Wow, the Trumpcare bill failed. Really, wow. I was putting a brave face on it but now I have discovered that it failed, I’m almost crying. I will probably even have an uncharacteristic alcoholic beverage to celebrate. 

There is a bunch of people here speaking about literature of the crisis.

“I’m just getting into this subject,” they tell me.

“I have a book on it coming out this year,” I reply.

I’m very happy that I did what I wanted and got the book out before everybody else. I want to define this conversation because otherwise it will go in a wrong direction and will fail to engage with the nation-state. 

It’s also very pleasing that a few people came up to me and mentioned my first book. 

A McGill professor was kicked out from his job for publishing an opinion article that stated something painfully obvious:

Quebec is an almost pathologically alienated and low-trust society, deficient in many of the most basic forms of social capital that other Canadians take for granted.

I love Quebec a lot more than any other part of the country that I’ve been to, but the fellow is 100% right. And even if he weren’t, what does an opinion piece in MacLean’s have to do with his capacity to do his job? If you are fortunate enough to have a professor who is capable of speaking to a larger audience than a dozen of narrowly specialized colleagues, then you have got to cherish such a person.

The culture of Quebec is a great, beautiful culture that needs to be preserved. As all cultures, it has its dark side, so what? Since when is it a crime to point that out? 

The fired prof is absolutely right when he says that Quebecois society is atomized and many people are extremely lonely. This is a culture that is open to accepting immigrants but stinks at connecting to us on a human level. These are all consequences of a beleaguered mentality of a culture that is afraid of being ingested by the enormously powerful Anglophone world that surrounds it. The result, however, is self-defeating. Immigrants who arrive with a great interest in the Francophone culture of Quebec realize that if they are to have any friends, they have to speak English.

Instead of silencing these discussions in such a nasty way, the administration of McGill should encourage them and stay strong against fake outrage of the perennially offended.

There is a Hispanist who is my academic shadow. Whenever I go to a conference, I find her at the same panel. If I publish a chapter in an edited volume, she’s going to be one of the contributors. 

My research interests change dramatically every once in a while. And hers do, too, at the same moment in time. It’s eerie. We both did Spanish Civil War, then masculinity, then spaces, and now crisis literature. 

And from the very first session, female academics start with the same exhausted spectacle of self-deprecation.

“I apologize in advance for making a comment that has probably no value.”

“I don’t even know why I’m saying this.”

“I’m probably making no sense.”

The panel, by the way, is on feminism. FEMINISM. We ask our students to moderate their speech patterns every day in foreign language classrooms. How hard can it be to pay some attention to how we speak and end the self-defeating talk? 

Nobody is going to do this for us. No prince is coming to rescue distressed damsels with kindly reassurances. Tell yourself every day in front of a mirror, “I’m an intellectual, my work matters, I won’t apologize for existing. And fuck the loser parents who didn’t teach me this decades ago.”

Everybody at the panel I’m listening to agrees that marketing sneakers with rainbow laces to kids is a gesture of a great social value because it somehow combats homophobia.

And I believe that homophobia is not about who buys what but about putting an end to job discrimination and housing / healthcare discrimination. 

You can’t buy freedom from homophobia. You’ve got to fight for it.

Some people shouldn’t post selfies because their personality, voice and gestures make up 90% of their beauty.

And some people shouldn’t post selfies because their photography skills stink.

An academic who’s my Facebook friend but whom I’d never met in person until today posts a selfie a day. And today I finally saw her in RL and discovered that she’s not an ancient hag but a very beautiful woman who’s clearly younger than me. I’d kept wondering how it’s possible for her to have such small kids when she’s almost 70, and now the mystery has been solved.

The descent into Baltimore was long, and my ears were completely plugged. When I arrived at my hotel, I could barely hear anything. In order to avoid accidentally screaming at the receptionist, I silently handed him the paper with the reservation N had gotten for me. (He’s the hotel and flight specialist in the family.)

“Oh, hello, Mrs. N,” the receptionist said, looking at the paper. “Let’s me pull up your reservation.” 

He clicked a few keys, stared at the screen, and his face fell. He looked at me, at my paper, at the screen, clicked some more, stared some more, and started shifting uncomfortably.

“I’m so sorry, Mrs. N,” he mumbled finally. “There’s something. . . erm. . . something that will possibly be upsetting that I need to communicate to you.”

“Ah, they must have given my room to somebody else because I came in late,” I thought.

But I was wrong. 

“Mrs. N, your husband seems to have placed another woman in your room,” the receptionist said, his voice trembling. “Her name is Professor Bulochkina.”

“It’s OK,” I reassured the poor receptionist who probably feared a huge scandal. “I’m Bulochkina.”

And hey, these are the Eastcoasters who think we are flyover podunksters while they can’t imagine the situation where married people have different last names. 

This is a funnier story than even my notorious one-night stand story.