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Ever since my own survey course in European history in high school, I’ve wanted to understand the women I study, to speak their names into the history books. Those too old, or poor, or angry, or independent, deemed not good enough by men who were too scared and powerful to see them for what they were: mothers and sisters and daughters, neighbors and friends. Healers. Humans. I want give my students the chance to love history as much as I do.
But right now, staring down Audrey and Frank, I wouldn’t mind a little bit of my witches’ anonymity.
An anemic oscillating fan whirrs in the corner of Miranda’s office, gently lifting papers and blowing Audrey’s hair against the back of her neck. Sunlight hits the window behind the desk at just the right spot this time of day, reflecting off the picture frames on Miranda’s bookshelf and the shiny lacquer of her desk, blinding me if I glance in her direction. At least, I tell myself it’s the sun and not the hero worship I feel at the sight oftheDr. Miranda Jackson, the only Black woman in the department, a tenured historian of Africa and the Caribbean, race, gender, and power, and African diasporic religions, waiting for me to explain what the hell I’m muttering about in the hallway on a weekend.
“Actually, it’s for a class I’d like the opportunity to pitch at our next planning meeting,” I say.
There’s a half-empty tub of hummus on Miranda’s desk, and laptops in Audrey’s and Frank’s laps. I’ve interrupted a meeting, something friendly and personal. Something I wasn’t invited to.
“Let’s hear it.” Audrey’s smile is as sharp as her tone.
“You don’t have to, Dr. Banks,” Miranda says quickly. I want to think that she’s uncomfortable but truth be told, I don’t know Miranda all that well. Dad always speaks so highly of her. I’ll swallow my tongue before I back down in front of her.
I wave my hand like it’s nothing despite the ice in my veins. “It’s a history of gender and witchcraft course. Something we could offer to second-or third-year students after they’ve taken the survey course.” The one that I’m teaching. “As a popular grassroots movement that was informed by the geopolitical issues on the European continent, I think there are connections between this cultural hysteria and—”
Audrey makes a humming noise, her face scrunched up in an apology that she doesn’t mean. “Sounds a bit...derivative.”
“Well, you haven’t heard anything about it yet—”
“And I’m not sure we have the budget for a new course,” Audrey continues, turning back to Miranda, as if she knows anything about the department’s budgets. As if she’s not a contract instructor holding on to employment by her fingernails, just like me. “Right, Miranda?”
I shouldn’t be embarrassed, I know. It’s just a pitch, just an idea. That’s what I tell myself, over and over again even as my face flushes, the heat of embarrassment scalding like a wash of hot water.
“Well.” Miranda winces. “We do have to review the budget, yes...”
“See.” Audrey shrugs like that settles it, her face contorted in what I think is supposed to be sympathy.
I don’t know what I’m more embarrassed by: the fact that I was fool enough to pitch it at all, to share something that feels so precious; or how, despite her obvious dislike for me, I’m desperate to be Audrey Robbs’s friend. Frank I could take or leave.
“Plus, we’re offering my new course next, History of Magic.” Audrey sets her jaw, squares her shoulders like she’s challenging me to respond. But I won’t. I never will.
Sometimes I wonder if I wouldn’t be better off back in the UK, trying to make it work. Sure, my history prof boyfriend, Dr. Brian Mason, cheated on me with my best friend and colleague, Dr. Nora Carpenter, effectively blowing up my entire professional and personal life and making every migration to the department’s shared kitchen a walk of shame, but at least when I taught at the University of Lancaster, my dad hadn’t had to get me the job after all my other academic leads had dried up. News of Brian and Nora’s twin betrayal reached my coworkers here at Wilvale University before I did since academia is basically a gossip magazine with tweed elbow patches. So, now not only am I that fishy nepotism hire, I can feel their stares when they wonder what kind of social deficit I had, like a witch’s mark, that pushed my bestie into my boyfriend’s bed.
I’ve only been teaching here since last September but I’ve spent every minute trying to prove that I didn’t just get this job because of my dad—that I am actually good at this. It’s why I volunteered for the intro course this semester.
Frank huffs, turning his back to me. His body shakes. He’slaughingat me.
Maybe it’s to check if she’s noticed—as if she could somehow not notice—or maybe I’m just a glutton for punishment, but I can’t read the expression on Miranda’s face other than to know I don’t want to see more of it.
“Right. Well. I’d better...” I jerk my thumb behind me, turning on my heel fast enough my sneakers squeak. A sound, like a snort that’s been contained, then Audrey’s quiet shushing, follows me out of Miranda’s office.
I love my work, when it’s just me and books and words. Me, standing at a lectern teaching; sometimes people want to be there, they’ve chosen that course because they’re interested, but sometimes they have to be there to fulfill a history credit before they graduate. Those ones are my favorite. I love persuading them that history is more than just a requirement.
History is fun, butthisisn’t fun. Sometimes it feels like every academic got a rulebook, one that counsels competition over partnership, to step on the throats of anyone who might be in front of you on the tenure track. One that champions working to burnout, past burnout, as the best indicator of success. It expects you to work for free and give feedback even if you won’t get any. It teaches you how to posture, to demean. And everyone got a copy of this rulebook except me. I’m sure of it.
I manage to close my office door behind me with a soft snick instead of a slam. But just barely. I’m sweaty, my heart thumping like a punk band’s drum. I left Lancaster to get out from under the shadow of a man only to find myself so desperately in need of a job that now I’m stuck under the shadow of my father. And while I now have a job, I’ve alienated the very people I was once so excited to work with.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, another reminder of the text message I still haven’t opened from George.
Jesse said he’s SO excited to see you tonight. He wants to meet at the Pump @ 7. I told him that would work for you, right? J
Crumbs. I slump down into my chair, the wheels rolling me back into my desk.
Can’t wait!!!
I type back with the kind of false bravado that is only capable through text message. I won’t ever admit this to George because I’m pretty sure he’d freak out but I definitely forgot I agreed to go on a date with this Jesse.
Gravel pings on the undercarriage of my new—to me—car as I pull into The Pump’s parking lot. Little Texas, the restaurant next door to The Pump, has leaned so far into their rustic theme that despite being located in a college town in Pennsylvania they cover their floors with sawdust and kept the parking lot unpaved. The lights in Little Texas are still dark; it’s too early in the evening for them to bother opening yet. But a warm glow comes from The Pump, with its decidedly more steakhouse vibe.
