All the Smart People Want

Yesterday, I had the unexpected opportunity to have coffee with someone I sort-of knew, and his wife, whom I totally didn't know, and it was great---like a little oasis of inspirational connection with cool people.

"Bully for you," you say? Right. But here's the thing: this kind of happy synchronicity is so very very far outside my comfort zone. In the face of virtually all situations, I choose not to expose myself to a potentially-uncomfortable interaction with near-strangers, particularly without a well-worked out escape route. I am the person for whom the app exists that makes it look like someone is calling you and you have to go.

I met Baldie a few years ago because he was one of a group of people that I worked with on a project. Smart guy, very extroverted (in inverse proportion to the amount of hair he possesses, thus the name). We had a number of good conversations at the project meeting, and then a couple of follow-ups over the years: I saw him at a conference or two, exchanged emails, etc. I found him to be charming and also a bit "charm-offensive" on occasion---you know the dudes who refer to themselves in the third person? As in the ones who say, about themselves, stuff like "and I told them that Baldie McShine was having none of that!" Yep. Sort of like that. [Why I'm simultaneously attracted to and repelled by these guys is fodder for both therapy and another post.]

Last week, I noticed on Facebook that he and his wife were headed out on vacation, and would be driving by my city, and on a whim, I wrote to tell him that, if they had time, he should drop in for coffee or lunch. Let me say, for the record, I never really thought that he would. Who stops on a road trip to see people?! Um, apparently Baldie does. So with great trepidation and no escape plan (he caught me really flat-footed, as in "we'll be there in about an hour, will that work for you?"), I headed out to meet them.

Mrs. Baldie, or "Hash" as I think I'll call her (reasons below), was far more delightful than I would have expected. As was Baldie. I don't know if this is his pre-vacation stance, but he was natural, and relaxed, and using the first-person pronoun. [As I think about it, it may also be the case that he has settled into a solid job at a fairly prestigious SLAC, and so can relax a little.] Our conversation, as noted before, was really enjoyable, in that "wow, you think Polanski is a douchebag too? And you are appalled by Dr. Drew? Be my friend!" kind of way. [And here's what really made me love Mrs. Baldie: I was explaining how much I missed having cable, and the lucky happenstance of catching something on it that is just crap that you wanted to see. Her reply: "That's my favorite thing too! Who knew that I really needed to see Independence Day again, for the eighth time? What I really wish I could do is settle down with it with a big bowl of hash, and eat the old ice cream, the kind with the ice crystals in it." You want to be friends with her now too, don't you?]

Toward the end of the conversation, the topic turned to the "now what do we do with our lives" topic that is so much a part of my mental geography of late. Both of them laughed and talked about how they'd been thinking about getting new degrees, although it was difficult to support that idea---not for the reason I thought (cost, application, time commitment)---but rather because they have the skills to read something hard in a particular field and use secondary criticism to get more out of it. If that's the case, then why go to a program? "It's obvious," said I. "We all just want to have great, focused conversations with smart people."

As I walked them back to their car, it became clear to me that outside of the academic programs that I've been in, which really helped to engender those kinds of conversations, I would really have to be focused about creating them. I wonder if, in fact, that's one of the reasons many of us choose this profession: because we imagine that it's as close to a guarantee of those interactions as we can get. Baldie, it seemed, was making an effort to find these kinds of things too, or else he and Hash would have kept right on truckin' up the freeway. There are many things that I have thought I need to spend more time doing, now that my leave is up: write more, read more, get more exercise. But this seems like something I need to practice and develop an intention for as well---getting myself into social situations with smart people. Why has it taken me so long to figure that out?

I'm going to see if I can find a copy of Independence Day. Happy holiday, y'all. Go find a smart person and see what they can tell you.

Redemption via Facebook

Yes, yes, I've got a whole post about the wrap-up and triumphant turning-in of the tenure package, which I know you've all been waiting to read, on pins and needles, but it's going to have to wait, as I'm dying to talk about the mindfuck that is Facebook.

For the record, I only got on that damn thing because a colleague made me realize how useful it is finding out where alums have gone---not in a "creepy, I'm looking at your binge drinking pics" way, but in a "hey, didn't G. go off to some snazzy grad school, and wouldn't his input be useful for our current students?" way. And so with great caution, I waded into the (cess)pool. And thus the mortification began.

It's been discussed virtually (hah! "virtually." Get it?) everywhere that the social interactions on Facebook are tricky. Who's your friend? How do you treat your students? How do you maintain a professional face? Blah blah. Complicated, no doubt. [Basically, I try to stay out of people's faces, unless I know them pretty well, or they approach me first. I'm an advocate of Facebook passivity.]

So there I am making careful choices about who to friend and why, what kinds of applications to add [What philosopher am I? Check. What sexual position am I? Not so much.], and then they blow the doors off Facebook. There was once a time when it was a pool limited to institutions and businesses. I felt okay with that. Now it's a giant swirling cataract of everyone with computer access. Thanks for upping the ante, Facebook. There's nothing I'd like better than for my students to see what my high school boyfriend wants to say to me after 15 years.

Aside from the complications raised by self-presentation, however, there was also the question about social networks and friends of friends. Because Facebook is the Amazon of social interaction: "other people who like Jack also like Jill! Do you like Jill?" And if you and Jill share 20-25 friends, you see her damn face every time you go to the site. don't you think if I liked Jill I would have friended her by now?!!

And here lieth my 3 month seething social dilemma, and its surprising culmination, pace blog post title. It goes something like this: my hippie college has a thriving Facebook community. Like, there are more members for the teeny tiny program than there are for the entire college of which it is a part. So there's a whole lot of friending, wall-writing, good karma sending, picture posting, etc. The problem is this: once upon a time, I had an ugly, ugly run-in with a friend (Nutsy) and her ex-boyfriend (Werther). You know the kind. Like the two of them break up, he and I hook up, and then she threatens to kill me? In great detail? Like she's written up a flow chart to make sure she recalls what comes after the dismemberment step? Meanwhile, he's suddenly decided that I've betrayed him, and then the two of them get back together? [Lauren Conrad's SO got nothing on me.]

That was pretty much the last I saw of either of them, for a decade. A decade in which I periodically beat myself up for being such a horrible person, a bad feminist, a wronged woman, etc., etc. ( You know, writing it out like this makes it seem like so much less of a big deal. But it was! I was the worst person in the world!!)

So it was particularly horrifying to see Werther pop up on Facebook, daily, as friends of friends. For months. And I just kept thinking: cripes, he must be seeing me all the time too. How uncomfortable. Obviously, he's barely containing his hatred of me---however does he stand it?

You see where this is going, right?

Long story short: last night, for god only knows what reason, he friends me, and we've been having a delightful little interaction ever since. WTF, I say unto you, dear reader. WTF?!! Option A: he's decided to let bygones be bygones. Option B: he was perhaps also embarrassed about his behavior? Whatever the reasoning, the bottom line is this: I've been flagellating myself over this for the past 10 years, and now suddenly, it's no big deal. Think of the time and energy I could have saved myself. Dammit!!

New resolution: get some perspective about your behavior.
AND
Try not think that your at the center of the universe.

There's No Place Like Home

Someday, I'll write about something that matters, but right now, all of my brain power is wrapped up somewhere else. (If you're guessing "in your article?" you'd be wrong, btw.)

It occurred to me a few days ago that I'm going into my sixth year of living in Urbania. On the career side of life, this is a crucial year: it's the tenure application, it's the promotion application, it's the "who am I and what am I doing with the rest of my life" year. I'll have all year to panic and obsess about that.

Year six is also significant in another way: it marks the longest span of time I've spent in any one place other than my city of birth. I was holding off on this realization and its import by playing the rationalization game: well, technically, my first year I didn't live in Urbania proper; it was more like an outlying town. So I don't have to count year 1. That means that it's technically only been 4 years, going into 5, and thus, I don't have to really consider this until the end of next year!

But let's get real: the outlying areas of Urbania are, to some extent, suburbs of Urbania. Call it. I've lived here longer than undergrad town; idyllic post-grad city with the Big Red Bridge; Mid-Western podunk grad school town (for which I'm not complaining; I couldn't get out of there fast enough, and I wouldn't go back if you paid me); and even longer than I spent in teensy weensy Dissertation Village, where Senor Fluff had his job. [Dissertation Village is the home of what Frenchie has named Cornfield College, which is just too right.]

So what does that mean, exactly? Does that mean that this is now "home?" Certainly birth city, the neon jungle, no longer counts. If linguistic conventions tell me anything, I suppose it's significant that I tell people that "I'm going to neon city to visit my parents" and when I'm there, I tell people "I'm going home in a few days" (meaning Urbania).

But I've written about this before, (and whinged incessantly about it to everyone I know)---Urbania certainly doesn't feel like home. I've never quite gotten over the way people talk, the pronunciation of words, the social conventions. And then there are the other things: the seasonal lack of fresh produce that is abundant in the West year round, the creepy summer fecundity of plant life here. I miss desert, and mountains, and dry air. I miss Valley Girl talk and excessive use of the word "like" and sometimes, deep in my heart of hearts, I even miss women with obviously fake breasts. They're ornamental, you know?

So is "home" defined by duration or by affinity? And is there a point at which the first becomes the second? Or is it just a matter of course that I will always feel a bit like Dorothy, dropped into this place and wanting to go "home", only to discover that I was "home" all the time?

[And you were there, and so were you!]

The Rest of my Life

Done! Done! Finally!! [Or, as my sixth grade classmate mis-read in the famous MLK speech: "thank God immediately, done at last." Hee.]

Of course, done is never really done; there are books to be ordered, an article to write, a tenure file to assemble, and more pressingly, programmatic assessment to be done. Sigh. Regardless, all of this comes with the blessed benefit of NO INTERACTIONS WITH STUDENTS, which I desperately need at this point. I love them, for the most part, but damn, I need a break from having to work to understand and nurture their ideas.

So as summer really descends upon me, I find that I'm asking myself the question I always hit during this spoke in the academic cycle: what am I doing with the rest of my life? Generally, my angsty articulation of this question runs toward the long-term trajectory, i.e., where am I going to be in 20 years? But the summer brings about the other meaning of the question, i.e., what am I doing with the parts of my life that aren't my job?

There's something about the 9 month academic cycle that prevents me from engaging this second one with any amount of significant attention. Throughout the year, I tend to oscillate between two metaphors, both involving enormous boulders. I'm either A) pushing the giant boulder up a hill, a la Sisyphus, or B) running frantically as the giant boulder comes rolling down the hill behind me, pace Indiana Jones. Neither of these bouldiferous situations lead to careful consideration of activities outside teaching; research; service; p2p trauma; utter torpor/escape into fantasy to recover from the previous activities.

But with the prospect of two months of "free time" on my hands (even with the caveats above), I am pestered by the idea that I had better figure out what else my life consists of, what other proclivities, interests, hobbyhorses I should nurture so as not to become so attached to my job that it becomes the entirety of my life.

And thus, I dedicate the coming week to locating the rest of my life. [Hey, I like to start small. Maybe next summer will be devoted to building the rest of my life. Let me just find it first, okay?]