SEASONS GREETINGS

Working on campus during the summer is like working in your own large, private park. Nobody's here. Or almost nobody. Everyone's wearing shorts. At noon the Quad is nearly empty, and by 4 p.m. it resembles the lawn surrounding a country estate--lush, green, deserted. No crowds at the Coffee House. Really. The food's just as good, there's iced mocha, and you can find a table all to yourself. The few people who are here move leisurely, mostly because it's hot but also because there's no need, really, to move fast. It's summer, after all.

But underneath that languid exterior is a bubbling pool of magma getting ready to erupt. The quiet, slow pace gradually but inexorably quickens, day by day, until kablooey! one day in late September the place is awash with students, there are bikes and lines everywhere, paper banners are strung around the Quad advertising everything from club meetings to the Second Coming, you don't want to go near the bookstore for at least two weeks, and the 10 minutes before and after the hour are perilous ones, as all those new bicyclists attempt to navigate the bike circles while trying to locate their next class on the campus map.

I enjoy the tranquility that summer brings; it's one of the few times in the year when I can savor the place where I work as my very own, kind of like the feeling I had as a child when my sister was away and my mom was mine, all mine, and I didn't have to share her with anyone else.

But just as I was glad I wasn't an only child, I'm always glad when fall and the students arrive together. What I enjoy most about the long, slow days of summer and the high energy pace of fall is the contrast between the two and the need each has for the other--the yin and yang of the academic calendar.

Happy new year.

FOUND POETRY

Returning to the classroom in Hart Hall, I saw two of my students sitting cross-legged in the courtyard grass. As I watched them, I felt guilty. What kind of teacher was I? I had let them out of class to do this?

We had been talking about "found poetry": words on bathroom walls, graffiti, typos in announcements, the unexpected arrangements that draw attention to language's surprises. I had mentioned the sign on A Street that says, "Woodland/Winters" and points with an arrow. I find it to be extremely evocative. I picture a scene from C.S. Lewis' The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe. If I followed the arrow, I would be in a winter wonderland with light snow falling, sleighs driving by, and perhaps fauns and elves. The effect, of course, would be lost if the town names were reversed: "Winters/Woodland."

Walking over to the room's fire extinguisher, I had put my hand over the F in "fire." "I'll need this when you get mad about your grades," I said. They looked at me blankly. At first I thought they didn't get the dumb joke, but then I realized they resisted the entire concept. Poetry was in books and discussed by English instructors. It was not wordplay. It was assigned, not found. At that moment, I knew we needed to get out of the classroom.

"OK," I said, "We have 45 minutes. Go find some poetry and come back in a half hour."

Everyone wandered out. I headed to the bathroom and was annoyed to find that it had recently been repainted. The bulletin boards had been similarly stripped clean. I flipped through the Aggie with no luck. Then I overheard someone say, "I knew he would quiz us on the heart today." I began to write down snatches of overheard dialogue and arrange them into stanzas.

Twenty-five minutes later, as I headed back, I saw my two students. Their notebooks had been tossed behind them. One rhythmically threw her pen into the air and then arched back to catch it. The other tried to push her off-balance. They were laughing.

I was annoyed--at myself. I had wasted the entire period. They hadn't taken the assignment seriously. Instead they were sitting and simply enjoying each other's company on a beautiful fall day.

As I watched the pen rise and fall, I felt other emotions. These two hadn't known one another when the quarter began, and now they were comfortable together. The pen climbed into the blue sky. As a student, I loved getting out of class early; it released a heady type of joy. The notebooks made a red square and a black square on the green grass. I could hear their voices, but not their words. The grass had recently been cut. The pen fell.

I stood there until they saw me. They waved, collected their stuff and moved toward the classroom.

I had failed as a teacher.

But I had found poetry.

SWEET SUCCESS?

I like to think that career fairs are like shindigs--employment parties where all are invited, but few are asked to stay. In high school, I never really enjoyed career fairs, because I always felt expected to know what I wanted to do after graduation. I didn't. I spent most of my time getting my blood pressure checked, scouting out free stuff (bags, notepads, pens, highlighters printed with various company logos), eating free food or entering contests to get more free stuff, free food or free trips. Mainly, this took my mind off actually having to make a decision sooner than I had to. Did I make one? Yes. What did I decide? To attend college.

Four years later, after taking too many classes in too many academic departments; joining, organizing and quitting numerous organizations; attending various career workshops; talking to tons of career counselors, employers and friends; and just being here for too darn long, I still haven't decided on very much. So, I go to a career fair, where at least they have Jolly Ranchers.

Besides the sweets, one of the best things about being at career fairs is watching America's middle-class job-market system in action. Companies come to UC Davis looking for just-graduating or just highly ambitious students to fill their employment vacancies. You can't miss the recruiters because they're the ones at the tables displaying their wares: business cards, notepads, pens, highlighters, sign-up sheets and, of course, the candy.

And then there are the students, who shuttle from table to table dressed for success in pressed slacks, sleek skirts, squeaky clean hair, ironed button-down shirts and shiny shoes. Let's not forget the 20 copies of their most recently drafted resume on the nicest paper Kinko's could offer. In this crowded room of pretty shirts, bright smiles and tailored everything, potential employers and employees make eye contact, meet and greet. This is where phone numbers and e-mail addresses are exchanged, hands are shaken and names are dropped. Dressed in my cut-off jeans, looking disheveled and confused without any resume, let alone 20 copies, I stand there overwhelmed as the action swirls around me. I usually feel about as involved as a Buddhist monk at Easter Mass.

I have attended virtually every career and summer job fair sponsored by the UC Davis Internship and Career Center in the past four years--and also the ones sponsored by the College of Agricultural and Environmental Sciences. My theory is that if I keep attending these fairs, I'll experience a beautiful career epiphany. The sky will open up, Freeborn Hall will fill with sweet light, angels will sing and God's voice will rumble, "That's it, Jeanelle. You have found your life's purpose." It hasn't happened yet. No epiphanies, but lots of Jolly Ranchers.

However, a few months ago, it dawned on me that candy's no substitute for a career. After a robed authority figure hands me my diploma, says "Congratulations, graduate" and shoves me out into the big and scary real world, I'm on my own.

I'm crawling toward the end of my college career and have very little idea of what I'd like to do. So? I'll wait for another career fair and perhaps, that potential epiphany.

Maybe some kind corporate recruiter will look at me with pity, offer up his business card, force a few lollipops on me and shake my hand. Or maybe, someday, I'll be invited to one of these little shindigs and feel comfortable enough to stay. Who knows? Jolly Rancher, anyone?