The first day on the job is just like the first day of school. You want to dress up all snazzy and wash behind your ears so that your first impression can really wow your new colleagues. But, when you are fresh from the academic womb that nurtured you to pursue the illustrious graduate degree you nearly starved for, options to impress them with your fashion sense are often slim. Unless, of course, you come from a family with a trust fund. In that case, I despise you, and I hope you choke on your own rhetoric during a paper presentation about why your navel is superior because it has thirteen percent less lint than the previous model at the National Nitwit Association conference. I am so glad you found your niche project that answers nothing but the whiny problems you and two other charlatans created as an academic subgenre can exist because of academic freedom. Congratulations on opening your own program about such a worthless endeavor. I don’t know how you even market such an insane scheme. I applaud you if you can manage to swindle some students into thinking that they will become forethinkers in the hermeneutics of belly button autoethnography. The only future your pupils will have will be as an online adjunct for a for-profit school located in a garage in Utah. Honestly, I both admire and loathe you. Mainly because I will never be able to stare at my own belly button with such a level of awe that I find a birth scar so enchanting, nor will I ever comprehend how you can sleep at night knowing what kind of hack fraud you are. Having dozens of graduates who will teach from a coffee shop with free wifi because of the student debt they accrued under your tutelage could have bought them a European sports car instead.

For the rest of us working academic stiffs, the first day on a new campus will create lasting impressions on your new colleagues, whether they are good or bad or leave bruises. Regardless, my first day at Remus started by having the eight new hires gather in a small conference room on the north end of campus. We all exchange pleasantries before our new boss walks in to get us acclimated to the new environment. The meeting starts off mundane enough with an introduction from the Vice President of Academic Affairs, Dr. Bella Stalwart. Dr. Stalwart has a tall and slender countenance. She also appears to be closer to middle age as there is also a motherly aura about her as she speaks. However, she commands the room with her physical presence. The kind of demeanor that could quickly instill that maternal guilt most of us grew up with. You remember it. The worst thing you could possibly do was disappoint her, but if you were looking to sign your own death warrant, you made her mad.

The majority of the orientation meanders around the mundane functions of a faculty member and the general responsibilities attached to the position. A broad spectrum of topics is discussed, including attendance, registration, and office hours. However, I notice a change in Dr. Stalwart’s demeanor as she begins to talk about the student body. The conversation goes from that of cheer and mirth and dives into a tone reminiscent of those wise elders who warn the hero about the tribulations they will face on the journey. Thankfully, Dr. Stalwart does not have a milky eye, long beard, and weather-beaten oak staff to drive the point home.

Dr. Stalwart begins to discuss the students who matriculate to Remus College. There is a stern warning administered to each and every one of us. The edict is as follows, “whatever you do, do not ask where your students are from.”

In my mind, I find this perplexing. Part of how I identify with my students is that I get to know a little about where they are from. I can relate to them by talking about their favorite sports teams or talk about the local food and attractions. Now I am being told that I cannot even bring up hometowns. What in the world for? However, before I have time to formulate a response, Dr. Stalwart follows this commandment with a rationale. “Students are territorial and are very protective; therefore, if you begin to discuss things of that nature it might lead to a fight in class.”

I feel the need to collect myself after receiving this information. The notion that students might fight over the fact that they live somewhere else almost gives me a complex. My mind begins recalling the odd questions Stalwart was asking during the interview about diffusing situations in the classroom. My response was that I often use humor to handle any situation. Experience has taught me that quick wit can tackle most circumstances. Now it seems like I will need to brush up on my martial arts skills to make it through my nine o’clock class.

For context, I grew up just outside of Pittsburgh, and there is a long-standing rivalry between my hometown and the city of Cleveland. As much as we may ridicule anybody from that part of Lake Erie or harass those unfortunate souls who root for teams that play in a town where the primary export was crippling depression, none of it ever came to punches. I would never commit physical harm to somebody who had the misfortune of living near the Cuyahoga River or supported those teams. At worst, you would say something horrible about the players or their mothers and leave it at that. As far as I was concerned, those poor people suffered enough just because they lived in Ohio.

Apparently, fights were common in the classroom over trivial matters like what street you happen to live on. What kind of students does this place admit? I don’t know if I want to come to work at a place where I have to wear a complete umpire’s uniform to class. A fun little fact about baseball umpires, in the early 20th century, eight of them were murdered during baseball games by fans. It really brings new meaning to the term “kill the ump.” I fancy myself an adventurous soul, but I would prefer not to get plugged while discussing Walter Benjamin. I admired the man, but I don’t want to die in a similar fashion.