Chapter Text
V. Palmer, PhD candidate, fourth year. They cannot believe they're already this far along in the program. Sometimes they still can’t believe they’re in the program period. They worked themselves ragged to be at Columbia, studying something they value more than anything, and there is nothing that will take this away from them. Nothing.
They still recall the moment they had gotten their admission. They were twenty-three, sitting in their dinged-up apartment in New Jersey. They had spent the last year and a half after getting their bachelor’s from Rutgers, working dead-end jobs and feverishly filling out applications for grad programs. They were making barely above minimum wage as a barista and video store clerk, acquiring a good 60 hours a week. Between the applications and working until they felt like they could collapse, all they really had time for was cooking the same food for every meal, watching TV with their roommate, and going on a jog a couple of times a week. They had sworn off relationships two years into undergrad and never looked back. Their life was hard, but it was peaceful.
It was Tuesday when they got the letter. A cold chill lingered outside Van’s apartment window, and they had woken up to a drip of a mysterious fluid coming from their ceiling and falling into a puddle on the floor inches from their face. A problem for later today, they promised themselves as they kicked their sheets to the bottom of the mattress and stretched out. Their pale skin seemed practically translucent in the winter as they looked down at themselves, nothing but a pair of plaid boxers on, and their body essentially glowing. I look like a damn ghost.
When they had arranged themselves in the typical beat-up work pants and T-shirt, they came out of their room to their roommate shoveling cereal into their mouth and the radio blasting some Hole song:
“Tear the petals off of you,
make you tell the truth…”
“And you wonder why you’re depressed,” Van says, cruising past Natalie’s hunched-over frame.
“It’s seasonal!” Nat replies through a mouthful.
“Won’t stay that way at this rate.” Van retorts and cracks the fridge door open to squat down, inspecting potential options. Not much, three loose eggs, a bottle of ketchup, a half shelf of beer, and Mexican cheese mix. Lovely.
“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Also, your first application letter got here; it’s on the coffee table.”
Van shoots back into standing “WHAT? Why didn’t you lead with that?!” They wheel around and run to the living room (which is not another room, it’s all just one large room really) and grabs the single envelope that was sitting next to their grimy bong. They fidget with the seal for a bit before finally tearing it open messily, exposing a single sheet of folded cardstock.
Take out, unfold…
“Greetings, Vanessa Palmer,
It is with great pleasure that the admissions board for Columbia would like to offer you an enrollment space in our upcoming cohort of Film and Media Studies PhD candidates with your specified focus on Gender and Sexuality…”
They did it. Van did it. Van had just gotten into Columbia. Not only that but it was literally their first response and their top pick. Their hands shook as they stood in the living room holding that sheet of paper.
“What’s it say?” Nat interrupts, breaking the magic a little as flecks of milk spit out of her full mouth onto the wood of the table.
“I—I got in. I got into Columbia.” Van says, looking up.
Nat chokes a bit on her cereal and painfully swallows the lump in her throat.
“Wait, you got in???”
“Yeah. This is insane. The program starts in August…”
***
That was four years ago. Van had definitely taken some time adjusting. For one, they now had a stipend. Which was exciting until they saw how it measured up to NYC prices and quickly went back to cooking at home, except for special occasions. They also had provided housing, which made it the first time Van was living alone, literally ever. While other grad students were complaining about the lack of space and creaky floorboards, Van relished over it. This was the most freedom they’d ever felt since leaving for college. This time, not only did they have space from their mom, they had space from everyone. They could come home at any hour, be as loud as they wanted, clean at their own rate, decorate how they chose– everything was on their terms.
The emptiness of their apartment lasted only about a semester and a half as they began to accumulate items from graduating students and random street finds. Their small living area was now adorn with a cute plush, orange chair, a round breakfast table, about eight book shelves filling every wall gap they could find, and The absence of their roommate bothered them a bit but Nat usually made an effort to come visit about once a month and Van started having other grad students over for dinners, making their own community in the midst of the chaos of grad school and living in NYC.
Come their fourth year in the program, they felt pretty confident in their placement. They had weekly dinners with two post-docs in the psychology department and a 3rd year in Van’s program. Their Rate My Professor score was a 4.8, only lacking because Van had pissed off one of the student athletes at Columbia during a discussion, saying that superhero movies were riddled with military propaganda, which they are. They often subbed in for their advisor on lectures and had first pick on which classes to TA in. They were good, and they finally knew it.
***
It was the start of a new term, the campus was full of life, and the city was full of humidity. In late August, New York turned into something of a sauna, the wet heat radiating between the skyscrapers and hanging heavily in all the rooms of the University buildings. Van had been called over to support their advisor’s partner, who taught an intermediate media course at Barnard across the street. This would be their second time supporting at the college, so it was a little less daunting than before. The Barnard students had a strange intensity to them that was different than the Columbia ones, a need to constantly prove themselves to be as academically capable as their Ivy League neighbors. Personally, Van thought the whole environment was ridiculous, but they knew better than to fight any of the students over this. They would just do their job, teach their classes, grade their papers, force the students to participate in discussions, and then fuck the hell off of the campus. This was always the plan, but when they walked into their discussion room that Wednesday, fluffing their dress shirt a few times to try and force some air on it amidst the sticky warmth of the halls, they were met with an issue.
—
Van had seen this student during syllabus week, and it had made them feel like they might sweat through their overshirt. At first, Van thought she was another TA, holding herself sternly with a confidence that made her stand taller than she already was. It wasn’t until she had sat down next to two other girls, who were more clearly undergrads, that Van’s theory was proven wrong. When they had seen her, their whole face seemed to burn up, and when they realized that this woman was a student in the class, they began kicking themselves mentally.
Don’t be attracted to an undergrad. Don’t be attracted to your own student.
It felt like that intro lecture would never end. Van had to fight off their urges to ogle at the girl-–Taissa Turner as they learned during attendance. So upon that first discussion group meeting, Van’s heart dropped to their asshole when they walked in to see that right in the front row of the small, dark, wooded room was her, Taissa Turner.
Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, neatly pressed down with bobby pins and a colorful scarf, a tight, cropped, black tank top hugged her frame above a jean skirt riddled with patches, definitely added before she had thrifted it. Taissa was wiggling her pencil violently between her fingers and chewing the inside of her lip; her eyes darted around the room. She was scanning old chalk marks on the boards, scratches in the wood floors, and eventually Van, who was doing their best to maintain a blank look of internal focus as they walked into the room. They shouldn’t have been shocked; they had seen Taissa’s name on their roll sheet, and they knew that she was going to be in this section. But part of them had hoped that she would switch to a different time, though another part was strangely exhilarated by the forced quarters.
Candidate Palmer paced their breath quietly as they walked into the discussion room, feeling Taissa’s eyes track over them like she was about to pounce from her desk. Van placed their briefcase down on the front desk of the room, taking out their laptop, notebook, and a blank sheet of paper for attendance. They then did their best to stand up and direct their eyes up and around Taissa before turning to start writing on the board with the crumb of chalk that was abandoned in the tray below. Their hands were clammy, making it harder to hold, but they managed to scrawl MDV 144: Intermediate Media Studies before the pathetic stump was dust on their fingertips. Usually, Van loved intermediate and advanced courses; it meant the students had experience with the subject matter and usually were not in their first year of school. But it also meant the classes were small, the discussion sections even smaller. They replied to a few emails and refreshed themselves on the syllabus and course guidelines the professor had sent Van and the other TAs last week as they waited for the remaining few students to trickle in. According to their roll sheet, there were a whopping eleven students– fantastic. Van finally picked their head up at 1:07; it had been plenty of time, but they were desperate to avoid eye contact.
“Alright, I think that is more than enough time for you all to arrive. Keep in mind, we will usually be starting right at one, but I wanted to give everyone a moment in case they had switched at the last minute.” Van traced around to the front of their desk, and everyone stared ahead at them, faces blank. Except for Taissa, who had a soft smile in the sides of her cheeks.
“As you all know, I am V. Palmer. You can refer to me as Vee or Palmer. I use they/them pronouns and will be the TA leading discussions twice a week with you all. I plan on dividing the fifty minutes between class discussion of the text and films, and homework sharing. I will also be holding quizzes at the end of each unit.”
They could do this speech, gagged, blindfolded, and in an airtight box, usually, but the severity of Taissa’s eyes felt as if they were speaking with a mouth full of cotton. They paused for a moment for a sip of water and continued, “A little about me, I am a current doctoral student at Columbia in media studies with a focus on gender and sexuality. I will be your main source of direction throughout the course. Does this mean I will help you at 3 am before your final because you didn’t actually read any of the work? No. Does it mean that I will help you make sense of symbolism in the film that neither you nor your classmates seems to understand? Yes.”
They dragged on for a few more minutes explaining the chain of command on when it was appropriate to reach out to them and when the professor, all housekeeping, and mildly mind-numbing, but unfortunately necessary to protect Van’s sanity throughout the semester. Usually, this was a time for students to scroll through online shopping on their laptops or pick dirt out from under their nails rather than give Van the time of day, but Taissa remained focused on Van throughout the spiel. When they finally stopped, they gave a deep exhale and said, “And any questions?” Immediately, Taissa’s hand popped up, along with a few other students who looked like Van would get very familiar with their email icon.
“You first.” Van said lazily, pointing towards a small girl in the back of the room, “Oh, and introduce yourself so I can learn everyone's names.” The girl’s round face was framed by dark, straight hair that stopped around her shoulders.
“Mari Ibarra. I was wondering if there was any weighing of the exams?”
Very fair question, given the professor, Van thought.
“Yes, unfortunately, they do count for about 30% of the grade, but there will also be a few extra credit opportunities such as site visits, which will be shared by Professor Gramatky at the start of the units. If you are worried about your grades following an exam, reach out to me, and we will sort something out. My goal is that you all understand the material and do well in the class.” Van was getting back in their rhythm and was almost forgetting the goddess seated before them. They watched Mari smile softly and lean back in her chair before they swiveled over to Taissa.
“Ms. Turner?” Her eyes flashed, and Van felt a heat rise back into their cheeks. The everlasting punishment of their paleness was that they could turn red in an instant.
“Yes, thank you, Vee, I was wondering how you plan to pace readings in correlation with discussions as well as the films we will be watching in class.” An annoying fucking question. Of course, she’d ask this; she wants to know if she can hammer out all of the readings at the beginning of the semester.
“The readings will be expected to be finished by Thursday before our section.” Van says, momentarily locking eyes with her before directing the answer to the rest of the room, “We will be having a discussion regarding it in relation to the screening during Wednesday's lecture. I urge you all to read at the pace with the screenings, it will keep the information fresh, given how much content we will be taking in throughout the course.” Taissa’s smirk had fallen from her face, and now she rested in a slight pout, arousing a pang of guilt in Van before they moved on through the last few questions.
Finally, the fifty minutes finished up, and students got up and arranged their bags. Van stayed behind at their desk, writing some notes on each student to help them not forget everyone’s names.
Shauna Shipman: big ass brown eyes
Charlotte Matthews: Tall as fuck
“Dr. Palmer?” Van flinches slightly at this acknowledgement, before looking up to see Taissa looming over them.
“I wanted to say thank you for your dedication to this course. I’ve heard things about you from former Professors, and I am really excited to be at your instruction.” She gave a sheepish smile, clearly trying to recover from the pretentious question earlier that was meant to knock Van off balance.
“Thank you, Ms. Turner. I definitely take this job very seriously, and your success, ultimately, is my success as well. There is no point getting all this education if you cannot share it with others.” Van gives a smile back before throwing their eyes back down to their laptop, writing the word ‘fuck’ over and over until Taissa leaves the room, here ponytail bouncing with her now joyous step.
—
“At your instruction,” repeats in Van’s head the whole walk back to the apartment.