Fields of Exile. Nora Gold
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apparently not minding at all — even liking it — when students interrupt, make jokes, or briefly take over. In response to something funny that one student, Tyler, says, Suzy laughs — a natural, tinkly laugh, and now Judith feels happy and at home. Part of this, she knows, has to do with the content of this course: her B.S.W. and all her field placements were in the area of “individuals, families, and groups,” so here in Suzy’s class she feels on solid ground. But more than this there is something about Suzy that makes Judith feel comfortable and safe. Like who she is and what she knows is good enough. Suzy now says she believes in empowerment and androgogy. Judith wonders if they’re back to GBLT.
“Not androgyny,” says Suzy, startling Judith as if she’s read her mind. “Androgogy, the theory of adult education. Androgogy as opposed to pedagogy. I don’t believe in teaching adults as if they were children.” She goes on to explain that in this course she wants to help them retrieve, organize, and utilize the rich stores of knowledge they’ve all acquired from their years of experience in the field, and from life in general.
What a relief, thinks Judith, and what a contrast to Weick. Suzy’s going to treat me like an adult. An equal. Instead of like I’m in grade four.
Suzy tells them about her own professional background. “You have a right to know where I’m coming from,” she says sweetly. She’s worked in a number of different jobs, but currently has a private practice, specializing in therapy with single women in their late twenties and thirties. That’s me! thinks Judith, feeling embarrassed, and more than that, a bit naked, as if Suzy, like Supergirl, has X-ray vision and can see right through her. The rest of the class passes quickly, with Suzy doing a cursory run-through of all the most important theories and models used in working with individuals, families, and groups. Then she asks the class what other theories they know about and like. Judith puts up her hand: “Cognitive Theory,” she says.
“Sure,” says Suzy approvingly. “This is another very useful approach. Coincidentally, a new book just came out called Cognitive Therapy for Social Work, and yesterday I received a complimentary copy. So if anyone’s interested in borrowing it” — she looks straight at Judith — “I’d be happy to lend it.” Judith vigorously nods. “Just come by my office after class.”
Then Suzy says, “Before we finish today …” and Judith, glancing down at her watch, notes with astonishment there are only five minutes left of this class. Suzy reviews the assignments for her course. There’s a term paper worth 75 percent due the last day of the term, and for the other 25 percent they’re supposed to keep a weekly log. “A running dialogue with yourself,” Suzy explains, “about everything you’re learning. A place to begin integrating theory and practice, including your reactions to the readings and class discussions, your thoughts and feelings, and anything else you want to write about. Your logs will be kept strictly confidential,” she assures them, “so feel free to express yourselves there. I’ll return them each Monday to your box.”
After class is over, Judith waits for fifteen minutes while Suzy attends to a lineup of students with questions. Eventually she and Judith, alone in the classroom, talk. To Judith it feels not so much like a conversation between a teacher and student, but like they are just picking up where they left off, back in the bathroom of the Toronto Country Club. Suzy thanks her for the name of that summer camp for her daughter — it worked out very well, she says, and gave them all a much-needed break from each other. Judith tells Suzy how much she enjoyed her class. Suzy says it was great for her to have someone there she already knew. Then, walking together to Suzy’s office to get the book, they commiserate about the major restructuring at the law firm where Bobby and Dennis both work. It’s called “Bonham Bailey Bomberg” (which makes Judith think of the Barnum & Bailey circus). She says BBB should no longer be called a firm, but a shaky, and Suzy laughs. Judith follows her up two flights of stairs and along a gloomy, serpentine corridor with two bends in it right before the end. Inside Suzy’s office, there are red flowering plants hanging from the windows, bright and cheerful French Impressionist posters on the walls (all Mediterranean sun and sea, with ships in the harbour), two bookcases filled with books and knick-knacks, and a deep cream-coloured carpet on the floor. The carpet looks so inviting she wants to kick off her sandals and wiggle her toes in it. But instead she stands politely in the doorway while Suzy searches for the book. Judith is star-struck by the many thick, professional, knowledge-filled books, and the two framed diplomas on the far wall. Suzy, she guesses, is only a few years older than her — maybe five, eight at the most. More the age difference of a big sister than another generation. But look, she thinks, how far ahead of me she is. I’m a student and she’s a professor.
“Here it is,” says Suzy. “Hot off the press. The publisher just sent me this. But keep it as long as you want — I’m not in any rush for it. Just let me know what you think of it when you’re done.”
“Sure,” says Judith, taking the book. “Thank you.”
Suzy stands there silently, apparently waiting for her to go.
“Bye,” says Judith.
“Bye. See you next week.”
She starts down the long, dark hallway. She feels strangely emotional, almost ecstatic, yet also wanting to cry. Something about the way Suzy stood with her back to her as she searched among the books reminds her of her mother. She had that same lightness, slightness of build. Trim, tidy, and self-contained. She and her mother were never close, but now for some reason she misses her. And this missing her is laced with guilt. She was in Israel when her mother first got sick, and no one at the time realized how serious it was. So she didn’t rush back to see her, and the next thing she knew, her mother was dead.
”How could you have known?” her father said. “None of us knew. Don’t blame yourself.”
But of course she did. She could have known. She should have known. Now she forces herself to keep walking, and to distract herself, she opens Suzy’s book and starts reading. She skims the Table of Contents, then starts on Chapter One: “Cognitive Belief Systems and Their Impact on Emotion.” It’s engagingly written and very interesting, and she gets immersed in it as she walks down the deserted hallway. She’s going at quite a good clip, frowning down at the page as she reads, when, turning a corner, she crashes right into someone coming toward her.
“I’m sorry!” she cries, leaping back.
“Well, well,” says Weick. “A student already engrossed in her schoolwork. How admirable. What are you reading?”
“A book,” says Judith, immediately feeling foolish. But she doesn’t want to share Suzy’s book with him (even its title), as if it were something secret or private, like an intimate gift.
“Yes, but which one?” asks Weick, and before Judith knows what’s happening, he reaches out and snatches away the book. She stands there empty-handed, feeling naked somehow, while he peers at the cover and then leafs through the pages. He’s reading the words she was just reading, and she feels almost like he is leafing through her. “It’s on cognitive therapy,” she says lamely.
“So I see,” he says, still reading. Then he thrusts the book back at her, and contemplates her with open curiosity. She feels herself blush and looks down. He says, “You’re here rather late for the first day of class. I thought everyone buggered off as soon as they possibly could. You must be a keener.”
“I was talking to someone,” she says uncomfortably.
“Were you now?” Weick cranes his head theatrically in all directions, looking around the empty hallway. Judith notices for the first time that it’s very ill-lit. Ill-lit, she thinks, and illicit. Just one letter different (c). “I don’t see anyone here,” Weick says, bringing his face quite close to hers, his breath smelling of liquor. She wants to pull away, but can’t. She’s frozen. But she manages to choke out a sentence: “I was talking to Suzy.”
“I see,” he says, drawing back. As if Suzy’s name were a magic charm that brought instant safety, like a cross held up to the devil. “Is she still in her office?”
“Probably. I just left her a minute ago,”