February 13, 2005

• For all of you who have heard the logistics of this story before (yes, I’m talking about you LinSquee. My endless thanks to you, by the way, for getting me out of my head the other day and having fun), I apologize if this story might not be fresh enough for you. I however, have just recovered from reeling from the events this essay describes, so I’ve put your needs aside for a bit of self indulgence and a way to express gratitude to my very cool husband for all his efforts. Anyhow, it being Valentines Day tomorrow–its time to get a bit mushy. Or, as mushy as I get, which honestly, isn’t that mushy. Without any further ado…

  Loving a man who fights “The Man”
  An unlikely Valentine story for my partner in crime
  &copy The Author, 2/13/2005

  I have heard before that the suicide rate amongst dentists is uncommonly high. Apparently, the knowledge that most of society avoids and dreads seeing the dentist like the plague seems to corrode whatever self-worth they arrived at their profession with. After years of being charged with the task of hovering over patients who reluctantly pry their jaws open, squint their eyes shut, and propel self-automated squirts of saliva from the back of their throats in a feeble, last-ditch effort of self defense (known by middle school boys everywhere as “gleek-ing”), the world becomes a sinister and unloving place for a dentist.

  I had always understood how it came to be that dentists had the highest rate of suicide of all the worlds’ professions, until last Friday when I realized that there was in fact, another professional group who might commit even more suicides than dentists. In a dark, windowless, paper cluttered office, I met with an individual who is loathed and demonized even more than our ego-bruised dentists–I was met with the wrath of a Student Financial Aid Officer.

  The story of my eventual encounter with the ruthless and feared financial aid officer began about four months ago, at a gathering with the people my husband works with in the publications department at the Art Institute of Chicago. In the warm, neon pink glow of the tiki bar, I was talking with my favorite of my partner’s coworkers-a toothy, pretty, guitarist named Sarah. We were talking about continuing our educations, and our constant curiosity about the world. Between sips of mai tai and bites of greasy, happy-hour Buffalo wings, Sarah suggested that I take some of the classes offered by the School of the Art Institute of Chicago. One of the benefits of employment at my husband’s place of work is that of three free credit hours at SAIC, one of the world’s most prominent art schools.

  My husband had taken advantage of this benefit before, taking awesome night classes ranging from web design to Cuban history. I had never realized that, as a spouse, I could also take advantage of this benefit. According to the beautifully well-meaning Sarah, I could do just that, as long as my husband wasn’t enrolled in any classes that semester. I eagerly awaited the course catalogue, and was first in line on registration day to claim my spot in two continuing studies night classes: drawing and photo.

  The first week of classes was like a dream come true. I went to work in the day, and my nights were spent making new friends in my new classes, and gobbling up the teachings of my wonderful professors. I drew cylinders and learned how to properly use the light meter on my camera. I learned the wonders of the Conte crayon, and the possibilities of aperture and F-stop. I raved about the classes to my husband, and spent countless, happy hours on my homework assignments. I could not stop gushing about how grateful I was that he was providing this great gift for me. My partner, on the other hand, was dying inside.

  I love the person I have chosen to spend my life with. And the best part is-he doesn’t even annoy me; I actually like him. However, he does have an occasional habit of hiding things from me that might make me unhappy. This is a trait inherited from the behaviors of his otherwise happy and functional family. Seeing me as excited as I was over the classes, my partner could not bear to tell me that the “special projects” status of his employment (which basically means he has been working on a contract basis that requires annual renewal for the past three years) in fact does not allow the employees spouse to take these free classes. Single-handedly and very discreetly, he had been challenging the long-standing rules of the massive institution he works for in order to allow me the pleasures of my blissful art classes.

  I learned about the fight my husband had engaged “The Man” in from a jowly, tired eyed, and testy Financial Aid Officer last Friday. I had originally taken off from work a bit early to go to the SIAC to get my student ID, but as soon as I told the student desk worker my name, his eyes widened and he informed me, “you need to go to Financial Aid, like…now.”

  After navigating my way through aisles of gloomy cubicles, I arrived at the Financial Aid Officer’s dungeon. She must have sensed my dread and hesitancy to approach her, because in a voice that seemed to bellow from the bowels of hell, she croaked, “Truly, is it? (*Note: yes, dear readers, my name is actually Truly) We need to talk.” Not knowing what exactly to expect, but knowing that it couldn’t be good, I put on a brave face and ducked into her gloomy cave of number-crunching angst. Her breath was heavy and stale. Her hair looked brittle and thin from what must have been the stress of her profession prompting her to periodically pull it out. Her ass, having widened to the dimensions of her cushioned office chair after years of endless sitting, propped her up tall in a superior, authoritative way.

  Seething with discontent from decades managing the complaints of broke, angry students and attempting to find solutions in an uncooperative government with little interested in making higher education affordable, she sneered at me. “I suppose your husband told you what’s been happening.” She said husband as if the word were a reeking, filthy diaper that had to be carried to the trash with one hand closing the nostrils, and another holding the leaking sack a full arms length away. With great irritation, she informed me that my husband “was unprecedented in his challenge to the school’s policy of not allowing special projects employee’s spouses to take the free SAIC classes.” Exhausted with my husband’s tireless attempts over the past month to rattle the school’s foundation, the Financial Aid Officer said that she was almost relived when, “he tried to go over my head about the matter.”

  My tenacious partner had a series of meetings with the chief financial officer of the school and the museum to try to inflict a change in their pointless policy. He argued his case eloquently and articulately: if people who aren’t “special projects” can extend the three credit hours to their spouses, why not him? And if he can take the free classes, what’s the difference if I take them instead of him? Everyone gets paid the same amount either way. Even the worn-down, stressed out, deflated sack of humanity known as the Student Financial Aid officer was able to see his point, as did her bosses, the chief financial officers. But rules are rules. I had to drop the classes.

  I think I surprised the Student Financial Aid Officer by my complacency over dropping my classes. This was in no way due to me being in any way complacent by nature, or to me seeing the point of the silly rules that put my husband and I in this situation. I was simply shocked to hear that my partner had been fighting tooth and nail this whole time with these financial aid people (who, by the very nature of their professions, are frustrated, ornery individuals) and I had absolutely no clue about any of it. My husband had given no indication that anything like this was happening; he would smile in that soft, loving way of his when I’d talk about my classes, never letting on to his anxiety or stress over his crusade for me to continue them.

  When he came home last Friday night, he said simply, “I heard you had a meeting with my friend in the financial aid office.” I tried not to say anything, to save my spiel about him needing to tell me things; persuading him that he doesn’t have to fight the good fight alone. I went to him and held him close. My selfless, kindhearted husband melted into my arms.

  Even more than my beloved art classes, I love spending my life with a man who challenges the status quo in search of fairness and justice, who gives of himself so fully, who loves me so purely and endlessly.

  My partner might not have won his fight against “the man” this time, but trust me, he will. He’s got the tenacity, smarts, and passion to create change, as well as to avoid professions that might strip him of the will to live. And my husband has me–a partner in crime who believes in him. Next time, I hope he’ll take me up on my standing offer to storm the forts of our enemies together. In the meantime, I’ll just revel in my luck at finding such an awesome person to trek through this world with.

  Happy Valentines Day, Shaun-san. You have my love and appreciation always. I dedicate my attempt at a cylinder drawing to you.
  

  • 4:45 pm
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