God, I fucking hate Facebook.
Okay, I take that back. Facebook can be a pretty awesome way to remain in contact with your people, especially when you’re not living near most of them. But with Facebook, yeah, it’s awesome that your people can find you, but of course that also means that people who *aren’t* your people can find you as well. And then you’re continually forced to evaluate what it means to be a “friend”.
So, I got this friend request a few days ago, and it’s just sitting there, making me crazy. And it’s making me crazy because I’m not sure what do to do about it. But just leaving it there brings up all this bad juju whenever I open the Facebook. Bad juju, not to mention a complicated ethical quandary.
So here’s why it’s complicated:
During my last year teaching at South Central, there was a rumor circulating about me regarding sexual misconduct. More specifically, that I was having an affair with a student. Apparently, this rumor was raging pretty seriously that whole year, although I did not hear even a whisper of it until after I left, and the student who has friend requested me was one of the chief gossipers perpetuating it.
See: complicated.
I actually use Facebook for social purposes. I say hi to my friends, I post links to them, I update my status with ridiculous little happenings. It’s not a networking tool for me or anything like that, and I don’t “collect” friends. So I actually reject friend requests. I’m not elitist about it or anything, but dude, I have to remember you, and I have to actually like you. So, we went to high school together but I can’t remember anything but your name? Ignore. We went to school together, and you were a giant douchebag? Ignore. You’re an ex and we had a horrible breakup and haven’t spoken since? Ignore. I just can’t be obligated to give people access to my little virtual community just because they ask for it.
So now with this former-student Friend Requester, I have to figure out the right thing to do. I mean, I’ve never said anything to this student about her role in the rumor, and to be honest, I really don’t want to now. I have no desire to stir up any drama, and I just don’t have the energy to deal with it. But on the other hand, I don’t want to condone the behavior, and I certainly don’t want to implicitly indicate that that kind of behavior is okay. I’m not angry; I’m not holding a grudge; but I also don’t want to be a great big liar and somehow indicate that we are “friends”, even in the Facebook sense. So what I’m wondering is, what is my ethical responsibility here? If I want to take the high road and do the right thing (rather than necessarily the easiest thing) what is it?
After some time has passed after a hurtful event, my impulse is always to say, “Oh, it’s okay,” but I know that that comes from me being the peacemaker. Because if I could choose for anything in the world to happen, I’d just want everyone to be happy. Unfortunately, this tendency to oh-it’s-okay away hurtful events ends up setting me up to experience them over and over, so it’s not always the best option. And sometimes, too, I think it’s a way for me to push a painful experience away, rather than just let it exist and be what it is. Because if you say it’s all okay, then the hurtfulness disappears, right? It’s flawed logic, and I’m trying to avoid falling into it.
Because really, the whole thing was pretty devastating. I mean, students gossip about their professors. I know that, and on most levels I’m comfortable with that because I know it’s basic human behavior. Like, when I got to South Central I knew there was a bunch of gossip—among students and faculty—about whether I was a lesbian or not. I actually got a kick out of that one, you know, watching people trying to figure it out while speaking to me. Usually people gossip about me, and I think it’s mildly funny, or I don’t really care.
But at the same time, once I got to South Central, I realized that I would probably have to me more careful than my peers about appearing to be above reproach. I mean, being a woman, being young, being single, and perhaps more importantly, not being a part of the main church—and indeed, not being a Christian at all—I knew that these were all factors that I’d have to finesse in order to establish myself as someone who could still be a respected member of the college. And while this might sound very 1970s and aren’t we beyond all that now, let me say this: I was the only unmarried woman on the faculty who was under 55. That speaks volumes. And of course, these are just the baseline factors, besides the ones that are unique to me being me. And I quickly realized that there weren’t people like me hanging around South Central, so I knew I’d probably start some tongues a-waggin’ about something or other if I wasn’t careful.
So I was careful. I went to school in Professor Drag, instead of the cherry-print rockabilly dresses that my closet was bursting with. Good god, I wore awful polyester trousers because they’re “respectable”…such horrible, horrible trousers because they convey more authority than the electric blue tights I really wanted to wear. I wore sweater vests and brown shoes. I wore padded bras every day so there would be no chance of anyone seeing my nipple piercings through my shirt.
And while appearances are, sadly, a big part of what people deem respectable, I also didn’t talk about my personal life. I tried not to swear. (It was a heroic effort that I ultimately failed.) I didn’t talk smack about people. I refused to be pulled into student gossip or drama. I left my office door wide open when students came in to talk to me. And when conversations veered even slightly in a direction that some churchy, blue-haired grandmother might deem inappropriate, I’d change the subject or say, “You know, I really can’t be involved in a conversation like this.” It felt ridiculous at times, but somehow I knew it was necessary. Because hey, if I were 19 years old and stuck in BFE, I’d sure the hell gossip about me.
So when this rumor was revealed to me—not only that I was apparently having an affair with a student, but that it had been going on for the whole year, and that “a lot” of students actually believed it—my heart just about stopped. Because I had tried so hard to play by these strange, provincial rules while still being, you know, a genuine human being. And because with all the misery that was South Central—and really, the town, the job, the social life, the resources, the atmosphere, even the frickin’ landscape…all of it was miserable—the students were pretty awesome. As soon as I got there, I noticed that they seemed to be kinder to each other, more respectful of one another than at other places I had taught. And while they weren’t particularly warm with me to start with, I eventually made some pretty strong bonds with these passionate, enthusiastic students who were really good people. And when it felt like my job and the town were beating me down, I’d remind myself that the students were the reason I was there, and that made it better. So it was beyond shocking to discover that some of those same students believed that I’d have an affair with one of their classmates.
And part of it is probably that I was sexually harassed for three years in high school by this teacher named Mr. Jeffries. He taught English and Film Studies, but most significantly, he was the director of the drama program at my school, which means I saw him just about every day for three years. He’d do stuff like talk about how big my breasts were. He’d speculate on the sexual activities of me and my high school crush, and he’d warn me that true love means being willing to sleep in the wet spot. He’d stand in front of my English class and say things like, “Well, you know Lulu…she puts out like a gumball machine.” Dude, I was 15 and had never even kissed a boy and didn’t even realize that there was a wet spot after sex, and this man would stand in front of my class and tell everyone I was easy.
And there were other things—like he’d “accidentally” show up in the wings during a quick change. Or after rehearsal, he’d let the kids use the phone in his office to call for rides home, but when I would, he’d wait until I’d get on the phone, and then he’d tickle me, since I was insanely ticklish. But you know, since my mom would be on the other end of the phone, I wouldn’t be able to run away. It sucked. But since it was all in public, and since it was “just a joke”, then somehow it was supposed to be okay.
When I went away to college, he wrote me paper letters. On my first break, I went back home to my high school to say hi to some of my old teachers. Mr. Jeffries found me, brought me into an empty office in the woodshop to eat lunch with him, and then asked me on a date. I had just turned 18. He was 40? Maybe 45? It was only about 5 years ago that he finally stopped sending Christmas cards to me at my parents’ address.
That experience gave me an intense, visceral understanding of the importance of respecting the power hierarchy between teachers and students. Because the power hierarchy is there, and there’s a huge responsibility that goes along with it.
And if you can’t be careful and respectful with that power, then you have no business being a teacher. And since the first day I entered a college classroom as the instructor at the tender age of 21—yeah, teaching students who were older than me—I’ve been almost freakishly careful of respecting students’ position in that hierarchy. So the idea that this specific kind of rumor could not only be circulated about me, but that people would actually believe it—I was completely gutted.
And I guess the reason it’s complicated with this particular Friend Requester is that her gossiping was a very specific betrayal. During my first show in South Central, she was my stage manager and insisted that this was what she wanted to do as a career. So I took that very seriously and tried to train her as such. One day, I caught her complaining about me—right outside of the bathroom door of the theatre. I opened the door and said, “Okay, the first rule of stage managing is that if you absolutely must bitch about your director, you don’t do it at the theatre where she can hear you.” And we had a bit of a conversation about it afterwards in terms of professionalism, etc. (I wasn’t really offended—again, students are going to bitch about you. It’s part of the job description.) But after this initial little conflict, this Friend Requester and I had built up a solid, respectful, working relationship.
Then during my last semester, and actor quit a show with six rehearsals to go, and I was asked to step into the role so that, you know, the show could go on. And the Friend Requester was working as the stage manager. The show was a bit controversial—it was a nighttime, outdoor, agit-prop kind of production—and it included a sex scene with my counterpart in the rumored affair. (Remember, though, that at this point, I was oblivious to the existence of said rumor.) Now, I believe you gotta do what you gotta do in the name of art. And the script called for a kind of an ugly, animalistic, almost-sex scene. (With no kissing.) So that’s what the show got. After lots of awkward blocking and rehearsal, the scene was eventually intense and brutal and what the script required.
Now that being said, it wasn’t easy for me to do. At all. I mean, for all of my self-exposure and radical honesty and la la la, I’m not an exhibitionist. (At all.) So I wasn’t exactly eager to have people watch me, you know, with my slip up around my waist as I pull a man in between my legs. I mean, while I love and take delight in my body, I’m also really twitchy about presenting it in any way might connote “spectacle”, which let’s face it, a fat girl in a full slip in a kind of savage, outdoor sex scene…that’s not something people get to see everyday. There’s some serious spectacle in there, which made me feel really, really vulnerable.
And of course, being a female professor, there was a risk in playing that role that I don’t think any of the students could fully appreciate—basically, that it can be hard to for a woman to maintain her authority once people have seen her flat on her back with a man on top of her. And that risk wouldn’t have been the same for a man. And after the first performance, I was shaky with all the endorphins, and I just wanted to find a place to hide out for a second until the audience left. (It was outside, after all.) So I make a beeline for a van that was parked near the performance space while the audience milled around and said hi to other cast members. And as I’m ducking into the van, I hear this male student calling out to me, “Hey, Lulu! Hi!” And I just wave my hand and say hi and don’t really look over because I felt crazy exposed and just. Had. To. Get. Into. The. Van. But the student kept trying to talk to me, saying, “Hey, good show! I mean, really good show…” And I heard it…there was kind of a leer in his voice. It was demeaning. And it made me feel kind of sick.
But as an artist and an educator, modeling artistic integrity for my performance students is really important to me, and I wasn’t going to try to sway the production into a watered-down version just for my own comfort level, or just so I could avoid risk. It was important to be true to the production in spite of the personal risk and exposure. Because there is no good art without risk. And no good performers without vulnerability. But the thing that I think people often don’t realize is that just because I’m good at vulnerability, that doesn’t make it easy for me.
So in light of all of that exposure and risk and junk, I took the Friend Requester aside as soon as we began blocking the sex scene. We talked about how this was really good stage management training, since stage managers have to learn how to deal with very sensitive and charged material with respect and professionalism. And I talked to her about what a delicate process it was working with sexually charged material—how it makes the actors really vulnerable and exposed, so it’s especially important to respect that vulnerability. We talked about how awkward and uncomfortable rehearsing sex blocking can be and that it is absolutely critical that what happens in the room during the rehearsals—embarrassing accidents, freak-outs, wardrobe malfunctions, whatever—never leaves the rehearsal room.
And she looked me right in the face and said, “Of course. I completely understand. Absolutely nothing will leave the room.”
And then when I got hit by the affair rumor tidal wave, I found out that the Friend Requester used the sex scene rehearsals as “evidence” of the affair and spread the stories like wildfire. I was really honest with her about how awkward and sensitive working a scene like that was, and I genuinely asked her to respect that, and she lied right to my face. Absolutely shamelessly. Now that’s cold.
And that’s the kind of thing that I don’t know if I can just blow off with a “Well, a year has gone by now…” Because yeah, a year has gone by now, and I don’t feel the pain of the rumor anymore. I own it, and I can talk about it. I can even joke about it now that I understand that it is an occupational hazard. But I don’t know if the right thing to do—for me or for her—is to condone that kind of malicious gossiping by saying that now we’re “friends”. Then again, I also don’t know if it’s my ethical obligation to jump back into that mess to explain to her what she did and why it was so wrong. She’s young—she could learn something important from it. But then again, she’s young—she could just refuse to accept responsibility.
And I don’t want any of that. I don’t want any more mess. And I don’t want to go into an ethical quandary every time I logon to Facebook and see the Friend Requester’s friend request sitting there, staring at me. So I have to make some kind of choice just to get the request off my frickin’ page.
Because really, all I want when I go on Facebook is to look at pictures of my friends, and read the sassy comments they make to me, and make sassy comments in return. And maybe, maybe, if someone loves me a whole bunch, or if I’ve been really good around Christmas, someone will have posted a video on my Wall of ducklings swimming in a bathtub.
Now really, is that too much to ask?
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