Blowing Bubbles

Frankenstein's monster struggles with words in the movies, but in the book, he has stuff to say.

The day I knew the Hamline Oracle, the student newspaper that has existed since 1888, would publish a story involving the signs on my door, I took a cheap, mass-produced, Warhol-style 8X10 print to my office at Hamline University. Cheap, mass-produced, and Warhol were all important factors in my choice. The image is of the movie version of Frankenstein’s monster blowing bubbles. That was also important.

I made a makeshift backing mat using one of the signs I had replaced due to a typo, the one saying Hamline taught me to push back against abusive systems. I then put the print in one of the leftover frames and put it on the bulletin board next to my desk.

Last semester I wrote about the creepy feeling that I am the value-brand professor, the cheap knockoff of something more expensive. That one’s here:

When I look at the historical projection of my sense of value, there is an ever-increasing inverse relationship between my perceived value to the university and my perceived value to students and, shit, myself.

I think that’s right. I can’t tell anymore.

I just know I don’t like being cheap. I don’t like being told I’m cheap.

As a cisgender, male, White, gay person, I have insights into power and value. In high school, some of the popular boys sexually harassed me. Just a few of them, but enough for me to learn about how White male power works. They exposed themselves to me and tried to coerce me to have sex with them. Again, just a few. It wasn’t a constant annoyance, but just enough to show me how weak the powerful are. I suppose they thought I would give in because gay men are deviants. I fleetingly feel sorry for them because I bet those are traumatic memories.

For them.

They are probably really embarrassed that I’ve seen their genitalia.

But they can deal with it. The price of power, I guess. I was not traumatized. I saw them for who they were because when I was in 5th grade, my mother suggested that I fight back when I was bullied. My bully punched me in the stomach so I punched him in the face. His nose bled, he started crying, and he ran home.

My fifth-grade bully and those pervy high school boys thought I was cheap.

My White cisgender maleness allows me into rooms where powerful people are. I can infiltrate spaces that my husband cannot and my sister cannot, at least not as easily. I know how these people are when they think they are protected and alone. If you read this and you are not a White man, I will confirm for you that what you think happens when you are not around does indeed happen when you are not around. Not all the time, but frequently enough to show me that these people are not strong. They are pathetic.

I’m no Frankenstein’s monster, but I occasionally think about the creature’s frustration when admonishing its creator with, “I ought to be thy Adam, but I am rather the fallen angel.” Victor Frankenstein is a scientist who does science for the wrong reasons. While he seeks knowledge, he does it to increase his own power. The creature has no choice but to go berserk. It knows too much about power.

Whatever. Who cares? I’m just a part-time employee. I shouldn’t take it that seriously. I’ll fuck off to the next gig when I need the next gig. I’m the Doordash professor. I have a Doordash bag in my trunk, which I use when ye ole checking account reads 0.

I did read Mary Shelley’s story. It’s pretty good, and I hope some teacher suggests you should read it if you haven’t. Or not. Perhaps it’s no longer of value.

Here’s some knowledge that has been truly valuable to me: It takes immense hubris and shocking fragility to ignore the monster of your own making while he chews his gum.

Contract negotiations continue on February 29, the most Frankensteinian of dates.