On the Incredible Difficulty of Being Kind to Oneself

It's a beautiful Wednesday morning here. The heat wave has broken a bit, so up until 11 or so, it's still in the 70s. I can hear the sound of the wind in the trees, the sussurations of the sleeping cats. And I'm itchy.

Yesterday, I had a beautiful moment, where I thought: "whoa. I think I'm done with the frantic itching. Yes, I was a bit scratchy when I woke up, but now that I've downed both my steroid pills and a Claritin, I feel good. Is this what concentration feels like? The utter lack of distraction from itching?"

What's changed, you ask? Because I felt good yesterday, and because I'm signed up to participate in a team athletic event in five weeks, I went for a run. Without sunblock (because it would irritate my skin---irony!). In the 80 degree, humid weather. What would inspire me to do such a thing, you ask? Well, I wouldn't want to waste the extra energy of these steroids!! Might as well get something out of it!

Jackass.

After a Benadryl last night at 10, and then another at 11:30 when I couldn't sleep, and then waking up every few hours because I was all itchy (something that hasn't happened at all over the past 2 weeks of affliction), I blearily googled "poison ivy exercise" this morning, to discover that, yes, sweating can indeed intensify the rash and make you more itchy. %$^&**!!

The real biter is this: despite the fact that I know that I'm suffering because I couldn't take some time off from working out, it's everything I can do not to go again. Or at least go to the pool. Part of that is because the steroids have the tendency to make me jumpy (ooh! look over there! shiny! what were you saying? what are we doing? I think there's something in the other room that I need to do, but I can't remember what it is. Hey, is the bathtub dirty?). Exercise of any sort tends to cure that right up. But the larger motivation, I think, is the difficulty of not doing what you think you should be. At any time.

As I was finishing up my run yesterday (which, I must say, when fueled by drugs, is a sure way to shave some minutes off your time), I was thinking about all of the academics I know, and the ways that we push ourselves too hard, even when we know we shouldn't. This tendency, I think, is even worse with academics who are also sporty---all of my runner friends (who deign to hang out with me, poky and shambling as I am) want better times, push themselves, etc. And despite all of this push push push, to a one, there's also a berate, berate, berate. "I should be doing more." "I should have done that better." "I suck at this." Accomplishment, here, is just a set-up for giving yourself a grudging pat on the back before moving on to evaluate all of the ways that you should have done it better.

Or, to go back to the cause of all of my itchiness. What's driving the self-flagellation right now? Sure, I ran yesterday, but I can't possibly take today off, or I'll have wasted everything I did yesterday. Sure, it will aggravate my affliction, but surely I have to get to training?!! If I were training harder when this started, I wouldn't be in this position! And while I'm at it, shouldn't I have gotten more work done by now? It's July already!

It's a hard thing to learn: stop being so hard on yourself. Stop pushing and give yourself room to work on something. When I listen to my friends berate themselves for all that they should have done or should be doing, over and above all that they've accomplished, I've taken to giving them a bit of crap about it. "Right, and the most important thing is that you be as hard on yourself as possible, and refuse to acknowledge anything good that you've done." It's easy for me to recognize this in others, who I consider smart and accomplished and laudable. It's less easy to recognize this in myself (as in: "well, yeah, but I'm not like them."). I need more practice. [And why haven't I been practicing this before?!!----you see the problem here...]

Faculty Behaving Badly

Do you think I could make a million dollars by pitching a show to a cable network that's based on highlighting the most egregiously-awful faculty behaviors? Could I be the Chelsea Handler of higher ed?

I think the pilot might involve the abuse of the campus-wide/whole-faculty email function. I'm sure that some IT guy, when he programmed this function into the mail service, figure that it would be a crucial function. There ARE announcements that the entire faculty needs to hear: graduation speakers, faculty governance issues, all-school calendars, etc. And actually, I like to know about speakers, concerts, class presentations, even if I can't or don't plan to attend. Hell, I don't even mind the occasional "I left my thumb drive in Classroom 117, has anyone seen it?" message. What I cannot abide, however, is the use of this communication feature as a means to castigate others publicly and/or pontificate. And really, how often is it one without the other?

Case in point: weeks ago, a committee sent out an announcement about a program they had designed for the campus community, and very kindly were inviting people to take part in. And then the email responses begin.

•Cranky Western Civ Guy: "I don't approve of the content of this program. Shouldn't we instead be forcing students to take part in [ideology A]? Your program contributes to the downfall of Western culture."
•Young Hipster Dude: "on the contrary, I've taken part in a corollary of said program, and it is works as a sincere questioning of the make-up of Western Culture. Which would be obvious if you'd read anything about said program."
•Dr. Can't Let A Conversation Go On Without Him: "I'm also concerned about the status of Western Culture. Kids nowadays. What are we going to do with them? I suggest that all take part in a a multi-hour re-training program that supercedes the one that this committee planned."
•Professor Literacy Advocate: "Based on this fascinating discussion, Western Culture is something we're all interested. The suggested program, however; approaches this in new and exciting ways which I support."
•Dr. Gravitas: "I think the point here is that the initial committee got off its collective ass to plan something, and thus it's their show. If you all want to plan something else, do it your damn selves."

Thank you, Dr. Gravitas!! If only you'd included the phrase: "now stop cluttering up my inbox with this crap, you pompous windbags!" That endpoint notwithstanding, the "conversation" finally died down, based, I think, on the reasoned position of Dr. G, as well as the relative weight of his seniority and stature.

BUT THEN!! Weeks after this has all finally gone away, Dr. Endowed Chair chimes in! As if none of this has happened! He too has concerns about the effects of said program, and the way that the students will interpret the implications of "our" decisions to run said program!! Oh, wailing and gnashing of teeth! And we're off, again, into round four thousand of faculty who see this as their opportunity both to express their individual opinions about the state of Western Civilization as we know it, and to offer their own brilliant suggestions about what the campus as a whole should be spending its collective time thinking about. [Thankfully, this last round ended in what I can only imagine is a shared sense of incredulity that shocked people into silence. Dr. Insano suggested, based on recent ecological events, that we all carefully examine and discuss this Malcolm Lowry novel. Sweet Jesus on a popsicle stick.

I'm floating a new suggestion amongst my colleagues who are equally suspicious of this abuse of the campus email, and it goes something like this. There should be some sort of non-negotiable, semi-punitive sacrifice that community members must make if they want to use this function. Non-negotiable, no exceptions. I suggest that they be forced to give up a toe. Then we'll see how important you REALLY think your contribution to communal discourse is.

Spanking my Inner Moppet

So, clearly, I need to work on this whole "blogging consistently" thing.

Many thanks to y'all for your kind welcomes back and congratulations. I'm happy to be back, and happy to think about rejoining the ongoing conversation. Since a couple of you mentioned that you're interested in the immediately post-tenured musings, I thought I could share a couple of the things that I've been thinking about (because otherwise, you'll have to hear about my spring break, or my marriage, or the exponential growth of my giant ass).

When I think back on my time here at Askesis U., I'm struck by the eternal recurrence of two particular observations involving some of the tenured professoriate. The first is the universal screed: how can that person (changeable with circumstance and context) be such a undermining bully/solipsistic nutjob/abusive, sneaky jerkface/(insert your own description-insult here). The second, of course, is the flip side of that coin: why doesn't someone shut him/her up, or, at least, advocate for the junior faculty who are getting whacked on by him/her?

I think I'm at an institution where we have an ingrained culture of the dyad described above, bought by years of power-grabs and tag-teaming and cults of personality. And I've certainly been on the receiving end of the abuse, while I've watched many of my friends/colleagues go through the same. My sense, then, is that my shiny new tenure comes with some significant responsibility. The first, is, in some ways, the easier and more visible of the two: figure out how to set up a situation for untenured faculty that doesn't mirror the gauntlet that I felt I had to run. I don't want to get some sort of bizarre martyr complex here, I don't think I need to save people, especially those who don't feel like they need saving. So for now, I'm hoping that it's enough to listen when people come to talk to me, and to look for ways to make things like committee appointments, departmental busywork, and course rotation more fair.

The other one is the one that troubles me more, as it seems more insidious. My additional responsibility, I think, is to avoid becoming a self-satisfied, authoritarian baby tyrant who thinks that she knows everything and holds people hostage to her own ideas. Part of me hopes that some of you are saying: "no way! you could never become that person!" [If you're not, skip ahead a few sentences.] Oh, but I could! I really could! Look, I'm basically already that person in certain situations (buying housewares, for instance). In many ways, I think the tenure system, with its complete lack of checks and balances, is a set-up for the production of tyrants. Yogini and I have already discussed two of our courses that aren't going so superbly this semester, and ended by saying: "hey, at least no one is reading the course evals anymore." You SEE?!!

In short, tenure, it seems to me, comes with a set of ethical responsibilities that are the least of your worries when you're assembling your materials. As an inveterate self-flagellator, spending 30 years in a system without many consequences except opprobrium is a recipe for potential disaster. I'm keeping my eyes open for some good role models, and some hidden mechanisms to keep my inner tyrant bound up. In the meantime, if you hear me getting too big for my new britches, start yelling, would you?

The Dean of Rub

[Note: this post is a desperate attempt to get some real work done. Does blog writing inspire that? Let's see!]

When last we spoke, gentle reader, I mentioned a rather physical run-in with a certain administrator at another school. I'm feeling very ambivalent about it; I think I should be irate, and I'm reaching for that. In actuality, however, I feel sort of perplexed, a bit amused, a skosh grossed-out and surprised. Here's the story:

Two years ago, Yogini and I trotted off to a conference that was closely aligned with our collaborative service project. Of the many panels that we took in there, one was a keynote presentation by a group from a small college that has really pioneered the use of a particular technological tool. We weren't the only ones who were interested: the room was packed to the rafters with at least 75 people, all oohing and ahhing over the examples they were showing. As we watched the presenters, Y. and I got more and more excited; this seemed to be an tool with potential for many of the things going on on our campus! And it could help students! And it was right in line with things we'd been toying with for awhile! Yeehaw!! Because we had come in late, Y. and I were sitting across the room from each other, but the mind-meld was in effect and we were already decided: these presenters were only about two hours away from Urbania. If we could hook our wagon to their star, we were all over it.

[I fear that this next section is going to sound like I'm some sort of egomaniacal narcissist. That may be true, but it's also the case that these events have external verification. If you think I'm getting too full of myself, I'd be happy to create a bulleted list of my shortcomings and physical deformities.] As the presentation wore on, I made with the smiling and the nodding and the obvious note-taking. And the main presenter--then the assistant dean of the college--made eye contact with me. And continued to do so for the rest of his portion of the session. Which was weird, but I attributed it to my enthusiastic listening face (really, I fear that it's quite aggressively enthusiastic; I like presenters to know that I'm paying attention).

When they finished up, Y. and I met up and planned strategy. She's the networker, I'm the clean-up crew in these situations, so she approached one of the women in group and began to tell her how interested we were, asked some good questions [you know, she did the networking thing. How does that work? I have NO idea, but she rocks at it]. As we're talking to the woman (okay, Y. is talking, I'm wearing my enthusiastic listening face), Dean-Dude finishes up his own conversation and comes over. He introduces himself to me, I take the "we're so interested" page out of Y's book, and awkwardly try to network. Not necessary! He's all over it---he finds out what I do, let's me know that he was a co-founder of a ground-breaking project in my field, offers to lead a team to little Askesis U. "if it could be helpful to us" and then hands over drink tickets to Y and me for the reception that evening.

I prefer not to think about how that could have played out if we had gone. Needless to say, we holed up in our hotel room and compared notes.

Last year, we contacted the school about making a site visit; after much wrangling, we made arrangements. At the last minute, Y. had to cancel because she was sick. I ended up going with Senor Fluff, actually, because of a kink in his job description. We spent most of the day in workshops with the school's faculty, and met briefly with Dean-Dude in his office over lunch. While there was a bit of sizing up, the tractor-beam gaze/hard sell thing he'd had going at the conference was gone. I figured that perhaps that was only his conference persona/behavior. Once he was in the office, he was the administrator dude.

Oh-ho! She speaks to soon! Last week, I attended a conference at the school; a part of their grant program to teach people how to use this tech tool. There's a team of peeps from my college---once again including Senor Fluff---that have been going down to the school once a month, but this time they needed others to whom they'd present their work. So an additional three of us showed up for the morning session. Dean-Dude gave his presentation to all, and I thought there might be a bit of the tractor-beam going on, but maybe I was imagining it? Who knows.

How about I shorten this up? At the end of the day, we were supposed to meet with our group, come up with a plan, and then report out to the rest of the groups. We were the last group to go, and I read our mediocre brainstorming. Break for lunch is announced, and as people start to break up, Dean Dude comes over to me. Well, perhaps that's an understatement: more like, "sidles up to me so that we're standing shoulder to shoulder." We have a strange conversation in which he tells me that he purposely put us at the end, because he knew that we'd have good ideas to share, that he was impressed with what I had said in a certain point, that our team was very smart. And I assume that I said the right things in response, but I was going on auto-pilot, because I was totally distracted by all of the touching that was happening. There was the initial handshake--all within the bounds of propriety. But as he talked, there was arm-rubbing, there was hip-bumping, there was more arm-rubbing. I couldn't help but look around in wonder; is this just how these kinds of things go? Am I the only one who is freaked out by this?! Is everyone else getting the rub-down, and I'm just hopelessly naive?

Note to the uninitiated: I don't like it when people invade my personal space, and that extends doubly to touching. I don't like hand-shaking, I don't like hugging, I hate the fact that the chairs in the college auditorium are so close together that I can't help but brush a colleague's shoulder with my own. If I could, I'd exist in a bubble with a two-foot radius all the way around me.

Why all of this didn't send me into a paroxysm of screaming I have no idea. I think was paralyzed by disbelief. This can't actually be happening; this is a professional environment; you're touching my arm. No, seriously, you're rubbing my upper arm---for an extended period of time. Is anyone else getting this?!

So that's the story: my association with this school, and in some ways with this tech tool in general is that of getting felt up by the internationally-known administrator who is the mastermind behind it all.

I feel as if the appropriate sentiment is outrage: who is this guy?! Why does he feel entitled to touch me?! Instead, as I said, I'm just sort of bemused. As in "really? Seriously, dude? This is what you're going for?" And the larger question: why?
And the second larger question: why me? [Oh, the therapists I've had that would tell me that my inability to create boundaries are visible...] Is it me, not him?! Am I sending the "please come and give me the academic rub-down" vibe? Is my enthusiastic listening face interpreted as "she wants to get with me and my tech tool"?

And finally, there's a special kind of weirdness to being at a conference and getting felt up on one side while your spouse, engaged in a different conversation, is on your other. That, my friends, is a post for another time.

Suck It, Delayed Gratification

So I know that all of us are in grading jail right now. And I have no doubt that everyone thinks that she is the worst procrastinator. You're reading blogs, you're cleaning your bathroom, you're watching the America's Next Top Model marathon on MTV (and what's up with that, anyway?). Blah blah. I just took the last two days off. Haven't read a single paper. Top that!!

Clearly, this is nothing to brag about. By Tuesday morning, I should have graded: 15 research papers and 14 presentations; 21 portfolios and 21 online research projects and written a final exam. What are the chances, ladies and gentlemen? Nil, say you? I have to agree. I sort of knew when I put this schedule together that I was going to be screwed, but I have so actively screwed myself with my total lack of focus on Friday and Saturday that it's now a dire situation. And it occurs to me that this has been my pattern ALL SEMESTER LONG. I've put off grading and prepping and then, at the last hour, have run around like a chicken with my head cut off. Or, in more realistic terms, I run for two days on no sleep and caffeine. Making me both Princess McGrumpypants and verging on the edge of hysterical hallucinations on Tuesdays and Thursdays.

I've never been one to engage in delayed gratification. You know those studies about kids who can wait to eat the candy, and then they grow up and become successful and famous and svelte? Not me. Not even close. Give me that marshmallow and damn the consequences. But at some point, you think the realization of sleep-deprivation and pain would sink in. Or that it would sink in prior to the moment of realizing my screwage.

But no. Apparently I'm going to end this semester like I started it. If anyone wants me, I'll be grading and self-flagellating.

**ETA: Twelve hours, ten papers, two meals. Sucking wind. Totally and completely hosed. Hoisted by my own petard. I'd try to locate another lousy cliche, but you get the picture.

One Hand Tied Behind My Back

Why, why, I ask you, can the stupid gits in my neighborhood not encrypt their wireless? My poor little MacBook is so confused; it's picking up 4 different signals at any given time. It's not that I don't totally groove on watching the little wheel spin while a page loads. Really, it renews my deep connection to the cycles of the earth. It gives me a sense of peace that far exceeds the one I would receive from being able to complete my damn work online. It's only 9:30. I really do have all night, by gum! What would be truly super would be if it were the same neighbor with the child who cries around the clock--the one we often refer to as "McScreamy." If he could manage to interrupt my train of thought AND my wireless connection, he'd be the neighborhood all-star. Hell, if someone could manage to pull a Nancy Kerrigan and bust out one of my knee-caps, we'd have a trifecta of gargantuan proportions.

The real rub, in all of this, is that I've gotten really used to watching YouTube clips in between student blog posts. When the videos won't load, it's just back to back student blog posts. There is no joy in mudville, my friends. None at all. I lay this all at the feet of my neighbors, damn it. And in the meantime, get the sick girl more cold medicine!

Thus endeth the rant. Back soon with far less crankiness.

The Freshman Brain

This year, like last year, I find myself teaching a course comprised entirely of first year students. Twenty two students who come to me fresh out of high school. Students who are 17 or 18. Students who, as they told me today, were in seventh grade when the events of 9/11 occurred. Sweet Jesus.

This year, unlike last year, my class of first years is energetic and easy to get into a conversation. In fact, while last year I was pulling teeth trying to get the students to talk, this year I can't get them to shut up. I have a student who responds to everything I say as if I were only saying it to him. Ten minutes of class discussion is about the outside limit before I see students turn to their neighbors to chat. I meet in a classroom in which each seat has a computer; on the first day of class, the only way I could get them to stop logging into their MySpace and AIM accounts was to tell them to put both hands in the air, like it was some kind of stick-up.

All of this is making me think about the Freshman Brain. There is a small cohort of us working with all first year students, and we've talked a lot about how alienating and difficult coming to college can be. How Maslow's hierarchy of needs kicks in right away (e.g., knowing what time the caf closes is far more important than being able to summarize the reading for class). In the abstract, I have all kinds of sympathy, and it makes absolute sense to me. In daily practice, however, I'm constantly having to remind myself that these students are learning how to participate in college life. Or, as a colleague phrased it to me today: "They're not just learning the content; they're learning how to learn in a college setting. That's a whole lot to learn all at once."

For now, the only allegory that seems to be working is the one that compares coming to college to a semester abroad. They may have a vague handle on the language, but the habits and etiquette are foreign to them. And if we were all good natives, we'd understand that they're trying things out, and that if we want them to enjoy our country, then we should gently explain how things are done, not yell at them and treat them like foreigners.

So I'm trying, daily, to be explicit about the practices that underpin college life. As in "we're going to discuss the reading now, and what that means is that you speak, one at a time, and listen to one another, and think about what your classmates are saying and reflect on how your own ideas intersect with theirs." As in "you don't have to ask my permission to go to the bathroom." As in "please don't ask me repeatedly if we have homework for the next class and what it is, since it's printed in the syllabus and you can look it up whenever you want." Because when I go to a foreign country, I just want someone nice to tell me what to do and how to do it, rather than blundering about and acting like an asshole without knowing it.

I don't know how or when we learned how to be college natives, so it's a bit difficult to shape the experience for someone else. But I'm not buying the idea that students that don't know should be punished, or are stupid or worse, purposely behaving in ways to piss off professors and disrupt class.

That being said, when they packed up their stuff and walked toward the door at the end of class and I was in the middle of a sentence, I did say: "If you do this in any other professor's class, she will bitch slap you for sure. Sit down until I'm done."

Sometimes, the natives get restless.

(shudder)

Say what you will about the vast and wonderful benefits of the globalization of cuisine. I know that I certainly benefit from it. Urbania manages to maintain a Korean restaurant, a few decent sushi places, a vast battalion of Italian joints, and two truly fabulous and pricey French bistros.

Despite this, however, I feel empowered to say that Paula Deen, doyenne of Southern cooking on the Food Network, is simply not allowed to feature an episode of "Home Cooking" called Thai for My Guy, in which she runs the viewer through Pad Thai, Tom Yum soup (although she doesn't call it such), and coconut flan. It's just wrong. It's particularly wrong when she explains how "y'all" might procure kaffir lime leaves. It's even more wrong when she demonstrates her ineptitude with chopsticks. Come on, dammit!

Despite the results of my personality test, I suppose it's safe to say that the judging is back.

Burgle.

Yesterday I broke into a house.

No, it wasn't mine.

How's that for a triumphant return to the blogosphere? I'm trying to be more regular here (what's the blogging equivalent of Metamucil?), but jeez, the end of the semester. Grading, reading drafts, oh, and there's that pesky paper to be delivered next week... [BTW, if anyone is going to be in Mass. next weekend for a conference, which shall go unnamed here, give me a shout-out! I'm a great conference cocktail partner!]

So, back to the burgling. The ever-hopeful Yogini has been searching, off and on, for a house in Urbania for about a year now. And it's not an easy thing; one can find a domicile within the Urbania city limits that's affordable on a Askesis U. salary, but one also might be watching violence in front of one's new house every night, or worse, living next to college students. When a new property comes on the market that's in a liveable neighborhood and will not require paying the monthly mortgage with a credit card, it goes FAST. You have to be the first one in, and the first one to the table with an offer.

Yogini's been through that particular race before; she gets into the house on its second day on the market, and its already got three offers. But yesterday, miraculously, her realtor scheduled the first appointment on a house; coincidentally, it's right across the street from mine. That's awesome for many reasons, not least among them that looking at houses on the market satisfies my homeowner voyeuristic blood-lust. So I walked over with Yogini to meet the realtor, and we stood patiently at the door as she fiddled with the key. Hmmm. "It fits, but it won't turn. Do you mind trying?" We all tried, but agreed that something was stuck. After calls to the other realtor, walking around the property peering into windows, etc., the realtor had to go, but knew Yogini was interested.
"Look," she said. "The seller's realtor told me that we could just get in a window."
"They're locked," said we.
"But these old houses have turning window locks. The other realtor said you can just stick a knife up there and flip it."
"Are you sure we won't get arrested?"
"Yes..." [It occurs to me now that this is a bit of an ambiguous answer.]

So the realtor leaves, Yogini and I get tools from my house, and we proceed to, well, flip the lock and get into the house through the window. [Note to self: change window locks.] It's cute, this house. It's obviously been cleaned out; no one's living there currently. Despite that, the little-old-married-couple aesthetic remains (wallpaper borders in the kitchen, a chuck-wagon iron applique on the fireplace), but its got good bones. This house could work!

Yogini and I are in the basement, poking at the boiler, which looks to be older than the two of us put together, when we hear---holy crap!!!---footsteps upstairs! With visions of a Silence of the Lambs/Marcellus Wallace-style story in my head, I rush upstairs to meet the person. It's the freaking owner (who, thankfully, had neither a ball gag in his hand, nor asked us to "put the lotion in the basket. Whew.) His realtor had called saying that we couldn't get in. And now, of course, the door works just fine. AAARGH!!!!

Yogini and I do our best to convince him that we're not grifters. He calls his realtor to tell her that we got in, and she, much to her credit [particularly since she was the one who told us HOW to break into the house!!] calls Y's realtor who rushes right back over. I think we smoothed it all out, but he did refer to us as "larcenists." Which, technically, I think is untrue. Isn't larceny only applicable if we steal something?

The icing on this cake, of course, is that Yogini put in her offer last night. And the owner had ALREADY RECEIVED an offer. How is that possible? Did they bust in the back door?

Ah, Urbania. Keep your fingers crossed for Y., y'all, because god only knows what we'd have to do next time to get her a house.