That gust of wind . . .

. . . was a sigh of relief late this afternoon; I finished the one-hour class I had to teach in Critical Theory, on German literary critic Walter Benjamin's article "The Artwork in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction". The two professors’ evaluations constitute half my grade for the course, the other half being a research paper. Critical Theory is not my forte so I put in a fair few hours closely reading the material and making sure I understood it, then doing (for me) the fun part: creating a class presentation to explain his concepts. One of the things I really love about teaching is the hunt for ways to make the abstruse (or recondite!) understandable. I did a powerpoint presentation to help, and threw in a couple of fun but hopefully effective Monty-Pythonesque cartoon-collage illustrations involving Michelangelo’s David and the Venus de Milo.

Well, I was sweating like a sinner when I started but as (almost) always it got to be fun; the professors and the students had lots to say and things rolled along well. My peers gave me lots of good feedback on their forms; Dr. Martinez said I did well and since I did the best I could, I’m not going to worry about what grade I get.

Benjamin influenced and is still influencing literary criticism, film studies, art history and theory, and communications. He was a brilliant guy whose doctoral dissertation in Heidelberg was too far over the heads of the committee and they rejected it, effectively ending his academic career. He wrote essays until the Nazis came into power and like many Jews and intellectuals, fled for his life to Paris. Eventually he was not safe there either and made plans to emigrate to the U.S. via Spain. He and a couple of companions climbed into the Pyrenees to cross the border; Benjamin had a heart condition and suffered terribly on the climb, but pushed ahead less for his own freedom than to keep the heavy knapsack containing his manuscripts safe from the Nazis. As he rested at the top, the guides told him the next checkpoint was closed and he would have to go back and try again in a few days. Knowing he had no strength left, and feeling he’d accomplished his goal in bringing the manuscripts out of France, he ended his own life at age 48. This news so shocked the Spanish authorities that the next day they let his companions through.

I wish I could go back in time to that mountaintop for just a few minutes, to tell him that his words made it.

His is one of the stories I’ll think of the next time I’m complaining about my inkjet cartridge not working. I started to say how lucky I am to live in a place and time where I am free to seek higher education regardless of my gender, and free to speak my mind and conscience; but though it was luck to be born here, the freedoms I owe to a great many diverse people who went before me.

I also thank heaven that I was born to parents who encouraged me to learn and read and ask questions, and whose encouragement and belief in me have been there whenever I needed them, all my life. Not all are similarly blessed.

. . . nor do I forget Uncle Sam - for the student loans that made this enterprise possible!