My Master, Myself

The transition from student to faculty has been odd for me in its ease. I thought I would have more difficulty thinking of myself as an instructor, especially because I don't technically instruct. I spend my days in the Writing Lab explaining, informing, and guiding, but I never instruct.

Still, I have a natural kind of authority when I'm around the students in Polsky. I'm sure it's in large part due to being twice their age. But authority is perception, so I'll take it however it comes.

The chain of command at Polsky, real or imagined, was thrown into fairly stark light last Wednesday, when a tornado passed through the Akron area. Chelsea, the most seasoned of our peer tutors, interrupted my session with a student to tell me—show me, actually, on her phone—that the University was issuing a tornado warning and that all faculty and students were advised to take shelter on the lowest level possible of the building. I had just received a similar warning on my own phone from the National Weather Service, so I wasn't exactly surprised.

I was calm, though. I was more calm than I can ever remember being during an emergency situation. I told my student to bring along her computer so we could finish working on her paper, and we got up to leave the lab. Another student, a young woman from Nigeria with whom I had worked earlier and who was still working on her own on a lab computer, asked us what was going on.

"It's a tornado drill; we're going to the basement," I said. "Bring your stuff; you can come with us."

Maybe I simply didn’t think the tornado threat was real. Maybe I felt comfortable finding the basement because I had explored the second and first floors earlier during my lunch break. Maybe I'm just not as excitable as I used to be. Maybe I become very calm when someone around me is more hysterical than I am.

Last year, my husband and I flew to Quebec City from Toronto and were seated apart from each other. I was next to a young mother holding her almost-one-year-old son. When we hit a patch of nasty turbulence, the young mother became quite frazzled and afraid. I—who am usually a sweaty ball of tension digging my nails into my husband's arm during bumpy flights—took her hand and began calmly asking her for details about her own husband, whom she had mentioned earlier. I kept my eyes focused on hers and steadily smiled while never allowing her to focus on anything but my voice and our conversation until the worst of the turbulence had passed.

The act of focusing on something other than the scary thing that was out of our control helped both of us keep control of ourselves. This is what I did in the basement of Polsky with my students.

Carneisha, the student whose session was interrupted by Chelsea's information, had eyes the size of dinner plates as we walked down the stairs with the crowd. As soon as we got to the final landing, she sat on the bottom step and opened her computer. I crouched next to her, and we continued discussing comma use and word choice until we had finished her essay. I knew it was due at midnight, so I didn't want to leave her hanging.

Young men in blue polo shirts with official firefighter logos on them periodically spoke loudly to the entire crowd, offering advice about where to find cooler air (the stairwells), information about toilet facilities (which were near the stairs and functioning), and when the order to take shelter might expire (5:45). Most everyone seemed to be on a cell phone checking The Weather Channel or tweeting their discomfort. One you lady showed my students and me a photo of the funnel cloud that appeared to touch down near Britain Road. I still felt calm. I worked with Carneisha until she felt her essay was strong enough to submit to her professor, then I talked with Rachel.

"Dis communication is amazing," Rachel said. "In Nigeria, dere is no way to inform all the people of something like dis. I tink dat is why God spares Nigeria from natural disasters."

I thought about that for a moment. I don't always like to be aggressive with my atheism; some believers get offended when I challenge their beliefs, even in the abstract. But Rachel had already impressed me with her poise and intelligence during our tutoring sessions. Besides, we were in a university setting, so challenging ideas felt de riguer.

"Hmmm," I said, furrowing my brow. "But what about places like the Philippines or Thailand? They're a poor country with no emergency warnings. Remember that tsunami a few years ago? Thousands of people died."

We were interrupted just then by an update from the young firefighters.

"May I have your attention, please. You may leave, if you want to, but you must leave the building if you do. You may not leave this floor and go to another floor. The university cannot be responsible for your safety anywhere else in the building."

The heat had been gradually increasing during the half hour or so that had passed since we all descended to the basement. I removed my pumps and the light sweater I was wearing. Rachel ate an apple while I called my husband. He had been at the grocery store when the sky darkened and a downpour raged, then it passed and he went home. Rachel lay her head on my lap and slept for a few minutes.

Eventually, the warning expired, and the university sounded the all-clear. The next day, I remarked to my husband how calm I had felt for the entire event. Even as I entertained the possibility of an actual tornado causing serious damage to the building, and all the attendant difficulties, I never once became excited in any way. The only remarkable thing about all of it, for me, anyway, was how nonchalant and even-keeled I remained throughout it.

I have never really thought of myself as calm. My mind seems to race at a thousand miles a minute, and I have to make lots of lists and keep a detailed calendar to keep some semblance of order in my life. I have noticed, however, now that I am finished with grad school and I have a steady job, a sort of contentment I didn't have before. I no longer feel like I have to prove myself to anyone; the piece of paper on the wall in my home states clearly that I am a master. And that's kind of how I feel now. I am a master of myself.