I suppose I should post this to my "Booknotes" blog,* but I wanted to post it here to give a bit of an update on what I have been thinking about lately. I have actually been motivated to read more in the past few weeks/months, which has its good points and bad--good, because I have been feeling that I should read more (or at all), bad because when I read, other things are pushed aside. It started with the campus visit. On the trip, I brought as reading material the student essays and creative writing that the school had provided for me, and also Bernard Schlink's The Reader. The appeal should be obvious: as I tell my students (sometimes, when I feel like mentioning my scholarly interests will help the rapport), when a novel portrays someone reading or writing, that's when I become interested. And there were so many other interesting things going on. I became interested in the book when I saw a commercial on TV for the film--which I saw afterwards (watched it on DVD with my mom), and was vastly disappointed. The book, however, is brilliantly complex and suggests some interesting ideas about literacy that I plan to form into a new chapter of my (conceptually) evolving (finished) dissertation. I have yet to read the other contemporary work that I plan to pair it with but Oprah would be proud (unfortunately, I think both books are Oprah Book Club selections, though for the life of me, I can't understand why she liked The Reader, unless she misread it or someone else selected it).
After that, my reading didn't pick up the way I wanted it to for one reason or another. I think the primary reason may have been a lack of direction--I have been feeling it for a while. So much is out there that I'm just not sure where to turn next. One writer in particular has kept creeping into my peripheral vision, however. Many of you have read him, I'm sure--Graham Greene, England's premier twentieth century Catholic novelist (well, I guess G. K. Chesterton could contend for that position from the opposite end of the political spectrum!). I didn't quite know what to read by him, and had no particular motivation to seek him out, except that the position I desperately wanted (yes, there was ONE that I knew I wanted) that was cancelled (hopefully to be reopened) was a position to teach 20th Century Catholic writers, and Greene was one specifically named. But he kept coming up. So when I accidently found myself reading an article about his file with the Vatican, I made up my mind to read The Power and the Glory, and did so during a recent drive to New Orleans (we were there 2 nights and a day). It is nothing short of brilliant. It captures with poignancy the struggle of the believer who recognizes his/her sinfulness, but even more than that, it captures the coexistence of hope and despair, and the contrast between the office of the priesthood and the fallible humans who are ordained to that office. I find it hard to consider it a work of British literature, since it is set in Mexico and focuses on Mexicans rather than the foreigners who live there, but even in that there is a curious Englishness, and I may be inclined to investigate in the future the strange draw that English writers have to Mexico, or more interestingly (to me), to Catholic culture(s). I am eager to read more of Greene, but I do not find that any of his novels sound as compelling as The Power and the Glory. I checked out a couple, though--Monsignor Quixote and The Heart of the Matter--so they're on the "to read" list.
A few days ago, I was in a local book/media store looking for more Graham Greene, and in the classics section I stumbled across a work by W. Somerset Maugham, The Painted Veil. The summary sounded intriguing, and it occurred to me that Maugham is in my time period, but another whose works I had never read. So when I went to the library to get the aforementioned Greene, I also grabbed The Painted Veil and another by Maugham, The Magician. On the way out, as I was thinking that I should look up some Walker Percy (another name on the list of Catholic authors desired by that coveted Assistant Professor position), I glanced to the side and found--the Walker Percy shelves! It was uncanny. So I have The Thanatos Syndrome and Love in the Ruins to read also.
I am currently reading The Magician by Maugham, and it is turning out to be your basic fin de siècle novel, and would pair nicely with The Picture of Dorian Grey, The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, Walter Pater and Baudelaire. I have yet to see that it does anything incredibly interesting, and some of its invocation of the occult is disturbing. There is a passage that evokes artworks and artists with which (and whom) I was previously unacquainted: this one by Juan Valdés de Leal, who seems rather generally extraordinary, Jusepe (or José) de Ribera, whose "dwarfs" don't seem to be well represented online (I only found this one), and a Pygmalion by Bronzino, which is the only one that seems to fit Maugham's description. Maugham's works and Greene's seem to suffer from a lack of footnotes that I attribute to a more general lack of critical attention--and yet, both names are well-known.
The Painted Veil is intriguing, and I may require it in the course I am teaching in the fall. It raises some interesting questions about depictions of women, includes some elements of the society novel that would not be out of place in Henry James or Edith Wharton, depicts the sexual act in a way that that would have seemed bold for Lawrence (who was generally more subtle), and contains lots & lots of colonialism. Of particular interest to me is Maugham's depiction of a convent of French missionary nuns in China, situated literally in the middle of a cholera epidemic. The nuns are easily the most noble characters in the novel, both in terms of bloodline and lineage (the Mother Superior is descended from nobility) and in terms of their bearing, serenity, closeness to the divine (though this is not quite how the characters in the novel or the narrator articulate it). It is interesting here to see the contrast between how the English speak of clergy of the Church of England, or how dismissive the characters are of the Anglican Church, and how the French nuns are portrayed. I'm not sure I have much to say about it beyond that, but I'm collecting data! ;)
So I am engaged in filling in a few less-than-apparent gaps in my reading of early- to mid-20th-century British fiction, asking along the way why I have not encountered these authors before, and whether it will matter at all, after I have read them, that I have read them--matter professionally, that is. I am already glad that I am reading them, and still believe in the inherent value of the act of reading--yes, I really do.
*Okay, I cross-posted it because my Booknotes blog is so very sad and neglected!
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Here Comes Summer!
So here we are at the last week of school for my older two. My son is wrapping up 6th grade with a picnic tomorrow and a pool party field trip on Friday. Recent highlights have included an orchestra concert for the parents (pictures to be posted soon on the family blog) and a competition at the Pride of Texas Festival in Austin, where his school's orchestra received the highest scores possible. The students were also able to play games at the festival for only the cost of the field trip, part of which was offset by the candle fundraiser earlier in the year. He tried out today for the Varsity orchestra at the Middle School, which would mean that he was in 8th grade orchestra as a 7th grader. We have hopes for next year that perhaps the Middle School curriculum will be a bit more challenging. I remain disappointed by how little writing they do. By 4th grade, I was writing book reports. In 6th grade, he has only had the most basic writing assignments, usually composed of answers to specific questions. His final book project was a powerpoint (UGH), and this was ADVANCED English. I understand why the college students' writing skills are so poor, as this is a very good school district by all accounts. He scored well on the benchmark standardized tests (UGH UGH UGH), receiving commended in Language Arts and Math, and scoring 100% correct on the reading section. This reminds me of all of the papers my honors students wrote in the fall condemning standardized tests. Moving on now. . .
Doodle had her last day of montessori preschool today. It was water day and a half day. Unfortunately, she was not in top form. She had a slight fever later in the day that I did not realize earlier. But she still seems to have had fun. The year was good for her, though punctuated by frequent illness from November through March. April was her first full month at school without missing multiple days since the fall. When she finally was able to return to school, she had many mornings when she did not want to leave me and there were tears. While I hated to see her upset, I knew that she would have a good day, and that the staff were caring and competent. It is wonderful to have her somewhere where I can trust the staff implicitly. Of course, Phelan spent 5 years there, from 4yo to 3rd grade, so I know the owner of the school and many of the teachers. I finally figured out that giving her allergy medicine at night allowed her to sleep and she was happy in the morning--no more tears. She had her end-of-the year program on Monday night, which was a treat, and the Mother's Day tea a few weeks ago, which is the nicest event of the year. Doodle will be attending the same school in the fall, even though the tuition has gone up by $100 and it is considerably more expensive than our parish child development center. Unfortunately, I am not as comfortable with the curriculum, methods, or director of the parish child development center, which is where Chiclette will be in the fall.
While Doodle attends 2 full days and 2 half days in the fall, Chiclette will be in mother's day out in our parish 2 days, from 9-2:30. I am not crazy about the idea, since I think closer to 3 years is ideal for beginning any kind of "school"/daycare situation, but it will be necessary. She will be turning 2 years in the fall, and will be in the toddler class (18-24 months), which is one of the issues I have with the parish child care center. They measure every child, from 6 weeks to Pre-K, by the ages they will be according to the public school cut off date. So Doodle would have been in the 2 year class with children a full year and more younger than her, most of whom would have been in diapers. She needed to move on, and it was an excellent decision for us (though hard in the making, as the potty training was stressful!). At Chiclette's age, I do not think it will be as crucial. And since she is over a month past the "cut off" for birthdays, the case is harder to make than with Doodle's 4 days. I do think we will end up having issues with Chiclette's birthday holding her back in school, though. . . She is able to comprehend most of what is said to her, and communicate her response in a way that can be understood, and she is only 18 months.
Next semester, I will be teaching 3 classes for the first time, so child care is a necessity for me at last. It probably would have made my life easier this semester, but I wanted to delay having her in the care of strangers and exposed to more illnesses than she was exposed to already through her sister and brother. Not to mention the behaviors of other children. I simply can not believe that unrelated children under a certain age--and that age is variable and may well be over 4--benefit from each others' company for hours on end and on consecutive days. At the very least, you might convince me that it does no harm. But I don't want to belabor the point. This semester, my sister watched both girls while I taught, but I was always conscious that she didn't want to stay much past my class, which meant that I was away from home only 3 hours at a time, twice a week. All of my work still had to be accomplished at home, which was not always ideal. At any rate, there was a lot of balancing. There will still be a lot of balancing, but perhaps a few things might make it easier. . .
We will be moving in August to a slightly smaller, considerably cheaper place. The idea was either to gain space or money in our overall budget. We will accomplish neither. What we will accomplish is having our overall budget *only* increase by $95/month, though I have added an additional child care cost and the existing tuition has increased by $100. That's pretty good, considering! The place we're moving to is closer to campus, but further away from the girls' preschools. My son will be taking the bus, which will mean one less person who needs to be dropped off & picked up. My husband may take a bus home also, as biking might not be plausible. That's still up for negotiation! My schedule does allow me to have some time during the day on my teaching days for prep & grading. I hope it works out that way. I will be stopping in the middle of the day to pick up the girls, and then resuming my teaching after my husband gets off of work, which may prove to be a challenge. Or it might keep me busy. Who knows? I'm starting to feel like I need to keep busy in order to avoid succumbing to moodiness. Not that I'm not busy now, but it's, well, different. I have too much time to brood--philosophize--whatever.
This may well be a problem this summer. Because I have distance/online classes, and only half of my accustomed salary of the past 9 months, I will not be putting the kids in any summer activities. I was lamenting earlier that today was my last half day of Chiclette-Momma only time for a while. Doodle will be in Vacation Bible School for one week, but that's the extent of our summer activity planning. I don't like outdoor summer heat (confidentially, I don't like outside--never have), but the apartment complex has a pool (which I will miss next summer), and I might be convinced to go to a park in the early-ish morning. I called a friend whom I was going to meet late in the morning at 9:30 last week, and when she remarked that it was early for me, I informed her that that hasn't been the case for 4 years now. Truly, I am not a morning person, but necessity and obscene amounts of Mystic Monk coffee are helping. I will try not to let a relaxed summer be a brooding, morose summer. My sister will be babysitting twice a week so I can get some work done, and with the flexibility of the online class, I should be able to sew and enjoy a bit of free time. I do need to try to write a bit, which always feels like somewhat of a chore. I had some ideas after the campus visit, but they were drowned out in the noise of daily/weekly/end-of-semester concerns.
I am planning a trip to New Orleans at some point, but that's as far as the planning has gotten. I will sew. I should write. I should prepare syllabi (including one for the second survey of British Lit!). First, I should order my textbooks for the fall. . . I will grade, though I'm not sure how much conventional teaching I will be doing. I hope not to think about the job market, though I may be applying for another job or two in the next week or two, as a few have appeared. And finally, we will pack.
I will be updating my family blog more often, for those interested. I have discovered a feature that allows me to email posts to my blog, which allows for a much easier upload of image files. That was the obstacle that was most formidable to my keeping that blog up to date. I can't email images and words, or the images to not show up, so I email the pics and add the narration after. That makes for shorter narration, but again, that might be a good thing.
I know that my writing on this blog is not what it once was. I may still have the occasional weighty post--especially with the email feature enabled. But I have moved a bit away from the semi-essay format, at least for now. But it's comforting to know that a blog is, essentially, wherever you are at a given moment. I'm hoping that I will take an academic turn soon and bring the blog along for the ride.
Doodle had her last day of montessori preschool today. It was water day and a half day. Unfortunately, she was not in top form. She had a slight fever later in the day that I did not realize earlier. But she still seems to have had fun. The year was good for her, though punctuated by frequent illness from November through March. April was her first full month at school without missing multiple days since the fall. When she finally was able to return to school, she had many mornings when she did not want to leave me and there were tears. While I hated to see her upset, I knew that she would have a good day, and that the staff were caring and competent. It is wonderful to have her somewhere where I can trust the staff implicitly. Of course, Phelan spent 5 years there, from 4yo to 3rd grade, so I know the owner of the school and many of the teachers. I finally figured out that giving her allergy medicine at night allowed her to sleep and she was happy in the morning--no more tears. She had her end-of-the year program on Monday night, which was a treat, and the Mother's Day tea a few weeks ago, which is the nicest event of the year. Doodle will be attending the same school in the fall, even though the tuition has gone up by $100 and it is considerably more expensive than our parish child development center. Unfortunately, I am not as comfortable with the curriculum, methods, or director of the parish child development center, which is where Chiclette will be in the fall.
While Doodle attends 2 full days and 2 half days in the fall, Chiclette will be in mother's day out in our parish 2 days, from 9-2:30. I am not crazy about the idea, since I think closer to 3 years is ideal for beginning any kind of "school"/daycare situation, but it will be necessary. She will be turning 2 years in the fall, and will be in the toddler class (18-24 months), which is one of the issues I have with the parish child care center. They measure every child, from 6 weeks to Pre-K, by the ages they will be according to the public school cut off date. So Doodle would have been in the 2 year class with children a full year and more younger than her, most of whom would have been in diapers. She needed to move on, and it was an excellent decision for us (though hard in the making, as the potty training was stressful!). At Chiclette's age, I do not think it will be as crucial. And since she is over a month past the "cut off" for birthdays, the case is harder to make than with Doodle's 4 days. I do think we will end up having issues with Chiclette's birthday holding her back in school, though. . . She is able to comprehend most of what is said to her, and communicate her response in a way that can be understood, and she is only 18 months.
Next semester, I will be teaching 3 classes for the first time, so child care is a necessity for me at last. It probably would have made my life easier this semester, but I wanted to delay having her in the care of strangers and exposed to more illnesses than she was exposed to already through her sister and brother. Not to mention the behaviors of other children. I simply can not believe that unrelated children under a certain age--and that age is variable and may well be over 4--benefit from each others' company for hours on end and on consecutive days. At the very least, you might convince me that it does no harm. But I don't want to belabor the point. This semester, my sister watched both girls while I taught, but I was always conscious that she didn't want to stay much past my class, which meant that I was away from home only 3 hours at a time, twice a week. All of my work still had to be accomplished at home, which was not always ideal. At any rate, there was a lot of balancing. There will still be a lot of balancing, but perhaps a few things might make it easier. . .
We will be moving in August to a slightly smaller, considerably cheaper place. The idea was either to gain space or money in our overall budget. We will accomplish neither. What we will accomplish is having our overall budget *only* increase by $95/month, though I have added an additional child care cost and the existing tuition has increased by $100. That's pretty good, considering! The place we're moving to is closer to campus, but further away from the girls' preschools. My son will be taking the bus, which will mean one less person who needs to be dropped off & picked up. My husband may take a bus home also, as biking might not be plausible. That's still up for negotiation! My schedule does allow me to have some time during the day on my teaching days for prep & grading. I hope it works out that way. I will be stopping in the middle of the day to pick up the girls, and then resuming my teaching after my husband gets off of work, which may prove to be a challenge. Or it might keep me busy. Who knows? I'm starting to feel like I need to keep busy in order to avoid succumbing to moodiness. Not that I'm not busy now, but it's, well, different. I have too much time to brood--philosophize--whatever.
This may well be a problem this summer. Because I have distance/online classes, and only half of my accustomed salary of the past 9 months, I will not be putting the kids in any summer activities. I was lamenting earlier that today was my last half day of Chiclette-Momma only time for a while. Doodle will be in Vacation Bible School for one week, but that's the extent of our summer activity planning. I don't like outdoor summer heat (confidentially, I don't like outside--never have), but the apartment complex has a pool (which I will miss next summer), and I might be convinced to go to a park in the early-ish morning. I called a friend whom I was going to meet late in the morning at 9:30 last week, and when she remarked that it was early for me, I informed her that that hasn't been the case for 4 years now. Truly, I am not a morning person, but necessity and obscene amounts of Mystic Monk coffee are helping. I will try not to let a relaxed summer be a brooding, morose summer. My sister will be babysitting twice a week so I can get some work done, and with the flexibility of the online class, I should be able to sew and enjoy a bit of free time. I do need to try to write a bit, which always feels like somewhat of a chore. I had some ideas after the campus visit, but they were drowned out in the noise of daily/weekly/end-of-semester concerns.
I am planning a trip to New Orleans at some point, but that's as far as the planning has gotten. I will sew. I should write. I should prepare syllabi (including one for the second survey of British Lit!). First, I should order my textbooks for the fall. . . I will grade, though I'm not sure how much conventional teaching I will be doing. I hope not to think about the job market, though I may be applying for another job or two in the next week or two, as a few have appeared. And finally, we will pack.
I will be updating my family blog more often, for those interested. I have discovered a feature that allows me to email posts to my blog, which allows for a much easier upload of image files. That was the obstacle that was most formidable to my keeping that blog up to date. I can't email images and words, or the images to not show up, so I email the pics and add the narration after. That makes for shorter narration, but again, that might be a good thing.
I know that my writing on this blog is not what it once was. I may still have the occasional weighty post--especially with the email feature enabled. But I have moved a bit away from the semi-essay format, at least for now. But it's comforting to know that a blog is, essentially, wherever you are at a given moment. I'm hoping that I will take an academic turn soon and bring the blog along for the ride.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
After the Fallout
Things are settling down here. The semester has ended. Grades are due soon, but I only have final papers to evaluate, which tends to be easier than the papers during the semester, both because the quality is often better and because I don't have to make the extensive comments that I make on earlier papers, since most of the final papers will never be seen or retrieved by students. The children's schools will be winding down also. My son is looking forward to an orchestra competition out-of-town at a festival next Monday, and has his end-of-the-year concert tonight, in which he performs the solo! He had to try out for it, so we are very proud. Doodle is also practicing for an end-of-the-year program, and we had our "Mother's Day Tea" at her school last Friday. It was so neat having her serve me tea just as my son had done for years while he was at the same school. I wish I could send all of them there, but the job search won't permit. We are still looking for housing for the fall--ideally cheaper housing than what we currently have. It's a challenge, but we have some viewings lined up for Saturday, so we'll see. . .
I am recovering from the stress of two weeks ago. I had the dreaded meeting with the advisor, but it was not so bad. Instead, what I think has happened is that he has realized that I do indeed need help with this whole process. I was told that he will work with me on the answers to some anticipated questions to help me to better survive interviews. I had started thinking of some of this anyway, but my preparation may have been off. The random nature of the interview process leaves me very insecure, and I don't take comfort from the fact that it's like this for everyone. I think of myself as someone who thinks well on her feet and can communicate effectively, but I feel like I can't be completely honest in answering or I will jeopardize my chances of getting hired. That is singularly uncomfortable for me. If I conceal my thoughts about something, I feel like I'm being hypocritical and dishonest. I probably come across as smug or judgmental, too (imagine that). Because really, I'm judging them as much as they are judging me--that's too much judging for someone like me. But maybe if I'm not in the kind of "fog" that I was in last time, I will be able to think of responses that work. *sigh*
I have come to realize the depth of my insecurity. I think it has been building during all of the years I was away from coursework. It perhaps had its seeds in coursework, as I realized how different, and in many ways, agenda-driven, most of the scholarship in my field was from what I had imagined myself doing, and tried to fit myself into it. I developed a defensiveness, realizing that I would be judged according to the fact that I was not doing what others were doing. But I have not ever seen literature as a vehicle for social change, and I did not use it to critique society or to lobby for a more enlightened existence. I wonder--had my undergraduate courses been more overwhelmingly political, would I be here now? But I had professors who were contentedly thematic or New Critical in their approaches. Or even subtly New Historicist. I can't think of any who were overtly feminist--and this includes the lesbian poet who once tried to teach me to dance in a bar in New Orleans. I realize that even those professors--one art historian comes to mind--who tried to adopt a feminist perspective failed miserably by most standards, and I was allowed to write a paper refuting the agenda of Eva Keuls' Reign of the Phallus (but not refuting its research, which I found fascinating) in my freshman honors seminar. In those days, I didn't even like literature that was overtly political--Animal Farm, for example--because that's not what I was looking for in literature. Now I adore dystopia, so that has changed drastically, but I'm all about the context of the work. Though I do admit that I see an enduring message in many of the dystopian works I teach! So I was not out of line with my undergraduate professors, who preferred to teach interpretation rather than theory, and who did not structure their courses thematically to promote certain ideologies or worldviews or whatever. Would it shock you to know that I never read "The Yellow Wallpaper" in an undergraduate course? I did read The Awakening in high school, and utterly rejected it. I believe I had to read it again in an American Lit course, but I probably did not repeat the task. And I didn't like Emily Dickenson.
In graduate school, things changed radically. The goal of papers was completely different, and left me rather befuddled as I tried to figure out what, if anything, I had that was worthy according to the different standards I was confronting. My papers were (predictably, perhaps) reactionary. I proposed "different" ways of looking at feminist issues, focused on areas that were less politically charged (to me), and rejected Marxism except in the rare cases when it seemed to fit the author's own agenda. But I became dismayed by it all. Some of the versions of Marxism I encountered in guest speakers, etc., impressed me by their absolute futility, and the selections of texts in my graduate seminars were often uninteresting to me. I have a very short list of courses that I enjoyed, and even fewer texts that inspired me. And then there was the teaching. When I taught literature, I had a considerable amount of freedom, except the limitations imposed by the Intro to Lit anthologies. (Would it surprise you to know that I have never taught "The Yellow Wallpaper"?) In an era when any designated "greatness" of literature is considered suspect, the question of how to introduce literature to non-majors becomes complicated. And as far as I can tell, it comes down to introducing ways of viewing the world, reshaping the way students view the world by introducing, celebrating, or promoting certain perspectives, or using literature to try to make sense of life experiences, which some anthologies do try to do even though this is kind of a universalizing impulse. My problem with both approaches is that presenting literature with such specific purposes imposes a way of reading on the text. This limits the potential for discovery of meaning. I do not believe that there are infinite ways to read a text, but I also do not believe that the critics always have it right. That's why my interpretations of texts in my dissertation are not linked in any way to the criticism of the authors whom I study. That's probably why one of my committee members wrote so many little X's in the margins, though he seemed to like the overall dissertation. I do believe that the greatest literature is universal in a sense, in that it taps into the things that are common to humanity. And I do not think that the idea that there are things common to humanity contradicts the singularity of individual experience. But I'm a very empathetic person, and a very empathetic reader, so perhaps this desire to get inside others' heads and understand them makes me see the question of universality a bit differently. I want to see how we as individuals connect while understanding the differences that we face as individuals or as members of different communities. If there is no universal connection, then literature is pretty much meaningless.
Which I guess brings me to another breaking point of sorts with my discipline. Because I believe in a some kind of universal human experience, albeit mediated by particular circumstances, I think that there is inherent value in reading to seek those connections, to find ourselves in others, to find others in ourselves, and by evaluating ourselves and our experiences through reading, to grow as fully realized individuals. This is very outdated. But I feel that in order to function in a community, which is where the emphasis is these days in teaching and studying literature, we have to know who we are, and that's a complex question. I can't teach this, and I don't try. But I also don't try to stress difference to the point that it annihilates the self. I don't want to change anyone's worldview, but I do want to help students to put their worldview in perspective, and I think literature has infinite potential to give individuals perspective, as long as they are open to it and recognize it for what it is, and in order to accomplish this, we need to be non-threatening, by which I don't mean subtly subverting their worldview while pretending to be sympathetic. Not at all.
So I didn't really come into this profession to introduce or promote certain ideas, though I have dabbled in and do enjoy ecocriticism and postcolonialism. I don't think that by teaching certain texts in certain ways, that I stand to improve anyone's social condition. And I'm not terribly invested in the idea that everyone needs to tolerate everyone else's beliefs and ideas to the suppression of one's own, because that doesn't lead to understanding of any kind. And frankly, there are a lot of things I'm not interested in talking about with students. And wouldn't you know? Every one of them is represented in the standard composition text. And typically, they are represented in such a way that it is clear what the authors of the book want the student to think. In teaching argument, the arguments presented make a case for a certain worldview. And the students sometimes accept it without opposition, because the claims are so persuasive. Or they get mad because their opinions differ and they don't know how to articulate them. Now, a lot depends on the student and how the materials is presented, but I'm just not interested in negotiating any of this. Perhaps the issue is that while I can find universal experience in art, I can not find any evidence of that same interconnectedness in the diatribes that litter composition texts. So there's no room for sympathy or empathy, and there's no art. Granted, there is some clever use of language, which I can appreciate, but that is not the same as art, because art has an element of beauty or at least awe. Art evokes rather than stating, which is why popular music is not art these days! So this is why teaching comp and resolving to find a job in comp represents such a defeat for me.
And really, friends, I have felt disillusioned for so long, and read so many bleak accounts of the "realities" of the academic job market, and the promotion and tenure process, that the sense of futility has been overwhelming at times. The fact that I did not quit one of the many times I considered doing so is a small miracle. So perhaps I have something to do here before it is all over? Perhaps. I don't know.
But I entered into this meditation because I have been told twice by professors recently--my advisor and then my direct supervisor in Writing Programs--that I needed to work on my self-confidence. Now, when I was in high school, people didn't think I was self-confident, because I had some self-doubt, and some social insecurity. But that didn't mean that I didn't think I was at least as good as the people around me, I just didn't think anyone else was likely to recognize it in any kind of meaningful way. I guess not much has changed. But I felt pretty confident in coursework, and I have always felt that I could at least accomplish whatever I put my mind to. I'm not so sure about that anymore, though I did write what one friend of mine calls "the big book report" (which mine was *not*). I wonder if that is because I don't have sufficient relish for the task before me? And I can't imagine what circumstances could help me regain that relish. So perhaps the problem is that I am unsure of whether I want to put my mind to the task before me. Is that the same as a lack of self confidence? I'm not so sure. But it doesn't matter if I relish the task before me or not. At this point, my options are severely limited, and feeling like I don't have a choice motivates me to inaction--a choice in itself, no?
I am recovering from the stress of two weeks ago. I had the dreaded meeting with the advisor, but it was not so bad. Instead, what I think has happened is that he has realized that I do indeed need help with this whole process. I was told that he will work with me on the answers to some anticipated questions to help me to better survive interviews. I had started thinking of some of this anyway, but my preparation may have been off. The random nature of the interview process leaves me very insecure, and I don't take comfort from the fact that it's like this for everyone. I think of myself as someone who thinks well on her feet and can communicate effectively, but I feel like I can't be completely honest in answering or I will jeopardize my chances of getting hired. That is singularly uncomfortable for me. If I conceal my thoughts about something, I feel like I'm being hypocritical and dishonest. I probably come across as smug or judgmental, too (imagine that). Because really, I'm judging them as much as they are judging me--that's too much judging for someone like me. But maybe if I'm not in the kind of "fog" that I was in last time, I will be able to think of responses that work. *sigh*
I have come to realize the depth of my insecurity. I think it has been building during all of the years I was away from coursework. It perhaps had its seeds in coursework, as I realized how different, and in many ways, agenda-driven, most of the scholarship in my field was from what I had imagined myself doing, and tried to fit myself into it. I developed a defensiveness, realizing that I would be judged according to the fact that I was not doing what others were doing. But I have not ever seen literature as a vehicle for social change, and I did not use it to critique society or to lobby for a more enlightened existence. I wonder--had my undergraduate courses been more overwhelmingly political, would I be here now? But I had professors who were contentedly thematic or New Critical in their approaches. Or even subtly New Historicist. I can't think of any who were overtly feminist--and this includes the lesbian poet who once tried to teach me to dance in a bar in New Orleans. I realize that even those professors--one art historian comes to mind--who tried to adopt a feminist perspective failed miserably by most standards, and I was allowed to write a paper refuting the agenda of Eva Keuls' Reign of the Phallus (but not refuting its research, which I found fascinating) in my freshman honors seminar. In those days, I didn't even like literature that was overtly political--Animal Farm, for example--because that's not what I was looking for in literature. Now I adore dystopia, so that has changed drastically, but I'm all about the context of the work. Though I do admit that I see an enduring message in many of the dystopian works I teach! So I was not out of line with my undergraduate professors, who preferred to teach interpretation rather than theory, and who did not structure their courses thematically to promote certain ideologies or worldviews or whatever. Would it shock you to know that I never read "The Yellow Wallpaper" in an undergraduate course? I did read The Awakening in high school, and utterly rejected it. I believe I had to read it again in an American Lit course, but I probably did not repeat the task. And I didn't like Emily Dickenson.
In graduate school, things changed radically. The goal of papers was completely different, and left me rather befuddled as I tried to figure out what, if anything, I had that was worthy according to the different standards I was confronting. My papers were (predictably, perhaps) reactionary. I proposed "different" ways of looking at feminist issues, focused on areas that were less politically charged (to me), and rejected Marxism except in the rare cases when it seemed to fit the author's own agenda. But I became dismayed by it all. Some of the versions of Marxism I encountered in guest speakers, etc., impressed me by their absolute futility, and the selections of texts in my graduate seminars were often uninteresting to me. I have a very short list of courses that I enjoyed, and even fewer texts that inspired me. And then there was the teaching. When I taught literature, I had a considerable amount of freedom, except the limitations imposed by the Intro to Lit anthologies. (Would it surprise you to know that I have never taught "The Yellow Wallpaper"?) In an era when any designated "greatness" of literature is considered suspect, the question of how to introduce literature to non-majors becomes complicated. And as far as I can tell, it comes down to introducing ways of viewing the world, reshaping the way students view the world by introducing, celebrating, or promoting certain perspectives, or using literature to try to make sense of life experiences, which some anthologies do try to do even though this is kind of a universalizing impulse. My problem with both approaches is that presenting literature with such specific purposes imposes a way of reading on the text. This limits the potential for discovery of meaning. I do not believe that there are infinite ways to read a text, but I also do not believe that the critics always have it right. That's why my interpretations of texts in my dissertation are not linked in any way to the criticism of the authors whom I study. That's probably why one of my committee members wrote so many little X's in the margins, though he seemed to like the overall dissertation. I do believe that the greatest literature is universal in a sense, in that it taps into the things that are common to humanity. And I do not think that the idea that there are things common to humanity contradicts the singularity of individual experience. But I'm a very empathetic person, and a very empathetic reader, so perhaps this desire to get inside others' heads and understand them makes me see the question of universality a bit differently. I want to see how we as individuals connect while understanding the differences that we face as individuals or as members of different communities. If there is no universal connection, then literature is pretty much meaningless.
Which I guess brings me to another breaking point of sorts with my discipline. Because I believe in a some kind of universal human experience, albeit mediated by particular circumstances, I think that there is inherent value in reading to seek those connections, to find ourselves in others, to find others in ourselves, and by evaluating ourselves and our experiences through reading, to grow as fully realized individuals. This is very outdated. But I feel that in order to function in a community, which is where the emphasis is these days in teaching and studying literature, we have to know who we are, and that's a complex question. I can't teach this, and I don't try. But I also don't try to stress difference to the point that it annihilates the self. I don't want to change anyone's worldview, but I do want to help students to put their worldview in perspective, and I think literature has infinite potential to give individuals perspective, as long as they are open to it and recognize it for what it is, and in order to accomplish this, we need to be non-threatening, by which I don't mean subtly subverting their worldview while pretending to be sympathetic. Not at all.
So I didn't really come into this profession to introduce or promote certain ideas, though I have dabbled in and do enjoy ecocriticism and postcolonialism. I don't think that by teaching certain texts in certain ways, that I stand to improve anyone's social condition. And I'm not terribly invested in the idea that everyone needs to tolerate everyone else's beliefs and ideas to the suppression of one's own, because that doesn't lead to understanding of any kind. And frankly, there are a lot of things I'm not interested in talking about with students. And wouldn't you know? Every one of them is represented in the standard composition text. And typically, they are represented in such a way that it is clear what the authors of the book want the student to think. In teaching argument, the arguments presented make a case for a certain worldview. And the students sometimes accept it without opposition, because the claims are so persuasive. Or they get mad because their opinions differ and they don't know how to articulate them. Now, a lot depends on the student and how the materials is presented, but I'm just not interested in negotiating any of this. Perhaps the issue is that while I can find universal experience in art, I can not find any evidence of that same interconnectedness in the diatribes that litter composition texts. So there's no room for sympathy or empathy, and there's no art. Granted, there is some clever use of language, which I can appreciate, but that is not the same as art, because art has an element of beauty or at least awe. Art evokes rather than stating, which is why popular music is not art these days! So this is why teaching comp and resolving to find a job in comp represents such a defeat for me.
And really, friends, I have felt disillusioned for so long, and read so many bleak accounts of the "realities" of the academic job market, and the promotion and tenure process, that the sense of futility has been overwhelming at times. The fact that I did not quit one of the many times I considered doing so is a small miracle. So perhaps I have something to do here before it is all over? Perhaps. I don't know.
But I entered into this meditation because I have been told twice by professors recently--my advisor and then my direct supervisor in Writing Programs--that I needed to work on my self-confidence. Now, when I was in high school, people didn't think I was self-confident, because I had some self-doubt, and some social insecurity. But that didn't mean that I didn't think I was at least as good as the people around me, I just didn't think anyone else was likely to recognize it in any kind of meaningful way. I guess not much has changed. But I felt pretty confident in coursework, and I have always felt that I could at least accomplish whatever I put my mind to. I'm not so sure about that anymore, though I did write what one friend of mine calls "the big book report" (which mine was *not*). I wonder if that is because I don't have sufficient relish for the task before me? And I can't imagine what circumstances could help me regain that relish. So perhaps the problem is that I am unsure of whether I want to put my mind to the task before me. Is that the same as a lack of self confidence? I'm not so sure. But it doesn't matter if I relish the task before me or not. At this point, my options are severely limited, and feeling like I don't have a choice motivates me to inaction--a choice in itself, no?
Monday, May 4, 2009
The Past Year's Postdoc--and its aftermath
I tend to think big when I think of blog posts, which is why they're not coming as frequently as they used to. When I have something that I consider "bloggable," it ends up being not only voluminous, but also an emotional journey of sorts. Lately, rather than commit to the time it is going to take to write down the thoughts, I tend to push them aside, add a quip to Facebook, and go on. But some things can't be contained in a quip, and I'm committed in a way to working out professional issues here--insofar as I can do so. I have been thinking a lot about the past year, first because I was feeling better about my prospects and potential for really following through with getting a tenure-track position and all it entails, now because I am feeling like I'm caught in a downward spiral and wonder where it all went wrong.
For the past year, my position has been a hybrid one. I have had an administrative position of sorts, in Writing Programs, which means working with composition in various ways, and then a teaching load of 2-1. I was approached about this position last Spring by my adviser, who know that he can pretty much talk me into anything. I believe that's what he meant by "versatile" in my letters of recommendation. I may be bitter about this, but I don't want to seem like I blame him, really. He has a number of factors to consider, including the needs of the department and what he considers my best interest in terms of landing a tenure-track job. So he casts it as something that I have been specially selected for because of my ability and something that will help me out because I will not have to spend as many hours actually on campus (a real concern with a baby who was only 6 months or so at the time the assignment was awarded, and who would not yet be a year by the time the appointment began). And I fell for it. I was also coming off of what was supposed to be a similar task, revising a syllabus, or rather, making the syllabus appear to have been revised--but that's another story. So anyway, it didn't sound too bad, and since I was really burned out and just needed a job, I didn't really care.
I started to care, though, when I started thinking about the job market. After I actually had the degree in hand, things started seeming possible. Why shouldn't I get a job teaching literature, I wondered. And what have I done all of this work for if it doesn't mean that I can do something I enjoy? If I have to have a 4-4 load of composition, why didn't I stop with a Master's degree? There were other considerations. I was convinced to agree to a 2-course load in the fall, because the initial job search was easy--just write a perfect letter and a perfect teaching philosophy and send them out! In the spring is when I would have to worry about campus visits, and it is easier to get one course covered by a substitute rather than two. Hah!! Also, because I would be working with composition as "Inquiry," I would have to teach composition. With a new syllabus. To honors students, no doubt. I was originally to be given the Intro to Lit also, which made me very depressed because those were the two courses I had had over, and over, and over, and the point of a postdoc, in part, is to give the recent graduates teaching opportunities in their field. Well, the assistant department head agreed that there was no use putting me in two courses I had already had, so I was placed in Children's Lit, which I had taught with some success in the summer--big mistake, but I didn't find that out until later, and I am only now finding out how bad a mistake that was.
Meanwhile, my Intro-to-Lit-as-Inquiry project was being handed over to someone else at the "assessment" stage. With my Intro to Lit course taken away from me, I was not to be involved at all, and I would be given someone else's pet project, the composition. Working on something I didn't like that I was not really involved with revising was not my cup of tea. For me to be able to work on something, I really have to feel like I'm intellectually or otherwise invested in it in some way--a failing, perhaps, and one that does not suit me for administration! At the same time, I was realizing the dread that I had for administration, and not wanting to be pigeonholed into Writing Programs. But although I had been told that if I had any reservations, I should let my advisor (and department head) know, I wasn't quite sure I could back out at that point.
I should probably mention here that my first encounter with said advisor was one in which I was accused of "not behaving in the spirit of graduate study" because I was "unwilling to learn from any position in which I was placed." I would LOVE to have seen some of the graduate students who came AFTER me told any such thing! It wouldn't have happened. Why was I told this? Because I was assigned to grade for two of the most high-maintenance people who taught large section classes while I have been in this department--and he knew it. Also because I tried to transfer out of a "Feminism and Postmodernism" class that I registered for under "Women in Literature." So I should probably note that for the past 8 years, I felt that my job was to demonstrate that I could do what was asked of me. On a level, it broke my spirit and squelched my creativity. It was an exercise of thinking within the box, or at least, being boxed back up when I tried to think big. Especially when I agreed to stay for the Ph.D. But that's another story.
So because I wasn't comfortable backing out, I spoke to the placement coordinator, specifically about how I kind of felt trapped in this assignment, I knew I was being groomed for Writing Programs, and I didn't want to be. Her advice was that a postdoc is a "little gift from Heaven" (I have the uncomfortable gift of a memory for exact phrasing) and that I should essentially be thankful and take it.
It's hard to describe the implications of the decision to take that advice. But let me say that when I teach, I am aware of what needs to be accomplished when, and I don't really answer to anyone else for my pacing, etc.--except the students. Not so in administration, besides that there is no concrete reason why this or that thing should be accomplished before the other thing over there. So I constantly felt like I couldn't prioritize because everything was pretty much stupid and pointless, except the things I needed to do for my classes, which had to come first. Oh, and the job search, because that had deadlines. It is a terrible feeling to know that there are things that people expect you to be doing, that you have tasks waiting to be completed regardless of what urgently needs to be done now. I always felt like I shoudl be doing something other than what I was doing, which made me miserable. Since most of this was accomplished at home, I felt like work overshadowed all of my interactions with my family. And then, I was probably very anemic, which accounts for the periods when all I could do was sit in front of my computer and click...click...click.... And then there were the grad students in the office, who I'm sure resented me for not having to track hours, for seeming to get little accomplished, and whose work was always infinitely better than mine. Then there was the small matter I raised of whether it was appropriate for us to use abortion as an example on department sanctioned materials, especially when the material in question assumed the enlightened nature of the pro-choice position over pro-life.
Anyway, I was never "in the loop," always feeling lost, always feeling like I was shirking some important duty, and when I had something to say, no one wanted to hear. I had things piled on that I didn't feel qualified to do or able to handle with the constraints I had, though luckily the grad students were willing to take on some things that I didn't feel able to do. Then there were those classes. The honors students got along fine, but my children's lit education majors HATED me--and said so, apparently. I was too demoralized after the semester was over to look at course evaluations. But I must say--for the most part, the feeling was mutual. One student emailed me after the semester was over (yes, after grades were posted) to express her enjoyment of the class, and tell me how much she had learned and how what I taught was relevant to literary study (as opposed to whatever education classes do). She wanted me to end the class on a positive note, since the other students were so uninvolved & hostile. She was one of the few English majors I have EVER taught in my 8 or so years of teaching. So when the search committees ask me how I would teach this or that to English majors, my mental response is, "How the hell would I know?"
So here we come to the end of the term of the postdoc. My students this semester do not hate me, but I have been obliged, because of illness and travel, to miss more than I would have liked. I set up appointments with them at the end, as I think I mentioned, to try to make some fast progress--and I think it worked. Now I just need to grade the papers. The ones who showed me drafts after our meetings looked like they had improved greatly. Last week I had that assessment project for comp to analyze, a report to write, and a presentation to make. All done. We have accomplished very little in terms of making the course "Inquiry," which to me is not a surprise because what we were doing was whitewashing the course rather than working from the inside out. We pile more "stuff" on--more than anyone can accomplish--change the wording and call it done--ummmmm. . . no. Well, I still haven't received anything from the person I worked for to say it was well done. Luckily, I did receive some indication that I had done a good job from a higher up--or I would feel REALLY dejected. I agonized over the project and had no real guidance, but I worked my butt off at the end and got it done--as I usually do. Some time in the middle of the most stressful period of analyzing data, writing a report, and grading papers, I was asked to make an appointment to speak to the assistant department head about my possibilities for next year, including the possibility that I had a job offer. I wondered by what stretch of the imagination anyone thought I would have a job offer, since I pretty much said that I wasn't going to, but that's another story. Immediately after the presentation, I had the meeting.
I was given, apparently, the same spiel that everyone has had. We're letting lecturers go. We're looking after our postdocs. We're $250,000 short in our budget this year. We're opting to run a more expensive department so we can take care of the 8 newbies and the 4 people who we still have kicking around because they didn't get jobs this year. You've had your golden opportunity for us to help you develop your teaching areas, so you get comp next year, no chance of renewal after next year, and oh by the way, you need to publish and your evals sucked from the children's lit course.
Okay, some of this I was prepared for. I was not prepared to have the course from hell thrown back in my face. It took me 2 days to recall the full misery of that course because I had so completely blocked it out. I had nothing to answer for that accusation. They hated me. Yes. I know. Later, I remembered why--I tried to make them think and not intuit fuzzy classroom interaction possibilities. And then there was the implication that I got my chance to be special. I had my opportunity to teach my subject field. Ummmmm. . . No. No I didn't. I got stuck in a crummy position that I didn't want that they needed to fill. I was being groomed and didn't want to be. And I didn't feel like I could say so directly. Except that I did say some of it. And, "Oh, so we prepared you for a job you don't want?" "Pretty much, yes." "Oh, sorry." And there it stayed.
I'm forgetting another facet of the story, in which I intervened in a trashing-the-undergrads-fest on Facebook, which of course was only a joke. A violent, bigoted joke. I defended a student I did not know--and by extension the dignity of all students--and then, by the way, found out how badly my own students from the fall had trashed me. And they were education majors, and prone to the kind of attitude that children need to be filled with life issues so they can be programmed to think correctly--just the kind of attitude that I was fighting in my son's education and in my encounter with FB. But that's all I can say about that. It was horrible. Even people who don't accept my view of things would agree that it was horrible. It represented a serious disrespect for the common dignity of students. I was appalled, and very emotionally involved. I don't compartmentalize well. This series of events happened beginning the Friday before the report presentation, which was a Wednesday.
Well, the next day, my class turned in their papers and completed evals. But before the class, I walked into the office where I needed to turn in materials related to the assessment. I was hoping to fish for a "job well done," but nothing was forthcoming. I waled into the office of a colleague to say hello, was asked how I was doing, and realized that I was going to have a breakdown right on the spot. There was nothing I could focus on to keep from crying, and so I said, "I'm about to have a complete nervous breakdown, apparently," and was told to sit and I pretty much spilled most of the job-related things that I have related here. There was the added pressure that my advisor/dept head thought he had found an admin position that he wanted me to apply for. Thankfully, the search was postponed.
That morning, I had left the house on my normal "bringing people to school and work" routine. I went to the grocery store and came back with $200 in groceries, including 4 bottles of wine. Now, we just don't drink that much wine--or any alcohol, really. I almost bought 6 when I remembered that I could get a 10% discount. I picked up my sister and made jokes about cracking one open for breakfast instead of eating, since I wasn't really hungry. I got things together and went to campus. I thought I was o.k., if a little moody. I thought I had decided to pursue a nonacademic career in writing or publishing. I still like the idea of writing, but I'm not happy with the lack of stability--everyone's a writer, it seems. I spent much of the previous night looking at such jobs and coming to terms with that decision. Why should I want to deal with students, I wondered? It's pretty thankless, after all. And my fate rests in their hands to a large degree, both in terms of evaluations and classroom dynamic. And for what? Do they really learn from me? I was feeling like a poor researcher, and a poor teacher, and a poor mother to boot, but I knew one thing--I'm a good writer. And writing comes easy to me. So writing what people tell me to write shouldn't be so bad. Unless it involves analyzing data. And even then. . .
So I showed up late and a little bleary-eyed for my class, and if they noticed, I don't know. They were very upbeat and very nice. I was to meet someone after picking up the papers, but she couldn't make it and cancelled. So I was sitting, recovered, or so I thought, and my advisor approached me. I'm not even going to go into the weirdness of the relationship, but it fluctuates between friend, professional authority figure, and authoritative male family member. He would probably be hurt if he knew I didn't include "colleague," which probably also adds to the weirdness of it. So he came up suddenly and sat next to me. I clapped my computer shut. And he said we needed to talk. Great, cause I needed a lecture. Not now, but maybe this afternoon? Or make an appointment? Great, so I can get an "official" lecture. About "whether[I] want a job, and what kind of job [I] want." Well, I don't want Writing Programs Administration. I told him I would be dead of a heart attack before 40 if I took such a job. Blah blah blah talents, blah blah blah opportunities I've been given. And then, what kind of a condescending, unprofessional move is it to tell me as I'm trying to recover from the emotional implications of the week from hell that I look like my 12-year-old son when I make an expression like that????? No, thank you very much. HE looks like ME!! I wish I would have thought to say so. Eventually, I had to leave the building to avoid being seen, but not before I walked past the assistant department head and was offered a hug by a friend.
Believe me, had I been able to get a job and out of this department without compromising my integrity, I would have done so. As it was, I didn't even have the opportunity to compromise my integrity.
I think I am back to imagining myself in academia, but I do wonder why. Mostly, I think, because I don't know how to search for a writing job, or because I don't want to settle for an entry-level salary, or because only an academic job search offers sufficient security (possibly) to justify a move across country (or wherever).
So I'm all set for to be lectured on Tuesday (or whenever). This is the only professional support I am to expect from my adviser, since any questions I might have, I should (apparently) know already, and all I receive is a one line response generally. I might still try to get a panel proposal together on Wednesday for a conference next Spring.
I had some conclusions about how to proceed with the job search, but they're about personal integrity rather than selling my soul, so I guess they're irrelevant at this point. I fluctuate between hope and despair, when presumably the correct attitude is stoic resolution masked by false enthusiasm.
So yeah, I have no idea where to go from here. Except to find someplace to live that is cheap enough to allow me to put my youngest in mother's day out 3x a week, and to allow me to spend too much to go to the big meat market for the language professions where all good postdocs go if they want to get jobs. My advisor and my mom would most likely tell me I'm being too negative. But my mom wouldn't say it these days, because she understands my frustrations, so that's apparently why I have an advisor.
For the past year, my position has been a hybrid one. I have had an administrative position of sorts, in Writing Programs, which means working with composition in various ways, and then a teaching load of 2-1. I was approached about this position last Spring by my adviser, who know that he can pretty much talk me into anything. I believe that's what he meant by "versatile" in my letters of recommendation. I may be bitter about this, but I don't want to seem like I blame him, really. He has a number of factors to consider, including the needs of the department and what he considers my best interest in terms of landing a tenure-track job. So he casts it as something that I have been specially selected for because of my ability and something that will help me out because I will not have to spend as many hours actually on campus (a real concern with a baby who was only 6 months or so at the time the assignment was awarded, and who would not yet be a year by the time the appointment began). And I fell for it. I was also coming off of what was supposed to be a similar task, revising a syllabus, or rather, making the syllabus appear to have been revised--but that's another story. So anyway, it didn't sound too bad, and since I was really burned out and just needed a job, I didn't really care.
I started to care, though, when I started thinking about the job market. After I actually had the degree in hand, things started seeming possible. Why shouldn't I get a job teaching literature, I wondered. And what have I done all of this work for if it doesn't mean that I can do something I enjoy? If I have to have a 4-4 load of composition, why didn't I stop with a Master's degree? There were other considerations. I was convinced to agree to a 2-course load in the fall, because the initial job search was easy--just write a perfect letter and a perfect teaching philosophy and send them out! In the spring is when I would have to worry about campus visits, and it is easier to get one course covered by a substitute rather than two. Hah!! Also, because I would be working with composition as "Inquiry," I would have to teach composition. With a new syllabus. To honors students, no doubt. I was originally to be given the Intro to Lit also, which made me very depressed because those were the two courses I had had over, and over, and over, and the point of a postdoc, in part, is to give the recent graduates teaching opportunities in their field. Well, the assistant department head agreed that there was no use putting me in two courses I had already had, so I was placed in Children's Lit, which I had taught with some success in the summer--big mistake, but I didn't find that out until later, and I am only now finding out how bad a mistake that was.
Meanwhile, my Intro-to-Lit-as-Inquiry project was being handed over to someone else at the "assessment" stage. With my Intro to Lit course taken away from me, I was not to be involved at all, and I would be given someone else's pet project, the composition. Working on something I didn't like that I was not really involved with revising was not my cup of tea. For me to be able to work on something, I really have to feel like I'm intellectually or otherwise invested in it in some way--a failing, perhaps, and one that does not suit me for administration! At the same time, I was realizing the dread that I had for administration, and not wanting to be pigeonholed into Writing Programs. But although I had been told that if I had any reservations, I should let my advisor (and department head) know, I wasn't quite sure I could back out at that point.
I should probably mention here that my first encounter with said advisor was one in which I was accused of "not behaving in the spirit of graduate study" because I was "unwilling to learn from any position in which I was placed." I would LOVE to have seen some of the graduate students who came AFTER me told any such thing! It wouldn't have happened. Why was I told this? Because I was assigned to grade for two of the most high-maintenance people who taught large section classes while I have been in this department--and he knew it. Also because I tried to transfer out of a "Feminism and Postmodernism" class that I registered for under "Women in Literature." So I should probably note that for the past 8 years, I felt that my job was to demonstrate that I could do what was asked of me. On a level, it broke my spirit and squelched my creativity. It was an exercise of thinking within the box, or at least, being boxed back up when I tried to think big. Especially when I agreed to stay for the Ph.D. But that's another story.
So because I wasn't comfortable backing out, I spoke to the placement coordinator, specifically about how I kind of felt trapped in this assignment, I knew I was being groomed for Writing Programs, and I didn't want to be. Her advice was that a postdoc is a "little gift from Heaven" (I have the uncomfortable gift of a memory for exact phrasing) and that I should essentially be thankful and take it.
It's hard to describe the implications of the decision to take that advice. But let me say that when I teach, I am aware of what needs to be accomplished when, and I don't really answer to anyone else for my pacing, etc.--except the students. Not so in administration, besides that there is no concrete reason why this or that thing should be accomplished before the other thing over there. So I constantly felt like I couldn't prioritize because everything was pretty much stupid and pointless, except the things I needed to do for my classes, which had to come first. Oh, and the job search, because that had deadlines. It is a terrible feeling to know that there are things that people expect you to be doing, that you have tasks waiting to be completed regardless of what urgently needs to be done now. I always felt like I shoudl be doing something other than what I was doing, which made me miserable. Since most of this was accomplished at home, I felt like work overshadowed all of my interactions with my family. And then, I was probably very anemic, which accounts for the periods when all I could do was sit in front of my computer and click...click...click.... And then there were the grad students in the office, who I'm sure resented me for not having to track hours, for seeming to get little accomplished, and whose work was always infinitely better than mine. Then there was the small matter I raised of whether it was appropriate for us to use abortion as an example on department sanctioned materials, especially when the material in question assumed the enlightened nature of the pro-choice position over pro-life.
Anyway, I was never "in the loop," always feeling lost, always feeling like I was shirking some important duty, and when I had something to say, no one wanted to hear. I had things piled on that I didn't feel qualified to do or able to handle with the constraints I had, though luckily the grad students were willing to take on some things that I didn't feel able to do. Then there were those classes. The honors students got along fine, but my children's lit education majors HATED me--and said so, apparently. I was too demoralized after the semester was over to look at course evaluations. But I must say--for the most part, the feeling was mutual. One student emailed me after the semester was over (yes, after grades were posted) to express her enjoyment of the class, and tell me how much she had learned and how what I taught was relevant to literary study (as opposed to whatever education classes do). She wanted me to end the class on a positive note, since the other students were so uninvolved & hostile. She was one of the few English majors I have EVER taught in my 8 or so years of teaching. So when the search committees ask me how I would teach this or that to English majors, my mental response is, "How the hell would I know?"
So here we come to the end of the term of the postdoc. My students this semester do not hate me, but I have been obliged, because of illness and travel, to miss more than I would have liked. I set up appointments with them at the end, as I think I mentioned, to try to make some fast progress--and I think it worked. Now I just need to grade the papers. The ones who showed me drafts after our meetings looked like they had improved greatly. Last week I had that assessment project for comp to analyze, a report to write, and a presentation to make. All done. We have accomplished very little in terms of making the course "Inquiry," which to me is not a surprise because what we were doing was whitewashing the course rather than working from the inside out. We pile more "stuff" on--more than anyone can accomplish--change the wording and call it done--ummmmm. . . no. Well, I still haven't received anything from the person I worked for to say it was well done. Luckily, I did receive some indication that I had done a good job from a higher up--or I would feel REALLY dejected. I agonized over the project and had no real guidance, but I worked my butt off at the end and got it done--as I usually do. Some time in the middle of the most stressful period of analyzing data, writing a report, and grading papers, I was asked to make an appointment to speak to the assistant department head about my possibilities for next year, including the possibility that I had a job offer. I wondered by what stretch of the imagination anyone thought I would have a job offer, since I pretty much said that I wasn't going to, but that's another story. Immediately after the presentation, I had the meeting.
I was given, apparently, the same spiel that everyone has had. We're letting lecturers go. We're looking after our postdocs. We're $250,000 short in our budget this year. We're opting to run a more expensive department so we can take care of the 8 newbies and the 4 people who we still have kicking around because they didn't get jobs this year. You've had your golden opportunity for us to help you develop your teaching areas, so you get comp next year, no chance of renewal after next year, and oh by the way, you need to publish and your evals sucked from the children's lit course.
Okay, some of this I was prepared for. I was not prepared to have the course from hell thrown back in my face. It took me 2 days to recall the full misery of that course because I had so completely blocked it out. I had nothing to answer for that accusation. They hated me. Yes. I know. Later, I remembered why--I tried to make them think and not intuit fuzzy classroom interaction possibilities. And then there was the implication that I got my chance to be special. I had my opportunity to teach my subject field. Ummmmm. . . No. No I didn't. I got stuck in a crummy position that I didn't want that they needed to fill. I was being groomed and didn't want to be. And I didn't feel like I could say so directly. Except that I did say some of it. And, "Oh, so we prepared you for a job you don't want?" "Pretty much, yes." "Oh, sorry." And there it stayed.
I'm forgetting another facet of the story, in which I intervened in a trashing-the-undergrads-fest on Facebook, which of course was only a joke. A violent, bigoted joke. I defended a student I did not know--and by extension the dignity of all students--and then, by the way, found out how badly my own students from the fall had trashed me. And they were education majors, and prone to the kind of attitude that children need to be filled with life issues so they can be programmed to think correctly--just the kind of attitude that I was fighting in my son's education and in my encounter with FB. But that's all I can say about that. It was horrible. Even people who don't accept my view of things would agree that it was horrible. It represented a serious disrespect for the common dignity of students. I was appalled, and very emotionally involved. I don't compartmentalize well. This series of events happened beginning the Friday before the report presentation, which was a Wednesday.
Well, the next day, my class turned in their papers and completed evals. But before the class, I walked into the office where I needed to turn in materials related to the assessment. I was hoping to fish for a "job well done," but nothing was forthcoming. I waled into the office of a colleague to say hello, was asked how I was doing, and realized that I was going to have a breakdown right on the spot. There was nothing I could focus on to keep from crying, and so I said, "I'm about to have a complete nervous breakdown, apparently," and was told to sit and I pretty much spilled most of the job-related things that I have related here. There was the added pressure that my advisor/dept head thought he had found an admin position that he wanted me to apply for. Thankfully, the search was postponed.
That morning, I had left the house on my normal "bringing people to school and work" routine. I went to the grocery store and came back with $200 in groceries, including 4 bottles of wine. Now, we just don't drink that much wine--or any alcohol, really. I almost bought 6 when I remembered that I could get a 10% discount. I picked up my sister and made jokes about cracking one open for breakfast instead of eating, since I wasn't really hungry. I got things together and went to campus. I thought I was o.k., if a little moody. I thought I had decided to pursue a nonacademic career in writing or publishing. I still like the idea of writing, but I'm not happy with the lack of stability--everyone's a writer, it seems. I spent much of the previous night looking at such jobs and coming to terms with that decision. Why should I want to deal with students, I wondered? It's pretty thankless, after all. And my fate rests in their hands to a large degree, both in terms of evaluations and classroom dynamic. And for what? Do they really learn from me? I was feeling like a poor researcher, and a poor teacher, and a poor mother to boot, but I knew one thing--I'm a good writer. And writing comes easy to me. So writing what people tell me to write shouldn't be so bad. Unless it involves analyzing data. And even then. . .
So I showed up late and a little bleary-eyed for my class, and if they noticed, I don't know. They were very upbeat and very nice. I was to meet someone after picking up the papers, but she couldn't make it and cancelled. So I was sitting, recovered, or so I thought, and my advisor approached me. I'm not even going to go into the weirdness of the relationship, but it fluctuates between friend, professional authority figure, and authoritative male family member. He would probably be hurt if he knew I didn't include "colleague," which probably also adds to the weirdness of it. So he came up suddenly and sat next to me. I clapped my computer shut. And he said we needed to talk. Great, cause I needed a lecture. Not now, but maybe this afternoon? Or make an appointment? Great, so I can get an "official" lecture. About "whether[I] want a job, and what kind of job [I] want." Well, I don't want Writing Programs Administration. I told him I would be dead of a heart attack before 40 if I took such a job. Blah blah blah talents, blah blah blah opportunities I've been given. And then, what kind of a condescending, unprofessional move is it to tell me as I'm trying to recover from the emotional implications of the week from hell that I look like my 12-year-old son when I make an expression like that????? No, thank you very much. HE looks like ME!! I wish I would have thought to say so. Eventually, I had to leave the building to avoid being seen, but not before I walked past the assistant department head and was offered a hug by a friend.
Believe me, had I been able to get a job and out of this department without compromising my integrity, I would have done so. As it was, I didn't even have the opportunity to compromise my integrity.
I think I am back to imagining myself in academia, but I do wonder why. Mostly, I think, because I don't know how to search for a writing job, or because I don't want to settle for an entry-level salary, or because only an academic job search offers sufficient security (possibly) to justify a move across country (or wherever).
So I'm all set for to be lectured on Tuesday (or whenever). This is the only professional support I am to expect from my adviser, since any questions I might have, I should (apparently) know already, and all I receive is a one line response generally. I might still try to get a panel proposal together on Wednesday for a conference next Spring.
I had some conclusions about how to proceed with the job search, but they're about personal integrity rather than selling my soul, so I guess they're irrelevant at this point. I fluctuate between hope and despair, when presumably the correct attitude is stoic resolution masked by false enthusiasm.
So yeah, I have no idea where to go from here. Except to find someplace to live that is cheap enough to allow me to put my youngest in mother's day out 3x a week, and to allow me to spend too much to go to the big meat market for the language professions where all good postdocs go if they want to get jobs. My advisor and my mom would most likely tell me I'm being too negative. But my mom wouldn't say it these days, because she understands my frustrations, so that's apparently why I have an advisor.
Monday, April 20, 2009
Busy Days
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.
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.
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.
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