father, a builder of your own nation?”
She can’t make a clean exit. A few students lurk around the lectern after class, trying to get her attention. There’s gifted but unlikable Rachael who wants to talk about Cheri’s book, which linked the advent of writing to the decline of the goddess. The Catholic kid, hugging his backpack like someone who never lends his books, and Riley. “My office hours are posted,” she says, walking past Rachael and the backpack kid, but she can’t shrug off Riley. “I’m serious about applying to the Near Eastern language program for grad school. I was thinking—”
“Based on how you do this semester, I’ll consider writing you a recommendation. Now can I walk in peace?”
“Thanks, but that’s not what I wanted to ask you. I heard you’re going on leave to work with Professor Samuelson on that new Mesopotamian find? I want to apply to be your research assistant.”
Cheri is surprised undergraduates have heard about Samuelson’s project. She certainly hasn’t been able to pin down the details. First, there’s Bush’s “axis of evil” rhetoric and accusations of WMDs, all of which make it impossible for Western archaeologists to collaborate with their counterparts in the museum in Baghdad. But there’s also the black hole of McCall Samuelson himself, Cheri’s department chair and head of the Oriental Institute. Samuelson has yet to specify for Cheri—a mere mortal scholar—any details of her job description and critical path until they are able to get into Iraq. “Not now,” she barks, and heads up the stairs to her office.
“They say it’s a cache of cuneiform tablets, that it could be as important as the Dead Sea Scrolls. Is it true, they could trace back to the Old Testament?” Riley tags after her. “No job would be too small. I’ll be your temple prostitute. Not funny?”
In a few seconds she’s alone at her desk, popping an antacid. Her office is anarchy. Scholarly books commingle with beach reads stacked randomly in teetering towers. There’s a poster for Rock ’n’ Roll High School signed by the Ramones; one shelf is home to the upper portion of a llama’s skull and an aqua hookah worthy of Alice’s caterpillar. Her coat is buzzing. She has several messages, most from Cici. Oh, for the freedom of the cell-free days when everyone wasn’t available 24/7. Ever since Sol died, five years ago, her mother war-dials her if she doesn’t answer right away. Then there’s a message from her editor in New York, chirping, “How’s that next book coming?” Her first book, an extended version of her doctoral dissertation, The Rise and Fall of the Goddess: Dicks, Chicks, and Mythological Cliques, reached what her publisher called the “upper mainstream,” a segment of the population Cheri knew well from Montclair—urbane professionals who thought being open-minded was listening to NPR in their luxury vehicles on their commute to work. How ironic that the people she fled from turned out to be her most receptive audience. In academic circles, her colleagues had denounced it as “populist,” likely because it didn’t have enough obscure, dense footnotes, and resented its success. Cheri sits back in her chair as the last message begins to play. It’s from McCall Samuelson’s secretary, saying he has to cancel the meeting that was scheduled for this afternoon. Again.
It’s gray and dreary outside. Hyde Park looks particularly New England-y today, its brick homes and tree branches dusted with weekend snow. Cheri has just enough time to try to track down Samuelson before heading back to the land where twins are made in petri dishes. At thirty-nine, any time off from fertility treatments counts in dog years. Her life has been co-opted by the microscopic of egg and sperm for so long now that she’s forgotten what it’s like not to think about it. She’s burned out on more than baby birds, and her career has suffered because of it. She needs to get
She can’t make a clean exit. A few students lurk around the lectern after class, trying to get her attention. There’s gifted but unlikable Rachael who wants to talk about Cheri’s book, which linked the advent of writing to the decline of the goddess. The Catholic kid, hugging his backpack like someone who never lends his books, and Riley. “My office hours are posted,” she says, walking past Rachael and the backpack kid, but she can’t shrug off Riley. “I’m serious about applying to the Near Eastern language program for grad school. I was thinking—”
“Based on how you do this semester, I’ll consider writing you a recommendation. Now can I walk in peace?”
“Thanks, but that’s not what I wanted to ask you. I heard you’re going on leave to work with Professor Samuelson on that new Mesopotamian find? I want to apply to be your research assistant.”
Cheri is surprised undergraduates have heard about Samuelson’s project. She certainly hasn’t been able to pin down the details. First, there’s Bush’s “axis of evil” rhetoric and accusations of WMDs, all of which make it impossible for Western archaeologists to collaborate with their counterparts in the museum in Baghdad. But there’s also the black hole of McCall Samuelson himself, Cheri’s department chair and head of the Oriental Institute. Samuelson has yet to specify for Cheri—a mere mortal scholar—any details of her job description and critical path until they are able to get into Iraq. “Not now,” she barks, and heads up the stairs to her office.
“They say it’s a cache of cuneiform tablets, that it could be as important as the Dead Sea Scrolls. Is it true, they could trace back to the Old Testament?” Riley tags after her. “No job would be too small. I’ll be your temple prostitute. Not funny?”
In a few seconds she’s alone at her desk, popping an antacid. Her office is anarchy. Scholarly books commingle with beach reads stacked randomly in teetering towers. There’s a poster for Rock ’n’ Roll High School signed by the Ramones; one shelf is home to the upper portion of a llama’s skull and an aqua hookah worthy of Alice’s caterpillar. Her coat is buzzing. She has several messages, most from Cici. Oh, for the freedom of the cell-free days when everyone wasn’t available 24/7. Ever since Sol died, five years ago, her mother war-dials her if she doesn’t answer right away. Then there’s a message from her editor in New York, chirping, “How’s that next book coming?” Her first book, an extended version of her doctoral dissertation, The Rise and Fall of the Goddess: Dicks, Chicks, and Mythological Cliques, reached what her publisher called the “upper mainstream,” a segment of the population Cheri knew well from Montclair—urbane professionals who thought being open-minded was listening to NPR in their luxury vehicles on their commute to work. How ironic that the people she fled from turned out to be her most receptive audience. In academic circles, her colleagues had denounced it as “populist,” likely because it didn’t have enough obscure, dense footnotes, and resented its success. Cheri sits back in her chair as the last message begins to play. It’s from McCall Samuelson’s secretary, saying he has to cancel the meeting that was scheduled for this afternoon. Again.
It’s gray and dreary outside. Hyde Park looks particularly New England-y today, its brick homes and tree branches dusted with weekend snow. Cheri has just enough time to try to track down Samuelson before heading back to the land where twins are made in petri dishes. At thirty-nine, any time off from fertility treatments counts in dog years. Her life has been co-opted by the microscopic of egg and sperm for so long now that she’s forgotten what it’s like not to think about it. She’s burned out on more than baby birds, and her career has suffered because of it. She needs to get
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