The dominion of the Ivory Tower over my life is at an end. I am free.
(For those of you who have been following this saga, I found out from the graduate director of my program that I was not selected for the exchange position in Germany. This is no slight on me. There were other applicants who were more qualified, mainly because they are farther along toward their degrees. This means that I have no reason to stay in the program. I am withdrawing at the end of this quarter. I announced my intentions to the graduate director today.)
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Saturday, May 19, 2007
Little Farmer Boy
When I was a child, my paternal grandparents had a small farm in northeastern Mississippi. It wasn't much. Together with my great uncle, they had eighty acres, a couple dozen head of cattle, and about the same number of chickens. There was a barn for hay, a shed for the tractor, a hen house, and various other outbuildings whose names hinted at uses in contrast to their derelict condition, like "milk barn" and "smoke house." There were also numerous fruit and nut trees, grape and blackberry vines, and a modest garden, small enough to be easily maintained, but large enough to provide vegetables for the dinner table all year round.
We never lived on the farm, but my brother and sister and I spent two or three weeks there every summer when we were young. And we were usually joined by our two first cousins, the children of my father's only sister. These two weeks represent only a very small portion of our childhoods, less than 4%, but if I spend more than half an hour with either of my siblings or my cousins, those times on the farm will inevitably come up. We seldom share reminiscences other than those of the farm. They were without a doubt the happiest days of our young lives.
As we grew older, my siblings stopped going to the farm. They had sports activities and vacations with friends that kept them away. And then my grandfather passed away, and our happy little farm life seemed forever ruptured. Eventually, my cousins stopped going as well. So for years I went alone. Without my grandfather, running the farm became increasingly difficult for my grandmother. My great uncle helped, and my grandmother was not one to be daunted. She just reduced the size of her garden and took in my elderly great aunt for company. And when I arrived, she would have an enormous lists of tasks for me to perform. I moved feed troughs, hung barn doors, hoed garden patches, and stacked bales of hay until I thought my little body would fall apart. I was never happier.
And it wasn't all work. I recall one July when I went fishing all day long, every day, by myself. The farm had three ponds. Two of them were dug with backhoes during my lifetime, but the other was dug by hand when my great-grandmother was a child. My grandparents had stocked the two newer ponds with catfish, but the old pond had bass in it. It was my favorite. I was thirteen, and my grandmother would allow me to drive the little Datsun pick-up truck of my grandfathers through the pasture to the pond. I confess that this was a big part of the attraction of the expedition for me. I never learned to shift past first gear without stalling the engine, but this seemed like ultimate freedom to me. But there was more to it than that. I would take a sandwich for lunch, a camp chair, a tackle box, two fishing poles, and a can of worms, and I would sit in the sweltering heat for seven or eight hours a day and fish. Now I never caught much. During the entire week, I think I managed one medium-sized and one very sorry small-mouth bass. But as the old adage goes, it's called fishing, not catching. I never held any delusions that I was supposed to be catching fish. I never carried a book or a Gameboy and wouldn't have even if such portable video games had existed at the time. I just watched the minnows swim in the shallow water and the dragonflies dance over the surface. Sometimes I napped.
On my sister-in-law, my brother's wife's, first visit to the farm, she proclaimed it the dullest place on the planet, an attitude my mother also shared. She couldn't imagine what we did there and why we love it so. The tale of my fishing days provoked the question, "Weren't you bored?" To which I answered, "Yes, wonderfully, marvellously bored."
Ask any teenager today, and they will assure you that being bored is the worst crime on the planet. It's worse than global warming and worse than genocide. They have to be doing something all the time, texting, phoning, eating, playing videogames, watching movies. And I realize now that I am no different. I have lost the ability to just sit. Darling Wife possesses it. She can sit on our sofa and do absolutely nothing. She isn't reading, watching t.v. or sleeping. She's just sitting. When I note it, she thinks I'm making fun of her, but in truth I am jealous. How many of us can do that? How many of us really want to "get away from it all" as we are always crying? If we really wanted to, why are they erecting cell phone towers and putting wireless internet into National Parks. Even hiking and reading are activities. Are we a nation that doesn't know how to just be?
I miss my days on the farm. I kept going after the others stopped because I was convinced I was going to grow up to be a farmer. Years of my mother's criticism changed my mind. She said farmers have to work too hard and never have anything to show for it. She said I would be poor and bored. And maybe she was right. But I ask you, would that have been so bad?
We never lived on the farm, but my brother and sister and I spent two or three weeks there every summer when we were young. And we were usually joined by our two first cousins, the children of my father's only sister. These two weeks represent only a very small portion of our childhoods, less than 4%, but if I spend more than half an hour with either of my siblings or my cousins, those times on the farm will inevitably come up. We seldom share reminiscences other than those of the farm. They were without a doubt the happiest days of our young lives.
As we grew older, my siblings stopped going to the farm. They had sports activities and vacations with friends that kept them away. And then my grandfather passed away, and our happy little farm life seemed forever ruptured. Eventually, my cousins stopped going as well. So for years I went alone. Without my grandfather, running the farm became increasingly difficult for my grandmother. My great uncle helped, and my grandmother was not one to be daunted. She just reduced the size of her garden and took in my elderly great aunt for company. And when I arrived, she would have an enormous lists of tasks for me to perform. I moved feed troughs, hung barn doors, hoed garden patches, and stacked bales of hay until I thought my little body would fall apart. I was never happier.
And it wasn't all work. I recall one July when I went fishing all day long, every day, by myself. The farm had three ponds. Two of them were dug with backhoes during my lifetime, but the other was dug by hand when my great-grandmother was a child. My grandparents had stocked the two newer ponds with catfish, but the old pond had bass in it. It was my favorite. I was thirteen, and my grandmother would allow me to drive the little Datsun pick-up truck of my grandfathers through the pasture to the pond. I confess that this was a big part of the attraction of the expedition for me. I never learned to shift past first gear without stalling the engine, but this seemed like ultimate freedom to me. But there was more to it than that. I would take a sandwich for lunch, a camp chair, a tackle box, two fishing poles, and a can of worms, and I would sit in the sweltering heat for seven or eight hours a day and fish. Now I never caught much. During the entire week, I think I managed one medium-sized and one very sorry small-mouth bass. But as the old adage goes, it's called fishing, not catching. I never held any delusions that I was supposed to be catching fish. I never carried a book or a Gameboy and wouldn't have even if such portable video games had existed at the time. I just watched the minnows swim in the shallow water and the dragonflies dance over the surface. Sometimes I napped.
On my sister-in-law, my brother's wife's, first visit to the farm, she proclaimed it the dullest place on the planet, an attitude my mother also shared. She couldn't imagine what we did there and why we love it so. The tale of my fishing days provoked the question, "Weren't you bored?" To which I answered, "Yes, wonderfully, marvellously bored."
Ask any teenager today, and they will assure you that being bored is the worst crime on the planet. It's worse than global warming and worse than genocide. They have to be doing something all the time, texting, phoning, eating, playing videogames, watching movies. And I realize now that I am no different. I have lost the ability to just sit. Darling Wife possesses it. She can sit on our sofa and do absolutely nothing. She isn't reading, watching t.v. or sleeping. She's just sitting. When I note it, she thinks I'm making fun of her, but in truth I am jealous. How many of us can do that? How many of us really want to "get away from it all" as we are always crying? If we really wanted to, why are they erecting cell phone towers and putting wireless internet into National Parks. Even hiking and reading are activities. Are we a nation that doesn't know how to just be?
I miss my days on the farm. I kept going after the others stopped because I was convinced I was going to grow up to be a farmer. Years of my mother's criticism changed my mind. She said farmers have to work too hard and never have anything to show for it. She said I would be poor and bored. And maybe she was right. But I ask you, would that have been so bad?
Friday, May 18, 2007
It's not the mirror or the lamp; it's the lens.
As I was reading an article for the dreaded postcolonial theory class yesterday, I finally put together exactly why I dislike literary theory so much. If you look back over my previous few posts, the basic elements of the conclusion are there, but they hadn't coalesced into something solid and definable up to this point.
Let me begin by explaining that I like stories. I always have. As I child I read voraciously. I watched movies and memorized every line. I listened for hours to the sea yarns of the retired sailor who lived next door to my parent's house. I walked a mile down the dirt rode my grandparent's lived on to hear their ancient neighbor share tales of my father's boyhood. Whether it was written, visual, or oral, any story was good enough for me. I was never very good at making up my own stories. My little brother was much better at that than I. But I consumed stories like most children eat birthday cake, diving right in and getting frosting on my nose. And I would retell them, complete with accents and voice changes. Sometimes I would change them up a bit, embellish them for the amusement, or fear, of my often diminutive audience members. If I think hard enough, I can probably recall almost every story I've ever known.
My love of stories is what got me into the study of English literature, and for a time, my academic pursuits did give me greater and richer understanding of literary works. But after a certain point - I can't say exactly when I reached that point - the study of literature gave way to the study of theory about literature. Oh to be sure, I still read the occasional novel or short story as part of a class, but these texts are almost always in the service of a particular literary theory. And now, perhaps, you begin to see my problem.
If you read a piece of literary criticism written within the past twenty years, you will inevitably find a virtual catalog of principle criticism on the specific literary work under discussion. In the profession, we call this "situating our work within the critical discourse" or "negotiating a space for our argument." But whatever one calls it, the practice is intended to show how one's own approach to a literary text fits into, responds to, or otherwise takes into consideration the other bits of literary criticism on that text. This makes perfect sense, right? For one thing, you don't want to go repeating something someone else has already said, so you have to show how your idea is different. And for another thing, you have to sort of establish your authority by making it clear that you are familiar with the accepted scholarly opinions on the subject. However, this approach indicates to me a critical shift in focus. The literary text itself is no longer, if it ever was, the real object of attention. The other criticism is, and the literary text has been relegated to the status of evidence or tool that one uses to enter into academic discourse.
I remember the Intro to Grad Studies course my university made me take, regardless of the fact that I already had a masters degree and didn't need to be "introduced" to graduate studies. However, the course was useful in introducing me to the program's faculty and its specific vision of graduate studies. At one point, we were discussing the role of theory. One student referred to theory as a lens through which to view literature and claimed it is one of the most useful tools in the literary scholars toolkit, and another debated this metaphor. She didn't like to think of theory as some separate object that gets applied to literary study like some sort of cyborg implant, and I agreed with this view. I tend to think that everything we encounter becomes part of us, shapes how we see things. It doesn't matter whether its Foucault's The Order of Things or Wordsworth's Lyrical Ballads, once you've read a text, it affects how you will perceive the next text you read. At the time, I didn't understand why the academy separates these things into distinct fields, but it does, and the metaphor of the lens persists.
My objection to the "lens" view of theory is that it has enabled the displacement of literature that I find so distasteful in the liberal arts. The first step is a recognition of literary theory as a distinct object of study. It is immaterial whether one calls it a tool , a discourse, or a philosophy, once theory has become separated from the pursuit of literary study, it develops a life of its own. The second step is when the new object acquires an aura of supreme intellectualism. Any fool can write a story, but only a genius can tease out profound meaning from that story. Scholars are complicit in this move because it appeals to their own egos. They, we, are part of a specialized and elite group that sees far beyond the petty glances of the uninitiated. The third step is the complete discrediting of literature. Since an understanding of theory is now the primary goal of the academic, literature has been devalued as simply the raw material for the application, production, and testing of theory. From the theory as tool or lens to understand literature, we have shifted to seeing the literary text as tool or lens to understand theory. This attitude has allowed literature to be reduced to only one of a plethora of "texts" that can be read. One can read a tree or an advertisement or a body with every bit as successful results. The hegemony of great works of literature has been thrown down, and the author has been recast as the lifeless puppet ventriloquizing the concepts of discourse. To apply another metaphor, literature is the ground over which academics fight battles, but the war is about the value of particular theories. The object to be conquered or understood is theory, and one bit of ground is as good as another.
I will not accept this. I like stories.
Let me begin by explaining that I like stories. I always have. As I child I read voraciously. I watched movies and memorized every line. I listened for hours to the sea yarns of the retired sailor who lived next door to my parent's house. I walked a mile down the dirt rode my grandparent's lived on to hear their ancient neighbor share tales of my father's boyhood. Whether it was written, visual, or oral, any story was good enough for me. I was never very good at making up my own stories. My little brother was much better at that than I. But I consumed stories like most children eat birthday cake, diving right in and getting frosting on my nose. And I would retell them, complete with accents and voice changes. Sometimes I would change them up a bit, embellish them for the amusement, or fear, of my often diminutive audience members. If I think hard enough, I can probably recall almost every story I've ever known.
My love of stories is what got me into the study of English literature, and for a time, my academic pursuits did give me greater and richer understanding of literary works. But after a certain point - I can't say exactly when I reached that point - the study of literature gave way to the study of theory about literature. Oh to be sure, I still read the occasional novel or short story as part of a class, but these texts are almost always in the service of a particular literary theory. And now, perhaps, you begin to see my problem.
If you read a piece of literary criticism written within the past twenty years, you will inevitably find a virtual catalog of principle criticism on the specific literary work under discussion. In the profession, we call this "situating our work within the critical discourse" or "negotiating a space for our argument." But whatever one calls it, the practice is intended to show how one's own approach to a literary text fits into, responds to, or otherwise takes into consideration the other bits of literary criticism on that text. This makes perfect sense, right? For one thing, you don't want to go repeating something someone else has already said, so you have to show how your idea is different. And for another thing, you have to sort of establish your authority by making it clear that you are familiar with the accepted scholarly opinions on the subject. However, this approach indicates to me a critical shift in focus. The literary text itself is no longer, if it ever was, the real object of attention. The other criticism is, and the literary text has been relegated to the status of evidence or tool that one uses to enter into academic discourse.
I remember the Intro to Grad Studies course my university made me take, regardless of the fact that I already had a masters degree and didn't need to be "introduced" to graduate studies. However, the course was useful in introducing me to the program's faculty and its specific vision of graduate studies. At one point, we were discussing the role of theory. One student referred to theory as a lens through which to view literature and claimed it is one of the most useful tools in the literary scholars toolkit, and another debated this metaphor. She didn't like to think of theory as some separate object that gets applied to literary study like some sort of cyborg implant, and I agreed with this view. I tend to think that everything we encounter becomes part of us, shapes how we see things. It doesn't matter whether its Foucault's The Order of Things or Wordsworth's Lyrical Ballads, once you've read a text, it affects how you will perceive the next text you read. At the time, I didn't understand why the academy separates these things into distinct fields, but it does, and the metaphor of the lens persists.
My objection to the "lens" view of theory is that it has enabled the displacement of literature that I find so distasteful in the liberal arts. The first step is a recognition of literary theory as a distinct object of study. It is immaterial whether one calls it a tool , a discourse, or a philosophy, once theory has become separated from the pursuit of literary study, it develops a life of its own. The second step is when the new object acquires an aura of supreme intellectualism. Any fool can write a story, but only a genius can tease out profound meaning from that story. Scholars are complicit in this move because it appeals to their own egos. They, we, are part of a specialized and elite group that sees far beyond the petty glances of the uninitiated. The third step is the complete discrediting of literature. Since an understanding of theory is now the primary goal of the academic, literature has been devalued as simply the raw material for the application, production, and testing of theory. From the theory as tool or lens to understand literature, we have shifted to seeing the literary text as tool or lens to understand theory. This attitude has allowed literature to be reduced to only one of a plethora of "texts" that can be read. One can read a tree or an advertisement or a body with every bit as successful results. The hegemony of great works of literature has been thrown down, and the author has been recast as the lifeless puppet ventriloquizing the concepts of discourse. To apply another metaphor, literature is the ground over which academics fight battles, but the war is about the value of particular theories. The object to be conquered or understood is theory, and one bit of ground is as good as another.
I will not accept this. I like stories.
Friday, May 11, 2007
Stop me before I discourse again
Yesterday was a full day for me. I begin with German class 8:00-9:00 am. Then I have some time for prep before I teach from 10:00 am to noon. Teaching is followed by office hours from noon to 1:30 pm, but since my students are currently composing a fairly difficult paper, my office was packed with frantic freshmen until around 2:30 pm. And finally, I have a graduate seminar in postcolonial theory from 3:00 to 6:00 pm. I'm often really tired by the time I get to the seminar, so I always think I will contribute very little to the class. But somehow, I just go on autopilot and babble away, which brings me to my point. Somewhere in the middle of the class meeting, it dawned on me how incredibly schizophrenic I really am, in the literal "split mind" sense of the word.
As you have probably noted, I loath theory. I didn't get into this profession to study theory. I am only interested in literary theory in so far as it provides me better understanding of a literary text, which although theorists claim absolute relevance, much of it does not do. Instead theory is really only interested in itself. It pursues its own course, focusing on one aspect of a text in order to prove some highly academic and intangible assertion that is of no interest or relevance to anyone or anything except other academics and theories.
So, why am I taking a postcolonial theory class, you may ask. The answer is quite simple; I have to. Well, it's not exactly a requirement of the program or the university, but when I signed up for classes, I had not yet confessed that I wanted to leave the academy. I was still under the delusion that one day I would write a dissertation, and I might need either postcolonialism or the professor who teaches the class. As you know, I study 19th-century British literature. Now you can probably read a Dickens or Conan Doyle novel and not even notice the references to India and China, but a good Victorianist always remembers that Britain is not a country; it's an empire. Or at least, it was in the 19th and much of the 20th century. Those brief blurbs about the colonial enterprise can provide a great deal of insight into how Victorians... well, I'm getting too in-depth for most of you, so I'll stop there. But needless to say that while I am not interested in postcolonial discourse per se, I am incredibly interested in how post-colonial discourse gives me a way into colonial discourse. Or I should be... if I were interested in staying in the Ivory Tower.
So anyway, I took the course. I scarcely read the assigned texts, only one of which has been an actual piece of literature so far. The rest have been theory. But I skim enough of them that I can usually pick up on things my classmates are saying. It's not that hard, anyway. All of us who have been in the academy know that as soon as you understand the jargon and the modus operandi of a graduate seminar, it's pretty easy to fake it as long as one has a smattering of understanding of the texts and topics. So, I'm sitting there contributing to a conversation about Frantz Fanon and the construction of black masculinity in the postcolonial context of Antilles in Black Skin, White Masks, and we are talking about embodiment and speech acts and mimicry (or mimesis versus metonymy), and I am inwardly thinking how stupid the whole thing is. Seriously. I am discussing these concepts with my classmates, and doing a pretty damn good job of it, I might add, but I was honestly carrying on a running commentary full of expletives and biting sarcasm in my head at the exact same time.
When the class was over, I almost literally ran from the room, like I do most evenings. I got on my bike and rode home as fast as I could. My head hurt, and I could taste the bile in my mouth. Sometimes I even have to repress the urge to vomit. I am tempted to connect these impulses with Kristeva's concept of abjection, but I won't. I refuse to admit that such theories are a part of me. No. No. NO!
As you have probably noted, I loath theory. I didn't get into this profession to study theory. I am only interested in literary theory in so far as it provides me better understanding of a literary text, which although theorists claim absolute relevance, much of it does not do. Instead theory is really only interested in itself. It pursues its own course, focusing on one aspect of a text in order to prove some highly academic and intangible assertion that is of no interest or relevance to anyone or anything except other academics and theories.
So, why am I taking a postcolonial theory class, you may ask. The answer is quite simple; I have to. Well, it's not exactly a requirement of the program or the university, but when I signed up for classes, I had not yet confessed that I wanted to leave the academy. I was still under the delusion that one day I would write a dissertation, and I might need either postcolonialism or the professor who teaches the class. As you know, I study 19th-century British literature. Now you can probably read a Dickens or Conan Doyle novel and not even notice the references to India and China, but a good Victorianist always remembers that Britain is not a country; it's an empire. Or at least, it was in the 19th and much of the 20th century. Those brief blurbs about the colonial enterprise can provide a great deal of insight into how Victorians... well, I'm getting too in-depth for most of you, so I'll stop there. But needless to say that while I am not interested in postcolonial discourse per se, I am incredibly interested in how post-colonial discourse gives me a way into colonial discourse. Or I should be... if I were interested in staying in the Ivory Tower.
So anyway, I took the course. I scarcely read the assigned texts, only one of which has been an actual piece of literature so far. The rest have been theory. But I skim enough of them that I can usually pick up on things my classmates are saying. It's not that hard, anyway. All of us who have been in the academy know that as soon as you understand the jargon and the modus operandi of a graduate seminar, it's pretty easy to fake it as long as one has a smattering of understanding of the texts and topics. So, I'm sitting there contributing to a conversation about Frantz Fanon and the construction of black masculinity in the postcolonial context of Antilles in Black Skin, White Masks, and we are talking about embodiment and speech acts and mimicry (or mimesis versus metonymy), and I am inwardly thinking how stupid the whole thing is. Seriously. I am discussing these concepts with my classmates, and doing a pretty damn good job of it, I might add, but I was honestly carrying on a running commentary full of expletives and biting sarcasm in my head at the exact same time.
When the class was over, I almost literally ran from the room, like I do most evenings. I got on my bike and rode home as fast as I could. My head hurt, and I could taste the bile in my mouth. Sometimes I even have to repress the urge to vomit. I am tempted to connect these impulses with Kristeva's concept of abjection, but I won't. I refuse to admit that such theories are a part of me. No. No. NO!
Monday, May 07, 2007
I choose life
I have received several well wishes regarding my former post, and I greatly thank you. But some of you - yes, you, my dear friends- have cried out in horror or sadness, "Don't do it!" as if I were standing on a ledge or something. I know that you mean well. Really, I do. But I don't see this as a trajedy. I'm not depressed, and this isn't giving up. Seriously.
I know why it might seem that way, and I saw it in that light for a long time, too. That's a big part of why I couldn't face it. Anyone who knows me knows that I am stubborn, and I very often get what I want, though it usually requires careful planning, declarations of war, changes in strategy, and an unwaivering determination that can last for decades. So, my academic dream is just one of many examples of how I insistently hold onto a plan far past the point when I actually want it to come true. In truth, I am pretty sure the thing I wanted doesn't exist anymore and may never have.
Yes, it is true that once I couldn't imagine a different life. I loved the academy, and it suited me well. I loved that our schedules are flexibile. I loved that we don't just "do a job"; we inhabit a profession. I loved that we look at things carefully, breathe life and beauty into ink on a page, and provide evidence for our opinions. I loved that we have our own language, and I loved belonging to something, something that I thought was noble and good.
So what does it tell you that intellectual, academic jargon makes me want to vomit or shout in anger, "Who talks this way?" or "What the hell are you saying and does it matter to anyone anyway?"
What would you say if I told you that when I was recently nominated to represent the English graduate students in the Graduate Student Association, my first thought was, "Why can't they leave me alone?" Me, the guy who used to host study groups in his apartment, arrange talks by renowned poets, and organize conference trips for classmates.
And how about this one? I used to think nothing was more fun than socializing with my fellow academics, but now my reaction every time I receive an invitation to a party given by a member of the program, faculty and fellow students, is "How can I get out of it this time?"
What about the fact that I used to think it was great to have an office in the English building? I personalized it with pictures and desk organizers. But this time, I haven't even bothered to take my officemate's Beatles' poster down from over my desk. I have a wonderful view of the rose garden and fountain in my building's interior courtyard, but I spend as little time as as possible in my office, and no one would ever know it is mine if my name weren't beside the door.
And here's the worst part, reading used to be my absolute favorite way to spend time. I read every moment I could. Even winter break meant being able to hold up in my apartment for two weeks and read everything I could get my hands on, seldom eating or sleeping. And now, I'll do almost anything to avoid reading. I work in my garden, go grocery shopping, or even, God forbid, turn on the TV, whether or not there's anything on I want to watch.
All of this tells me that I don't want to be part of that world anymore. And before you ask, yes, I have thought of just taking some time off. I could. My university allows us to take a leave of absence, so to speak, in which we are still enrolled in the program, but we don't take or teach classes. But what, pray tell, am I to do during that time? No one will give me a job, at least not one I'm willing to do, for a semester or a year, and I can't afford not to have an income. Furthermore, what happens at the end of the leave? I took a year off between my masters and Ph.D. studies. The only effect it had was to increase my desire not to go back. This isn't just a matter of burn out. Having a year off will not resolve the problems I have with the Ivory Tower.
No, I want out. This is not a step back or a failure. It also isn't an early mid-life crisis. It is an escape! I'm not saying academia is evil. I know many people for whom it's the right choice. It just doesn't make me happy, and I am tired of busting my ass to stay inside it. So, thank you very much for you concern, but I am actually thrilled about my decision.
Now if only the graduate council would make up their mind about the Germany position, I could get on with things, one way or another.
I know why it might seem that way, and I saw it in that light for a long time, too. That's a big part of why I couldn't face it. Anyone who knows me knows that I am stubborn, and I very often get what I want, though it usually requires careful planning, declarations of war, changes in strategy, and an unwaivering determination that can last for decades. So, my academic dream is just one of many examples of how I insistently hold onto a plan far past the point when I actually want it to come true. In truth, I am pretty sure the thing I wanted doesn't exist anymore and may never have.
Yes, it is true that once I couldn't imagine a different life. I loved the academy, and it suited me well. I loved that our schedules are flexibile. I loved that we don't just "do a job"; we inhabit a profession. I loved that we look at things carefully, breathe life and beauty into ink on a page, and provide evidence for our opinions. I loved that we have our own language, and I loved belonging to something, something that I thought was noble and good.
So what does it tell you that intellectual, academic jargon makes me want to vomit or shout in anger, "Who talks this way?" or "What the hell are you saying and does it matter to anyone anyway?"
What would you say if I told you that when I was recently nominated to represent the English graduate students in the Graduate Student Association, my first thought was, "Why can't they leave me alone?" Me, the guy who used to host study groups in his apartment, arrange talks by renowned poets, and organize conference trips for classmates.
And how about this one? I used to think nothing was more fun than socializing with my fellow academics, but now my reaction every time I receive an invitation to a party given by a member of the program, faculty and fellow students, is "How can I get out of it this time?"
What about the fact that I used to think it was great to have an office in the English building? I personalized it with pictures and desk organizers. But this time, I haven't even bothered to take my officemate's Beatles' poster down from over my desk. I have a wonderful view of the rose garden and fountain in my building's interior courtyard, but I spend as little time as as possible in my office, and no one would ever know it is mine if my name weren't beside the door.
And here's the worst part, reading used to be my absolute favorite way to spend time. I read every moment I could. Even winter break meant being able to hold up in my apartment for two weeks and read everything I could get my hands on, seldom eating or sleeping. And now, I'll do almost anything to avoid reading. I work in my garden, go grocery shopping, or even, God forbid, turn on the TV, whether or not there's anything on I want to watch.
All of this tells me that I don't want to be part of that world anymore. And before you ask, yes, I have thought of just taking some time off. I could. My university allows us to take a leave of absence, so to speak, in which we are still enrolled in the program, but we don't take or teach classes. But what, pray tell, am I to do during that time? No one will give me a job, at least not one I'm willing to do, for a semester or a year, and I can't afford not to have an income. Furthermore, what happens at the end of the leave? I took a year off between my masters and Ph.D. studies. The only effect it had was to increase my desire not to go back. This isn't just a matter of burn out. Having a year off will not resolve the problems I have with the Ivory Tower.
No, I want out. This is not a step back or a failure. It also isn't an early mid-life crisis. It is an escape! I'm not saying academia is evil. I know many people for whom it's the right choice. It just doesn't make me happy, and I am tired of busting my ass to stay inside it. So, thank you very much for you concern, but I am actually thrilled about my decision.
Now if only the graduate council would make up their mind about the Germany position, I could get on with things, one way or another.
Friday, May 04, 2007
Escape from the Tower
"I am a displaced person." This is how Alice Walker begins an essay that introduces a collection of her poems published in 1991. In the rest of the essay, Walker shares the peace and comfort she feels in her current home in northern California, as well as the complex and confused feelings she has for her childhood home in Georgia. As I stood discussing this text with my class of bewildered, young freshmen earlier this year, I started to cry. Yes, you read correctly. I felt myself begin to break down as I read, "O landscape of my birth, / you have never been far from my heart. / It is I / who have been far. / If you will take me back, / know / I am yours,” and Walker's powerful lament touched a secret part of me. Of course, I identify with the author's California Dream and nostalgia for her Southern home, but it is much more than that. You see, "The Place Where I was Born" is not just an essay about geography. On the page I see the echoes of her tears as Walker charts a course of self-discovery. It is a record of her struggles to accept that she has lied to herself for decades, pretending the landscape of her birth died, or drove her away, while in truth she left behind love when she fled from pain. I choked back my own tears, but I couldn't entirely conceal the catch in my voice. My students sat up, suddenly alert, grins on their faces. Their hopes were not met; I recovered my composure, and we moved on. But I had reached an epiphany in that moment. The emotion so transparent in every line of Walker's essay reminded me of a love for literature that I have forgotten or ignored for many years now. Every word, every description from this enchantress tore at my cynicism as my voice joined hers to apostrophize to the rounded hills and bubbling streams of the Southeast, but the landscape I long for is not merely a physical place; it is the realm laid down between the pages of some of my favorite books. The birth it witnessed was the birth of my mind as I inhabited these literary landscapes. But now, I study this terrain from the distant height of the Ivory Tower. Literary Criticism and discussion once gave me an enhanced appreciation for texts, but now it strides atop the ground, declaring itself the victor in a battle I had scarcely acknowledged was taking place. My landscape has become scorched earth, and I cried when reading Walker's essay because I, too, know how hard it is to acknowledge ones self-deception, how much easier it is to blame others. And like Alice Walker, now that "I have confessed how I have lied," I can admit that I want to return to the landscape of my birth.
The descent from the tower will not be an easy one. I have only just confessed my feelings, but I'm not claiming that they have just come up. I haven't liked my profession for a long time; I've just been in denial about it. I didn't want to go back to school when I applied to Ph.D. programs three years ago, but I told myself I would feel differently once I re-entered the hallowed halls. But I didn't, and I don't. For the past two years, I have gone through the motions. I do well in my classes, but I don't enjoy them, and I am involved with the program as little as possible. The truth is, I don't like the turn the liberal arts have taken in the past few decades. You don't see it much as an undergrad, but reading literature is not central to the profession anymore. That pursuit has been replaced by archive fever, intellectual masturbation, textual incest, profound cynicism, and literary theory with its "constructed realities," "discursive movements," "bodies without organs," and "always-already." What is more, anyone who thinks it shouldn't be this way is seen as hopelessly naive with no chance of being professionally successful. So I've pretended to think like they think. But I can't do that anymore. I hate it! And I want out.
The problem is that I've been an academic for so long that I haven't been able to see myself as anything else. This is what I do. This is who I am. The promise of "Dr. Mc" and "Professor Mc, Ph.D." kept me lying to myself. I maintained this fantasy that if I just got through my coursework I'd be OK. If I could just finish my classes, I would have a more flexible schedule, and I would be able to pursue my own interests again. I didn't know how I would write a dissertation, but I ignored that fear too, focusing on what would come after. I'd get a nice professorship at a small state college or university back east, and I could have my dream of being the passionate professor of life and letters, the students' friend, the guy who loves what he does. I wanted to be Mr. Keating. And Darling Wife and I would buy a house or a little farm and have kids, and it'd all be great. All this time, I read essays like this one, and I knew that I felt like the undergraduates in the author's theory class. (How many of you felt the same once, or still do?) And though I had many profs who, like this author, attempted to disillusion me, I persisted in believing, as he does in the end, that it would be all right eventually.
But it won't be all right. I'm nearly 34 years old. How many more years will I have to "just get through"? And then what? I'll be stuck in a profession that I no longer believe in. And it's not like it's a job you can coast through. It requires active engagement of the mind and will if you want to succeed. It requires a major investment of oneself. And unlike other jobs, there's no separation between work and home. Most people, even workaholics, go home sometime, and leave their work behind. But the academic life is a life of the mind. Work is always with you. Those much-envied long Christmas breaks and summers off are facades. They just mean you don't have to be on campus. The work goes on at home, in Europe, in the Rockies, or wherever you are. It never stops. Even while you are doing other things, the introduction to your next paper or the details of a text you are studying play inside your head at all times. IT NEVER STOPS!
Now I know that no job is perfect. Everyone has things they hate about their jobs. But it doesn't make sense to work so hard and give up so much for something I don't like. I can dislike a different job with much less effort and sacrifice involved. Then even if I hate my job, at least I can have a good home life.
So, I am seriously considering retiring from The Ivory Tower and getting a Masters in Library Science. This would entitle me to become a professional librarian instead of a paraprofessional, like I was before. I was happy at the library, and to be honest, I wouldn't make much less money than a professor's salary. I'll certainly have a whole lot less stress...unfortunately, a whole lot less prestige too, but I find I care about that less and less.
Of course, this is not a fait accompli. I've applied for a university exchange position to teach in Germany for the 2008-2009 academic year. (Not next year, but the one after) Darling Wife and I think it would be magnificent to live in Europe for a year and have the university pay for it. I'm waiting to hear if I got accepted before I make any final moves. If I get accepted, I'll tough it out next year and see how I feel after I get back from Germany. If I don't get accepted, I plan to withdraw from the program at the end of this year. But I'm so ready to run that I don't even know which I want to happen more.
The descent from the tower will not be an easy one. I have only just confessed my feelings, but I'm not claiming that they have just come up. I haven't liked my profession for a long time; I've just been in denial about it. I didn't want to go back to school when I applied to Ph.D. programs three years ago, but I told myself I would feel differently once I re-entered the hallowed halls. But I didn't, and I don't. For the past two years, I have gone through the motions. I do well in my classes, but I don't enjoy them, and I am involved with the program as little as possible. The truth is, I don't like the turn the liberal arts have taken in the past few decades. You don't see it much as an undergrad, but reading literature is not central to the profession anymore. That pursuit has been replaced by archive fever, intellectual masturbation, textual incest, profound cynicism, and literary theory with its "constructed realities," "discursive movements," "bodies without organs," and "always-already." What is more, anyone who thinks it shouldn't be this way is seen as hopelessly naive with no chance of being professionally successful. So I've pretended to think like they think. But I can't do that anymore. I hate it! And I want out.
The problem is that I've been an academic for so long that I haven't been able to see myself as anything else. This is what I do. This is who I am. The promise of "Dr. Mc" and "Professor Mc, Ph.D." kept me lying to myself. I maintained this fantasy that if I just got through my coursework I'd be OK. If I could just finish my classes, I would have a more flexible schedule, and I would be able to pursue my own interests again. I didn't know how I would write a dissertation, but I ignored that fear too, focusing on what would come after. I'd get a nice professorship at a small state college or university back east, and I could have my dream of being the passionate professor of life and letters, the students' friend, the guy who loves what he does. I wanted to be Mr. Keating. And Darling Wife and I would buy a house or a little farm and have kids, and it'd all be great. All this time, I read essays like this one, and I knew that I felt like the undergraduates in the author's theory class. (How many of you felt the same once, or still do?) And though I had many profs who, like this author, attempted to disillusion me, I persisted in believing, as he does in the end, that it would be all right eventually.
But it won't be all right. I'm nearly 34 years old. How many more years will I have to "just get through"? And then what? I'll be stuck in a profession that I no longer believe in. And it's not like it's a job you can coast through. It requires active engagement of the mind and will if you want to succeed. It requires a major investment of oneself. And unlike other jobs, there's no separation between work and home. Most people, even workaholics, go home sometime, and leave their work behind. But the academic life is a life of the mind. Work is always with you. Those much-envied long Christmas breaks and summers off are facades. They just mean you don't have to be on campus. The work goes on at home, in Europe, in the Rockies, or wherever you are. It never stops. Even while you are doing other things, the introduction to your next paper or the details of a text you are studying play inside your head at all times. IT NEVER STOPS!
Now I know that no job is perfect. Everyone has things they hate about their jobs. But it doesn't make sense to work so hard and give up so much for something I don't like. I can dislike a different job with much less effort and sacrifice involved. Then even if I hate my job, at least I can have a good home life.
So, I am seriously considering retiring from The Ivory Tower and getting a Masters in Library Science. This would entitle me to become a professional librarian instead of a paraprofessional, like I was before. I was happy at the library, and to be honest, I wouldn't make much less money than a professor's salary. I'll certainly have a whole lot less stress...unfortunately, a whole lot less prestige too, but I find I care about that less and less.
Of course, this is not a fait accompli. I've applied for a university exchange position to teach in Germany for the 2008-2009 academic year. (Not next year, but the one after) Darling Wife and I think it would be magnificent to live in Europe for a year and have the university pay for it. I'm waiting to hear if I got accepted before I make any final moves. If I get accepted, I'll tough it out next year and see how I feel after I get back from Germany. If I don't get accepted, I plan to withdraw from the program at the end of this year. But I'm so ready to run that I don't even know which I want to happen more.
Saturday, August 05, 2006
Small Talk
I talked with my father today, something I seldom do.
You have to understand. My father and I have never been very close. We do not see eye-to-eye on politics, education, art, sports... well... pretty much on anything. Plus, he and my mother split up, and he moved out of our house when I was about 11 years old. In addition, he has always lived in Tennessee, and I lived in Boston for years before moving to California. Add to all of this the fact that I do not like to talk on the telephone. I don't know why. I will write a long e-mail or a letter or send a postcard in an instant. I even talk on the telephone for great lengths of time when people call me. But I have a hard time getting myself to pick up the telephone and call someone else. I just won't do it. My father, on the other hand, seems to always be "thinking about calling" me, but I can count on one hand the number of times he has called me in my life. He's not much of a talker anyway. So while I love him very much, we don't talk much.
Anyway, I called him today because my sister-in-law has been in the hospital for several weeks due to complications with her pregnancy. Darling Wife wants to send something to the hospital, but I didn't know which hospital my sister-in-law is in. I know from my sister that my brother stays in the hospital almost all the time. I didn't know how to reach him, so I rang my father. After my father told me the name of the hospital and my sister-in-law's room number, he says that I need to call my brother whose feelings are hurt because I haven't called him already. Then dad says, "And I understand that," implying that he feels I don't call him enough either, something he is always throwing in my face.
Now, I am pissed. I want you to know that my sister-in-law has been in the hospital for a month, and my brother has not once called me to let me know where she is or how she is doing. I wouldn't even know she was in the hospital if it weren't for my sister telling me. And my father hasn't called me in over a year, unless I called him first. How dare they! This is not all my fault. How dare they get their feelings hurt just because I didn't do something that neither of them ever does either. The hypocritical bastards!
I suppose, as usual, I will have to bite my tongue, cover my anger, and ring my brother to apologize. But I refuse to actually be sorry about it. I don't believe I have done anything wrong.
You have to understand. My father and I have never been very close. We do not see eye-to-eye on politics, education, art, sports... well... pretty much on anything. Plus, he and my mother split up, and he moved out of our house when I was about 11 years old. In addition, he has always lived in Tennessee, and I lived in Boston for years before moving to California. Add to all of this the fact that I do not like to talk on the telephone. I don't know why. I will write a long e-mail or a letter or send a postcard in an instant. I even talk on the telephone for great lengths of time when people call me. But I have a hard time getting myself to pick up the telephone and call someone else. I just won't do it. My father, on the other hand, seems to always be "thinking about calling" me, but I can count on one hand the number of times he has called me in my life. He's not much of a talker anyway. So while I love him very much, we don't talk much.
Anyway, I called him today because my sister-in-law has been in the hospital for several weeks due to complications with her pregnancy. Darling Wife wants to send something to the hospital, but I didn't know which hospital my sister-in-law is in. I know from my sister that my brother stays in the hospital almost all the time. I didn't know how to reach him, so I rang my father. After my father told me the name of the hospital and my sister-in-law's room number, he says that I need to call my brother whose feelings are hurt because I haven't called him already. Then dad says, "And I understand that," implying that he feels I don't call him enough either, something he is always throwing in my face.
Now, I am pissed. I want you to know that my sister-in-law has been in the hospital for a month, and my brother has not once called me to let me know where she is or how she is doing. I wouldn't even know she was in the hospital if it weren't for my sister telling me. And my father hasn't called me in over a year, unless I called him first. How dare they! This is not all my fault. How dare they get their feelings hurt just because I didn't do something that neither of them ever does either. The hypocritical bastards!
I suppose, as usual, I will have to bite my tongue, cover my anger, and ring my brother to apologize. But I refuse to actually be sorry about it. I don't believe I have done anything wrong.
Friday, August 04, 2006
Who knew?
You Are 64% Evil |
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Thursday, August 03, 2006
Gather ye rosebuds
I found gray hairs on my chest yesterday, quite a few of them. They must have been there for some time, but I hadn't noticed them before last night. This brings to the surface something I've been thinking about for awhile, perhaps even for years. My recent birthday brought it to mind more insistently, and this discovery urges me to express it, if I can. I feel it is cliche to rage against growing older in a society that priviledges youth, and in truth, I cannot completely lament it. There are some things about the experience that sadden and frustrate me, but I must confess there are others that bring blessings and contentment. I am not sure how to feel. Shall we ponder this paradox for a bit as we age a little more together?
Let me first state for the record that I have never had a positive self-image about my appearance. I never liked my hair, my weight, the color of my eyes, the shape of my face, etc. During childhood, I was neglectful of my appearance, so the self-image was most likely accurate, and it got worse for a time after high school. But in my early 20s, I made an effort to change my life for the better, including my appearance. I was never fully satisfied with the results, but I know that others found me attractive. For a few wonderful years, I was tall, dark, and handsome. I was 6'4" and thin. I had curly, dark brown hair that grew long and waved around my shoulders. I had a dark complexion and bright blue eyes. I dressed sharply and carried myself confidently, even if it was a facade; I cultivated an ability to flash a smile and flirt effectively; I went to parties and night clubs; I socialized equally with poor artists, popular athletes, and wealthy aristocrats. I was bold and charismatic. And for the first time in my life, people noticed me and liked what they saw.
I am not old now; don't get me wrong. But I diet constantly and cannot keep my weight down as I did in those halcyon days, making me more "big" than "tall." I have lost much of the hair whose rampant curls used to vex me and appeal to the ladies, and what I have not lost has turned half gray. I keep it short to mask some of its thinness, but with only partial success. I do not have many wrinkles, but the fresh crispness of youth is unmistakably gone from my features. I dress as well as I can, but my broad shoulders and barrell chest are far from the wraith-like proportions fashionable today. When people notice me now, it is not with that longing look of attraction; it is with the casual observation unavoidable when one is my heighth. And it is not just a matter of appearance. I lack the energy I once had, and I find my ability to say the right thing and drink until the wee hours diminishes with each passing day. Some men become distinguished or acquire an air of culture as they age; others just become middle-aged. I am the latter.
Still, I am happy. I love my wife. I stay home at night because I want to, not because I have to. I am good at what I do, and I have some excellent friends. I also have great memories. I wouldn't change anything I did or exchange anything I have, and I don't believe I would go back to those rowdy days of youth if I had the chance. In some ways, having a different life but possessing the memories of my former life is like actually having them both, now, simultaneously. Memory allows something from the past to exist in the present so I can be in two places at once. Whereas when I was young, I couldn't be what I am now. Youth precludes experience. It is where one acquires that experience, not where one possesses it. Certainly vitality and a wide open future are appealing, but I'm tired of possibilities and endless moving around. I'm ready for something different.
Nor do I want to associate with those who are young. Their attitudes and actions seem hopelessly naive to me now, and in truth, they are. Mine were too at that age. I just didn't know it. I get no joy from spending time with them. It doesn't make me feel young like them. Quite the opposite. It makes me more aware of how different, and older, I am. I used to want to be one of those "cool" professors. You know, the ones who have a drink with you at the pub after class and want you to call them by their first name. But now I realize that I am not like undergraduate students anymore, and pretending to be is just sad. They may still see it as "cool," but I can't think of anything more uncool. And God knows it would be disasterous if they found me attractive.
So, growing older is not so bad. Still....
Let me first state for the record that I have never had a positive self-image about my appearance. I never liked my hair, my weight, the color of my eyes, the shape of my face, etc. During childhood, I was neglectful of my appearance, so the self-image was most likely accurate, and it got worse for a time after high school. But in my early 20s, I made an effort to change my life for the better, including my appearance. I was never fully satisfied with the results, but I know that others found me attractive. For a few wonderful years, I was tall, dark, and handsome. I was 6'4" and thin. I had curly, dark brown hair that grew long and waved around my shoulders. I had a dark complexion and bright blue eyes. I dressed sharply and carried myself confidently, even if it was a facade; I cultivated an ability to flash a smile and flirt effectively; I went to parties and night clubs; I socialized equally with poor artists, popular athletes, and wealthy aristocrats. I was bold and charismatic. And for the first time in my life, people noticed me and liked what they saw.
I am not old now; don't get me wrong. But I diet constantly and cannot keep my weight down as I did in those halcyon days, making me more "big" than "tall." I have lost much of the hair whose rampant curls used to vex me and appeal to the ladies, and what I have not lost has turned half gray. I keep it short to mask some of its thinness, but with only partial success. I do not have many wrinkles, but the fresh crispness of youth is unmistakably gone from my features. I dress as well as I can, but my broad shoulders and barrell chest are far from the wraith-like proportions fashionable today. When people notice me now, it is not with that longing look of attraction; it is with the casual observation unavoidable when one is my heighth. And it is not just a matter of appearance. I lack the energy I once had, and I find my ability to say the right thing and drink until the wee hours diminishes with each passing day. Some men become distinguished or acquire an air of culture as they age; others just become middle-aged. I am the latter.
Still, I am happy. I love my wife. I stay home at night because I want to, not because I have to. I am good at what I do, and I have some excellent friends. I also have great memories. I wouldn't change anything I did or exchange anything I have, and I don't believe I would go back to those rowdy days of youth if I had the chance. In some ways, having a different life but possessing the memories of my former life is like actually having them both, now, simultaneously. Memory allows something from the past to exist in the present so I can be in two places at once. Whereas when I was young, I couldn't be what I am now. Youth precludes experience. It is where one acquires that experience, not where one possesses it. Certainly vitality and a wide open future are appealing, but I'm tired of possibilities and endless moving around. I'm ready for something different.
Nor do I want to associate with those who are young. Their attitudes and actions seem hopelessly naive to me now, and in truth, they are. Mine were too at that age. I just didn't know it. I get no joy from spending time with them. It doesn't make me feel young like them. Quite the opposite. It makes me more aware of how different, and older, I am. I used to want to be one of those "cool" professors. You know, the ones who have a drink with you at the pub after class and want you to call them by their first name. But now I realize that I am not like undergraduate students anymore, and pretending to be is just sad. They may still see it as "cool," but I can't think of anything more uncool. And God knows it would be disasterous if they found me attractive.
So, growing older is not so bad. Still....
Thursday, June 22, 2006
University Health Care SUCKS!
Yesterday, I went to the student health center on campus. I should have done this a long time ago, but I have been too busy. Past experience tells me that getting a new doctor can be time consuming and involved. I thought that the summer lull would be a good time to establish myself with the center, get a doctor there, and have my records transferred from my PCP in Boston. With that in mind, I called Monday to schedule an appointment. The person I spoke with was confused and brusque at first, but eventually we understood each other, and she made the appointment.
When I walked through the door yesterday, I was greeted by a computer monitor with "Self Check-in System" scrawling across it. One just swipes one's university ID and follows a series of prompts to check oneself in. I'm sure this is a very efficient system, but it felt rather impersonal. I wasn't sure what I'd gotten myself into. Then, I found my way to the waiting area, following signs as the computer system directed. After a few minutes, a nurse came in with a clipboard and forms to fill out, which was good because it gave me time to recover from my bike ride before having my blood pressure, etc. taken. When I'd filled out the forms, the same nurse took the usual measurements in a hallway-like space and ushered me into a typical examination room. The doctor came in after about ten minutes. He shook my hand and introduced himself as Dr. Andrews, but I got the feeling this friendly greeting was a common formality; there was no sincerity in his touch.
Then, Dr. Andrews sat down opposite me and asked me why I was there in a bland, bored tone. Each time I would say something, there would follow a long pause while he just sat there looking at me... or the floor. I didn't know what to say or do. It was clear that Dr. Andrews didn't think I should be there since, to my knowledge, there is nothing physically wrong with me, and he wasn't sure what to do either. He didn't even want to do the cholesterol test that was scheduled as part of the appointment. He said it was very likely my Boston PCP did one last year, and it didn't need to be done every year. He didn't examine me at all. Instead, he drew me a little map of where "medical records" was located in the building and sent me on my way to fill out forms to have my records transferred. He also told me the health center's operating hours and mentioned I could have the same doctor each time if I wanted. The way he said this made it sound like he didn't think it was necessary, normal, or desirable for me to want to see him again. Words can't express how his tone was discouraging. I walked out thinking, "Yeah, uhm, right. I'll be beating down your door. I bet they have better bedside manner in the morgue."
When I got to medical records, a kid hooked up to an iPod told me he'd be with me in a moment, and I waited while he moved around the room stuffing manila envelopes into slots. Then he gave me some forms to fill out and disappeared. Some other guy came over after a few minutes, and, again, I got twenty questions about why I was there. "No, it is not connected with any issue or appointment, per se. I'm just establishing service here. I will be at the university for awhile and would like the clinic to have my medical records."
The worst part about the experience was that each time I answered these questions, the people didn't act like they really cared what the answers were. They asked out of mild curiousity because my situation was unusual to them, but the answer didn't seem to interest them at all. The whole place acted like I was putting them out because I was there when there wasn't anything wrong with me. They assume that students are 19-22 years old, healthy, and have their own doctors elsewhere who handle routine, annual exams. The student health center is there to deal with accidents, colds, flu, and allergies. That's all. I honestly wanted to scream, "No, I'm NOT SICK. But I'm also not 19 yrs old on mommy and daddy's medical insurance back home in Iowa. I am a graduate student who lives here all the time and has the university medical insurance. I don't want to get sick. I want to have regular check-ups with a doctor who has read my records and knows me. You know, like I'm supposed to do! If you don't want to do this, you shouldn't insist that we name the student health center as our PCP on our insurance!"
Once again, graduate student life has its downsides.
When I walked through the door yesterday, I was greeted by a computer monitor with "Self Check-in System" scrawling across it. One just swipes one's university ID and follows a series of prompts to check oneself in. I'm sure this is a very efficient system, but it felt rather impersonal. I wasn't sure what I'd gotten myself into. Then, I found my way to the waiting area, following signs as the computer system directed. After a few minutes, a nurse came in with a clipboard and forms to fill out, which was good because it gave me time to recover from my bike ride before having my blood pressure, etc. taken. When I'd filled out the forms, the same nurse took the usual measurements in a hallway-like space and ushered me into a typical examination room. The doctor came in after about ten minutes. He shook my hand and introduced himself as Dr. Andrews, but I got the feeling this friendly greeting was a common formality; there was no sincerity in his touch.
Then, Dr. Andrews sat down opposite me and asked me why I was there in a bland, bored tone. Each time I would say something, there would follow a long pause while he just sat there looking at me... or the floor. I didn't know what to say or do. It was clear that Dr. Andrews didn't think I should be there since, to my knowledge, there is nothing physically wrong with me, and he wasn't sure what to do either. He didn't even want to do the cholesterol test that was scheduled as part of the appointment. He said it was very likely my Boston PCP did one last year, and it didn't need to be done every year. He didn't examine me at all. Instead, he drew me a little map of where "medical records" was located in the building and sent me on my way to fill out forms to have my records transferred. He also told me the health center's operating hours and mentioned I could have the same doctor each time if I wanted. The way he said this made it sound like he didn't think it was necessary, normal, or desirable for me to want to see him again. Words can't express how his tone was discouraging. I walked out thinking, "Yeah, uhm, right. I'll be beating down your door. I bet they have better bedside manner in the morgue."
When I got to medical records, a kid hooked up to an iPod told me he'd be with me in a moment, and I waited while he moved around the room stuffing manila envelopes into slots. Then he gave me some forms to fill out and disappeared. Some other guy came over after a few minutes, and, again, I got twenty questions about why I was there. "No, it is not connected with any issue or appointment, per se. I'm just establishing service here. I will be at the university for awhile and would like the clinic to have my medical records."
The worst part about the experience was that each time I answered these questions, the people didn't act like they really cared what the answers were. They asked out of mild curiousity because my situation was unusual to them, but the answer didn't seem to interest them at all. The whole place acted like I was putting them out because I was there when there wasn't anything wrong with me. They assume that students are 19-22 years old, healthy, and have their own doctors elsewhere who handle routine, annual exams. The student health center is there to deal with accidents, colds, flu, and allergies. That's all. I honestly wanted to scream, "No, I'm NOT SICK. But I'm also not 19 yrs old on mommy and daddy's medical insurance back home in Iowa. I am a graduate student who lives here all the time and has the university medical insurance. I don't want to get sick. I want to have regular check-ups with a doctor who has read my records and knows me. You know, like I'm supposed to do! If you don't want to do this, you shouldn't insist that we name the student health center as our PCP on our insurance!"
Once again, graduate student life has its downsides.
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