Enthused, I tackle my new responsibilities. The Student Association is supposed to fund campus life programs. But, alas, our group has no funding to share—a true existential quandary. At Snowflake’s Big Campus, revenues come from additional student fees.
I try to explain the situation to Dean Kimpossible, who is visibly bored two sentences into my pitch and cuts me off telling me she won’t even consider raising fees at our small outpost.
Next, I seek counsel from Jim, my counterpart at Big Campus. Jim’s a gangly fast talking fellow who seems never to have heard the adage that we each have one mouth and two ears and should use them proportionately. He isn’t much help. Oblivious, he asks me how we’re distributing our funds.
I eventually give up trying to make anyone in charge see that without a steady, dedicated revenue stream the organization cannot possibly do its job. For now, I remain undaunted. Perhaps with enough car washes and bake sales we can keep the group afloat.
And so I lay out the fiscal situation at our weekly meeting and describe our options. The group is small, well-intentioned, and ineffectual. Most of them are typical college students, afflicted with learned helplessness, coddled by anxious, hovering soccer moms, their minds molded by No Child Left Behind era pedagogy. Accustomed to structured social lives and curricula where the answers to the exam are fed to them in advance, they’ve come to expect the grownups in their lives to do the heavy lifting. I shouldn’t complain, though. At least they’re here. If they need an occasional nudge to take the initiative, I’m all right with that.
The association president, who ascended to her lofty post by default because no one else wanted the job, is a lumpish, pasty faced young woman I’ll call Jessica. Jessica is a business major whose stated career goal is to be an entrepreneur. Whether she means “entrepreneur” in the prosaic sense of owning a small business or in the think-big sense of becoming a corporate gangster is something I haven’t been able to suss out. Frankly, I’m afraid to ask.
Jessica is an only child homeschooled by evangelical Christian parents, which means she has zero social skills and does not play well with others. A vulgar self-promoter with more ambition than brains, she is narrow-minded, insolent, and frequently disrespectful toward me and her peers. Jessica’s principal achievement as president has been to run off the two most knowledgeable group members, reentry students who did not cotton to a nineteen year old ordering them around. Her leadership style relies heavily on delegation—meaning the group does the legwork while Jessica takes the credit, a practice that will undoubtedly serve her well in her chosen vocation. In short, Jessica personifies everything I loathe and it’s all I can do to keep my patience with her.
No sooner do I describe our predicament than Jessica, whose sole work experience to date has been bagging groceries at a supermarket, begins to lecture me on how I don’t understand business. I cut in abruptly, leaving her agog at my effrontery.
“This is not a business, Jessica. We’re not talking Fortune 500 here; this is a startup campus club.”
“But, Unassuming—’’ (It’s “Unassuming,” you see. Not, “Mr. Scholar” or “Professor Scholar.” Evidently one of the perks of being President—or being Jessica—is that you’re on a first name basis with your faculty advisor.)
“But, nothing, Jessica. You’re unnecessarily complicating the issue.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about!”
My equanimity reaches its end. I snap, “That’s enough, Jessica!”
Jessica looks stunned, as if she’s been slapped. She’s silent a moment, then quavers, “You’re mean!” It occurs to me this is undoubtedly the first time anyone has ever told her to shut the hell up. The rest of the group stares awkwardly at their feet and says nothing.
The meeting soon fizzles out with nothing resolved. The next bake sale is on Monday. If they’re lucky, maybe they’ll clear $35 or $40…
© 2012 The Unassuming Scholar
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