Last week, I wrote to John Bonnell to ask what his life is like these days, now that he is teaching with the awareness that his career will end the moment one of his students decides he or she objects to his language and complains. This is his reply:

You ask whether my uneasiness continues, the disease prominent at the beginning of the semester. It does. Every day I appear at the college ready to teach, occasionally still eager to teach--but wondering, after 37 years, if it will be my very last day. This is no exaggeration; I have been suspended abruptly, without notice, before. I have been evicted from the classroom and barred from my office in media res before. The College does not always institute investigations and punishment after a stretch of circumspection. It reserves the right to devastate first, then review what it did and meant later. History lesson: not only was I summarily suspended in February, 1999, I was banished from campus, unless I had "union" or other necessary business to pursue, such as to appear at inquisitions. On those occasions, I was ordered to report to the campus Public Safety headquarters and, depending upon the number of available officers, have at least one and sometimes two assigned as my escorts. If none were ready at the moment, I had to wait until one was. These officers, of course, were in uniform and armed. Imagine the absurdity, the insult, of such a guard waiting for me outside the door of a chamber of inquisition, ready to collect me when I emerged. Imagine the scope of this public humiliation before my students and colleagues. Imagine one student, a young woman, excitedly approaching me to apologize for being absent, beginning a plea that I accept her late paper. She had not seen, or had not understood the significance of, the guard hard by my side. When I did not move to receive her offered homework; when she saw the shake of my head and my slightly averted gaze; she then saw the escort, and muttered, "Oh, shit!" She flung the paper onto a table, and fled. This period of nearly a month was a species of brutality I never imagined could happen to an American professor merely suspected of speech and thought crimes. The demonstration was effective; I will never be able to forget.

And this time, as you know, I am threatened with termination, per the Memorandum from Provost Noreen Thomas, dated August 8, 2003: "I must inform you that the College will not tolerate any further violation of its policy against sex harassment or its policy against the use of profane, obscene or vulgar language that is not germane to course content as measured by professional standards .Ö Nor will the College tolerate any future digressions into sexual topics that are offensive to a reasonable person and unjustifiable as measured by professional standards. A future transgression of any of these standards will result in a recommendation that your employment be terminated."

But, unlike other circumstances where each day might be one's last, there is no enhancement of quotidian activity, no deepened appreciation of the thing that cannot last, the thing that may soon be lost. (I hesitate to say how much teaching has enchanted me, how much I have reason to believe I have charmed, have illuminated, others. Ms. Grundy says, "No pain, no gain!" I prefer my own formula: No pleasure, no treasure. But, if I say how much it means, what delight I have found therein, I may merely compound the ineluctable grief. I do not discount the federal judges, who rather harshly agreed among themselves that I have no "right" to such employ. I just wish they understood no one else has the right to deny me, particularly for such vicious and transient reasons. At least, for the nation's sake, I hope the reasons are transient, and that, to preserve the people's freedom, the viciousness is exposed and disowned.) Instead of delight in drinking academic life to the lees, there is mostly dread. The flow of my speech is often self-interrupted, as I stumble to monitor, to modify, or to justify what I am saying or may have recently said. Since students occasionally have no better grasp of what "germane" means than the College has, I often have to explain my explanations or, like Bottom, remind them that I am not your very lion. That is, the view in some message just presented may not necessarily be that of the messenger (when presenting, say, the racism of a character created by Flannery O'Connor, or the sexism of another found in Hemingway). And diction, of course, is akin to oral cancer. It may seem benign until, too late, it's dispersed in common air. I have been warned that "hell" and "damn" are punishable; I can get no assurances whether "heck" and "darn" are sufficiently cleansed or are just as "gratuitous" or "vulgar." We must wait the event, to see who is offended. The index of forbidden lingo expands with each new complaint. A euphemism one student tolerates may constitute an outrage to another, one who is doubtless more reasonable. There is no way to anticipate. And I have been unwilling to profit from the College's assurances that I can find "safety and comfort" as long as I restrict myself to a reading of the text. The words and ideas of professors are problematic, but not those in print. My torment is compounded by the fact that I present the literature I teach in a dramatic fashion, offering it, as one insightful student observed, as a "performance art." When talking about "A Good Man is Hard to Find," I don't just analyze the Misfit, I become him. I essay to give voice to his pain, to the horror he has seen. But, if I had contented myself with being a drone, a creature like the blue parrot on Bailey's yellow shirt, I wouldn't be like I am now. I wouldn't be a frightened, stuttering performer whose script is askew.

A further difficulty is posed by my laissez-faire style of classroom management. I do not require attendance or insist that students be assembled when I arrive, or wait for general dismissal to leave. I have always done it this way, relying on the adults I meet to reciprocate the respect, to keep disruptions to a minimum. Most do. Now, though, when anyone leaves early, I experience a rush of fear, wondering whether the fugitive was "offended," or might even be looking for an authority with which to lodge a complaint. Sometimes the surprise, the arrest, is written on my face. "She had to go to the bathroom." Oh. "His father is in the hospital, and he has to leave." Yes. I remember now that he had told me. Last week, I think it was. . . . A few days ago, a student left abruptly when I was describing James Joyce's attitude toward the Roman Catholic Church, how he was apt to lampoon aspects thereof or persons he deemed ludicrous or hypocritical. The student was flushed, visibly upset. Minutes before bolting he had blurted out: "That was BEFORE Vatican Two!" His indignation was intense. Will he complain? Even now, the inquisitor may be preparing the next inquest (reminding me that I am entitled to "union representation," a thing I can never get). Will my career thus be ended? The disturbance was not over the chronically dangerous topic of sexuality. But the new Harassment Code, its eleven regions of "Do Not Enter" liberally mined with threats of discipline, includes religion.

I have not changed the authors I teach, nor the prickly portions they may have penned. But, despite my best intentions, I find the self-censor often seizing my tongue. Also this week (it seems something happens every day, if not every class), a bright student spoke briefly with me after class. He wondered why I had brushed quickly past the masturbation sequence in Joyce Carol Oates' "Where are you Going? Where have you Been?" I admitted I had done so, and I apologized. It was the very first time I had ever so done. I pointed out that I was nervous enough explicating the "secret code, 33, 19, 17," which comes to a sum the dreaming and virginal character Connie "didn't think much of." I said that she, like any of us when young, had some recognition but no experience of the dangerous digits. I then, more hastily than usual, recounted how, at age ten, I had been assigned to a barracks named "The Fighting Sixty-Ninth" at a summer camp conducted by the Catholic Youth Organization. I told how I and all my age mates giggled and giggled at our good fortune to be so situate. And that remained true despite the official explanation around the campfire that our barracks was named after the valorous Irish regiment which honored holy purity as much as their duty to the nation. The sixth and ninth commandments were their insignia and their calling. Giggle, giggle. (The fourth item on an evaluation instrument all teachers are required to give to every class has this intelligence: "Examples and anecdotes were used to help clarify the subject." And the College highly endorses such behavior, unless the subject is sex. Then it reserves the right to punish without stint, should any student object.) Though I have yet to be indicted for teaching this rich work (unlike Oates' far less incendiary, sexually speaking, story "In the Region of Ice"), that is simply due to blind luck. I assign it often, but apparently just beyond the in-class or out-of-class censors' grasp.

After the apology, I went on to tell this student that I apprehend there may be a censor or two installed, by self-appointment or recruitment, in that very class. I did not, of course, say who I thought it was, or what behavior had been exhibited to induce my suspicion and my caution. I further explained that I hope I am mistaken. Yet the very possibility of such a mistake, the very fear that makes such paranoia probable, is one measure of the terrible burden under which I try to function. Many days, in fact, that is all that I can manage--to be functional. The joy, the flourishing, that used to typify my teaching knows occasional revival; but mostly it survives only in memory, in nostalgic recall.

UPDATE: Another of Bonnell's students weighs in at Invisible Adjunct.

I scoff at the ridiculous allegations. C'mon now, he didn't say that stuff. That's just a bunch of over-hyped nonsense. Grow up.

I'm currently enrolled in one of Professor Bonnell's classes, fall of 2003. This is the first English course I've attended in a long time that's actually made me excited to go to class. His class has opened my eyes to recognize different sides and hidden meanings in every aspect of life and his mind is simply fascinating to watch operate. The man truly is a genius.

"Do the accusations against Bonnell represent trumped-up charges made on the basis of a handful of complaints by hypersensitive or hostile students?"

As far as I can tell from my current semester, absolutely. Yes, he does branch off and talk about his personal life and some of it might be a little more risky than your typical noun-verb-adjective english prof, but I feel it's very relevant to the particularly difficult subject matter he's addressing and it really helps clarify some of the points he's beating on. The average age of students at Macomb Community College is 26 for christ sakes. Grow up, people. We're all adults and it's all part of our language. He doesn't over-use any foul language and, as long as I have known him, is very tastfully selecting what to say and what not to say. I haven't heard the word "pussy" or "blow-job" nor "corpse-fucker" or "anal-rapist". This is just amazing to me how blown up this crap has gotten.

Was I around in 1998 when some of the previous fires were lit? No, unfortunately I was not. But I will stick up for my Professor at this time and say that, while he might be a little controversial, I feel he's doing a hell of a job teaching a very difficult subject matter and I hope I get to take another of his courses in the future. If my path doesn't let us cross again, you're damn sure I'll take him out for a drink and thank him for the knowledge seed he's planted in my head.

ALSO, what the hell's with this imposed gag order? There must be something else going on. I'd really like to get to the bottom of it, but I fear I only have a little over a month left in the semester. Sigh. Damn the administration.

Feel free to email me with any questions. I'd be glad to talk with any of you. My instant messanger name is saksafon and my email address is saksafon@comcast.net.