I made the comment not too long ago that English majors ought to know better than to do some certain things. It occurs to me now that there is something a bit...unfair about that comment. Senior and graduate English majors ought to know better, sure, but the lower-division folks (freshmen* and sophomores) have not really had the opportunity yet to learn. I have to wonder, therefore, how appropriate it is of me to hold them to a standard to which they may well not have been introduced.
Thinking back over what I have modeled for the students, however, I think that I have been introducing them to the standards of performance. My own comments are more or less considered; practice does allow me to do so more quickly than my students can achieve, and it remains the case as ever that when I re-read what is written, I come to understand more about it. (How else is it that more is found to say about the Bard or the Well of English Undefiled after hundreds of years?) Those students whose submissions do the things they ought get explicit commendation from me, and I even note that they are models to be followed by their classmates (something like "This is the kind of work I like to see my students do"). Those whose work does not do what I want it to do get quiet, private admonishments from me, exhortations to do better and suggestions about what that "better" may mean.** (Quick emails are helpful.) So I am convinced that they are, in fact, introduced to the model.
Some are admittedly quicker studies than others. I find that I hold no ire for those who are not but who are clearly trying to be; Lord knows that I need some lessons repeated often enough (for example, this). I do shake my head at the folly, for some of the students who need such repetition are quite intelligent and engaging in the classroom, and apply grade penalties as appropriate. There is not much I can do otherwise; I continue to teach, I reach out as I can, and those students who reach back find a hand waiting to help them up and dust them off so that they can continue on their way. Those who do not reach out...I have many students who do seek actual help (not "Just tell me what to do to get the grade"), and I do what I can to help them.
Self-examination is frequent. (It cannot be constant, else work on The Work could not be done.) Self-improvement is hopefully only slightly less frequent; it is too much to think either that improvement will not often be necessary or that opportunities for improvement will always be identified. And I hope to be able to apply what I learn about myself and about the world as I become a better teacher to other areas of my life that are by far more important.
*I wonder at the continued gendering of the term. Despite institutions I know transitioning to calling some courses "first-year" rather than "freshman," the classification remains labeled by its old exclusivist name. Ought we perhaps to develop a better?
**"Better" requires "good," and what is good is subject to debate and interpretation.
Monday, February 10, 2014
Sunday, February 9, 2014
20140209.0843
I had thought to get out of bed this morning at my workday time of five. Despite it being ostensibly a day of rest, I had wanted to get going early and see if I could in some way justify my own existence to myself through producing something more than I did yesterday. But I am not off to a good start; I only rolled out of bed at about half past eight, spurred by a full bladder and cats, and it is taking me longer to write what I want to write in this webspace than I am accustomed to it taking. (Woe is me, I know, and boo hoo, little baby.)
This could be a place to wax rhapsodic, to go on in some impassioned self-investigation of the causes of what seems to be an instance of writer's block. But I think I have done it before, and too often already, and I know that nobody wants to read about it. (And one of the cats may be signaling objections to it, too; another gassy excretion seems to be in process as I type.)
This could be a place to comment about the Sochi Olympics...were I following the Olympics this time around. I am not, however; I usually do not watch the Winter Games. I do not come from a place that typically has winter, so I do not identify with the Winter Games' sports the way I do with those of the Summer Games, in some of which I have some small experience. I have not followed the controversies surrounding the event in any detail, although I am aware of Russia's statutes on homosexuality as being behind even those of the United States (which are themselves behind Scotland and South Africa) and of the...interesting construction in Sochi (which is paralleled in the United States, particularly as pertains to the water supply in some places). In all honesty, I find it somewhat difficult to care about what is happening in the land whose greatest warrior has always been the current season; there are things at home that need fixing.
This could, instead, be a place to comment about something of note. But I am not sure what it is that I can say that is of note. My days are different only in that the temperature outside is lower than that with which my upbringing made me familiar, and the wind-swept plains oblige me to be exposed to such things more than did life in The City. The people with whom I interact are as they were in warmer days and as I expect that they will be again when the warmer days return (doubtlessly to as much complaint as the cold has been provoking). The work I have to do with them will be much the same, as well. It is very much the normal I discussed before, a standard that, while varying, very much follows a predictable pattern; it is a basic rhythm and bass line over which a melody is improvised, but those who know me know that I have never been much of a soloist.
This could be a place to wax rhapsodic, to go on in some impassioned self-investigation of the causes of what seems to be an instance of writer's block. But I think I have done it before, and too often already, and I know that nobody wants to read about it. (And one of the cats may be signaling objections to it, too; another gassy excretion seems to be in process as I type.)
This could be a place to comment about the Sochi Olympics...were I following the Olympics this time around. I am not, however; I usually do not watch the Winter Games. I do not come from a place that typically has winter, so I do not identify with the Winter Games' sports the way I do with those of the Summer Games, in some of which I have some small experience. I have not followed the controversies surrounding the event in any detail, although I am aware of Russia's statutes on homosexuality as being behind even those of the United States (which are themselves behind Scotland and South Africa) and of the...interesting construction in Sochi (which is paralleled in the United States, particularly as pertains to the water supply in some places). In all honesty, I find it somewhat difficult to care about what is happening in the land whose greatest warrior has always been the current season; there are things at home that need fixing.
This could, instead, be a place to comment about something of note. But I am not sure what it is that I can say that is of note. My days are different only in that the temperature outside is lower than that with which my upbringing made me familiar, and the wind-swept plains oblige me to be exposed to such things more than did life in The City. The people with whom I interact are as they were in warmer days and as I expect that they will be again when the warmer days return (doubtlessly to as much complaint as the cold has been provoking). The work I have to do with them will be much the same, as well. It is very much the normal I discussed before, a standard that, while varying, very much follows a predictable pattern; it is a basic rhythm and bass line over which a melody is improvised, but those who know me know that I have never been much of a soloist.
Saturday, February 8, 2014
20140208.0820
During my morning reading, I ran across something talking about keeping a particular city weird. It struck me in that moment that there is something disingenuous about claiming to be weird and stating a need to keep that weirdness. It is as the liar saying "Trust me" all the time, or the comment in Hamlet 3.2 that "The lady doth protest too much"; such places as claim a need to keep themselves a certain way are almost certainly not that way (anymore, if they ever were).
I do not mean by this to say that homogeneity is desirable. Difference is good; the tension between things that are different is productive, and the challenges to ideas that are necessarily embedded within encounters with the different are useful for the examination and strengthening of self. What I do mean to say is that the announcement of a certain quality detracts from that quality; if it is actually and authentically embodied, it will be manifest and will therefore not need to be announced as present, and if it must be announced, the effort spent in making the announcement is effort that should instead be directed towards the embodiment of the named quality. In effect, X saying that X is Y leaves X less able to do what it needs to do to be Y.
Too, the announcement bespeaks uncertainty about the quality. If a place has to announce that it is weird, it suggests that it is very much not weird. Austin, for example, is not weird now (if it ever really was). It convincingly reflects the Williamsburg portion of Brooklyn in many respects; it echoes LA and San Francisco in a number of others; and it is eerily similar to several sections of Washington, DC, in some places. None of these are unusual (being held up as exemplars in mainstream media for decades tends to familiarize, after all), and the combination of them is not any more odd than are the individual parts. In essence, Austin is like most other mid-sized cities in the United States; it is overshadowed in large part by its larger neighbors and seeks to assert itself and its identity through a veneer that only lightly overlays a fundamental sameness.
The authentically strange has no need to call attention to its own strangeness. Indeed, the weirdness will be remarked and commented upon by those who look upon it from within the realm of normalcy, ambiguous as its boundaries are. And while it is an improvement to look upon the weird and not to reject it as a thing unfit and unclean and seek to destroy it therefore (although not all called "weird" is yet even at that point, more's the pity), it is not exactly complimentary to exploit it--which is what many of the "keep it weird" folks end up doing. By celebrating the strangeness as strangeness, rather than as the thing which is itself strange, something of a freak-show effect is produced; "Lookit tha', Ma! Ain't that a freak?" is hardly respectful of a thing or an actual engagement. It is rather something held up to offer contrast between it and the viewer, usually with the end goal of making viewers feel better about themselves and their purported normalcy.
If the "normal" needs such validation, perhaps it ought not to be the standard by which we make our judgments.
I do not mean by this to say that homogeneity is desirable. Difference is good; the tension between things that are different is productive, and the challenges to ideas that are necessarily embedded within encounters with the different are useful for the examination and strengthening of self. What I do mean to say is that the announcement of a certain quality detracts from that quality; if it is actually and authentically embodied, it will be manifest and will therefore not need to be announced as present, and if it must be announced, the effort spent in making the announcement is effort that should instead be directed towards the embodiment of the named quality. In effect, X saying that X is Y leaves X less able to do what it needs to do to be Y.
Too, the announcement bespeaks uncertainty about the quality. If a place has to announce that it is weird, it suggests that it is very much not weird. Austin, for example, is not weird now (if it ever really was). It convincingly reflects the Williamsburg portion of Brooklyn in many respects; it echoes LA and San Francisco in a number of others; and it is eerily similar to several sections of Washington, DC, in some places. None of these are unusual (being held up as exemplars in mainstream media for decades tends to familiarize, after all), and the combination of them is not any more odd than are the individual parts. In essence, Austin is like most other mid-sized cities in the United States; it is overshadowed in large part by its larger neighbors and seeks to assert itself and its identity through a veneer that only lightly overlays a fundamental sameness.
The authentically strange has no need to call attention to its own strangeness. Indeed, the weirdness will be remarked and commented upon by those who look upon it from within the realm of normalcy, ambiguous as its boundaries are. And while it is an improvement to look upon the weird and not to reject it as a thing unfit and unclean and seek to destroy it therefore (although not all called "weird" is yet even at that point, more's the pity), it is not exactly complimentary to exploit it--which is what many of the "keep it weird" folks end up doing. By celebrating the strangeness as strangeness, rather than as the thing which is itself strange, something of a freak-show effect is produced; "Lookit tha', Ma! Ain't that a freak?" is hardly respectful of a thing or an actual engagement. It is rather something held up to offer contrast between it and the viewer, usually with the end goal of making viewers feel better about themselves and their purported normalcy.
If the "normal" needs such validation, perhaps it ought not to be the standard by which we make our judgments.
Friday, February 7, 2014
20140207.0630
In some of the work that I do, I coach those whose first language is not American English and who are consequently grappling not only with the assimilation and development of disciplinary knowledge but the nuances and inanities of a speech not their own. In doing so, I am reminded of one of the ways in which I occupy a position of privilege in the United States: I am a native speaker of the dominant language--indeed, of something very much like the "ideal" form of that language--and trained in its history, its literature, and ways to teach it. I am a door-warden for it, although at a postern rather than at the grand, main gate-house, and I try to let people in. I am aware that I am obliged by my privilege to work to the benefit of others, directly in my teaching and indirectly in the work that I do on The Work.
I have not always felt such an ethical imperative. Indeed, I recall several times in my earlier life as a snot-nosed, bratty little shit when I openly and flatly stated that my position of privilege entitled me to benefits rather than obliging me to service. Because I was smart and capable, people ought to serve me instead of me being expected to benefit them--is not the world supposed to work such that the lesser obey the greater, and did not my talents and skills place me among the greater rather than the lesser? (I did note that I was a bratty little shit, did I not?) Why should I put myself to work for people whom I knew held me in low regard, using for them the talents the jealousy of which had motivated them to hold me in that regard? Should I not instead keep for myself the benefits of my abilities, denying them to others if they did not approach me with the appropriate reverence? Or such were the things I thought and said when I was a bratty little shit--and I consequently deserved the knuckle-drubbings I received, the censure and the ridicule.
I like to think that I have grown since, and not simply physically. I like to think that I am no longer a bratty little shit (perhaps a witty big shit?), no longer so hung up on my gifts that I view them as entitling me to...something, for unlike many who grow more selfish and more self-interested as they age, losing youthful idealism for "mature" "practicality," I have become convinced as I have grown older that my abilities are best spent in the betterment of others. (This is not to say that I would not like a bigger paycheck, of course. Some of those others are my wife and forthcoming child, and while my gifts themselves do not entitle me to things, the work I do with them deserves compensation. Or should I work for free and spend myself to nothing in the process?) And if it still smacks of privilege that I should think of myself in such ways...I know not what to do. I am not able to divest myself of that privilege; it is extended to me and denied too many others whether we will it or not, and for things over which we have too little control. (Think on it; I am an Anglo-Saxon-descended heterosexual cis-gendered man of the middle class. Did I move to change any of that, or to try to, I would immediately be branded as an unacceptable -ist. And I should not have to give up my identity any more than any other ought to. It is not less right for me to be Anglo than for a Hispanic to be Hispanic. It is not less right for me to be heterosexual than for a homosexual to be homosexual, a bisexual to be bisexual, an asexual to be asexual, or another gender-queer person whom I lack the words to describe to be as that person is. It is not less right for me to be cis-gendered than for a trans-person to be trans-gendered. And it is not more right for me, either.) I will admit that it may not be the best solution, but let it be at least less bad of me to have privilege in that I ply it to help those who seek help and offer it to those who have yet to seek it actively themselves.
I have not always felt such an ethical imperative. Indeed, I recall several times in my earlier life as a snot-nosed, bratty little shit when I openly and flatly stated that my position of privilege entitled me to benefits rather than obliging me to service. Because I was smart and capable, people ought to serve me instead of me being expected to benefit them--is not the world supposed to work such that the lesser obey the greater, and did not my talents and skills place me among the greater rather than the lesser? (I did note that I was a bratty little shit, did I not?) Why should I put myself to work for people whom I knew held me in low regard, using for them the talents the jealousy of which had motivated them to hold me in that regard? Should I not instead keep for myself the benefits of my abilities, denying them to others if they did not approach me with the appropriate reverence? Or such were the things I thought and said when I was a bratty little shit--and I consequently deserved the knuckle-drubbings I received, the censure and the ridicule.
I like to think that I have grown since, and not simply physically. I like to think that I am no longer a bratty little shit (perhaps a witty big shit?), no longer so hung up on my gifts that I view them as entitling me to...something, for unlike many who grow more selfish and more self-interested as they age, losing youthful idealism for "mature" "practicality," I have become convinced as I have grown older that my abilities are best spent in the betterment of others. (This is not to say that I would not like a bigger paycheck, of course. Some of those others are my wife and forthcoming child, and while my gifts themselves do not entitle me to things, the work I do with them deserves compensation. Or should I work for free and spend myself to nothing in the process?) And if it still smacks of privilege that I should think of myself in such ways...I know not what to do. I am not able to divest myself of that privilege; it is extended to me and denied too many others whether we will it or not, and for things over which we have too little control. (Think on it; I am an Anglo-Saxon-descended heterosexual cis-gendered man of the middle class. Did I move to change any of that, or to try to, I would immediately be branded as an unacceptable -ist. And I should not have to give up my identity any more than any other ought to. It is not less right for me to be Anglo than for a Hispanic to be Hispanic. It is not less right for me to be heterosexual than for a homosexual to be homosexual, a bisexual to be bisexual, an asexual to be asexual, or another gender-queer person whom I lack the words to describe to be as that person is. It is not less right for me to be cis-gendered than for a trans-person to be trans-gendered. And it is not more right for me, either.) I will admit that it may not be the best solution, but let it be at least less bad of me to have privilege in that I ply it to help those who seek help and offer it to those who have yet to seek it actively themselves.
Thursday, February 6, 2014
20140206.0726
One of the things that I try to do in my teaching is offer models for my students to follow. When I teach literature classes, this takes the form of writing discussion board posts such as I want my students to write and responding to their posts as I hope to see them do for one another. (It seems to be working decently well this term.) When I teach writing classes, whatever the sort, I try to offer examples of the writing I want them to do; in effect, I complete the assignment I offer them. (I am, admittedly, not always as good about doing so as I want or ought to be. It is a weakness I continue to struggle to address.)
I did so yesterday afternoon, writing a profile essay of the sort I want to see my students write for their second paper. In the assignment, I am having the students write what amounts to an extended, focused description of a place familiar to them, one that conveys a dominant underlying impression of that place. The model I produced for them is one that profiles the office I currently share with seven others, one that reminds me in large measure of the situation I was in as a master's student (if with less bookshelf space and a lower ceiling for me). The setup there was remarkably productive for me; I found my beloved, I found several fine friends, and I began to find my identity as a scholar in that office.
While I doubt that I will find love in my current office, I have already found several other good friends, and I am refining my identity as a scholar more or less constantly. Part of the latter comes in the form of the many useful interchanges that take place in the office; I learn from my colleagues, both peers and juniors. (There are a couple graduate students sharing the office space, and I appreciate them, as they help me to feel intelligent by asking good questions that I can answer well.) I hope that I have been able to contribute at least as much as I have gained; despite the stereotypes of my profession of professing, I do not want to be quite so much a parasite as to take and take and take and not give back at all. (I have testimonies of my contributions on record, thank you.)
Discussing the places in which we work is well worth doing; it is because of that idea that CCC put forward its call for submissions about locations of writing (for which I wrote about another office I have had--one I miss in form but am glad to have left in context). The simple fact of place is something that I think is too much overlooked; milieu functions as a character in each of the interlaced narratives of the world's life, and there are some who will argue that it is the protagonist rather than we who tend to tell the stories with ourselves in the title roles. I do not know that they are wrong...
I did so yesterday afternoon, writing a profile essay of the sort I want to see my students write for their second paper. In the assignment, I am having the students write what amounts to an extended, focused description of a place familiar to them, one that conveys a dominant underlying impression of that place. The model I produced for them is one that profiles the office I currently share with seven others, one that reminds me in large measure of the situation I was in as a master's student (if with less bookshelf space and a lower ceiling for me). The setup there was remarkably productive for me; I found my beloved, I found several fine friends, and I began to find my identity as a scholar in that office.
While I doubt that I will find love in my current office, I have already found several other good friends, and I am refining my identity as a scholar more or less constantly. Part of the latter comes in the form of the many useful interchanges that take place in the office; I learn from my colleagues, both peers and juniors. (There are a couple graduate students sharing the office space, and I appreciate them, as they help me to feel intelligent by asking good questions that I can answer well.) I hope that I have been able to contribute at least as much as I have gained; despite the stereotypes of my profession of professing, I do not want to be quite so much a parasite as to take and take and take and not give back at all. (I have testimonies of my contributions on record, thank you.)
Discussing the places in which we work is well worth doing; it is because of that idea that CCC put forward its call for submissions about locations of writing (for which I wrote about another office I have had--one I miss in form but am glad to have left in context). The simple fact of place is something that I think is too much overlooked; milieu functions as a character in each of the interlaced narratives of the world's life, and there are some who will argue that it is the protagonist rather than we who tend to tell the stories with ourselves in the title roles. I do not know that they are wrong...
Wednesday, February 5, 2014
20140205.0653
I had one of the less pleasant experiences of life as a writer and scholar yesterday: setting aside a project as unworkable. While at work on one of the many essays that lie before me, I realized that I was, in effect, doing nothing more than offering confirmation of a critical theory voiced decades ago. While there is some value in establishing that a given theory is valid and can therefore be used as an interpretive and evaluative model (which is what literary theory tends to do, rather than providing predictive power as scientific theories tend to do), it was not the project I needed to be writing, particularly not for the venue for which I was writing it. So I have set it aside. (I am happily already making progress on another, better project for the venue, one I hope will be taken up for publication--if not there, elsewhere.)
Experience suggests that this will come as a surprise to a number of people. There is a prevailing concept of writing as an inspired act the flows freely without effort; while there is some truth to inspiration, the impetus itself never suffices. (I have discussed this before.) Much effort is involved in making the thing inspired a thing worth reading, and even then, there is no assurance that what is thought to be worth reading actually is (in no small part because the definition of that is is frustrated, Clintonesquely). Sometimes those efforts lead down false trails--and the trails have to be walked for a while to be known as false.
There is also an idea floating around that pieces of writing, once begun, must be carried out. A thought, once had, must be developed fully and either let out into the world or shut away--but the idea with which a writer begins has to be that which the writer continues and concludes. This is not the case. Essays are trials, by definition, and sometimes that which is tried fails in the testing. There is no shame in rejecting unsuitable materials or the results of faulty production. "Creative" writing (as though essays are not themselves creative) works much the same way. There are times when the story is bad or the lines are, and at such times (absent a personal blog on which to post them) they ought to be discarded. And this is right and proper; the bad should not be allowed to impede the good.
None of this is to say that it is not annoying to have to set aside work done as work done badly. Few enjoy the realization of insufficiency even among those who accept the necessity of the realization; that a medical procedure is necessary does not mean that it is not painful or that recovery therefrom is not difficult. And it is not pleasant to think that time was wasted that could have been sent to better effect on other ideas. But for that last, there is some comfort; knowing what paths lead to no good end helps to eliminate them from selection, and learning what does not work helps lead to finding what does work, so that the time is not wasted. The lesson of humility, which seems to need repetition, is also of value, and the experience of putting aside a project as unworkable helps to teach it.
Experience suggests that this will come as a surprise to a number of people. There is a prevailing concept of writing as an inspired act the flows freely without effort; while there is some truth to inspiration, the impetus itself never suffices. (I have discussed this before.) Much effort is involved in making the thing inspired a thing worth reading, and even then, there is no assurance that what is thought to be worth reading actually is (in no small part because the definition of that is is frustrated, Clintonesquely). Sometimes those efforts lead down false trails--and the trails have to be walked for a while to be known as false.
There is also an idea floating around that pieces of writing, once begun, must be carried out. A thought, once had, must be developed fully and either let out into the world or shut away--but the idea with which a writer begins has to be that which the writer continues and concludes. This is not the case. Essays are trials, by definition, and sometimes that which is tried fails in the testing. There is no shame in rejecting unsuitable materials or the results of faulty production. "Creative" writing (as though essays are not themselves creative) works much the same way. There are times when the story is bad or the lines are, and at such times (absent a personal blog on which to post them) they ought to be discarded. And this is right and proper; the bad should not be allowed to impede the good.
None of this is to say that it is not annoying to have to set aside work done as work done badly. Few enjoy the realization of insufficiency even among those who accept the necessity of the realization; that a medical procedure is necessary does not mean that it is not painful or that recovery therefrom is not difficult. And it is not pleasant to think that time was wasted that could have been sent to better effect on other ideas. But for that last, there is some comfort; knowing what paths lead to no good end helps to eliminate them from selection, and learning what does not work helps lead to finding what does work, so that the time is not wasted. The lesson of humility, which seems to need repetition, is also of value, and the experience of putting aside a project as unworkable helps to teach it.
Tuesday, February 4, 2014
20140204.0806
A conversation I had yesterday reminded me of one of my great fears
The loss of my faculties
Of the mental powers that have defined my life
Led me to where I could find love
Sustained me since my early days
Despite my relative lack of social graces and ongoing tendency towards being a hermit
I am reminded of days spent delivering pizzas
Days that found me standing in the lobbies
Of nursing homes
Of mental hospitals
Surrounded by the stink of stale urine
And despair
And the staring eyes going blank
Of those whose minds were leaving them
Or had already fled far away
Even now,
Years and miles away from those days and those places
My throat clenches
My stomach turns
I shudder in revulsion and fear I once held back
(Because such actions do not endear
And my pay was impacted by my being a dear;
There is another story in that)
Not least because I have seem myself among them
Not as transient food-bringer
As inmate as my soul is sealed away
In body and mind made worse than useless
I fear to be trapped
Within myself
Seeing myself stripped away
An onion is the usual image
Being made of many layers that can be peeled away
One at a time
Leaving the onion yet an onion
But less with each peeling
What is not often mentioned is that there is no core
Only another layer
The loss of my faculties
Of the mental powers that have defined my life
Led me to where I could find love
Sustained me since my early days
Despite my relative lack of social graces and ongoing tendency towards being a hermit
I am reminded of days spent delivering pizzas
Days that found me standing in the lobbies
Of nursing homes
Of mental hospitals
Surrounded by the stink of stale urine
And despair
And the staring eyes going blank
Of those whose minds were leaving them
Or had already fled far away
Even now,
Years and miles away from those days and those places
My throat clenches
My stomach turns
I shudder in revulsion and fear I once held back
(Because such actions do not endear
And my pay was impacted by my being a dear;
There is another story in that)
Not least because I have seem myself among them
Not as transient food-bringer
As inmate as my soul is sealed away
In body and mind made worse than useless
I fear to be trapped
Within myself
Seeing myself stripped away
An onion is the usual image
Being made of many layers that can be peeled away
One at a time
Leaving the onion yet an onion
But less with each peeling
What is not often mentioned is that there is no core
Only another layer
Monday, February 3, 2014
20140203.0623
(I had intended to write about something else entirely, but I received some fine news this morning, and so I am going to trumpet it instead.)
Despite its seeming inability to spell, the Tales after Tolkien Society is a major concern of mine. As I am one of the people whose papers gave rise to it, I think I may safely consider myself something of a charter member of it. Certainly, when I go to this year's International Congress on Medieval Studies, I will be attending the Society's business meeting, and I have ideas for an agenda to push.
It is because of my association with the Society and my own predilections that, when I saw this CFP from Society founder Helen Young, I responded to it with glee. And I am glad that I did; I received an email this morning saying that my submission has been accepted. I would seem to have a book chapter on the way, and I am thrilled about it!
Before the commercial questions come up: I do not know what kind of compensation I will receive for my contribution to the volume other than the line on my CV--although having the publication credit demonstrably contributes to my ability to get jobs in academia. I may get a little bit of money for the work. I may get one or two copies of the text for my own. But I am not sure.
I suppose that some comment may be made regarding the exploitation of the scholarly. We labor in our cells in the ivory tower despite the uncomfortable chairs, toiling away at The Work and the teaching with which we justify our existence to the outside world. (And teaching is work for which many of us are not paid as we ought to be, with many teaching for less than $3,000 for a fifteen-week course--with no benefits and before taxes, I might add. That comes out to $200/week/course, with most courses meeting for three hours weekly, so, yes, $66/hour of contact time. But no instructor I know or have known, from the lowliest adjunct to the most venerable professors emeriti, is only at work during the nine hours per course; I spent at least thrice that on one of my freshman classes last week once lesson planning and grading are taken into account, and I did much the same while I was an adjunct.) When at last we have something to show for the labor, a finely written piece of criticism that advances human knowledge and understanding, we more or less give it away, satisfied in large part to have helped people to know more (despite ourselves knowing that few will read what we write) and to get the CV line in the hope of getting a job / grant funding / etc.
Despite that, though, I remain happy to be getting my work back into the scholarly public. Maybe I will be lucky enough to hear myself cited at a conference again; it is quite a nice feeling.
Despite its seeming inability to spell, the Tales after Tolkien Society is a major concern of mine. As I am one of the people whose papers gave rise to it, I think I may safely consider myself something of a charter member of it. Certainly, when I go to this year's International Congress on Medieval Studies, I will be attending the Society's business meeting, and I have ideas for an agenda to push.
It is because of my association with the Society and my own predilections that, when I saw this CFP from Society founder Helen Young, I responded to it with glee. And I am glad that I did; I received an email this morning saying that my submission has been accepted. I would seem to have a book chapter on the way, and I am thrilled about it!
Before the commercial questions come up: I do not know what kind of compensation I will receive for my contribution to the volume other than the line on my CV--although having the publication credit demonstrably contributes to my ability to get jobs in academia. I may get a little bit of money for the work. I may get one or two copies of the text for my own. But I am not sure.
I suppose that some comment may be made regarding the exploitation of the scholarly. We labor in our cells in the ivory tower despite the uncomfortable chairs, toiling away at The Work and the teaching with which we justify our existence to the outside world. (And teaching is work for which many of us are not paid as we ought to be, with many teaching for less than $3,000 for a fifteen-week course--with no benefits and before taxes, I might add. That comes out to $200/week/course, with most courses meeting for three hours weekly, so, yes, $66/hour of contact time. But no instructor I know or have known, from the lowliest adjunct to the most venerable professors emeriti, is only at work during the nine hours per course; I spent at least thrice that on one of my freshman classes last week once lesson planning and grading are taken into account, and I did much the same while I was an adjunct.) When at last we have something to show for the labor, a finely written piece of criticism that advances human knowledge and understanding, we more or less give it away, satisfied in large part to have helped people to know more (despite ourselves knowing that few will read what we write) and to get the CV line in the hope of getting a job / grant funding / etc.
Despite that, though, I remain happy to be getting my work back into the scholarly public. Maybe I will be lucky enough to hear myself cited at a conference again; it is quite a nice feeling.
Sunday, February 2, 2014
20140202.0911
I am never going to be a mommy blogger. The gendered nature of the term and my lifelong existence as a heterosexual man preclude it. But I might well end up being a dad blogger (and I am forced to wonder at the much more prevalent incidence of the diminutive ending on the "mommy blog" than on the "dad blog" that a simple Google search shows). I am not exactly a stranger to discussing my life online, and my child is already taking up a fair part of my thoughts despite not yet being born. And this puts me into something of a quandary.
The problem is this: How much of my child's early and later life is it appropriate for me to discuss with the online world? (I am not even sure how to frame the rest of the discussion, the issue is so fraught for me.) I fear that if I reveal too much, I will negatively impact the child's future opportunities--for it is known that once a thing is online, it is always available online. No amount of politely worded requests to stop the spread of online data or threats of punitive action contains the information, and there is always the chance that childhood peccadilloes can result in adult embarrassment and shame. At the same time, the connection to others that the online environment facilitates can lead to the dissemination of helpful techniques and methods as well as offering sources of support for parents (to the benefit of the children). And, although perhaps petty, I have the worry that my child would look for my words and, finding none, claim a lack of love on my part (for is it not among the socially-approved if not socially-mandated ways to demonstrate love for something or someone the online discussion thereof?).
My inclination is to limit discussion, to err (if I am to err) on the side of caution and say too little rather than too much. (An adage attributed to Twain about revealing foolishness comes to mind.) Those who really need to know about the child will know, because they will ask the parents directly (and will likely be on call for babysitting services); those who do not may still ask, but there is a difference between true interest in the child and polite attention to the parents as people, with questions about the demonstrated interests thereof serving as acknowledgment of shared humanity and worthiness of attention. (So do not think the fact that I recognize the questions as expressions of politeness means I do not want to field them. I appreciate people being polite to me.) And I will doubtlessly still discuss the child online; I already love the little one, and I am not exactly reluctant to discuss what I love, online and off (nor do I think I am to be faulted therefore).
One other thing, so as to be sure about this: Kid, if you are actually looking for what your dad says about you, what it is is that he loves you very much. Just so you know.
The problem is this: How much of my child's early and later life is it appropriate for me to discuss with the online world? (I am not even sure how to frame the rest of the discussion, the issue is so fraught for me.) I fear that if I reveal too much, I will negatively impact the child's future opportunities--for it is known that once a thing is online, it is always available online. No amount of politely worded requests to stop the spread of online data or threats of punitive action contains the information, and there is always the chance that childhood peccadilloes can result in adult embarrassment and shame. At the same time, the connection to others that the online environment facilitates can lead to the dissemination of helpful techniques and methods as well as offering sources of support for parents (to the benefit of the children). And, although perhaps petty, I have the worry that my child would look for my words and, finding none, claim a lack of love on my part (for is it not among the socially-approved if not socially-mandated ways to demonstrate love for something or someone the online discussion thereof?).
My inclination is to limit discussion, to err (if I am to err) on the side of caution and say too little rather than too much. (An adage attributed to Twain about revealing foolishness comes to mind.) Those who really need to know about the child will know, because they will ask the parents directly (and will likely be on call for babysitting services); those who do not may still ask, but there is a difference between true interest in the child and polite attention to the parents as people, with questions about the demonstrated interests thereof serving as acknowledgment of shared humanity and worthiness of attention. (So do not think the fact that I recognize the questions as expressions of politeness means I do not want to field them. I appreciate people being polite to me.) And I will doubtlessly still discuss the child online; I already love the little one, and I am not exactly reluctant to discuss what I love, online and off (nor do I think I am to be faulted therefore).
One other thing, so as to be sure about this: Kid, if you are actually looking for what your dad says about you, what it is is that he loves you very much. Just so you know.
Saturday, February 1, 2014
20140201.0855
I am pleased to have made it through another month. This January was a good one, actually; I wrote more than I had in some time (although, admittedly, not so much as I really ought to have), and I did not have to make sudden trips to the Texas Hill Country because my people and my wife's had diminished. Too, teaching has begun again, and it seems to be going quite well so far. There is a marked difference in performance with those who are in a class because they either perceive the need to be there or actually *gasp* want to be there. It reminds me of why I do this thing that I do (and such reminders are sometimes needed).
Obviously, there is more that needs doing. The world is still not right, after all, and although my efforts to improve upon it are infinitesimally small against the need for improvement, I must offer those efforts. My teaching will need to become better, and my work on The Work--the pursuit of Truth through the study of humanity through investigation of its products and the contexts of their production--is not so advanced as I would have it be. I am fortunate, then, that I have the opportunity to pursue both the betterment of others and of myself in the position I have. As I search for others, I search mostly among those that will continue to offer me such positions.
As I consider things, I find that I am grateful for the opportunities I have had. Sure, things could be better (could they not always?); I could have a bigger paycheck and a smaller belly, and a number of other things could be different. But I am not doing so poorly. My bills are paid (payday was yesterday) and there is a little money left over. I do not have to do my work under the threat of murder or torture. I get to pursue strange ideas with intelligent people and to take those ideas to yet other people and see what they make of them who have not yet been shaped so much by other notions as I have (although they have their own shaping with which to contend). My life is quiet and settled, not so much subject to massive upheaval, and that allows me to focus on what I feel called to do rather than so much upon the lower Maslovian levels.
I complain, certainly. Things are not as good as they could be. But they are also far better than they could be. I know people who are much, much worse off, and not all of them as a result of their own deeds. So even amid my complaints, even amid what I voice from time to time that sounds like despair, I know that I have much to appreciate--and I really ought to be better about appreciating it than I am. I do not want to learn in lamentation what I could have learned in quiet reflection.
Obviously, there is more that needs doing. The world is still not right, after all, and although my efforts to improve upon it are infinitesimally small against the need for improvement, I must offer those efforts. My teaching will need to become better, and my work on The Work--the pursuit of Truth through the study of humanity through investigation of its products and the contexts of their production--is not so advanced as I would have it be. I am fortunate, then, that I have the opportunity to pursue both the betterment of others and of myself in the position I have. As I search for others, I search mostly among those that will continue to offer me such positions.
As I consider things, I find that I am grateful for the opportunities I have had. Sure, things could be better (could they not always?); I could have a bigger paycheck and a smaller belly, and a number of other things could be different. But I am not doing so poorly. My bills are paid (payday was yesterday) and there is a little money left over. I do not have to do my work under the threat of murder or torture. I get to pursue strange ideas with intelligent people and to take those ideas to yet other people and see what they make of them who have not yet been shaped so much by other notions as I have (although they have their own shaping with which to contend). My life is quiet and settled, not so much subject to massive upheaval, and that allows me to focus on what I feel called to do rather than so much upon the lower Maslovian levels.
I complain, certainly. Things are not as good as they could be. But they are also far better than they could be. I know people who are much, much worse off, and not all of them as a result of their own deeds. So even amid my complaints, even amid what I voice from time to time that sounds like despair, I know that I have much to appreciate--and I really ought to be better about appreciating it than I am. I do not want to learn in lamentation what I could have learned in quiet reflection.
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