from Smackdown!

Deanlympics

It’s that time of year again--
the beginning
of the spring semester
and the indoor Carnival
at which all us
untenured folk
must perform
in the competitions
to obtain our waivers
for next year.

It being the school’s
50th anniversary
the Dean has cooked up
something special.
As I enter the coliseum
with the other
scruffy christians,
I see the long ropes
dangling from the rafters,
the dunk-the-professor booths,
the brand new rock-climbing wall
with ledges, grips, and pitons.
Immediately my muscles ache.
The obstacle course
has some new additions:
truck tires, for instance,
full of pond water
complete with
guppies, frogs, and goldfish.

The rules are explained
only once,
perhaps to remind us
of our students,
how they hate to listen to us,
so involved with their
text messages,
their e-mail and IM,
their headphones,
I-pods, and sometimes
I catch myself
thinking it’s a shame
to interrupt them--
they’re so busy
with all they must attend to.

So I have to nudge
my colleague on the left,
who looks rather endearing
in baggy gym shorts
and the school’s official
anniversary tee
printed on a drab olive green
(sometimes I think
the dean is colorblind),
because I missed
just exactly what it is
that we’re to do.
He whispers something
about relay or belay
and passing along
a beach ball with our feet.
Then quick up the ropes
hanging from the rafters
to a platform where
there’s an opening
so narrow it’s cruel,
and this is where I will fail
no matter how hard
I flail and kick,
I will have to shimmy down
and start again.

Points will be awarded
by the judging panel,
the usual characters:
President, Provost, Deans
of the various schools
within the college
who always cheat and
overscore their own,
having learned this from
World Skating competitions,
plus
the faculty from
the School of Health
& Allied Professions
tend to be of remarkably
good physique,
while we in Liberal Arts
plainly read too much.

The trumpets sound!
Those School of Music
show-offs, dressed like
minstrels from
the Renaissance Fair
stand straight
and tall in the doorways,
and then the dancers
from the Theatre School
pirouette in the door
and across the floor,
leaping and doing plies.
The audience
for this charade
(mostly students
and the tenured)
cheer and whistle
for the games to begin.

They like to see us
in our various costumes:
swimwear, running apparel,
leotards, and yoga duds.
The Dean is so pleased
he chortles
and claps his hairy hands,
for our school
—Liberal Arts—
has an official song.
We get the nod and
the friendly note
from Professor Schubert’s
round pitch pipe,
and I think
of Girl Scouts.

It’s a dirgy tune,
like most school anthems,
with a musical range
impossible for mere mortals
and goes like this:



Hail to thee, oh Liberal Arts
Fifty years and growing
Teaching minds and souls and hearts
Full to overflowing
In all weathers we persist
Our mission to employ
Making men and women
Out of every girl and boy

The lack of parallelism
in the last two lines
led to several snickers,
but
I saw a tear or two
roll down not a few
round cheeks just like at
graduations or musicals or
in a presidential election
when the winner—
definitely not your candidate—
gives a stirring speech
and you hate yourself
for being triggered
by such tripe.

After it is safely over
and Liberal Arts
has wrested
the trophy
for overall team effort
away from the School
of Business,
which recently lost
its accreditation,
I will head for the showers.
“Are you going to the feast?”
Professor X will ask.
I’ll shrug, “Free grits.”
“The bar opens in half hour,”
Professor Y will call
as he sprints past,
and we’ll pick up our pace
toward the locker room.