A Silent Lunch

“Lunch?”

My coworker asks this same question every single Tuesday. It’s become ritualistic at this point. Because it’s the only time our schedules match up to escape our university departmental office chairs, the answer is always yes.

But lately, our sacred Tuesdays have begun to feel foreign. Nothing has changed at the surface level. We still meet at the same time. We still walk the same route. We still get our drinks from the same shitty fountain machine that paints our water purple with drops of Powerade.

Everything’s the same. But we’ve begun to whisper. 

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There are now moments of silence that sit heavy between us as we play with our food, like school children waiting for teacher to tell us where to go next. We often find ourselves unsure of what to say to each other. But perhaps there is nothing that can be said.

Perhaps we just need to share our fears with someone who believes that it’s OK to be afraid.

And so our Tuesday ritual continues on. Everything’s the same. But we whisper over tablecloths.

“I joked with my mom that I may not have a job this time next year.”

I dig my plastic fork into a green vegetable. We don’t have to elaborate. The attacks on higher education have been felt throughout the university these past few weeks.

A few days ago, the nationwide pause on research grants was officially addressed in a faculty meeting with our peers. The quiet thoughts, finally said aloud. The “can this be real” confirmed to be “the new norm.” A colleague studying dementia and other cognitive issues (that might affect our own parents someday, no doubt) announces from across the conference room table that she has received an e-mail from “someone higher up.” Her eyebrows raise, as if to say, “Get ready, everyone.”

“It’s simple, really,” she says sarcastically. I can’t tell if she’s pissed or scared. "Future grants won’t be denied if we just avoid using specific terminology in our proposals.” She then begins to recite from a list on her phone as we all sit in silence. 

“Diversity.” “Equity.” “Inclusion.” “Structural racism.”

She leaves space between each word as she speaks, leaving just enough time for us to ask ourselves if we heard that correctly.

“Inclusive.” “Accessibility.” “Underserved.” “Cultural.” “Social Justice.” “Systemic Racism.” “Implicit Bias.” “Discrimination.”

On that Tuesday, my friend and I did not go to lunch. Instead, we left the room different than we had entered. All of us have taken jobs in our field specifically because we want to help underserved populations. This was never just about salaries to us. So what do all these anti-diversity presidential executive orders mean? Would it be enforced? Could it be enforced?

Everything's The Same, But We Whisper

Another Tuesday. Another green vegetable. Today, I watch as my friend glides her thumb along the tablecloth. 

“My neighbor laughed about the deportations this weekend.”

I move my hand toward my cup, holding on tightly to my stained water.

“My friend says it’s all going to be fine.” 

“Which friend?” 

“Guess.”

She continues to rub her thumb along the table, but this time, she leans in. This is new.

“I can see our parking lot from my office window, you know. Last week, I watched an older mother helping her teenage son out of their van into his wheelchair. I think he had Cerebral Palsy. I… I’ve been thinking about them all weekend.”

She doesn’t have to say the rest. 

She’s wondering what happens to that mother when (“if” - we always say “if” to calm ourselves) we’re no longer able to provide services for her son. She’s wondering what happens when ”helping” is just an archaic idea of the past, made illegal by presidential fiat. She’s wondering what happens to all the children who walk through our doors.

I don’t say anything. I stare out the window. I drink. Perhaps there is nothing that can be said. 

Perhaps, for now, it’s enough to share our fears with someone who believes it’s OK to be afraid.