Sharing a building

In the fall of 2005, I was enrolled in college, purportedly to graduate after the next semester. Unfortunately I was falling behind. It took me three semesters to finish the two-semester intro to liberal arts class on the western cannon. I failed math classes, english classes, and philosophy classes. I was pretty much a loser, especially since I had no real limitations to my performance: I was interested and capable, I had very stable living situations, and all the support I could ever ask for (financially and otherwise) from my family. I was probably just selfish and lazy with a sense of entitlement, but I sold myself on the idea that I wasn't presented with enough challenge, that school politics were an impediment, and that I had all the time and money to do as I chose.

But that semester, I took a seminar on the late Foucault, an underrepresented chapter in the theory of the philosopher around whom I had built my world view. This presented a real challenge: the readings were long and dense, the class discussions were narrowly focused and intense, and the scholarship that was demanded of us was very advanced. The other students were mostly philosophy majors, and with my focus on gender studies (however relevant), I had the formal instruction for rather simple social criticism and minimal deconstruction. Foucault, the "saint" of queer theory, demands as a basic requirement, the ability to place oneself squarely in the middle of ones words, as the subject of the topic of subjectivity. Worried I would have to be too honest, I began to fail.

The professor, Julia Davis, gave me every opportunity to succeed. She even extended the deadline of my final paper until three months after the semester had ended. I failed even then to produce anything. Well, something. It was something weak, saying, really, nothing:

Communities of Thought: Anti-Universalizing Discourses of the Late Foucault

Throughout my studies in identity politics, Michel Foucault comes up again and again, acting as the “Saint” of queer theory (Halperin), and generally the bastian of postmodern identity. I am suspicious as much as I am inspired by this move. I wonder: is there something universal, an all-encompasing clue to how one might think of one’s self in relation to themself? Certainly, no such prescription exists, and even if it does exist, Foucault himself was the first to deny it (interview). So then, there must be something that brings us back to Foucault, some proclamation to which we can attach ourselves, which makes his interest in Greek and Roman culture urgent to us today.

In my reading, I was able to attach myself to the idea of the community of thought, the plural world views that according to Foucault “flourished” in the late Greek and Hellenist Epoch. Without unified or centralized philosophical structures, these communities of thought determined for themselves the mode, scope, source and nature of the subject of ethics. Each thought community had its own method for philosophical training, its own standard for philosophical excellence, even its own style of habit. 

So bad that it is embarrassing. I can't get into the head of the mind that wrote this, although I suspect he was doing his best to bullshit under duress: this is indeed the worst circumstance under which to bullshit.

I am interested in a project of sharing that which I have previously kept silent. I had too much pride to admit my failures, although they were many. Foucault may respond that this is an act of confession, a feeble rationalization, a substantiation of the normalization of transgression. This, however, is a project that will help me catch up with myself, a process not towards liberation but towards self care. I intend to give great attention great and terrible accomplishments and failures, overcome guilt, and achieve the power of self knowledge. 

This former professor, and in retrospect, champion for my potential, lives upstairs now, sharing a deck with my best friend, looking beautiful, and addressing me with a startling openness. She called down to me this morning from her patio, and the sun shone upon her, and I smelled of sweat, smoking a cigarette, carrying garbage. I have the degree, no one can take it away from me, and it certainly doesn't matter that I failed a class and disappointed myself. Now, she's just a person with an interesting life, still a champion for my success.