notes on, and Judith can’t make out her expression.
Greg is getting more passionate by the minute, waving his hands around in the air as he speaks, and his voice is rising in volume, and soon he’s so carried away he completely loses track of the time and continues straight through until one o’clock with his charming amalgam of Marx, Freire, and Foucault. Judith hasn’t studied in depth even one of this trinity of guys (of course they’re all guys), but they don’t seem to fit very well together. She can’t picture them being in the same room and having anything in common. But Greg keeps saying he’s “eclectic,” and in his eclectic electric blender, Marx, Freire, and Foucault mush into a kind of sweet social justice strawberry milkshake that has its own internal logic. Greg’s political views seem to Judith not very different from her own, so she doesn’t feel he’s convincing her of anything new. But listening to him speak in his flowing, persuasive, almost poetic way, she wishes Bobby could hear him. She’s sure Greg could make even Bobby, defender of all things capitalist and corporate, see things differently.
As soon as this class ends, Judith asks Cindy to hold a seat for her in the next one and races to the bathroom. There she pees with immense relief, and then for another minute sits on the toilet, daydreaming. Bobby may see her as a left-wing freak-o, but to the people here she makes sense, and they make sense to her, too. This might turn out to be a good year, after all. It could be interesting, even fun, to spend some time here in Canada. In exile, but just for a while. It sounds like the title of a song, “Exile but Just for a While,” and she starts humming a tune to go along with it. For the first time since promising her father she’d return to school, she doesn’t feel trapped or resentful about it. Maybe her father knew something she didn’t. Maybe he was smarter than she thought.
From 1:30 to 3:30 she has the last of her three courses: “Social Work with Individuals, Families, and Groups,” with Suzy Malone. (Or “’mAlone,” as she now thinks of that name.) Arriving from the bathroom, Judith gets stuck behind a dozen students filing slowly into the classroom, most holding sandwiches and drinks. When there’s no longer anyone ahead of her blocking her view, and for the first time she can see the teacher standing at the front of the room, she does a double-take. She knows her. They’ve met before. But where? It takes several seconds to remember, and then it all comes back. It was at a country club in May, at a boring retirement party for a founder of the law firm where Bobby had just begun. Suzy’s husband worked there, too, but as a senior partner. She and Suzy met in the bathroom — a gorgeous, spacious bathroom full of elegant peach-coloured gladioli — and after they somehow discovered they were both social workers, they chatted for about ten minutes. There was something very intimate about standing together in that bathroom while other women came and went, and the toilets kept flushing over and over. Suzy was very interested in the work Judith had done in Israel at a kindergarten for developmentally challenged children, and she told her about the problems of her eleven-year-old daughter, Natalie, who had autism, and how this was affecting her other two kids. Judith, coincidentally, had just heard from a friend of her father’s about a new summer camp for “special needs” kids, and she passed this information along to Suzy. They had a long, lovely conversation — the kind you have when you never expect to see that person again — and she hasn’t thought about Suzy since.
Now Suzy is smiling brightly at her. As Judith approaches, she is struck by how pretty and petite Suzy is. A short, pretty woman in a fuchsia silk shirt.
“I didn’t know you were coming here to study!” Suzy says.
“Neither did I,” says Judith. “It was sort of last-minute.”
“Well, welcome to Dunhill. How are you finding it so far?”
“Okay.”
“You’ll be fine,” says Suzy. “There’s a lot to absorb at first. But you’re so smart —” Judith looks at her in surprise. “You are. You’ll be great. You’ll see.”
“Thanks.” Then Judith feels self-conscious. Glancing around, she sees some of the other students are listening to their conversation. Awkwardly, she says, “I should probably sit down.”
“Sure,” says Suzy. “We’ll be starting soon anyway.”
Judith sees Cindy waving at her from the middle of the room and goes to the chair Cindy has saved for her.
“How do you know her?” Cindy asks as Judith sits. “I thought you didn’t know anyone here.”
Judith starts to explain, but stops abruptly as Suzy says, “Good afternoon,” and begins teaching. In front of a class Suzy is the same person she was in the bathroom: unpretentious, friendly, and open. She’s a good listener, too, obviously sincerely interested in students’ points of view, allowing lots of time for class discussion, and apparently not minding at all — even liking it — when students interrupt, make jokes, or briefly take over. In response to something funny that one student, Tyler, says, Suzy laughs — a natural, tinkly laugh, and now Judith feels happy and at home. Part of this, she knows, has to do with the content of this course: her B.S.W. and all her field placements were in the area of “individuals, families, and groups,” so here in Suzy’s class she feels on solid ground. But more than this there is something about Suzy that makes Judith feel comfortable and safe. Like who she is and what she knows is good enough. Suzy now says she believes in empowerment and androgogy. Judith wonders if they’re back to GBLT.
“Not androgyny,” says Suzy, startling Judith as if she’s read her mind. “Androgogy, the theory of adult education. Androgogy as opposed to pedagogy. I don’t believe in teaching adults as if they were children.” She goes on to explain that in this course she wants to help them retrieve, organize, and utilize the rich stores of knowledge they’ve all acquired from their years of experience in the field, and from life in general.
What a relief, thinks Judith, and what a contrast to Weick. Suzy’s going to treat me like an adult. An equal. Instead of like I’m in grade four.
Suzy tells them about her own professional background. “You have a right to know where I’m coming from,” she says sweetly. She’s worked in a number of different jobs, but currently has a private practice, specializing in therapy with single women in their late twenties and thirties. That’s me! thinks Judith, feeling embarrassed, and more than that, a bit naked, as if Suzy, like Supergirl, has X-ray vision and can see right through her. The rest of the class passes quickly, with Suzy doing a cursory run-through of all the most important theories and models used in working with individuals, families, and groups. Then she asks the class what other theories they know about and like. Judith puts up her hand: “Cognitive Theory,” she says.
“Sure,” says Suzy approvingly. “This is another very useful approach. Coincidentally, a new book just came out called Cognitive Therapy for Social Work, and yesterday I received a complimentary copy. So if anyone’s interested in borrowing it” — she looks straight at Judith — “I’d be happy to lend it.” Judith vigorously nods. “Just come by my office after class.”
Then Suzy says, “Before we finish today …” and Judith, glancing down at her watch, notes with astonishment there are only five minutes left of this class. Suzy reviews the assignments for her course. There’s a term paper worth 75 percent due the last day of the term, and for the other 25 percent they’re supposed to keep a weekly log. “A running dialogue with yourself,” Suzy explains, “about everything you’re learning. A place to begin integrating theory and practice, including your reactions to the readings and class discussions, your thoughts and feelings, and anything else you want to write about. Your logs will be kept strictly confidential,” she assures them, “so feel free to express yourselves there. I’ll return them each Monday to your box.”
After class is over, Judith
