January

                                                            Synchronized Eating

Graduate seminars are designed to cultivate grand insights. They possess ostentatious, verbose titles like “Early Scholarship on Post-modern Chinese Literary Analysis” which, truth be told has excited more than one student. Or so Lena had been told, though she herself had  yet to experience this response.

However, what Lena had also noted was that seminars also provided a key strategy in the apathetic professor’s instructional repertoire since conveniently they fulfill the minimum teaching obligation with an equally minimal effort. This is because a weekly seminar consists of a reading assignment to be “presented” by a graduate student for (flexibility allowed for nervousness) approximately fifteen to twenty minutes. The ensuing two and a half hours is a discussion which ideally should be led by the professor. Oftentimes Lena had watched some annoying, pimply young graduate student inevitably appropriated said task since surely his classmates were as thrilled by his intellectual agility as he himself was. Lena frequently thought that if strangling these people was not an appropriate response then at least stuffing their mouths with food might serve as a socially acceptable alternative, rather like placating a dog with a bone.

Most importantly, however, seminars allow professors to farm ideas from their graduate students. You see, although many of these people are often less than enthused about teaching, they are profoundly interested in their own ideas being developed for a forthcoming book. The problem? They require just a few more clever insights to fill in the remaining three hundred pages of a three-hundred-and-fifty page book. Thus seminars are often hinged on a professor’s pending manuscript. Observant students like Lena noted that at any time a worthwhile insight is made, the professor surreptitiously wrote it down for his book while attempting to appear so disinterested as to be doodling. This fools no one.

Such a heady mix of blasé disinterest and clandestine idea “sharing” often results in classes that are downright numbing. They act like insidious tranquilizers, the pressure slowly, inexorably crushing its victim with drivel like, “Do you think we can draw an analogy between Post-modern literary theory and the freeway system?” Then, at the end of three hours, one suddenly has found that one’s brain has dribbled slowly out of one’s ears and the next ten minutes are spent soaking it up with a paper towel and wondering what to do next.

Occasionally, however, debates do rage, even if they are unrelated to the topic. At the moment, some students were heatedly discussing the legitimacy of contemporary, “popular” authors like Amy Tan and  Iris Chang while Professor Marty Rathbone was taking surreptitious notes:

“I think Amy Tan has done a lot for Chinese-Americans. She’s raised the awareness of the things Asians have to grapple with,” said an earnest first-year student.

Lena objected, “We’re not even talking about her for goodness’ sake! But if you want to discuss her, we should discuss how she’s set back the image of Chinese-Americans. Her books are filled with Chinese women who need white men to save them. It reinforces that China and Chinese people need to be rescued by America, culturally, politically and conveniently, economically. And by the way, why do we always use ‘Asian’ as a code for ‘Chinese’ anyway? Since when did it become taboo to say ‘Chinese’? When Euro-Americans decided they were too threatened by China? Tchh!”

Another student named Cindy chimed in, “Well, I can’t stand these pseudo-historians like Iris Chang. She did the entire field a disservice by using research that’s politically-influenced. It’s clearly meant to appeal to the populace, and it dumbs it down.”

Lena objected, “Why is ‘scholarly’ always code for esoteric and elitist? What’s wrong with making recent history accessible? As long as it’s accurate. Besides the China field these days doesn’t even acknowledge how it was shaped by political agendas too. We all know East Asian studies grew out of colonialism—it intellectually justified economic imperialism. We’ve all read Orientalism, right?”

 A third student named Andy entered the fray, “Well we’ve moved beyond that now. We need to acknowledge that now, scholarship is divorced from politics.”

Lena disagreed, “Well, I think you’re wrong. Everyone keeps citing all that old research, especially on tv shows where they’re all stupid anyway. So we certainly have not ‘moved beyond’ it. I’m glad someone finally had the guts to make history accessible and show that ‘area studies’ and history aren’t pre-political. I’m tired of scholars who pretend that their analysis is completely objective. Don’t we all have agendas in ours work?” Lena found herself jabbing the air with her forefinger in emphasis and then immediately withdrew it in embarrassed haste.

Silence greeted this mini-lecture followed by uncomfortable shifting and sideways glances. Lena sighed and then apologized, “Oh, well, I guess that’s what happens when I’m hungry. I lecture.” A few titters could be heard as the awkward moment passed and the students settled down again into a rhythm of quiet boredom.

And that is the thing about seminars. Three long hours tends to engender hunger. In addition, seminars are inevitably scheduled around some traditional eating hour: either lunch or dinner directly precedes or follows them. After all, if someone does enunciate a revolutionary insight, there will be plenty of time afterward to write it down because what follows penetrating observations is a lot of nonsense. Plenty of time for food. Lena herself had partaken in Seminar Eating more than once. As have most graduate students, especially in the Humanities where one needn’t worry about mixing reagents with one’s lunch.

Of course, there are issues to consider. For one, graduate seminars are often held around a crowded table, configured conference-style to foster momentous observations in a non-hierarchical setting. This results in a minimum of allotted space for each student, especially if graduate students not enrolled in the class are “auditing.” One scarcely has room for one’s notebook and elbow, let alone space for a big plate of salad or a bowl of pasta. What’s more, salad is a noisy food, which can be socially embarrassing, while school pasta wafts aromas from pungent to sour. And they both command additional tabletop space, a precious commodity. On the other hand, a sandwich is a quiet food, emits no odors and requires no additional space because it can be placed on the lap. It is, in a word, the perfect seminar food.

Lena herself had the good fortune to sit next to such a thoughtful eater.

She had seen Phillip a few times in the hall near the department, quietly extracting his junk mail from his student mail box. He always looked furtive, as if he were replacing his mail with a small bomb or some equally insidious object. And then, as he straightened up to leave, he would snuffle a nervous laugh, aimed at no one in particular, and slink away. During one such escape, he had actually stepped on Lena’s foot since his head was pointed in the opposite direction from his feet—he had been laughing a goodbye to the air on his right.

“Ouch!” Lena exclaimed.

“Huh?” Phillip’s head whipped around. “Oh, wow.” He looked down at his feet and noticed that one was on Lena’s. “Oh, sorry. Sorry.”

Lena, unwilling to let him off the hook for keeping his foot on hers for such an unnecessarily lengthy period, said, “That hurt.” Then she began rubbing her foot.

“Sorry, sorry,” Phillip repeated. And then slunk off quickly.

The next time they saw each other in the hall by the department office, he nodded and then grinned sheepishly. “Hope your foot is okay.”

“Yeah, it is. Thanks for asking,” Lena smiled back. “So, how’s it going?”

Such repartee appeared to confound the limits of Phillip’s social skills, however, for he merely nodded again and then flattened himself against the opposite wall as he made a quick escape.

At the time, Lena had thought, Well, at least he’s quiet. He won’t be making any grand speeches if we ever have seminar together. Thus it was that Lena was glad that there was at least one other relatively quiet student in her seminar, one who would certainly not co-opt each discussion as an opportunity to display his intellectual gifts.

Lena now nodded approvingly at Phillip’s choice, an egg-salad sandwich. Quiet, easy to deal with and no unnecessary additional effort involved. Indeed, the sandwich was rather like the owner. Phillip had been untouched by the previous discussion and instead, was placidly preparing to partake in his repast. That looks good, Lena thought a bit wistfully. I wonder if I can sneak one in during break. For the rest of the initial presentation, Lena thought longingly about an egg-salad sandwich, on sourdough with perhaps a single slice of mozzarella, a little pepper and fries on the side.

*

To her right was Wang Zhenli. Her presence was a bit of a surprise. It was known throughout the department that she was a Comp Lit major.

This seminar must be like some sort of intellectual purgatory, thought Lena.

Wang Zhenli changed her name the minute she stepped off the plane. When the immigration staff attempted a rather mangled version she corrected them,

            “No, my name is Jenny.”

            She was proud of her adaptive abilities and this did not stop at names. She was an astute dresser, skilled in parlaying both her limited financial resources and her innate fashion sense into a style that looked chic and thrifty. A perfect combination for her newfound career as a graduate student in Modern Chinese History because it conveyed sensibility with conscientiousness. Most impressive to both staff and faculty. It is surprising the message clothing will express if one simply takes the time to read it. And Jenny certainly did.

            Jenny also possessed a manner often interpreted by more sympathetic professors as “refined.” Her speech was soft and measured. This was initially a tactic used to smooth out any peaks in her accent. Yet professors who were enamored of the exotic Orient or “Ornament” as some are wont to call it, construed this speech style as indicative of an elegant character. They were entranced. Her advisor, Professor Williams, even wondered if she would last at the department, American schools being a tad too “rough” for her temperament—perhaps what she required was the sophistication of an English college.

            Thus was a haze of favorable mythology built around Jenny. Now, Jenny was not maliciously calculating, but she did perceive the air of partiality she had engendered. And, as like many an opportunistic American, she used it to her advantage: she immediately acquired a job as a Research Assistant (in the Humanities, this is code for secretary to a professor). She would perform her dry duties with a cheer and speed that soon made her quite indispensable. But she would drop subtle hints as to her financial straits, which were not alleviated by the paltry recompense of an RA position.

As well he should,  her advisor felt responsible for her. Professor Williams saw that Jenny required both his help and his protection. From her second year on, Michael Williams obtained a TA-ship for Jenny and worked with equal diligence at the Fellowship reviews (that is, fellowship allocation meetings). Jenny had been assured of this fact by other faculty, and it was reflected in her gradual accumulation of such awards as her graduate career progressed. Seminars, too reflected her currency, for Professor Williams had more than once centered these around subjects they were both interested in. It became known that such-and-such seminar was formed “because Jenny was researching it with Williams.”

Of course, there was no sexual interest in Jenny. She was careful in portraying herself as a female, but of the academically neutered variety. Hence her skirts were never too short (as some American women were in the custom of wearing to class), her blouses were staunchly opaque and often long-sleeved, her boots modestly heeled and her hair was not flicked at each word her advisor uttered. It was not that she was desired so much as admired. An American ideal of the East Asian woman, without the sex: demure, intelligent, elegant and above all, non-threatening. In short, a pleasure to both gaze at and work with.

           During said seminars, Jenny was careful not to eat. She knew that eating was an activity that communicated vulnerability. One’s mouth was open when biting, and in normal circumstances Jenny’s habit was to cover her mouth with her hand but seminar was not normal under any circumstance. One hand was always poised to take notes, so unless Jenny spontaneously sprouted a third arm, there was no way to discreetly cover her mouth.

In addition, food was aromatic. At least the food that Jenny liked did. Although she was adaptable in matters of speech and dress, what passed for American food was criminal as far as Jenny was concerned. Greasy burgers with bits of pickles and a sour sauce that evidently contained tomatoes. Overcooked pasta (didn’t Americans understand noodles at all?) with, again, a sour tomato-y red sauce. Honestly. A soup base enhanced with mushrooms and tender shoots of Chinese broccoli or a rich, savory soy-vegetable-blackbean sauce were the proper accompaniment to noodles.

Clearly, not only was eating a potentially vulnerable activity, but those foods Jenny enjoyed required more space, implements and hands than Jenny could responsibly employ during seminar. A bowl of noodles in soup, Chinese guotie, a bowl of rice complemented by several vegetable and meat dishes, these comprised Jenny’s meals. Outside of seminar.  With such logic, Jenny determined that eating was not the appropriate venue for consuming any type of meal.

Drink, however, was an entirely different matter. First, one could perform this task with one hand and still maintain a modicum of decorum. Secondly one became thirsty during seminar. This was a proven fact. Three hours in a poorly-ventilated room with exactly three inches of personal space allotted per student resulted in two conditions: huddling to maintain this precious spatial boundary, and two, because the huddling was unsuccessful and it was stuffy, perspiration. Jenny, ever practical, knew that while one did not require solid food during a three-hour seminar, it was simply not healthy to deprive oneself of liquids during this same period.

*

If Lena’s neighbor to the left, who was after all an extremely serious Buddhologist (or Bored-ologist, as Lena was wont to call them) detected a low grumbling from Lena’s stomach, not a word was said. This was because, as soon became evident, eating a sandwich actually entailed a good deal of effort for Phillip.

The crux of the matter was Phillip didn’t like to soil his hands with lingering crumbs or odors (though how odorous egg salad can be is debatable). This proved challenging because a sandwich requires some tactile intervention: one has to, after all, hold it somehow. Wrapping the sandwich in plastic wrap or a napkin was an obvious solution, yet somehow such remedies had eluded Phillip. And admittedly, sandwiches can  leave crumbs behind. Apparently for Phillip this possibility simply would not do. Instead, he took a bite of his sandwich and then set it down quickly on the paper plate to avoid any unnecessary contact. He then chewed with a gusto that comes only from an open mouth. The sound permeated the entire room and Lena stared at him with spellbound disgust.

Phillip was blissfully oblivious to her response. Instead while he was earnestly masticating, he extracted a small bottle of hand disinfectant from his right jacket pocket. He whipped his hand energetically out from his pocket, so forcefully in fact that Lena instinctively drew back lest he hit her in the process. She then watched, with not a little fascination, at the enthusiasm with which he applied a liberal amount of gel to his hands. Most people will simply rub gel over their hands once and allow it to dry. After all, it is simply alcohol suspended in a gelatinous solution. It does evaporate, and quickly at that. Phillip, however, subscribed to a different methodology which involved rubbing one’s hands continuously until the last trace of gel had disappeared. So, if we say that chewing a bite of food takes roughly 30-40 seconds, and then one adds an additional 10-15 seconds to actively dry one’s hands of disinfectant gel, that is a solid minute of demonstrative eating.

Now for the average person it might take anywhere between ten to fifteen bites to finish a sandwich. Imagine if you will sitting in a small classroom filled with a conference table and chairs occupying 80% available space Then add twelve of your most distant academic acquaintances, a disaffected professor and a dearth of ventilation. Now insert Phillip into that situation. Biting, masticating, applying disinfectant. For, let us say, twelve times.

While chewing, Phillip completely ignored the content of the seminar. Not that this is difficult, nor is it blameworthy. In fact, Lena thought, bravo to the student who successfully ignores what passes for drool, excuse me, droll during seminar. But why, Lena wondered, does he feel it necessary to share the drool emanating from his mouth?

          As for Jenny, one of her principle qualities, and she was justifiably proud of this. Her apartment, for instance, was a shared abode, furnished with tasteful second-hand pieces and inexpensive decorative touches. Food was purchased at a local Chinese market, not only because the prices were exponentially cheaper, but the selection of fresh fruits, vegetables and cuts of meats was greater than anything at any mainstream American market, from the gourmet shops to the middle-of-the-road purveyors. This solidified Jenny’s opinion that Americans, when it came down to it, did not possess discriminating palates. Witness their hot dogs and nothing further need be said. For literally $20, Jenny would return home with four bags full of fruits, vegetables, a selection of meat, various condiments and snack foods.

Armed with an assortment of food and drink, Jenny was always well-prepared for liquid refreshment during seminar. She brought a different brew to each, for variety was as important as quantity, sometimes a tea. Jenny possessed an almost innumerable amount, brewed from the highest grade of loose leaves, and not those odd sweet blends or flower bud concoctions that passed for “Chinese” or the euphemistically named “Asian” tea marketed to Americans who desired a hint of non-threatening exoticism in their beverages. Other times juice or a combination of tea and juice as she had seen in the market. Said brews were brought in a moderately sized thermos (not so large as to be unwieldy) which could be handled with one hand, leaving the other available for note-taking.

The process of drinking proved to be equally elaborate: first, Jenny would unscrew the outer lid which also functioned as a cup, which Jenny never used. The inner lid kept the brew warm, and had a spout for pouring. Again, this was useless since Jenny drank straight from the thermos itself. During a lull in seminar activity (those long silences which intersperse even longer moments of boredom), Jenny would unscrew the inner cap and take a long, slurpy draught.

As expected, the liquid was extremely hot and Jenny wanted to avoid burning her mouth. Jenny’s tongue, indeed her entire mouth, was quite sensitive to hot beverages. She had burned her mouth before, resulting in an unsightly rippling along the roof of her mouth followed by a painless, yet rather unsettling peeling. This experience had been most unpleasant and thus Jenny did her best to avoid a repetition of such incidents.

These facts resulted in the noisy slurping. Yet sipping noisily was not the only precaution Jenny undertook. She also positioned her lips ever-so-slightly away from the lip of the thermos, effectively trying to inhale the tea from the tip of the thermos, apparently assuming that the micro-centimeter of distance between these two surfaces would sufficiently cool the hot beverage.

Well, it was inevitable that this resulted in some dribbling. Onto her notes. Which, by the way, were written in ink, the kind that was not indelible, on notebook paper. Notebook paper is not known for its absorption. In fact, liquids spilled onto this paper usually spread throughout the entire surface and then require further mopping with a napkin. Large, all-encompassing stains and warping, these are the effects of spillage upon notebook paper.

Jenny, however, failed to bring napkins with her. This was her one blindspot: that she constantly seemed to forget this routine. It didn’t burn any memories onto her synapses, no connections were ever made. She simply repeated it, with a kind of childlike surprise at the consequences. Therefore, because she had no napkin, she would brush off the excess liquid with her sweater sleeve (or hand, if it was a hot day) towards the edge of the table, as if they were crumbs to be scattered on the floor. Liquids do not scatter, however, they drip in a cohesive mass onto the surface below. Which happened to be Jenny’s lap.

With some consternation at the effects, Jenny produced a low, distressed cry and quickly replaced the lid. Some minutes elapsed and again Jenny thirsted for some refreshment. She opened the thermos again, repeating the slurping technique, but somehow convinced that because she was aware of the consequences they would not repeat themselves. She was wrong and once more, her notes functioned as a liquid catch-all tray. This time she knew not to sweep the effects onto herself, so she lifted the paper off the table and shook it behind her, raining droplets of tea onto her neighbors backs and inserting a loud rustling into the silence.

Lena began receiving sympathetic glances from her classmates. Outside the classroom students could be heard laughing, chattering, eating. Inside, it was stereo eating. Slurping on the right, chomping on the left.

The sound was of Phillip placidly smacking his lips, chewing his sandwich drew annoyed, disgusted looks. But staring does not make sounds. Figurative puffs of smoke steaming out of their ears, in a cartoon this might release some high-pitched whine, but in real life nothing can be heard. The same is true of veins popping. This does not actually make any noise.

The first time Phillip performed his ritual, Lena gazed discreetly in his direction, fascinated by the sheer volume of it all. She had then scanned the room and saw a few people also looking pointedly in Phillip’s direction. They, too, had experienced a slight degree of shock and then annoyance, but were confident in the fact that he had seen their annoyed glances. It seemed reasonable, therefore, that he would curtail his gustatory pleasure the next go round. A smile passed quickly over her lips and Lena bent her head. She felt certain that these silent communications had been “heard” and that Phillip was now chastened into silence. And then she wondered what hand sanitizer tasted like.

On Lena’s right, a moment of self-consciousness had overtaken Jenny. She shrank quietly back into the crouch that marks graduate students in cramped seminar quarters. Of course, thirst would eventually overcome any hesitations and thus a repeat of her ritual process would overtake any semblance of dignity and repose.

In order to make certain their collective annoyance heard, a series of low mumbles began emanating from the other end of the room, a feeble attempt at refocusing attention away from the collective repast flanking Lena.

A student spoke. Others joined in, to drown out the sound: “So, what you’re saying is…” and “I think…”

As may well be imagined, these attempts failed completely. Phillip placidly rubbed his hands after taking each bite while Jenny unsuccessfully attempted to shrink into a nonexistent shell while she slurped her tea and rattled her notepaper. By now, all the seminar members were vicariously partaking in this collective repast which seemed intentionally coordinated. Phillip would bite, chew copiously and with mouth wide open, rub sanitizer on his hands and as if on cue, Jenny would slurp her tea from a distance, spill half onto her notebook, and then rattle her notes.

Professor Rathbone decided to ignore the entire seminar altogether and was furiously writing about something that clearly had nothing to do with the class. On occasion, however, he would steal fascinated glances towards Jenny. She exuded such refinement, an inscrutable sophistication so typical of the Chinese national. What happened? He seemed completely impervious to Phillip. He was a man, after all, and hence of completely no interest to the contemporary intellectual colonial.