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Staying and Going
My friend Casie posted this today.
I have a couple of responses to this piece, but the primary one is … yes! Just, yes! That I agree with Casie really isn’t a surprising thing.
We first met at her job talk when I walked up to tell her how much I enjoyed her presentation, and before I could get two words out found myself in tears. True story. Honest-to-God tears, accompanied by those “I’m trying not to cry, but it only makes it worse sobs.” She was gracious enough to give me a hug and let me stumble through my little speech. It was my first year on the job and to describe myself as mortified would be a little bit of an understatement. Still, there were few happier moments in that first year then when I heard she had accepted the position.
What could make someone cry at a job talk?
Valid question.
Some of it was probably the stress of my first year. Few periods in my life have been as lonely and as exhausting. The commute, adapting to a completely new work schedule & environment, being the primary source of income for my family, and on top of it all still being a graduate student — I’ve talked before about how all those things add up, and how for me when the stress adds up it usually results in tears. I’m an equal opportunity crier – if I’m sad, I cry; if I’m angry, I cry; if I’m frustrated, I cry; if I’m happy (you guessed it), I cry. In this case it was recognition.
These days it seems like everyone and their second cousin is talking about what it means to be a working class academic, and about the working conditions for graduate students and non-tenure-track faculty. Three years ago, however, it wasn’t exactly the same. Three years ago being a working class academic was just something Ouiser and I talked about sitting on the garage couch when we were in our cups. Ouiser was the first person I knew to start talking about alt-ac careers and the irresponsible mentoring of graduate students. Consequently, when I sat listening to Casie’s job talk about her research with working class academics, it touched something in me. What I meant to say, and what I hope came out between my tears, was that hearing about Casie’s research was like finally being seen. It was the first time I’d heard an academic describe graduate students who could have been me. It was a naming and a calling into being.
So, I guess you can imagine why three years later I find nothing out of the ordinary about once again seeing Casie give voice to thoughts that have been floating around my head. The only thing different is, perhaps, the context. In her post Casie outlines this great list of questions for graduates to consider as they ponder pursuing a PhD and the academic life.
What is it you like about academia? Specifically, what practices make you happy?
What parts of academia stress you out or make you upset?
Is it important that you live in a specific city, state, or region?
What kind of financial compensation do you need to be happy?
What sort of daily or weekly schedule do you envision as your ideal?
Is teaching/research/administration a practice that you could envision yourself engaging with over time?
What feelings do you experience when you think about not working in academia?
What kind of job could you imagine yourself doing and being happy?
Do you like to research and write?
How do you deal with timelines and independent goal setting?
If you had to describe your ideal day at work—from waking up to going to bed—what would that day look like? What challenges might you encounter? What high points might you experience?
What identities do you call on when you consider your self-worth? Your values? How do you prioritize these identities?
Having finally finished and received the PhD (which I somehow still think will be rescinded every time I find another mistake in my dissertation), I find myself looking at the academic job market. I’m considering which jobs and which locations would be right for me, without necessarily thinking about whether or not this is really want I want. Yes, at this point it is what I’m trained to do, but does that necessarily mean it is all I can do, or that it is even really what I want to do? Technically, I am already in academia, and I don’t know that I could answer any one of those questions. I think I am at a point, like the MA student, where it is necessary to decide do I stay or do I go?
Fall Changes
Fall has always been my favorite time of year. Perhaps my birthday had something to do with that as a child, but school was always a part of that as well. The first day of school was exciting for me because it meant a change of pace, and a new order to the day.
Now that we live in the South fall has become even more important to me. The most magical day of the Southern year happens in fall. One day in mid-September the humidity just turns off. Life becomes tolerable again and I can turn off the ac and still sleep through the night. I can stand to touch yarn again, and pick up all the projects I’ve ignored over the summer. There is a gift I need to finish, and I’m finally feeling the momentum picking up to get it done.
This fall digital changes have happened here at Sur le Seuil as well. In an effort to get my digital life in order, I finally bit the bullet and bought a domain, and have been working on getting this site in order. The CV is up, as is a rudimentary About page. Now, I just have to figure out what to put on the Home page. The only thing harder for me than coming up with a title is writing something like a bio or About page. I’m certain it will be corny around here for a little while.
The Upside
Generally when I talk about growing up working class and how that had influenced my educational career, I do so to point out the inadequacies of the educational system and the cultural narrative that education is always the best way to get ahead. While all that still holds true, this semester the universe has not so subtly reminded me about the benefits of coming from a working class background. Please keep in mind, just as with the negatives I discuss, I think there is much more at play here than just a working class background, some of this is — I think specific to my situation.
The best part of my experience as a first generation, working class student, particularly as an undergraduate, was the freedom. Since no one in my immediate family had been to a university, there was no one around telling me what I had to be. No one pushed me into med school, or law school, and while I may not have made the best choices (that BA in Theater isn’t exactly paying the bills), I was able to do what I loved.
Last week Deanna Mascle posted this image on her blog.
And it is so true that I laughed out loud all day.
I would never in a million years say that I made the best/smartest career choices, but I can tell you how happy I am that they have all been mine.
Anniversaries
This is a big year for momentous anniversaries and events. It is 3.1 leap years since the DH and I got married. The first time.
There was a big, if perhaps under-celebrated, graduation.
Then, the big 4-0, and we all know how that turned out.
Now in just 16 days, I will celebrate the 5th anniversary of Stroke Day. I don’t have a snappy picture for that, just some very fuzzy memories and a traumatized husband.
The other thing I do not have from Stroke Day, or its immediate aftermath, is some great inspirational quotation for you. Yes. My recovery was amazing, a gift really. Yes. I am thankful for it, nearly every day. The only thing I am more thankful for than my recovery, are the friends and family who visited me in the hospital, those who visited despite their deep unease in that environment, and particularly those who cared for me during my recovery and babysat me afterwards. (Ouiser, I’m looking at you.)
Yes. It is probably a little twisted to celebrate a day on which you almost died, but I do. I do it because it helps me to remember. To remember what it is like to learn to walk again, to do laps around the floor in my wheelchair, to make pudding with the 80 year old men, to be forced to do everything with my left hand, to need help going up and down stairs, to walk with a cane, to any number of things …
It is easy to forget all those details because unlike the dominant narrative about major illness and/or near death experiences my life didn’t suddenly change overnight. I didn’t get to walk away from the terribly hard work of dissertation writing, or teaching, to chase some long repressed dream or “true calling.” There were bills to pay and work to be done, so like any good working class woman I went back to work. I started writing. I found a full-time job. To this day people ask me, “How?” “How did you recover so well?” “How did you recover so quickly?” And I say, “Because I had to.”
So, I celebrate. I celebrate because I had to and I did, and that is – in and of itself – a blessing.
When Your (Brown) Body is a (White) Wonderland
Everyone should read this piece by @tressiemcphd and if you aren’t following her on Twitter, you should be.
Under the Dome – Missing Frank
If I remember correctly, when Under the Dome first came out I was working in a bookstore that no longer exists. I’ve never been a big enough King fan to pay for a hard copy of his books (even with employee discount), and as I waited for the soft cover of Under the Dome I got busy with grad school, and it just dropped off my radar. Recently, all the hype about the television show reminded me of the book. I had an audible credit available, so I decided to listen to the book before watching the tv show. From what I have heard, I don’t think I will be wasting my time with the tv show.
There is a new series of Law & Order: UK on BBC America right now. That, plus Hell on Wheels, have all my television time wrapped up. Any extra will be devoted to watching The Fall on Netflix. In short, since I no longer have to worry about a dissertation I now have brain space for good television, which limits my tolerance for bad television. Really, I haven’t watched a single episode of Rizzoli & Isles this season. Posts about each of those shows will probably follow, but this one is about a book.
My feelings about Under the Dome could be summed up like this … eh.
The book certainly isn’t King’s worst, but I wouldn’t rank it among his best either. Even if you limit your best of list to King’s epic door-stopper genre, Under the Dome is just there, not fantastic, but not bad enough to really complain about either. Once you meet all the characters, which takes a good portion of time, the rest of the story is fairly predictable.
In all fairness, however, I have to admit Under the Dome had a hard row to hoe. Because I didn’t really read it, I listened to it and, while the narrator was passable, he was no Frank Muller. Muller was the first audiobook narrator that made me pay attention to his name, and then go find other things he read. I can’t tell you any more which came first, my decision to listen to/read Stephen King & Peter Straub’s Black House, or my love of Mr. Muller’s voice. Muller’s voice and characterization are the standard by which I judge all other narrators, and while many get close, few make me want to listen and re-listen to books the way Muller does. At one time I actually owned Black House on cassette, and when I lost one, I used an Audible credit to download it. Even having paid for it twice, I have gotten more than my money’s worth from Muller’s recording. Seriously, go check out Muller’s narration list. I guarantee you will find something you like on there.
Black House is not such a great story that I want to listen to it over and over, it is that Muller makes me love the characters, makes me ignore the faults in the story. Under the Dome’s narrator is fine. He does an okay job, but he is never quite able to make me love the character’s enough to forgive the plot twists I could see coming/the canned story arcs/or King’s obligatory unnecessary sex scene. All of this is just my long way of repeating my initial review — Under the Dome, eh.
Vacation Details
My mother-in-law sent me a few of her pictures from vacation. Eventually, there may even be a picture of me being towed behind the boat. Thankfully, my sister-in-law’s phone was running out of battery, so there is no footage of my header into the lake. Your imagination will have to suffice. My father-in-law described my performance as the epitome of “ass over teakettle,” if you needed any help.
The in-laws are known far and wide for their love of lawn games, so one afternoon an Olympics course of corn-hole, ladder golf, horse shoes, bocce ball, frisbee toss, and football toss was set up. The other thing the in-laws are known for is how long it can take to get an activity started. From conception to the start of the first event, the family yard Olympics took over 2 hours to get started. Eventually, though everyone gathered in the back yard.
- Yard Olympics waiting area.
Given that I spent more time in airplanes than on the ground in the week before this trip, I unsurprisingly developed a head cold during our time at the cabin. I served as the Olympic crowd/dog & baby wrangler. It was pretty fun. Whoever had the least amount of points at the end had to go down to the lake, shout loud enough for the whole lodge to hear “I’m a fish. I’m a really big fish. Come and get me,” then jump in the lake.
He’s a really big fish
To make sure the loser didn’t feel too lonely, everyone got to vote for someone to jump in the lake with the loser. Since no one had ever seen the Captain’s (my father-in-law) perfectly coiffed do, known as the “dome,” wet, he was of course picked to accompany the DH into the lake. Some one did get a video of the big moment, which I will share when it comes my way. Amazingly enough, the dome looked just the same wet as it did dry.
As we left Wednesday morning my mother-in-law got a few pictures of us with our little nephew. Of course, there isn’t one in which we all are looking at the camera.
The DH is skeptical.
Everyone look stage left.
There were however, some nice pictures of us individually.
snuggling Uncle DH
Enough pictures! Put me down already!
There was even a rare picture of the DH and I. Given that it was 7am and we were about to drive 1800 miles home, I don’t think we look too bad.
Day light’s wasting … let’s go!
Vacation Round Up
It’s been quiet around here lately for a couple of reasons. First, a long shot of a job application resulted in a sudden campus visit. While that was the only thing on my mind for a bit, it was also not something I thought I should be writing about. Then right after that visit I went on vacation. The vacation was at a lovely cabin in the wilds of Wisconsin where I didn’t have access to internet or phone. It was great.
I kayaked for the first time, and I loved it. In fact, I loved it enough to give myself blisters going out as often as I could. It was also great to see all my in-laws. At nearly every family vacation a story emerges at someone’s expense. For example, at our reception party my father in law tried to open a can of cashews and ended up throwing them all of the room. He has to this day not lived down the cashew incident.
This trip it was apparently my turn for such a story. In addition to kayaking I also tried tubing for the first time. It all went well until my ride was over. No one told me that when the boat stopped I would need to reposition my weight backward. The result was that in exquisite slow motion I felt the tube slipping forward more and more until I went head first into the lake. As I spluttered my way to the surface all I could hear from the boat was laughter and gasps as they asked if I was okay. Apparently the look on my face as I went in the water was priceless.
Between time on the boat and game nights we all had such a nice time I don’t mind being the entertainment for the week.
Magical Thinking
Although this flies in the face of all the dog training rules that say “Do Not Make A Big Deal About Leaving,” we’ve always had a leaving ritual that the dogs seem to enjoy.
We get ourselves ready to go, gather up a Kong filled with treats and a little peanut butter, or just a little biscuit or two, and then we say, “Where do good dogs go?” Or, some variation like, “Who’s going to show me where good dogs go?” Sure enough, Yasser and Moshe head off to their crates, or as we call them “boxes,” and wait for their treats. From all the evidence, they both enjoy this process. Well, when there are too many long days in a row with both Bradley and I working, Moshe often leaves his treat for later to come stand in the hall and watch us walk out the door. It is pathetic and heartbreaking – like when he watches me drive away…
Moshe is our sweet dog, but perhaps not our smartest dog. Occasionally, we will find him in the middle of the living room doing this:
The kong is empty.
When Yasser knows the kong is empty, but wants something more, he picks it up and does the doggy equivalent of throwing it at you. As if to say, “I want some more, damnit!” Moshe apparently believes that if he stares hard enough new treats will magically appear in the kong. Seriously, I’ve seen him hold this stare for a good 5 minutes.
D5 Creation