I have been busier than usual lately in some ways. I have a project that I need to wrap up before the end of the month, and also my class to whip into shape before the end. This has been a terrible semester for me for teaching because of family illness, mostly, and also travel and other distractions of the job search & whatnot. But I am having my students meet with me during class time instead of having a class meeting. I find that the one-on-one interaction over a paper sometimes does more than any generalized instruction I can provide. These appointments mean that I don't have to prepare for class, but the sessions are intense. I am also thinking more about research, publishing, conferences and other professional activities. Some of this is in response to the campus visit--to show what can be done with literary scholarship so that one does not have to rely on teaching tired versions of feminism, and to connect research and teaching so I can answer those darned questions competently, and so I can get a sense for how long it will take me to turn a dissertation into a book, in case I'm asked, and so perhaps schools that are more suitable to me will find me suitable. But this is not the only reason I have been thinking more. After days of feeling so exhausted that I could barely motivate myself to leave the house, to get the necessary coffee, or to make a meal, my mother suggested that I take some iron. I felt as bad as when I was last pregnant, and I am always seriously anemic when I am pregnant, with the last, I believe, being the worst. I have not felt motivated since Chiclette was only a few months old--since shortly after I finished the dissertation. It has gotten worse rather than better. Except that since I have been taking iron every day, I suddenly seem able to think. I seem better able to accomplish the daily tasks I have and to work on longer term projects. And I have ideas again. So if the campus visit only benefited me by giving me an awareness of my health, that is perhaps enough.
This was intended as a preface to some conclusions about the campus visit experience, but alas! my new-found energy does not carry me much past midnight (waking before 8 on weekdays and before 9 on any given day!) and it is after 1 A.M. now. So I will be back when I can to share some reflections.
Monday, April 20, 2009
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
The Campus Visit Pt. 5
I have many, many things I should be doing, but this is therapeutic and it's too late to start grading now (the story of my life, really). So I will complete the saga before calling it a night.
When I returned to the hotel it was around 3:30. I was exhausted, my feet were killing me, and I was thoroughly discouraged. I was not looking forward to being picked up by the department head and the male committee member, who we may perhaps call Jim--a common enough name. But perhaps with some rest, I would be up to the challenge. I called my husband and vented a little. He was in the process of picking up Doodle from school. She was so surprised and pleased to see him that she proceeded to introduce him to everyone--parents, teachers, and friends. I wanted nothing more than to be home. Then I proceeded to get cleaned up, reapply make-up, and dressed casually to go downstairs to the hotel "gift shop" (that is, convenience area) to see if there would be something besides the gel inserts to help my poor feet.
Now a brief aside here. . . I was told by my department's placement coordinator that I should wear comfortable shoes. But I took this to mean good-quality nice-looking shoes that under normal conditions would be tolerable for standing all day. I did not think I would need to wear Tevas, like my companion who drove me home, or sneakers, or CROCs. I returned a pair of heels that I did not think would be comfortable enough and opted instead for a nice, high-quality pair of Bandolino wedges (not cheap shoes!) with a strap like a Mary Jane. Sensible, practical, but not intended for hiking. So lesson learned--next time, wear the CROCs. I did use the gel inserts, and after ditching the pantyhose, managed to get along pretty well in my nice shoes.
Having determined that I was out of luck with the shoe-cushions, I went back to my room and rested a bit more, and also ate large quantities of cheese and caramel popcorn that I had purchased at O'Hare the day before. Finally, I changed into the dress I had brought for dinner (a casual dress, but a bit dressier and more "fun" than the nice outfit I had worn all day) and went downstairs to the lobby at about 5:25, figuring that my companions would be there shortly. Well, it turns out that while I was waiting (for about 15 minutes instead of the 5 I had anticipated), they called to say they would be late. When they finally arrived, I realized immediately that they were wearing the same things they had all day--which of course made sense on a level, but which also meant that the department head was still wearing blue jeans and an ultra casual button-down shirt with a cardigan. This is not an old woman, people--she is likely about 5 years older than me (my husband's age). And yet, she does not seem young; I mentioned before that this does not feel like a department that a young scholar would join. The woman I spoke with extensively was probably in her late 50s, as was Jim. Our lesbian writer friend was likely the same age as the department head, give or take a few years, and seemed a bit more "hip." In retrospect, when the department head looked surprised and complimented my cute dress, I should immediately have excused myself and changed into the sweater and jeans I was going to wear home the following day.
They asked me what I liked to eat for the second time--I was asked the same thing when I was picked up in the morning. I had actually talked a bit about food at lunch, as the art professor had mentioned that there was more ethnic cuisine in the area than there had been (a measure of a place's culture, apparently, as we say the same thing about this college town; I can't help thinking about My Cousin Vinnie.) So it was known that I liked Sushi and Mediterranean. Personally, I was amazed that they did not have some place in mind where they took all of their candidates. Reflecting back, does this mean that they can adjust how much they spent entertaining the candidate to the person's performance or perceived suitability for the department? Perhaps that is paranoid of me. But it was decided that since the department head's daughter (family????--first mention of children!!!) has extreme food allergies, and her family could not eat out often, the two profs would take me to some place fusion-y where she likes to eat and where you could find a variety of types of cuisine. It was an extremely casual artsy place, concrete floors, water feature, nice in its way, but overpriced for what it was. I took a cue from them and ordered a beer, especially as it was Happy Hour. The department head ordered a bison burger. It took me a while to decide, as I wanted to get something interesting and since I knew that there was no chance that I would ever be eating here again. When I said I was debating between the (more expensive) pasta and the (less expensive) pizza, I was told that the pasta was HUGE and that it was difficult to eat while talking. I took the hint and ordered the pizza--shrimp scampi pizza, actually. It was pretty good.
Now, it is difficult to recall the entirety of the conversation, but this is where Jim really made the strongest impression on me. From our earlier interaction, I was not inclined to like him, but he revealed a lot to me in the course of the car ride to the restaurant and the dinner conversation. I had not entirely recovered from the sense of futility and attitude of apathy I had acquired earlier, and ironically, this made me more inclined to talk, as I only had to pretend half-interest and wasn't worried about offending or making a bad impression. On the ride to the restaurant, I asked about the historic district--whether it was near the university, and learned that one of their stellar top grads had gotten a job at a local ethnic museum. I was shown a company that paid for a lot of the employees to attend the school, and so I asked a bit about the adult education program. The school is supposedly very proud of their programs for working adults, and I had been told about the "age diversity" in some of their classes during the phone interviews. It was mentioned again at lunch, but I thought with some embarrassment. These programs were part of the "service, service, service"--separate degree programs, but also admissions for nontraditional students. One of the students I spoke with before lunch had mentioned the schedule that some of the working adults follow--6-week sessions instead of 15, and evening classes instead of daytime. So I asked about those classes, and whether there was overlap, or whether the traditional students had the option of enrolling in the mini-sessions. This was greeted with surprise and I was told quickly and vehemently that they were separate programs, and that the traditional students did NOT enroll in the shorter classes. Some nontraditional students did enroll in the regular degree programs, but for the most part the populations were separate. Inquiring further, I was told with contempt that most of the faculty did not teach in the continuing education program, which was staffed mainly by adjuncts. Now Jim taught in that program for a while--it's how he paid for his daughter's college. He said something about having to be very versatile and adapting to different learning styles by employing a variety of teaching techniques. His body language, even while driving, conveyed strong distaste.
Something odd about this whole drive--indeed, the whole evening--was that the two professors kept discussing things around me, without me, that did not pertain to me, and from which I was excluded. There was a free performance of an opera on campus that night--"The Barber of Seville" in English by a professional opera troupe, and they discussed the reactions of their respective spouses to the prospect of attending the opera. It was very alienating.
During the drive, conversation shifted to the senior seminars that their majors had to take, which are not focused on a single topics, but are almost like directed studies. So in this class with 8 students or so, every student was working on something different in order to complete a project--a major paper or thesis or something. Jim mentioned, more to the department head than to me, that one of the seniors was working her way through their list of great books that every person should read as her project, and another one (whom I had met) was stressed because she had only read 1/4 of the books. I doubted that I had read them all, but I kept it to myself. Conversation shifted to a topic that was revisited later--student sensitivity to subject matter. It seems that Jim had had a student--an older woman, I believe from the impression I received--who objected to every book on the list because of content. He told her that she should make her own list, then, supposedly in an attempt at compromise. He told me that the list she came up with was full of ridiculous items, like the soundtrack to The Sound of Music, and that he took it to the provost and said that he could not work with it. The department head said surely he was exaggerating, which he denied, and assured me that not all of their students were like this. But Jim continued. He gave her The Grapes of Wrath to read, and while it was not her favorite book, she was okay with it--until the last pages, where the character breastfeeds a starving old man. She took it to him and told him that he tricked her, that it was an evil, sinful book and he knew it and he tricked her. And wasn't I outraged by this, by implication? I didn't really respond. Clearly, he had tricked her. He knew what the ending of the story contained. With a little imagination, he could have understood or anticipated her reaction. But by then it would be too late for her, and she would have read it already. He had indeed failed to respect her unique needs as a student. Whatever her reasons were for objecting to the content of the books, they were clearly very important to her, and whether or not her biases were necessary, or just, or enlightened, it should not have mattered to him. He could have educated her mind without offending her soul.
The burning question I did not ask of the faculty, for fear of making them defensive (which I did in the first hour anyway), was why each of them chose to teach at a Catholic school. That to press issues of sexuality onto his students was one of Jim's prime goals--to force enlightenment, you might say, became even more abundantly clear as the evening progressed. The following week--this week, in fact--the newspaper was going to run a story about student protest of a film. Jim's students, honors students, were protesting a film that he had chosen for the honors film club. Usually, the students chose their own film to be shown on campus, but this time, they asked for his recommendation. He recommended Milk, which I had not heard of, which valorizes a murdered homosexual congressman (I'm trying to remember if he used the word "martyred"--he might have). Students objected. Protested. The paper stepped in to cover the controversy. The film was removed from the schedule and is now being shown in the political science department. He only chose the film because it was a good film, he said. It had nothing to do with the homosexual content. In fact, he implied, he didn't even remember that it had homosexual content.
Here, he mentioned Hable con ella by Spanish director Pedro Almodóvar, translated Talk to Her, which features a scene from an imaginary silent film in which the male protagonist shrinks small enough to climb into his wife's vagina and become lost inside. The fictional film induces the male character in Almodóvar's film to rape the patient that he lusts after but has been caring for, which eventually leads to the birth of a child and her recovery from a coma. Jim mentioned this film, knowing that I liked Almodóvar, as one he would like to teach, but couldn't because of "that scene." The department head rolled her eyes at the mention of "that scene," seemingly put off by his mention of it--over dinner--with a prospective faculty member. . . I merely said that I didn't think it was one of Almodóvar's best, as it was a bit commercial for him. He went on to talk about self-censorship, and how so many teachers self-censored, and to rail against students' opposition to sexuality. He would never teach Lolita at this school, as it was. How is it, he wondered, with examples to back him up, that extreme violence is not something students object to, but even a loving sex scene is rejected and not tolerated? Here, I spoke up. I had been thinking of my conviction that Australia got the criminals and America the Puritans because we lost the toss. But it was no laughing matter to someone who had so little regard for his students' beliefs. I said that perhaps it is because, while students do not imagine themselves as participants in violence, particularly certain types of violence, they do see sexuality as an issue that is deeply relevant--something bound up with the very fiber of their being--and since it touches them more directly, they feel more personally affected by its portrayal. Jim did not respond, but became fixed on his plate of curry chicken. I consider that a shining moment.
There were other shining moments, like when I compared a "city" in Invisible Cities to New Orleans, made more alive by its awareness of the possibility of destruction. The department head was moved to say "wow" and admire the perspective. Jim revealed a bit more at this moment, almost asking me if I wanted to move back to New Orleans, but catching himself. How could I, if I was going to move to the midwest to teach at their school?
As we were getting up from the table, I decided to ask the department head about her children, two of them, 8 and 11, girls, the elder of whom plays the clarinet. It was on the tip of my tongue to mention that my son, 12, plays the cello. And I desperately wanted to. But at the same time I didn't. I had nothing to lose, but at that point, I did not want to give them anything of myself that was authentic.
The ride back to the hotel was largely silent. No one moved to shake my hand. I walked inside. All that remained was to sleep, and to return home. The next day was long and frustrating, but not really worth recounting. I arrived home after 10 P.M. the next evening, about 5 hours later than scheduled, but I was home.
Reflections and conclusions to come. Comments appreciated, as I am still sorting much of this out. . .
When I returned to the hotel it was around 3:30. I was exhausted, my feet were killing me, and I was thoroughly discouraged. I was not looking forward to being picked up by the department head and the male committee member, who we may perhaps call Jim--a common enough name. But perhaps with some rest, I would be up to the challenge. I called my husband and vented a little. He was in the process of picking up Doodle from school. She was so surprised and pleased to see him that she proceeded to introduce him to everyone--parents, teachers, and friends. I wanted nothing more than to be home. Then I proceeded to get cleaned up, reapply make-up, and dressed casually to go downstairs to the hotel "gift shop" (that is, convenience area) to see if there would be something besides the gel inserts to help my poor feet.
Now a brief aside here. . . I was told by my department's placement coordinator that I should wear comfortable shoes. But I took this to mean good-quality nice-looking shoes that under normal conditions would be tolerable for standing all day. I did not think I would need to wear Tevas, like my companion who drove me home, or sneakers, or CROCs. I returned a pair of heels that I did not think would be comfortable enough and opted instead for a nice, high-quality pair of Bandolino wedges (not cheap shoes!) with a strap like a Mary Jane. Sensible, practical, but not intended for hiking. So lesson learned--next time, wear the CROCs. I did use the gel inserts, and after ditching the pantyhose, managed to get along pretty well in my nice shoes.
Having determined that I was out of luck with the shoe-cushions, I went back to my room and rested a bit more, and also ate large quantities of cheese and caramel popcorn that I had purchased at O'Hare the day before. Finally, I changed into the dress I had brought for dinner (a casual dress, but a bit dressier and more "fun" than the nice outfit I had worn all day) and went downstairs to the lobby at about 5:25, figuring that my companions would be there shortly. Well, it turns out that while I was waiting (for about 15 minutes instead of the 5 I had anticipated), they called to say they would be late. When they finally arrived, I realized immediately that they were wearing the same things they had all day--which of course made sense on a level, but which also meant that the department head was still wearing blue jeans and an ultra casual button-down shirt with a cardigan. This is not an old woman, people--she is likely about 5 years older than me (my husband's age). And yet, she does not seem young; I mentioned before that this does not feel like a department that a young scholar would join. The woman I spoke with extensively was probably in her late 50s, as was Jim. Our lesbian writer friend was likely the same age as the department head, give or take a few years, and seemed a bit more "hip." In retrospect, when the department head looked surprised and complimented my cute dress, I should immediately have excused myself and changed into the sweater and jeans I was going to wear home the following day.
They asked me what I liked to eat for the second time--I was asked the same thing when I was picked up in the morning. I had actually talked a bit about food at lunch, as the art professor had mentioned that there was more ethnic cuisine in the area than there had been (a measure of a place's culture, apparently, as we say the same thing about this college town; I can't help thinking about My Cousin Vinnie.) So it was known that I liked Sushi and Mediterranean. Personally, I was amazed that they did not have some place in mind where they took all of their candidates. Reflecting back, does this mean that they can adjust how much they spent entertaining the candidate to the person's performance or perceived suitability for the department? Perhaps that is paranoid of me. But it was decided that since the department head's daughter (family????--first mention of children!!!) has extreme food allergies, and her family could not eat out often, the two profs would take me to some place fusion-y where she likes to eat and where you could find a variety of types of cuisine. It was an extremely casual artsy place, concrete floors, water feature, nice in its way, but overpriced for what it was. I took a cue from them and ordered a beer, especially as it was Happy Hour. The department head ordered a bison burger. It took me a while to decide, as I wanted to get something interesting and since I knew that there was no chance that I would ever be eating here again. When I said I was debating between the (more expensive) pasta and the (less expensive) pizza, I was told that the pasta was HUGE and that it was difficult to eat while talking. I took the hint and ordered the pizza--shrimp scampi pizza, actually. It was pretty good.
Now, it is difficult to recall the entirety of the conversation, but this is where Jim really made the strongest impression on me. From our earlier interaction, I was not inclined to like him, but he revealed a lot to me in the course of the car ride to the restaurant and the dinner conversation. I had not entirely recovered from the sense of futility and attitude of apathy I had acquired earlier, and ironically, this made me more inclined to talk, as I only had to pretend half-interest and wasn't worried about offending or making a bad impression. On the ride to the restaurant, I asked about the historic district--whether it was near the university, and learned that one of their stellar top grads had gotten a job at a local ethnic museum. I was shown a company that paid for a lot of the employees to attend the school, and so I asked a bit about the adult education program. The school is supposedly very proud of their programs for working adults, and I had been told about the "age diversity" in some of their classes during the phone interviews. It was mentioned again at lunch, but I thought with some embarrassment. These programs were part of the "service, service, service"--separate degree programs, but also admissions for nontraditional students. One of the students I spoke with before lunch had mentioned the schedule that some of the working adults follow--6-week sessions instead of 15, and evening classes instead of daytime. So I asked about those classes, and whether there was overlap, or whether the traditional students had the option of enrolling in the mini-sessions. This was greeted with surprise and I was told quickly and vehemently that they were separate programs, and that the traditional students did NOT enroll in the shorter classes. Some nontraditional students did enroll in the regular degree programs, but for the most part the populations were separate. Inquiring further, I was told with contempt that most of the faculty did not teach in the continuing education program, which was staffed mainly by adjuncts. Now Jim taught in that program for a while--it's how he paid for his daughter's college. He said something about having to be very versatile and adapting to different learning styles by employing a variety of teaching techniques. His body language, even while driving, conveyed strong distaste.
Something odd about this whole drive--indeed, the whole evening--was that the two professors kept discussing things around me, without me, that did not pertain to me, and from which I was excluded. There was a free performance of an opera on campus that night--"The Barber of Seville" in English by a professional opera troupe, and they discussed the reactions of their respective spouses to the prospect of attending the opera. It was very alienating.
During the drive, conversation shifted to the senior seminars that their majors had to take, which are not focused on a single topics, but are almost like directed studies. So in this class with 8 students or so, every student was working on something different in order to complete a project--a major paper or thesis or something. Jim mentioned, more to the department head than to me, that one of the seniors was working her way through their list of great books that every person should read as her project, and another one (whom I had met) was stressed because she had only read 1/4 of the books. I doubted that I had read them all, but I kept it to myself. Conversation shifted to a topic that was revisited later--student sensitivity to subject matter. It seems that Jim had had a student--an older woman, I believe from the impression I received--who objected to every book on the list because of content. He told her that she should make her own list, then, supposedly in an attempt at compromise. He told me that the list she came up with was full of ridiculous items, like the soundtrack to The Sound of Music, and that he took it to the provost and said that he could not work with it. The department head said surely he was exaggerating, which he denied, and assured me that not all of their students were like this. But Jim continued. He gave her The Grapes of Wrath to read, and while it was not her favorite book, she was okay with it--until the last pages, where the character breastfeeds a starving old man. She took it to him and told him that he tricked her, that it was an evil, sinful book and he knew it and he tricked her. And wasn't I outraged by this, by implication? I didn't really respond. Clearly, he had tricked her. He knew what the ending of the story contained. With a little imagination, he could have understood or anticipated her reaction. But by then it would be too late for her, and she would have read it already. He had indeed failed to respect her unique needs as a student. Whatever her reasons were for objecting to the content of the books, they were clearly very important to her, and whether or not her biases were necessary, or just, or enlightened, it should not have mattered to him. He could have educated her mind without offending her soul.
The burning question I did not ask of the faculty, for fear of making them defensive (which I did in the first hour anyway), was why each of them chose to teach at a Catholic school. That to press issues of sexuality onto his students was one of Jim's prime goals--to force enlightenment, you might say, became even more abundantly clear as the evening progressed. The following week--this week, in fact--the newspaper was going to run a story about student protest of a film. Jim's students, honors students, were protesting a film that he had chosen for the honors film club. Usually, the students chose their own film to be shown on campus, but this time, they asked for his recommendation. He recommended Milk, which I had not heard of, which valorizes a murdered homosexual congressman (I'm trying to remember if he used the word "martyred"--he might have). Students objected. Protested. The paper stepped in to cover the controversy. The film was removed from the schedule and is now being shown in the political science department. He only chose the film because it was a good film, he said. It had nothing to do with the homosexual content. In fact, he implied, he didn't even remember that it had homosexual content.
Here, he mentioned Hable con ella by Spanish director Pedro Almodóvar, translated Talk to Her, which features a scene from an imaginary silent film in which the male protagonist shrinks small enough to climb into his wife's vagina and become lost inside. The fictional film induces the male character in Almodóvar's film to rape the patient that he lusts after but has been caring for, which eventually leads to the birth of a child and her recovery from a coma. Jim mentioned this film, knowing that I liked Almodóvar, as one he would like to teach, but couldn't because of "that scene." The department head rolled her eyes at the mention of "that scene," seemingly put off by his mention of it--over dinner--with a prospective faculty member. . . I merely said that I didn't think it was one of Almodóvar's best, as it was a bit commercial for him. He went on to talk about self-censorship, and how so many teachers self-censored, and to rail against students' opposition to sexuality. He would never teach Lolita at this school, as it was. How is it, he wondered, with examples to back him up, that extreme violence is not something students object to, but even a loving sex scene is rejected and not tolerated? Here, I spoke up. I had been thinking of my conviction that Australia got the criminals and America the Puritans because we lost the toss. But it was no laughing matter to someone who had so little regard for his students' beliefs. I said that perhaps it is because, while students do not imagine themselves as participants in violence, particularly certain types of violence, they do see sexuality as an issue that is deeply relevant--something bound up with the very fiber of their being--and since it touches them more directly, they feel more personally affected by its portrayal. Jim did not respond, but became fixed on his plate of curry chicken. I consider that a shining moment.
There were other shining moments, like when I compared a "city" in Invisible Cities to New Orleans, made more alive by its awareness of the possibility of destruction. The department head was moved to say "wow" and admire the perspective. Jim revealed a bit more at this moment, almost asking me if I wanted to move back to New Orleans, but catching himself. How could I, if I was going to move to the midwest to teach at their school?
As we were getting up from the table, I decided to ask the department head about her children, two of them, 8 and 11, girls, the elder of whom plays the clarinet. It was on the tip of my tongue to mention that my son, 12, plays the cello. And I desperately wanted to. But at the same time I didn't. I had nothing to lose, but at that point, I did not want to give them anything of myself that was authentic.
The ride back to the hotel was largely silent. No one moved to shake my hand. I walked inside. All that remained was to sleep, and to return home. The next day was long and frustrating, but not really worth recounting. I arrived home after 10 P.M. the next evening, about 5 hours later than scheduled, but I was home.
Reflections and conclusions to come. Comments appreciated, as I am still sorting much of this out. . .
Monday, April 6, 2009
Some More Incidentals
Okay, so I remembered a few more details.
The provost's assault still bothers me. It bothers me because it was completely unexpected. The department had hardly been interested in my scholarly activity at all. I had ONE question in the morning about my dissertation--of the "tell us about your dissertation" variety. Actually, of the 3 phone interviews I have had, no one had asked about my research at all, much less the time frame in which I planned to complete X project. So I stopped thinking about it so much. But what occurs to me now is that, as far as I could tell, none of the current faculty in the English department have ever published a scholarly monograph. That's right--no nonfiction book pubs. At. All. So he's demanding this of me--my first instinct was, have YOU ever published a book? Do you know what it entails? Because I really don't. My thought now is, what kind of support would I have in terms of mentoring? Would there be anyone around who could shepherd me through the process? Or would I be on my own?
It was revealed to me by my activist escort that many of the faculty are not happy with the changes afoot at this particular school, as it moves from college to university. I had gotten some of this anyway, by implication and vague or wry reference. Now I got the specifics: The faculty who came to this school to avoid the "publish or perish" scenario now felt rather pressured to join that world--a world they are singularly unprepared for, it seems to me. And I got more. There are, for existing faculty members, two "tracks" that they can choose, as a compromise. They can choose to stick with teaching, and have a higher load (4-1-4), or to introduce a research requirement or expectation and enjoy a "break." The English department has a "deal" that allows them to teach a 3-1-3 load, which is nice except that comp is a 4-hour course, and the reason for the "deal," and then there would be (or so I understood) an offset of the teaching load for research. Incoming people would be held to the "research" "track," which is what I would have expected. But wow! This is a baaaad situation. What kind of resentment is this going to breed?
The provost's assault still bothers me. It bothers me because it was completely unexpected. The department had hardly been interested in my scholarly activity at all. I had ONE question in the morning about my dissertation--of the "tell us about your dissertation" variety. Actually, of the 3 phone interviews I have had, no one had asked about my research at all, much less the time frame in which I planned to complete X project. So I stopped thinking about it so much. But what occurs to me now is that, as far as I could tell, none of the current faculty in the English department have ever published a scholarly monograph. That's right--no nonfiction book pubs. At. All. So he's demanding this of me--my first instinct was, have YOU ever published a book? Do you know what it entails? Because I really don't. My thought now is, what kind of support would I have in terms of mentoring? Would there be anyone around who could shepherd me through the process? Or would I be on my own?
It was revealed to me by my activist escort that many of the faculty are not happy with the changes afoot at this particular school, as it moves from college to university. I had gotten some of this anyway, by implication and vague or wry reference. Now I got the specifics: The faculty who came to this school to avoid the "publish or perish" scenario now felt rather pressured to join that world--a world they are singularly unprepared for, it seems to me. And I got more. There are, for existing faculty members, two "tracks" that they can choose, as a compromise. They can choose to stick with teaching, and have a higher load (4-1-4), or to introduce a research requirement or expectation and enjoy a "break." The English department has a "deal" that allows them to teach a 3-1-3 load, which is nice except that comp is a 4-hour course, and the reason for the "deal," and then there would be (or so I understood) an offset of the teaching load for research. Incoming people would be held to the "research" "track," which is what I would have expected. But wow! This is a baaaad situation. What kind of resentment is this going to breed?
The Campus Visit Pt. 4
After the teaching demo, three of the professors bid me goodbye, one for good, and the remaining professor, an older woman, said that she could take me on a tour of the campus if I wanted, or I could go back to the hotel--whatever I wanted. My feet by this time were aching--If aching is really the right word. They were burning and swollen on the bottoms from walking uphill in shoes with a wedge. I had gel thingies to put in them, but hadn't had a chance to sit down without being watched. So I requested just to be able to sit and rest for a little while (I was exhausted), and then perhaps to see parts of the campus.
So we went to her office. I said something in reference to the teaching demo, but I can't remember what. Her response made me feel that the whole thing was not important--in a good way. This was the only one-on-one time I had with any member of the English department the entire time, except when I was picked up in the morning by the male professor, and I think I managed some appropriate small talk. But this time, I was able to ask about the students, and we covered a wider range of topics relating to the town, state, university, and this professor's own interest and background. Because I didn't feel interested in being a "good candidate" any longer, I was able to talk. I almost wrote "proving myself," but I never did see it in those terms. This wasn't "proving myself," as there was no goal and no challenge, it was just coming across well--presenting a favorable image. And so I was polite--like a guest in someone's home when I was young. Travel makes me timid too, I might add.
So finally, we talked about her political causes, as there were posters on all of her walls with Spanish quotes. She likes to protest the School of the Americas with students; she visits Colombia to promote peace. So you must be fluent? No. Not as fluent as she would like to be. And there is no Spanish department at the college, correct? Right. All the time I am thinking about my husband, who is a definite participant in my intellectual life, and his own expertise in political science and in Spanish, and wondering what his take would be on all of this. Then I started feeling bad again about the "not talking about your family" constraint. I thought perhaps my feet had recovered well enough, and we left the office.
Descending the stairs, I decided to go for it. You know, I said, I'm going to break with convention and mention that my husband has a Master's of Spanish and a Master's in Political Science, and I couldn't help thinking of him while looking at your posters. This was greeted with much surprise. Yes, I said, and the hardest part of this visit was when I was asked what I do for fun at lunch and I couldn't help thinking of my three children. That's a job unto itself, she said, and I agreed and said yes, with the Ph.D. and the children, "fun" isn't something I have time for too often. She didn't have any interest in my family, which was fine. I didn't expect it. But I had come clean, and didn't really care about anything else. She asked about the children's ages, though and did mention that she has a 28-year-old son who lives somewhere else but was a Spanish major in college and she practices her Spanish with him sometimes. We were proceeding uphill to the chapel and the library. My feel were not as bad, but were steadily worsening as we ascended. As I reached the door of the student ministry area, leading to the chapel, I wryly thought of joining my suffering to Christ's, which of course reminded me how minor and how futile my own "suffering" was. That wry attitude characterized my mood just then.
The chapel was singularly unattractive. I mentioned that I had seen stained glass windows from the window of the room where I was first interviewed. I did have the opportunity to look inside that room. I asked the department head if I could take a peek into the chapel when I saw that I had to pass it in order to go to the bathroom. She had no problem taking me inside. It was very pretty. A traditional rectangular configuration with a central aisle. What would have been the sanctuary was empty--no crucifix, no tabernacle, no altar. It was bare and sad. The windows were stunning, though. Eight saints, arrayed four on each side. The ones that stand out to me are St. Therese (The Little Flower) on my right and St. Patrick, with a flaming green chasuble on my left. The images looked like antique holy cards illuminated by the sunlight and gleaming. It was truly beautiful--a shining moment that had nothing to do with me, but which made me sad for all of its splendor. The old chapel was built in 1923, I believe, and abandoned in 1971, when the new chapel was built. If you are familiar with 1970s church architecture, nothing I describe will surprise you. It was dark. It was circular, which deemphasizes the focal point. To stress that deemphasis, one enters from the side rather than from the rear, and the visitor is not obligated to gaze on either the crucifix or the tabernacle, both of which are offset. In fact, I was so disoriented that I did not know whether or not to genuflect, which of course I should have done. There was holy water. And for all of its ugliness, there was peace. I gazed at the tabernacle, and wanted some time to myself there, but was still timid, and did not request it. The stained glass was non-representational--mere chips of blue and red. The seven cardinal virtues adorned the wall opposite the entrance, so instead of focusing on Christ's sacrifice, upon entering one focuses on words without symbols: Prudence, Justice, Restraint, Courage, Faith, Hope, and Charity. That is, one focuses on the values of the particular religious order and not on Christ as the head of the Universal Church. My escort commented on the beauty of the place, but I could not assent. I did not find it beautiful except insofar as it contained the Body of Christ. Which of course is everything.
Next was the library, which occupies the other wing of the same building. Though I was told that it was built about the same time as the chapel, it looked newer, fresher, more modern. We entered on a second story, and there was a square balcony of sorts overlooking a carpeted staircase and the floor below. There was a very large skylight above. My impression was that rather more care had been given to making the library attractive than the chapel. I was told that the ceiling had leaks, and that when it rained, the pretty interior was punctuated by buckets. It was an inviting space nonetheless, suited for parties rather than lectures, for which the chapel, as the largest gathering space on campus, was sometimes used.
From there, we descended the hill again, and my feet were once again hurting so badly that I was taking small steps, as if I lacked full use of my limbs. To my left was something I very much wanted to see, but could not have walker there without first removing my shoes, which I had very much wanted to do for an hour or two at this point. It is a bridge-like structure that is featured on the college web page, and dates to the founding of the college by the Sisters. It has been restored recently, which I knew, but by the art department, so for its aesthetic beauty rather than its spiritual significance. It is called The Grotto. I was told that it was part of the "green space," a meditative spot. "It's a shrine, correct?" I asked. Hastily and clipped, "Yes, it's a shrine to Mary." "It's a reference to Lourdes, right? The Grotto?" Silence. We proceeded downhill and I was in such obvious discomfort that I was allowed to sit for a moment while she brought her car around to drive me to the hotel.
The ride to the hotel was pleasant. We talked about Big State School known for creative writing. Some of my undergrad professors had gone there. I almost went into creative writing. Good thing I didn't, 'cause the wellspring of poetry has pretty much dried up. We talked about that a bit. I was myself with this member of the faculty, for some crazy reason. It's not that I particularly trusted her. She was a bit less threatening than the others, just because she did not seem to be judging me n quite the same way(s). I have asked myself a few times why I was able to be chatty. I asked about health food & organic farming. I admitted to having interests. And then I shook her hand and hobbled into the hotel, dreading what was to come. . .
I promise, the next installment will be the last.
So we went to her office. I said something in reference to the teaching demo, but I can't remember what. Her response made me feel that the whole thing was not important--in a good way. This was the only one-on-one time I had with any member of the English department the entire time, except when I was picked up in the morning by the male professor, and I think I managed some appropriate small talk. But this time, I was able to ask about the students, and we covered a wider range of topics relating to the town, state, university, and this professor's own interest and background. Because I didn't feel interested in being a "good candidate" any longer, I was able to talk. I almost wrote "proving myself," but I never did see it in those terms. This wasn't "proving myself," as there was no goal and no challenge, it was just coming across well--presenting a favorable image. And so I was polite--like a guest in someone's home when I was young. Travel makes me timid too, I might add.
So finally, we talked about her political causes, as there were posters on all of her walls with Spanish quotes. She likes to protest the School of the Americas with students; she visits Colombia to promote peace. So you must be fluent? No. Not as fluent as she would like to be. And there is no Spanish department at the college, correct? Right. All the time I am thinking about my husband, who is a definite participant in my intellectual life, and his own expertise in political science and in Spanish, and wondering what his take would be on all of this. Then I started feeling bad again about the "not talking about your family" constraint. I thought perhaps my feet had recovered well enough, and we left the office.
Descending the stairs, I decided to go for it. You know, I said, I'm going to break with convention and mention that my husband has a Master's of Spanish and a Master's in Political Science, and I couldn't help thinking of him while looking at your posters. This was greeted with much surprise. Yes, I said, and the hardest part of this visit was when I was asked what I do for fun at lunch and I couldn't help thinking of my three children. That's a job unto itself, she said, and I agreed and said yes, with the Ph.D. and the children, "fun" isn't something I have time for too often. She didn't have any interest in my family, which was fine. I didn't expect it. But I had come clean, and didn't really care about anything else. She asked about the children's ages, though and did mention that she has a 28-year-old son who lives somewhere else but was a Spanish major in college and she practices her Spanish with him sometimes. We were proceeding uphill to the chapel and the library. My feel were not as bad, but were steadily worsening as we ascended. As I reached the door of the student ministry area, leading to the chapel, I wryly thought of joining my suffering to Christ's, which of course reminded me how minor and how futile my own "suffering" was. That wry attitude characterized my mood just then.
The chapel was singularly unattractive. I mentioned that I had seen stained glass windows from the window of the room where I was first interviewed. I did have the opportunity to look inside that room. I asked the department head if I could take a peek into the chapel when I saw that I had to pass it in order to go to the bathroom. She had no problem taking me inside. It was very pretty. A traditional rectangular configuration with a central aisle. What would have been the sanctuary was empty--no crucifix, no tabernacle, no altar. It was bare and sad. The windows were stunning, though. Eight saints, arrayed four on each side. The ones that stand out to me are St. Therese (The Little Flower) on my right and St. Patrick, with a flaming green chasuble on my left. The images looked like antique holy cards illuminated by the sunlight and gleaming. It was truly beautiful--a shining moment that had nothing to do with me, but which made me sad for all of its splendor. The old chapel was built in 1923, I believe, and abandoned in 1971, when the new chapel was built. If you are familiar with 1970s church architecture, nothing I describe will surprise you. It was dark. It was circular, which deemphasizes the focal point. To stress that deemphasis, one enters from the side rather than from the rear, and the visitor is not obligated to gaze on either the crucifix or the tabernacle, both of which are offset. In fact, I was so disoriented that I did not know whether or not to genuflect, which of course I should have done. There was holy water. And for all of its ugliness, there was peace. I gazed at the tabernacle, and wanted some time to myself there, but was still timid, and did not request it. The stained glass was non-representational--mere chips of blue and red. The seven cardinal virtues adorned the wall opposite the entrance, so instead of focusing on Christ's sacrifice, upon entering one focuses on words without symbols: Prudence, Justice, Restraint, Courage, Faith, Hope, and Charity. That is, one focuses on the values of the particular religious order and not on Christ as the head of the Universal Church. My escort commented on the beauty of the place, but I could not assent. I did not find it beautiful except insofar as it contained the Body of Christ. Which of course is everything.
Next was the library, which occupies the other wing of the same building. Though I was told that it was built about the same time as the chapel, it looked newer, fresher, more modern. We entered on a second story, and there was a square balcony of sorts overlooking a carpeted staircase and the floor below. There was a very large skylight above. My impression was that rather more care had been given to making the library attractive than the chapel. I was told that the ceiling had leaks, and that when it rained, the pretty interior was punctuated by buckets. It was an inviting space nonetheless, suited for parties rather than lectures, for which the chapel, as the largest gathering space on campus, was sometimes used.
From there, we descended the hill again, and my feet were once again hurting so badly that I was taking small steps, as if I lacked full use of my limbs. To my left was something I very much wanted to see, but could not have walker there without first removing my shoes, which I had very much wanted to do for an hour or two at this point. It is a bridge-like structure that is featured on the college web page, and dates to the founding of the college by the Sisters. It has been restored recently, which I knew, but by the art department, so for its aesthetic beauty rather than its spiritual significance. It is called The Grotto. I was told that it was part of the "green space," a meditative spot. "It's a shrine, correct?" I asked. Hastily and clipped, "Yes, it's a shrine to Mary." "It's a reference to Lourdes, right? The Grotto?" Silence. We proceeded downhill and I was in such obvious discomfort that I was allowed to sit for a moment while she brought her car around to drive me to the hotel.
The ride to the hotel was pleasant. We talked about Big State School known for creative writing. Some of my undergrad professors had gone there. I almost went into creative writing. Good thing I didn't, 'cause the wellspring of poetry has pretty much dried up. We talked about that a bit. I was myself with this member of the faculty, for some crazy reason. It's not that I particularly trusted her. She was a bit less threatening than the others, just because she did not seem to be judging me n quite the same way(s). I have asked myself a few times why I was able to be chatty. I asked about health food & organic farming. I admitted to having interests. And then I shook her hand and hobbled into the hotel, dreading what was to come. . .
I promise, the next installment will be the last.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
The Campus Visit Pt. 3: The Teaching Demo
After lunch, I was led back to the building where the teaching demonstration was to be held. This teaching demonstration was supposed to be a topic of my choosing--something that showcased my abilities as a teacher and allowed me to interact with students. I was told that the students would be eager and willing to engage with me. So I prepared accordingly. I made a sample syllabus to contextualize the "lesson" and modified a lesson that I had used successfully before that started with a "quiz" and then discussed the answers. I had practiced the lesson in front of faculty from my own department, and the response was positive. There were to be about 18 people total--students and faculty.
I was brought into the building and led upstairs. It was a day of endless hills and staircases, and my feet were very, very sore by this point, as I was probably the only person wearing shoes that were intended to be stylish and not merely functional. I was tired, discouraged, overwhelmed. I was told that I could put my things (computer-bag purse that I had been lugging my laptop around in all day) in the male professor's office. I was told that I would be given a few moments to prepare by myself. So I ducked into the restroom briefly. When I rejoined the faculty member, she ushered me down the hall and said, "You can go in and get set up." Instead of the empty room I had anticipated, I walked straight in to the waiting faculty and students!
I'm not sure I mentioned that after lunch I felt that it was all over. I wanted to leave and not even go through with the teaching demo. I felt as though they were done with me, and I was certainly done with them. So now, as I walked to the front of the class and stood facing the screen/blackboard, I felt as though I wanted to cry. I felt like running away. This is not me. I don't react like this to stress. You'll have to trust me on this, I know. It wasn't stress, it was the futility of it all that I was reacting to. But I mustered my energy, set up my powerpoint, and waited. And waited. And waited. One professor was smiling at me. The remainder of the room was scowling, except the department head, who was settling herself and passing out more of the bright orange evaluation forms that I had seen at the meeting with the students. So I waited. And they looked at me expectantly. And it occurred to me--was no one going to introduce me? Did they think so little of me? Or were they so rude?? And still I waited. It seemed like forever. Until my one ally in the room said something to the department head, she seemed surprised and hastily rose, came halfway to the front of the room, said, "This is Dr. Literacy-chic" and returned to her seat. And so I began.
I said how pleased I was to be there. (That is, I lied.) I thanked the students for participating and said how exciting it must be to have a voice in this process. (Disingenuous of me? Maybe.) They scowled. This was going to be fun. Then I read the brief two paragraph introduction to the syllabus I prepared and told them a bit about what the "course" would look like. Then I began with my "quiz." They were to designate whether a given poem was for children or adults. Some were more well-known than others. The male professor I have mentioned seemed particularly grumpy and confused. None seemed to know what I was doing. When it came time for the "Answers," PowerPoint sabotaged me. My slide show was flawless when I presented it to faculty at my institution. However, I had modified things on their suggestion. Slight modifications, but enough for PowerPoint to revert from my custom animations to the default, which meant that my list of titles was revealed from right to left and bottom to top rather than left to right and top to bottom. Now, I admit, there was the "Why does this have to happen to me?" mixed with discouragement and a sense of futility. And I plodded on. My strength is the discussion of the poems--what elements of the poem do we associate with children and childhood? They stared at me. One or two students graced me with an occasional answer. And one or two professors played along, too. It was miserable. My worst classes that I've taught have not been so resistant. I should probably mention that the teaching demonstration was 40 minutes long. I kept looking at the clock, looking for the right time to end, plodding along stoically. At times, I was more successful than others. I gave up on the students, who were just clueless about how to answer open-ended questions. And I talked. Finally, I could legitimately end. I told how this would set up the next class, in which we would discuss how Blake positions the reader as a child in order to exploit our expectations of what childhood is and how it stands in relation to the adult world. And I asked for questions. By now, I had looks of pity from two faculty members and one student that I had met earlier. And then it happened.
One male student looked at the syllabus and raised his hand. What, he asked, would be my objective in such a course? (Feelings of affection and gratitude toward student) But oh my! what a question! The syllabus was intended to be an advanced course--perhaps a senior seminar--in which students used the texts (including theoretical texts and critical essays, but nothing too complex) as a jumping off point to think about a topic, in this case, representations of children and childhood. It is modeled off of graduate courses, which may or may not be a smart thing, but I do a kind of "Let's think about what fantasy is/does" in my intro to lit course, so why not? I explained that the objective was to theorize about children and childhood--to ask questions about representations and to see what answers we could discover. And then I went on. . .
Thinking very much of the feminist essays, I said that it is very easy to take an essay and say, "Here's this essay! And oh! look! here is a work of literature! And this work of literature is doing exactly what this essay talks about!" I said that. Word for word. And I gestured to the left to indicate the essay (no symbolic meaning) and to the right to indicate the text. And I said that it is less easy to ask the questions yourself and see what you discover. It was another shining moment. It was such a shining moment that the department head asked if it was a course I had actually taught, because she was going to ask what kinds of things people discovered. That was the only question, and people started to file out. But the student stayed behind, and he apologized for asking another question, but he was really interested in this syllabus (!). So I talked with him a bit about the rationale behind the selections, and he said that he had never before thought about how children are grouped together as a single entity--not even as young humans, but young creatures. And we understood one another. And that moment surpassed the Guinness of the night before.
I was brought into the building and led upstairs. It was a day of endless hills and staircases, and my feet were very, very sore by this point, as I was probably the only person wearing shoes that were intended to be stylish and not merely functional. I was tired, discouraged, overwhelmed. I was told that I could put my things (computer-bag purse that I had been lugging my laptop around in all day) in the male professor's office. I was told that I would be given a few moments to prepare by myself. So I ducked into the restroom briefly. When I rejoined the faculty member, she ushered me down the hall and said, "You can go in and get set up." Instead of the empty room I had anticipated, I walked straight in to the waiting faculty and students!
I'm not sure I mentioned that after lunch I felt that it was all over. I wanted to leave and not even go through with the teaching demo. I felt as though they were done with me, and I was certainly done with them. So now, as I walked to the front of the class and stood facing the screen/blackboard, I felt as though I wanted to cry. I felt like running away. This is not me. I don't react like this to stress. You'll have to trust me on this, I know. It wasn't stress, it was the futility of it all that I was reacting to. But I mustered my energy, set up my powerpoint, and waited. And waited. And waited. One professor was smiling at me. The remainder of the room was scowling, except the department head, who was settling herself and passing out more of the bright orange evaluation forms that I had seen at the meeting with the students. So I waited. And they looked at me expectantly. And it occurred to me--was no one going to introduce me? Did they think so little of me? Or were they so rude?? And still I waited. It seemed like forever. Until my one ally in the room said something to the department head, she seemed surprised and hastily rose, came halfway to the front of the room, said, "This is Dr. Literacy-chic" and returned to her seat. And so I began.
I said how pleased I was to be there. (That is, I lied.) I thanked the students for participating and said how exciting it must be to have a voice in this process. (Disingenuous of me? Maybe.) They scowled. This was going to be fun. Then I read the brief two paragraph introduction to the syllabus I prepared and told them a bit about what the "course" would look like. Then I began with my "quiz." They were to designate whether a given poem was for children or adults. Some were more well-known than others. The male professor I have mentioned seemed particularly grumpy and confused. None seemed to know what I was doing. When it came time for the "Answers," PowerPoint sabotaged me. My slide show was flawless when I presented it to faculty at my institution. However, I had modified things on their suggestion. Slight modifications, but enough for PowerPoint to revert from my custom animations to the default, which meant that my list of titles was revealed from right to left and bottom to top rather than left to right and top to bottom. Now, I admit, there was the "Why does this have to happen to me?" mixed with discouragement and a sense of futility. And I plodded on. My strength is the discussion of the poems--what elements of the poem do we associate with children and childhood? They stared at me. One or two students graced me with an occasional answer. And one or two professors played along, too. It was miserable. My worst classes that I've taught have not been so resistant. I should probably mention that the teaching demonstration was 40 minutes long. I kept looking at the clock, looking for the right time to end, plodding along stoically. At times, I was more successful than others. I gave up on the students, who were just clueless about how to answer open-ended questions. And I talked. Finally, I could legitimately end. I told how this would set up the next class, in which we would discuss how Blake positions the reader as a child in order to exploit our expectations of what childhood is and how it stands in relation to the adult world. And I asked for questions. By now, I had looks of pity from two faculty members and one student that I had met earlier. And then it happened.
One male student looked at the syllabus and raised his hand. What, he asked, would be my objective in such a course? (Feelings of affection and gratitude toward student) But oh my! what a question! The syllabus was intended to be an advanced course--perhaps a senior seminar--in which students used the texts (including theoretical texts and critical essays, but nothing too complex) as a jumping off point to think about a topic, in this case, representations of children and childhood. It is modeled off of graduate courses, which may or may not be a smart thing, but I do a kind of "Let's think about what fantasy is/does" in my intro to lit course, so why not? I explained that the objective was to theorize about children and childhood--to ask questions about representations and to see what answers we could discover. And then I went on. . .
Thinking very much of the feminist essays, I said that it is very easy to take an essay and say, "Here's this essay! And oh! look! here is a work of literature! And this work of literature is doing exactly what this essay talks about!" I said that. Word for word. And I gestured to the left to indicate the essay (no symbolic meaning) and to the right to indicate the text. And I said that it is less easy to ask the questions yourself and see what you discover. It was another shining moment. It was such a shining moment that the department head asked if it was a course I had actually taught, because she was going to ask what kinds of things people discovered. That was the only question, and people started to file out. But the student stayed behind, and he apologized for asking another question, but he was really interested in this syllabus (!). So I talked with him a bit about the rationale behind the selections, and he said that he had never before thought about how children are grouped together as a single entity--not even as young humans, but young creatures. And we understood one another. And that moment surpassed the Guinness of the night before.
Saturday, April 4, 2009
Some Incidentals
Things come back to me. . .
I was asked by the committee if I would be comfortable teaching History of the English Language. Later in the day, after I was thoroughly discouraged, I nearly remarked to someone that I chose the literature track over creative writing when I was an undergrad because I didn't want to take History of the English Language. I got ornery as the day progressed. But I said at the time that I thought I had sufficient preparation from grad classes to teach it. I rather thought that this had been dropped from the phone interview, but whatever.
When I was speaking to the provost, he asked if I noticed anything lacking in the course offerings. I mentioned that it was impossible to tell how specialized the special topics courses were, and also that there did not seem to be a theory or literary criticism class, which I had to take as an undergrad. Maybe if the students were exposed to some other perspectives, they wouldn't rehash feminist readings of texts. Did I mention that the research in those papers was of the "big book of feminist quotes" variety? Yeah. . .
I was also asked by the committee how I became interested in film. Now I have two problems with this. First, that the obvious answer is. . . ummmm, by watching them? And also coursework. I did better than that. But the second is that some of the films I have become interested are Spanish films, introduced to me by my husband, and then by contacts that I met through him, because my husband is a participant in my intellectual life. So what does one do with that? Oh, some guy I know introduced me to Almodovar. Uh huh.
I was asked by the committee if I would be comfortable teaching History of the English Language. Later in the day, after I was thoroughly discouraged, I nearly remarked to someone that I chose the literature track over creative writing when I was an undergrad because I didn't want to take History of the English Language. I got ornery as the day progressed. But I said at the time that I thought I had sufficient preparation from grad classes to teach it. I rather thought that this had been dropped from the phone interview, but whatever.
When I was speaking to the provost, he asked if I noticed anything lacking in the course offerings. I mentioned that it was impossible to tell how specialized the special topics courses were, and also that there did not seem to be a theory or literary criticism class, which I had to take as an undergrad. Maybe if the students were exposed to some other perspectives, they wouldn't rehash feminist readings of texts. Did I mention that the research in those papers was of the "big book of feminist quotes" variety? Yeah. . .
I was also asked by the committee how I became interested in film. Now I have two problems with this. First, that the obvious answer is. . . ummmm, by watching them? And also coursework. I did better than that. But the second is that some of the films I have become interested are Spanish films, introduced to me by my husband, and then by contacts that I met through him, because my husband is a participant in my intellectual life. So what does one do with that? Oh, some guy I know introduced me to Almodovar. Uh huh.
The Campus Visit, Pt. 2
I was not worried at all about meeting the president of the university, which might seem odd except that he was the one person of whom I wanted to ask questions. He was a new president--of only 3 years--and had been making changes that--I already sensed--had somewhat rattled the faculty. The English department prided itself on going along with the changes (though perhaps with some resentment). I was really interested in knowing the nature of the changes.
He assured me that this was not an official part of the interview process, and congratulated me on getting so far--one of three--in a search for which there were many applicants. He said he liked to meet anyone who was being seriously considered for a position on campus, particularly a faculty position. Looking over my resume, he asked if I had ever been to England. He noted with surprise and pleasure my work on C. S. Lewis, as he had taught Lewis in high schools in England (he is English) many years before. I have not been to England, and he recommended that I visit sometime and told me about their new exchange program with Canterbury.
When my turn for questions came, I asked first about the "changes," but he resisted the term. Instead, he preferred to think in terms of "updating." To bring the school from the mid-1980's into the 21st Century. Unfortunately, his methods confused me, as I had learned earlier that the English, Fine Arts, and Communications into a single department. I found out a little about his perspective--or his PR-- but not about specific goals. Next, I asked my real question. It took him a bit aback, but he was not displeased. In fact, I think he rather liked me. But he misread my intent completely.
I had agonized over how to ask about the school's Catholic identity, and whom I should ask. I didn't feel that the English faculty would have welcomed the question--and indeed, I am sure that that is true. And their answer would have had to do with service, service, service. But you know what? Agnostics and atheists can also perform service for communities, and humanity at large, and do so in a caring and conscientious manner. And I did not get the impression that the impulse to serve other people was rooted in any kind of religious sentiment, but more on that later. The president seemed to have been hired to bring change. They are, as I mentioned in a previous post, hiring for a position that is intended on some level to oversee orthodoxy. I researched the president of the school and learned that he had previously been provost of another Catholic school, and was credited with really improving programs and even with having their accreditation reinstated. The school that he left was recently named one of the 20 or 30 "authentic" Catholic colleges by the Cardinal Newman Society. My hope for the school rested with him.
I lead off by saying that I was aware that he had been provost at another Catholic school, which I named, before entering his present position. I mentioned that his former employer and the current school were not founded by the same order, which he confirmed, and I asked him to contrast the schools. I was greeted with some surprise, but he very readily proceeded to give his perspective. The other school, it seems, is an "Independent Catholic College"--not founded by an order, and yet not attached to the Diocese. It is attached to a seminary. Though I'm not sure if it was by implication or directly stated, I got the impression that the "maleness" vs. "femaleness" of the schools was significant somehow. And then, he tackled orthodoxy--insofar as he could. He mentioned the designation by the Cardinal Newman Society. He denigrated the Cardinal Newman Society because they have no official voice. They are not authorized by anyone, but want to have their perspective acknowledged. Now, the Cardinal Newman Society bugs me to a degree. I am bothered by their president, who is not his own best friend in terms of PR. The tone in which their statements are made is always one of self-righteous pronouncement. And their tone is always one of challenge rather than understanding or reconciliation. I think their motives are good, but their methods are poor, and they alienate more than they unite. One can be uncompromising without being so off-putting. So I am well acquainted with the Cardinal Newman Society, and could certainly see why the president of the college would dislike them.
He went on to says that there are many different ways to be Catholic, "regardless of what Ex Corde Ecclesia might say." Here it got a bit touchy, as the Pope just has to realize (apparently) that in America (unlike, say, the rest of the world) there are different versions of Catholicism and none is more authentic than the next. The faculty was split on the question of Catholic identity, but he wanted to open up discussion--to make it something that COULD be discussed. That was positive. There were members of the faculty, he said, who occupy both sides of the spectrum. There are some who consider him a Vatican Watchdog, and others consider him a wacky liberal Protestant. (Not sure if he is Catholic, but if not, certainly Anglo-Catholic.) As a man of faith, he concluded, he felt more comfortable here (at a school which was, as far as I could tell, trying to distance itself from religion in every way possible) than at his previous school, though he liked that school well enough and had a number of respected friends and colleagues whom he continued to contact. I said very little, but I got exactly the information that I wanted. It was another shining moment. I believe that the impression I made was overall favorable, and that he was encouraged rather than put off by the question I had asked. But my heart sank as I left the office.
The next stop was the provost. The provost and associate provost were running late because of a financial aid meeting. When they arrived, I found that the provost was a very young man with an arrogant bearing, while the associate provost was an older, mousy-looking woman. She didn't say much, but smiled very pleasantly, and nodded with approval to much of what I said. Once again, the teaching questions were easy. One question I was asked a second time was how I would address students who were perhaps in need of remediation, or who were non-majors. I answered the same as with the committee, because while I believe in offering help when needed, I believe that challenging students of all levels is essential, and asking challenging questions can motivate all students equally. While I'm not sure that's always what they want to hear, I can't adapt it--it's what I sincerely believe.
After some basic questions about teaching, and even one about faith and supporting their mission (and I suspected that the provost might have different ideas about that mission), I was accosted. "Well," he asked, "you have been finished with the Ph.D. for a year. What have you done? Conferences? Publications?" Of all of the answers that occurred to me, I did NOT think to protest that I had not been out for 12 months, but 8. . . And truly, I resented the question and the tone of it. I mentioned a research presentation in the fall. I mentioned an article revision. Then I was asked, "You say that you're looking at turning your dissertation into a book. How soon will that happen?" In a very demanding tone, I might add. I felt flabberghasted. I said in the next couple of years, and resolved to take that line out of my application letter. I understand that they are looking to increase scholarly productivity among their faculty, but I really need to catch my breath right now. And I am a little light on support, as my advisor is too busy to follow up with me. Actually, I have been left to fend for myself in the conference/publication arena anyway, so I likely have not done as much as I should.
The next stage was an informal talk with some students. I went up to the Honors lounge, where two students were waiting. Another one walked in late. They asked me some questions, like how I would handle it if my "plans" for the day were interrupted because the students were engaging in their own debate. I think of myself as very flexible, and in fact, that's sometimes when an instructor knows that s/he has done something right. I heard about a debate in the class of the male professor towards whom I have since developed a very strong dislike. The student in question (all 3 were female) was impressed by the laid back attitude of that professor. I said that I would join in on the conversation, certainly! At this point, I also learned that the students had been equipped with evaluation forms to assess me. They were bright orange--very subtle. But I had not been informed of this in advance, and it made me feel uneasy. The chat went well, and the outspoken student told me that I would do okay--I had a sense of humor, so they wouldn't scare me. Ha. As they were escorting me to the "Penthouse" for lunch, I asked my own burning question--all were, I believe, transfers from local community colleges. Why this college? Well, one mousey and very sweet recent transfer said, her sister just moved to the area, and she knew she wanted a Catholic college. . . And my heart sank, but that was what I wanted to know. The presumed Catholic identity of the college is important to some of the students. It was supposed to be a positive indicator to me, that this was a motivation in students enrollment. I wanted to ask a follow-up question, how she found it now that she was here, but she was so innocent-seeming. I know that she would not have thought to find fault. She was still trying to get the courage to talk in class since her community college courses had been online.
On to lunch. The "Penthouse" was an enclosed porch or greenhouse on the roof of the building--the highest point in the midwest manufacturing town, and all of its gray glory stretched out around me. It's hard for me to recreate my mood. I entered in on 4 professors, two of whom I had not met before, and one declared that since I had not come, they had chosen their drinks, but I was welcome to have first choice of whatever was left. It was a joke, but also alienating. It didn't matter, because Dr. Pepper is not widely available in that part of the world. Another good reason not to move there.
The other two professors were from the Art and Communications. The professor of Art was going to be the new department head of the combined department, though she was clearly self-conscious because she does not have a Ph.D. There was some institutional small talk that excluded me. I was expected to have questions about the area. Truthfully, I managed to chat with the Art prof more than with the others, and I asked about their backgrounds (geographical). Throughout the day, everyone sort of wanted to know about Hurricane Katrina, and what I had done to help in this case, and this was the first time that I really felt significantly constrained by not being able to mention my family. I guess it's not so apparent why I wasn't mucking about in the 9th Ward and rebuilding homes if you don't know that I was PREGNANT during the hurricane, right? One of the English profs lead a student group (they like taking students on trips) to New Orleans to muck around in the aftermath and photograph a situation they couldn't possibly understand. And they constantly patted themselves on the back for it. If my tone is becoming more hostile, it was because this was a turning point of sorts, and yet also where I began to have inklings that they had given up on me, and when I felt that perhaps they could have made more of an effort to put me at ease. We talked a lot about weather--blizzards, tornados. Great.
And the defining question? "What do you do for fun?" I kind of crumbled. It was a superficial, unanswerable question. It was designed to see if I was interesting. And it was from then on that I started prefacing my remarks with, "I'm sure I seem very uninteresting. . ." and "Not to seem uninteresting. . ." and "I guess it makes me seem uninteresting. . ." But on a level, the truth was that they did not interest me, and so I didn't care except insofar as I was being judged. So I mentioned sewing. What kinds of things do I sew? No, I don't quilt. I don't have the patience. Of course, the department head made a Queen sized quilt while she was procrastinating her dissertation. I said I admired that kind of dedication, and that it was akin to the dissertation. Me? Do I sew apparel? Why yes, I sew apparel. Not saying much more because I sew children's apparel. And blankets, because friends of mine have had babies recently. And because while I do not quilt, I like coordinating colors and prints. See, the Art prof said, you get some of that from your mom (who, as I mentioned, has a degree in Fine Arts). Yes, and most of the women in my family sew, and have my whole life. You see, it's okay to talk about mothers and aunts, but not about husbands and children. Maybe they knew I was hiding something. But the resentment was growing that I had to hide it. This is not right, and by that I refer to the whole dehumanizing process.
No shining moments at lunch. Perhaps because I was feeling a bit faint after having had only 2 small danishes for breakfast.
After lunch was the teaching demo. And here I leave you in suspense, because it deserves its own separate post.
He assured me that this was not an official part of the interview process, and congratulated me on getting so far--one of three--in a search for which there were many applicants. He said he liked to meet anyone who was being seriously considered for a position on campus, particularly a faculty position. Looking over my resume, he asked if I had ever been to England. He noted with surprise and pleasure my work on C. S. Lewis, as he had taught Lewis in high schools in England (he is English) many years before. I have not been to England, and he recommended that I visit sometime and told me about their new exchange program with Canterbury.
When my turn for questions came, I asked first about the "changes," but he resisted the term. Instead, he preferred to think in terms of "updating." To bring the school from the mid-1980's into the 21st Century. Unfortunately, his methods confused me, as I had learned earlier that the English, Fine Arts, and Communications into a single department. I found out a little about his perspective--or his PR-- but not about specific goals. Next, I asked my real question. It took him a bit aback, but he was not displeased. In fact, I think he rather liked me. But he misread my intent completely.
I had agonized over how to ask about the school's Catholic identity, and whom I should ask. I didn't feel that the English faculty would have welcomed the question--and indeed, I am sure that that is true. And their answer would have had to do with service, service, service. But you know what? Agnostics and atheists can also perform service for communities, and humanity at large, and do so in a caring and conscientious manner. And I did not get the impression that the impulse to serve other people was rooted in any kind of religious sentiment, but more on that later. The president seemed to have been hired to bring change. They are, as I mentioned in a previous post, hiring for a position that is intended on some level to oversee orthodoxy. I researched the president of the school and learned that he had previously been provost of another Catholic school, and was credited with really improving programs and even with having their accreditation reinstated. The school that he left was recently named one of the 20 or 30 "authentic" Catholic colleges by the Cardinal Newman Society. My hope for the school rested with him.
I lead off by saying that I was aware that he had been provost at another Catholic school, which I named, before entering his present position. I mentioned that his former employer and the current school were not founded by the same order, which he confirmed, and I asked him to contrast the schools. I was greeted with some surprise, but he very readily proceeded to give his perspective. The other school, it seems, is an "Independent Catholic College"--not founded by an order, and yet not attached to the Diocese. It is attached to a seminary. Though I'm not sure if it was by implication or directly stated, I got the impression that the "maleness" vs. "femaleness" of the schools was significant somehow. And then, he tackled orthodoxy--insofar as he could. He mentioned the designation by the Cardinal Newman Society. He denigrated the Cardinal Newman Society because they have no official voice. They are not authorized by anyone, but want to have their perspective acknowledged. Now, the Cardinal Newman Society bugs me to a degree. I am bothered by their president, who is not his own best friend in terms of PR. The tone in which their statements are made is always one of self-righteous pronouncement. And their tone is always one of challenge rather than understanding or reconciliation. I think their motives are good, but their methods are poor, and they alienate more than they unite. One can be uncompromising without being so off-putting. So I am well acquainted with the Cardinal Newman Society, and could certainly see why the president of the college would dislike them.
He went on to says that there are many different ways to be Catholic, "regardless of what Ex Corde Ecclesia might say." Here it got a bit touchy, as the Pope just has to realize (apparently) that in America (unlike, say, the rest of the world) there are different versions of Catholicism and none is more authentic than the next. The faculty was split on the question of Catholic identity, but he wanted to open up discussion--to make it something that COULD be discussed. That was positive. There were members of the faculty, he said, who occupy both sides of the spectrum. There are some who consider him a Vatican Watchdog, and others consider him a wacky liberal Protestant. (Not sure if he is Catholic, but if not, certainly Anglo-Catholic.) As a man of faith, he concluded, he felt more comfortable here (at a school which was, as far as I could tell, trying to distance itself from religion in every way possible) than at his previous school, though he liked that school well enough and had a number of respected friends and colleagues whom he continued to contact. I said very little, but I got exactly the information that I wanted. It was another shining moment. I believe that the impression I made was overall favorable, and that he was encouraged rather than put off by the question I had asked. But my heart sank as I left the office.
The next stop was the provost. The provost and associate provost were running late because of a financial aid meeting. When they arrived, I found that the provost was a very young man with an arrogant bearing, while the associate provost was an older, mousy-looking woman. She didn't say much, but smiled very pleasantly, and nodded with approval to much of what I said. Once again, the teaching questions were easy. One question I was asked a second time was how I would address students who were perhaps in need of remediation, or who were non-majors. I answered the same as with the committee, because while I believe in offering help when needed, I believe that challenging students of all levels is essential, and asking challenging questions can motivate all students equally. While I'm not sure that's always what they want to hear, I can't adapt it--it's what I sincerely believe.
After some basic questions about teaching, and even one about faith and supporting their mission (and I suspected that the provost might have different ideas about that mission), I was accosted. "Well," he asked, "you have been finished with the Ph.D. for a year. What have you done? Conferences? Publications?" Of all of the answers that occurred to me, I did NOT think to protest that I had not been out for 12 months, but 8. . . And truly, I resented the question and the tone of it. I mentioned a research presentation in the fall. I mentioned an article revision. Then I was asked, "You say that you're looking at turning your dissertation into a book. How soon will that happen?" In a very demanding tone, I might add. I felt flabberghasted. I said in the next couple of years, and resolved to take that line out of my application letter. I understand that they are looking to increase scholarly productivity among their faculty, but I really need to catch my breath right now. And I am a little light on support, as my advisor is too busy to follow up with me. Actually, I have been left to fend for myself in the conference/publication arena anyway, so I likely have not done as much as I should.
The next stage was an informal talk with some students. I went up to the Honors lounge, where two students were waiting. Another one walked in late. They asked me some questions, like how I would handle it if my "plans" for the day were interrupted because the students were engaging in their own debate. I think of myself as very flexible, and in fact, that's sometimes when an instructor knows that s/he has done something right. I heard about a debate in the class of the male professor towards whom I have since developed a very strong dislike. The student in question (all 3 were female) was impressed by the laid back attitude of that professor. I said that I would join in on the conversation, certainly! At this point, I also learned that the students had been equipped with evaluation forms to assess me. They were bright orange--very subtle. But I had not been informed of this in advance, and it made me feel uneasy. The chat went well, and the outspoken student told me that I would do okay--I had a sense of humor, so they wouldn't scare me. Ha. As they were escorting me to the "Penthouse" for lunch, I asked my own burning question--all were, I believe, transfers from local community colleges. Why this college? Well, one mousey and very sweet recent transfer said, her sister just moved to the area, and she knew she wanted a Catholic college. . . And my heart sank, but that was what I wanted to know. The presumed Catholic identity of the college is important to some of the students. It was supposed to be a positive indicator to me, that this was a motivation in students enrollment. I wanted to ask a follow-up question, how she found it now that she was here, but she was so innocent-seeming. I know that she would not have thought to find fault. She was still trying to get the courage to talk in class since her community college courses had been online.
On to lunch. The "Penthouse" was an enclosed porch or greenhouse on the roof of the building--the highest point in the midwest manufacturing town, and all of its gray glory stretched out around me. It's hard for me to recreate my mood. I entered in on 4 professors, two of whom I had not met before, and one declared that since I had not come, they had chosen their drinks, but I was welcome to have first choice of whatever was left. It was a joke, but also alienating. It didn't matter, because Dr. Pepper is not widely available in that part of the world. Another good reason not to move there.
The other two professors were from the Art and Communications. The professor of Art was going to be the new department head of the combined department, though she was clearly self-conscious because she does not have a Ph.D. There was some institutional small talk that excluded me. I was expected to have questions about the area. Truthfully, I managed to chat with the Art prof more than with the others, and I asked about their backgrounds (geographical). Throughout the day, everyone sort of wanted to know about Hurricane Katrina, and what I had done to help in this case, and this was the first time that I really felt significantly constrained by not being able to mention my family. I guess it's not so apparent why I wasn't mucking about in the 9th Ward and rebuilding homes if you don't know that I was PREGNANT during the hurricane, right? One of the English profs lead a student group (they like taking students on trips) to New Orleans to muck around in the aftermath and photograph a situation they couldn't possibly understand. And they constantly patted themselves on the back for it. If my tone is becoming more hostile, it was because this was a turning point of sorts, and yet also where I began to have inklings that they had given up on me, and when I felt that perhaps they could have made more of an effort to put me at ease. We talked a lot about weather--blizzards, tornados. Great.
And the defining question? "What do you do for fun?" I kind of crumbled. It was a superficial, unanswerable question. It was designed to see if I was interesting. And it was from then on that I started prefacing my remarks with, "I'm sure I seem very uninteresting. . ." and "Not to seem uninteresting. . ." and "I guess it makes me seem uninteresting. . ." But on a level, the truth was that they did not interest me, and so I didn't care except insofar as I was being judged. So I mentioned sewing. What kinds of things do I sew? No, I don't quilt. I don't have the patience. Of course, the department head made a Queen sized quilt while she was procrastinating her dissertation. I said I admired that kind of dedication, and that it was akin to the dissertation. Me? Do I sew apparel? Why yes, I sew apparel. Not saying much more because I sew children's apparel. And blankets, because friends of mine have had babies recently. And because while I do not quilt, I like coordinating colors and prints. See, the Art prof said, you get some of that from your mom (who, as I mentioned, has a degree in Fine Arts). Yes, and most of the women in my family sew, and have my whole life. You see, it's okay to talk about mothers and aunts, but not about husbands and children. Maybe they knew I was hiding something. But the resentment was growing that I had to hide it. This is not right, and by that I refer to the whole dehumanizing process.
No shining moments at lunch. Perhaps because I was feeling a bit faint after having had only 2 small danishes for breakfast.
After lunch was the teaching demo. And here I leave you in suspense, because it deserves its own separate post.
Friday, April 3, 2009
The Campus Visit, Pt. 1
The campus visit is a very, very strange process. As far as I know, it is a unique process in that it is so sustained and takes so much performing on the part of the candidate. I had a few of what I call "shining moments" when I really felt like I was myself; otherwise, I felt that it was my duty to conceal much of what I consider my identity. And this is a struggle for me.
In retrospect, I wonder if perhaps they have already found their ideal candidate, and simply could not back out of having me up. . . But perhaps I am taking things too seriously, or perhaps I am misreading bad manners or unprofessional behavior. I will also say that I am a little bit shy in unfamiliar circumstances. Mr. D'Arcy's statement to Elizabeth in the BBC version, "We neither of us perform to strangers," comes to mind. But I am not a lively conversationalist at first meeting in unfamiliar circumstances, and I never felt sufficiently at ease to open up. I had a beer at dinner, but I get ahead of myself.
The adventure started on Tuesday--the day spent on airplanes and at airports. My agony at leaving my babies--their surprising ability to take it all in stride. While I was trying to figure out how to pay for the plane ticket, in the 2-3 days I delayed between being invited to campus and booking the flight through Travelocity, the price jumped over $500 and I had to settle for 2 stops going. I flew into Dallas first, then Chicago, then on to my final destination and small nominally Catholic midwest college. In Chicago, I learned that my flight, scheduled to arrive at my destination for 5:45, had been cancelled about 30 minutes before I was supposed to board. Originally, I received a phone message telling me that they had rescheduled for the next morning at 8. I stood in line for what seemed like an hour so that I could be transferred to another airline's flight, arriving at 8:15. As soon as I knew the updated flight information, I called the department head who interviewed me and informed her that I would be arriving late. The result? Well, by the time I would arrive, the professor who was to pick me up would surely have gone home, so I could call for the hotel shuttle when I arrived. So my initial impression? I have been downgraded from a warm greeting and casual supper to "fend for yourself." Perhaps this might have been unjust had I not known that the professor in question did not have, for example, the family obligations that I would have in her place. She may or may not have a partner, but she does not have children.
I did find the shuttle, which was coming for some business men and would certainly have left without me had I not opted to wait in the 37 degree weather. It was windy and refreshing after the day of stuffy compartments and terminal after terminal. I reached the hotel--very plush--called home, and then decided to order food if it was still available. It was. I had a lovely burger and an even lovelier draft Guiness. It was the high point of my visit. I charged the food to the room and paid for the Guiness myself.
I was picked up from the hotel at about 8:45 the next morning by one of the committee members--the only male on the committee, and the only remaining male in the department after the ostracized member of the department, whom I did not meet, retires. I do not make good small talk in the morning. I was also unable to find out much information about the members of this department, who have not published widely. However, to my credit, I did manage. I fell silent perhaps more often than others would have. Repeatedly throughout the day, I was asked if I had any questions. I didn't. I rather came to have my impressions confirmed or refuted. I feel as though I should have had questions. I had some, but they were incredibly focused--very, very specific. And they did not lend themselves to small talk.
About a week and a half before the visit was scheduled, I was sent a packet of information about the town and the school. Included were two department publications, an undergraduate literary magazine and a spiral-bound book of student essays. I skimmed the literary mag, read the bios of the student contributers, and devoted most of my plane journey on Tuesday to reading the essays. Immediately it became apparent that the essays were, with only 2 exceptions, angry second-wave feminist readings of texts. They were ambitious in a way, except that the theory so obviously proceeded from the faculty rather than from any conviction on the part of the students, and they were poorly executed. The one essay that gave a Christian perspective on a work of literature was very well executed, though perhaps less ambitious, and tied for third place. I wondered about the focus of the issue, and determined to ask about it.
The first stop on my visit was the inquisitorial squad--the 4 department members in good standing. While I was waiting for them to arrive, I glanced out of the window and noticed stained glass windows below me. I asked if it was a chapel, and was told that it had been, but was now the place where the choir practiced. There was a new chapel built in the 1970s. The room itself had a long table. I sat nearer the windows, and the first 3 members arrayed themselves on the opposite side of the table. A joke was made about it. the fourth sat on my side when she finally arrived. The dress was decidedly casual--faded button-down shirts and jeans were apparently the order of the day.
So I was questioned. I don't remember too much of this part. I was asked a number of questions about teaching. I was asked to talk about my dissertation. Especially in relation to teaching. I didn't really know what to say, and I'm afraid I may have rambled. Teaching was much easier for me to address for some reason. In all, I felt okay about it. I don't think I screwed anything up in any kind of significant way. I was asked for the first time about how would teach a "gen ed" class vs. majors, and I said that I wouldn't approach it differently, I would simply provide more context. I would still ask challenging questions. And though I didn't say it, I think I conveyed that I would still have high standards.
My turn came for questions. I didn't have many. Perhaps I should have. But I asked about the book of essays. I asked about the fact that the dominant critical perspective was feminist, and whether this derived from a particular course, or whether it was a point of view that predominated in the courses taught in the department. And I put them on the defensive--the male member of the committee in particular. Oh, and the lesbian novelist, but less so. It was blamed on the student editor. I was told that there was a women's writers seminar that year and that many of the papers came from the seminar. Of course, that doesn't explain the paper on Shakespeare. And there are other critical perspectives from which one can approach women writers, including more current models of feminism. The paper on "The Yellow Wallpaper" was the worst. It was simply commended because the male author had learned so much about women's oppression. It was nothing new, unusual, or even particularly interesting, and it was not well-written, but rambled--as did all of the papers that won awards. But the choice of papers was attributed to the student editor and her strong opinions, and I was told that she would again be the editor and (he suspected) would again have a very strong (by implication, different) opinion that was reflected in her choices. I suggested that they have her write an editor's note. I really did. This was my first shining moment. I was also told (by the male professor) that most of their students were young women, and that young women were naturally attracted to that perspective. And then I was asked--nay, it was demanded of me--"Why do you ask that question?" I backtracked a little, good-naturedly saying that I probably phrased the question poorly, that I was really interested in whether the essays were related to a single course, which was true. That was one possible justification for the single-mindedness of the essays. But it wasn't the only reason I could see. It seemed to me that the students were being taught how to think about women's position in society--that they were being taught to see women as victims--and that bugged me.
Next, I was ushered to the human resources guy. I wasn't very impressed by the benefits--especially about the security of those benefits, which seemed doubtful. There was a lovely tall tree--spruce?--a northwestern cypress of sorts--outside of his office, and the wind howled around the buildings. He was a pleasant guy, and I was learning a little about the demographics of the campus--not many young families--when my escort came. One small thing that contributed to my overall bad impression happened here. When I bought the plane ticket, I was told that if I sent a receipt, which I did immediately, they would have a check waiting for me when I got there. Once I was there, I was told to speak directly to the HR guy about my refund. The info I had sent had not been processed. Nothing was handled by the department. It was up to me.
My next stop was the president of the university.
I'll continue from here tomorrow.
In retrospect, I wonder if perhaps they have already found their ideal candidate, and simply could not back out of having me up. . . But perhaps I am taking things too seriously, or perhaps I am misreading bad manners or unprofessional behavior. I will also say that I am a little bit shy in unfamiliar circumstances. Mr. D'Arcy's statement to Elizabeth in the BBC version, "We neither of us perform to strangers," comes to mind. But I am not a lively conversationalist at first meeting in unfamiliar circumstances, and I never felt sufficiently at ease to open up. I had a beer at dinner, but I get ahead of myself.
The adventure started on Tuesday--the day spent on airplanes and at airports. My agony at leaving my babies--their surprising ability to take it all in stride. While I was trying to figure out how to pay for the plane ticket, in the 2-3 days I delayed between being invited to campus and booking the flight through Travelocity, the price jumped over $500 and I had to settle for 2 stops going. I flew into Dallas first, then Chicago, then on to my final destination and small nominally Catholic midwest college. In Chicago, I learned that my flight, scheduled to arrive at my destination for 5:45, had been cancelled about 30 minutes before I was supposed to board. Originally, I received a phone message telling me that they had rescheduled for the next morning at 8. I stood in line for what seemed like an hour so that I could be transferred to another airline's flight, arriving at 8:15. As soon as I knew the updated flight information, I called the department head who interviewed me and informed her that I would be arriving late. The result? Well, by the time I would arrive, the professor who was to pick me up would surely have gone home, so I could call for the hotel shuttle when I arrived. So my initial impression? I have been downgraded from a warm greeting and casual supper to "fend for yourself." Perhaps this might have been unjust had I not known that the professor in question did not have, for example, the family obligations that I would have in her place. She may or may not have a partner, but she does not have children.
I did find the shuttle, which was coming for some business men and would certainly have left without me had I not opted to wait in the 37 degree weather. It was windy and refreshing after the day of stuffy compartments and terminal after terminal. I reached the hotel--very plush--called home, and then decided to order food if it was still available. It was. I had a lovely burger and an even lovelier draft Guiness. It was the high point of my visit. I charged the food to the room and paid for the Guiness myself.
I was picked up from the hotel at about 8:45 the next morning by one of the committee members--the only male on the committee, and the only remaining male in the department after the ostracized member of the department, whom I did not meet, retires. I do not make good small talk in the morning. I was also unable to find out much information about the members of this department, who have not published widely. However, to my credit, I did manage. I fell silent perhaps more often than others would have. Repeatedly throughout the day, I was asked if I had any questions. I didn't. I rather came to have my impressions confirmed or refuted. I feel as though I should have had questions. I had some, but they were incredibly focused--very, very specific. And they did not lend themselves to small talk.
About a week and a half before the visit was scheduled, I was sent a packet of information about the town and the school. Included were two department publications, an undergraduate literary magazine and a spiral-bound book of student essays. I skimmed the literary mag, read the bios of the student contributers, and devoted most of my plane journey on Tuesday to reading the essays. Immediately it became apparent that the essays were, with only 2 exceptions, angry second-wave feminist readings of texts. They were ambitious in a way, except that the theory so obviously proceeded from the faculty rather than from any conviction on the part of the students, and they were poorly executed. The one essay that gave a Christian perspective on a work of literature was very well executed, though perhaps less ambitious, and tied for third place. I wondered about the focus of the issue, and determined to ask about it.
The first stop on my visit was the inquisitorial squad--the 4 department members in good standing. While I was waiting for them to arrive, I glanced out of the window and noticed stained glass windows below me. I asked if it was a chapel, and was told that it had been, but was now the place where the choir practiced. There was a new chapel built in the 1970s. The room itself had a long table. I sat nearer the windows, and the first 3 members arrayed themselves on the opposite side of the table. A joke was made about it. the fourth sat on my side when she finally arrived. The dress was decidedly casual--faded button-down shirts and jeans were apparently the order of the day.
So I was questioned. I don't remember too much of this part. I was asked a number of questions about teaching. I was asked to talk about my dissertation. Especially in relation to teaching. I didn't really know what to say, and I'm afraid I may have rambled. Teaching was much easier for me to address for some reason. In all, I felt okay about it. I don't think I screwed anything up in any kind of significant way. I was asked for the first time about how would teach a "gen ed" class vs. majors, and I said that I wouldn't approach it differently, I would simply provide more context. I would still ask challenging questions. And though I didn't say it, I think I conveyed that I would still have high standards.
My turn came for questions. I didn't have many. Perhaps I should have. But I asked about the book of essays. I asked about the fact that the dominant critical perspective was feminist, and whether this derived from a particular course, or whether it was a point of view that predominated in the courses taught in the department. And I put them on the defensive--the male member of the committee in particular. Oh, and the lesbian novelist, but less so. It was blamed on the student editor. I was told that there was a women's writers seminar that year and that many of the papers came from the seminar. Of course, that doesn't explain the paper on Shakespeare. And there are other critical perspectives from which one can approach women writers, including more current models of feminism. The paper on "The Yellow Wallpaper" was the worst. It was simply commended because the male author had learned so much about women's oppression. It was nothing new, unusual, or even particularly interesting, and it was not well-written, but rambled--as did all of the papers that won awards. But the choice of papers was attributed to the student editor and her strong opinions, and I was told that she would again be the editor and (he suspected) would again have a very strong (by implication, different) opinion that was reflected in her choices. I suggested that they have her write an editor's note. I really did. This was my first shining moment. I was also told (by the male professor) that most of their students were young women, and that young women were naturally attracted to that perspective. And then I was asked--nay, it was demanded of me--"Why do you ask that question?" I backtracked a little, good-naturedly saying that I probably phrased the question poorly, that I was really interested in whether the essays were related to a single course, which was true. That was one possible justification for the single-mindedness of the essays. But it wasn't the only reason I could see. It seemed to me that the students were being taught how to think about women's position in society--that they were being taught to see women as victims--and that bugged me.
Next, I was ushered to the human resources guy. I wasn't very impressed by the benefits--especially about the security of those benefits, which seemed doubtful. There was a lovely tall tree--spruce?--a northwestern cypress of sorts--outside of his office, and the wind howled around the buildings. He was a pleasant guy, and I was learning a little about the demographics of the campus--not many young families--when my escort came. One small thing that contributed to my overall bad impression happened here. When I bought the plane ticket, I was told that if I sent a receipt, which I did immediately, they would have a check waiting for me when I got there. Once I was there, I was told to speak directly to the HR guy about my refund. The info I had sent had not been processed. Nothing was handled by the department. It was up to me.
My next stop was the president of the university.
I'll continue from here tomorrow.
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