been severed by a culture that glorifies money, even as the government disappears people who look like my students.
In 2016, I had a passing idea of housing students in our old, convoluted house, with its back entrance and secret staircase. It’s not a sense-memory, though. The sense has changed.
I can’t hide them from what’s coming. I need to cut the strings that restrict them, making them easy targets.
The tour just walked by, leaving the library for whatever their next stop is. I realize the woman was not a mom, but a teacher, a White woman leading her entirely Black and Brown class on a college exploration day.
I smile at her, realizing my anxiety has made me mistake compatriots for adversaries. She’s trying to sever the puppet strings, as well. She smiles back. I bet she’s very tired.