Reflections on Things at Hand: Indian Goodbyes

As anyone who knows me knows all too well, I will cry at the drop of a hat - it's a classic Scudder trait, although, thankfully, I'm not as bad as my brother (who probably breaks down when there are changes in postage rates because he feels bad for the old stamps which are now ignored). It's nothing I'm ashamed of, and, truthfully, we should really all show our emotions more readily than we do. That said, I try to avoid putting myself in the position of blubbering in front of a large crowd. It's one of the reasons why I squashed all attempts to have a going away party when I left Georgia Perimeter College in Atlanta to move north - I let my friends know that if I even thought they might be putting something together I wouldn't show up (so I had this rule that I would go out for one on one lunches only). Someday when I leave Champlain I plan on passing through as a ghost - one day there will simply be no one in my office. This did not deter my Indian friends - John Neelankavil, Raj Nambiar, Rashmi, and my lovely students - from persevering despite my best efforts. I made it clear that there would be no party and I would be making no speeches. And so after my last class of the summer all my students walked out of the classroom, and then the entire campus walked in thirty seconds later. There was cake and pizza and student speeches and dancing and gifts - and the required farewell speech from me, although I didn't get much more out than "namaste" before I started crying too hard to continue. When John and Raj drove me to the airport it was so obvious that they were intent on carrying on this fast-paced, almost machine gun fast, discussion just to keep me distracted, so that I wouldn't break down again - and I didn't, until they drove away.