ACSP: Let’s call the whole thing off?

After my last post, friend and fellow scholar Rolf Pendall asked me a pretty good question, which is: can we really justify having a big yearly conference at all, granted the climate effects of all that travel and the disadvantages big conferences have for many scholars, including myself, whose social anxiety makes most conferences rather torturous.

Rolf suggested smaller regional conferences, which is an interesting idea. Riffing on that idea, I thought about maybe doing topical conferences–a symposium on planning theory, for example.

There are some advantages to smaller conferences, even if I don’t necessarily think they would have much climate benefit. (Maybe I am being dense here but I think shorter trips are likely to add up to roughly the same, and I suspect plenty of scholars would want to attend more than one conference under a new, more distributed conference strategy. )

One major advantage would be that smaller conferences would be shorter and easier for parents to manage and for junior scholars to afford–we could probably manage most tracks at ACSP in two days if we separated them, instead of how ACSP demands about a week-long commitment from administrators, from those who have put the radical planning sessions prior to the main event, and a person can wind up staying a pretty long time at ACSP if they moderate a session on Thursday and their presentation is Sunday. Two days is about $400 to $800 savings in hotel and childcare costs over what can happen with ACSP scheduling now. Lots of people fund travel out of their own pockets, and this savings would be significant.

A smaller conference wouldn’t help me much in terms of my social anxiety, as mine kicks in for any group, big or small. Leaving my house is an effort, so it doesn’t take much to put me off going to anything anywhere at any time. I probably get to ACSP once every three years, and perhaps the right answer anyway: for those of us who just don’t do well in social contexts, emphasizing conference participation less than we have in the past for hiring and promotion would likely be better. I’ve always tried to be useful as moderator, giving feedback particularly to more junior participants on their manuscripts, but I can say I only twice had a moderator do the same for me in twelve years of ACSP.

We could also try timing the conference differently: we could do the big national conference every other year instead of every year. Smaller conferences create new organizing burdens that currently get covered by the bigger conference staff and host universities.

That strikes me as a pretty good suggestion, too, but it shares the same drawback as distributing to regional or topical conferences: ACSP matters for job seekers a great deal. I’m pretty sure I have never succeeded in impressing anybody at ACSP, but that’s just me. We have tons of job networking going on, and if you finish your dissertation and graduate during an “off” year, it would change your prospects quite a bit, and adding an extra year of potential unemployment is way hard on young scholars.

The possibility I like, but the organization wouldn’t, is trimming down the yearly conference to two-three days at most. This involves a lot more work on the part of the organizers, but I do like the idea. Instead of evaluating abstracts, we could limit submissions only to people who submit completed manuscripts by the submission date, we review those manuscripts, and we take the best by tier: by tenured, nontenured, graduate student, giving priority to junior scholars. ACSP wants participants and registration fees (and how else does it pay the bills), but all that leads to a very large conference with a lot of partially baked ideas which may not benefit from feedback anyway, and that don’t reflect all that well on the person giving the presentation.

What idea do you like? Or is there a different one we should think about? I like “planning theory bad mammajama symposium” where I only invite people I like, but I suppose it’s not all about me, more’s the pity.

I don’t know how to have an ethical ASCP, but it’d be awfully nice to figure it out

Those of us who have been around awhile have been through the mill with ACSP more than once on controversies about conference location and the political/cultural environment of the conference. ACSP has relocated the conference before in response to constituents’ legitimate demands that we respect NAACP travel boycotts, and now we’ve had a similar problem with an upcoming conference hosted by Clemson. I haven’t been privy to decision-making that went into either awarding the conference to that location or in the demands the decision be reviewed. SC has been active in anti-trans legislation, and we have to ask questions about what it means to bring dollars to places that do that.

I did take the survey that ACSP sent out asking for reactions and reflections, and the survey was hard for me. I really don’t know what I think. All I have is: I want to have conferences in places where my trans friends and friends of color are treated with the respect and decency they deserve. Unfortunately, I can’t think of many places, included my beloved California, where that’s really, genuinely true.

I am sympathetic to the argument that travel boycotts just hurt working people in the state who have very little influence on the policy process. But I have to rejoin, how much *benefit* do working people get from business anymore? I mean, it feels a little like corporations just take all the profits from everything and the only thing you do by boycotting a place with lousy policy is save those working at the Motel 6s for shitty wages already some work having to deal with you. That doesn’t strike me as all bad, necessarily, especially if the preprondance of benefits from labor get captured by elite interests while the preponderance of the work falls to the laborer.

For the most part, I basically think we should just do whatever Planners of Color Interest Group and the Queer Planning IG)* tell us to do and go with that.*

We recently got an email from ACSP outlining the responses to the survey and the costs of changing course on the conference location at this point, over $300,000. And that’s the part of this discussion that rubbed me the wrong way. By disclosing that number, it creates transparency, but it is also very likely to put a great big ol’ thumb on the decision scale among ACSP member cis- faculty who aren’t 1) aren’t likely to experience potentially life-threatening violence at the hands of the police themselves and 2) not particularly tuned into why trans faculty would like us to stay in safe(r) locations. Certainly, plenty of cisfaculty understand these things and support their trans colleagues brilliantly, but are they the norm at ACSP?

To wit, ACSP has a major financial interest in staying the course, as it did last time this came up, and that cost itself becomes a reason to stay the course. But we’ve been through this before, and the costs are high, so the question for me arises: why do we keep granting conference bids to places that are going to be a problem? Ok, maybe we can’t predict it, but…we should., right? We’re planners. All this comes down to how we need to get more diversity on that ACSP board. It’s one thing to get blindsided by a legal changes and another to ignore the last four years of bathroom wars, and this latter here is more likely to happen when the board doesn’t have somebody who is likely to raise these issues, and concomittantly, other board members who will support and back up anybody who raises the issue (instead of, as in my life, just ignoring them.) otherwise we are in a forever cycle of award bid, make plans, “discover” the problems, welp, can’t change the locale because it’s so costly.

Another, confounding problem is simply that some of our very finest planning programs are in states that seem hell bent on writing the rottenest abortion legislation possible so that whatever “compromise” makes its way out of the rubble they hope to make out of Roe and Casey boils down to all women must wear mannacles and attend Liberty University and any trans men will be stoned in the public square. Georgia Tech, Clemson…boatloads of excellent programs in Texas…

The bottom line for me is that I just don’t want to go to places with state legislatures doing these things. I don’t want to go Florida OR Texas (great planning programs) because of their gun craziness, and I don’t want to go to these places where women just don’t seem to matter.

*I do not think it’s a interest group yet. My perspective is the women’s interest group should do a good job of standing with and advocating for our queer colleagues and our colleagues of color, but the organization has been uneven on that, and groups deserve their own places and their own voices, so I have made it into an interest group in my own mind. Making it formal does create a potential service and leadership tasks for our queer colleagues, which sucks, too, so I can also see why keeping it less formal makes sense too. )

Research saves me from burnout

It’s been quiet around here because I just haven’t had much to say and not much time to say it. I spent most of May in gorgeous Croatia, a place that more than merits your travel dollars and time. We had a great time. Here’s a map and some photos:

It has been a long time since I’ve taken any real time away, and I’ve been burned out. I’ve tried to stay on top of classes, work with my PhD students, and try to get research in. I haven’t. I’ve had no focus and no desire to do anything. Part of it is learning to deal with the lupus. It does makes you tired.

It turns out that the last thing I really needed to stay away from research. I went to Croatia to attend a bioethics symposium, and I went through my usual angst and anxiety, hating presenting, etc. But I had a wonderful time. I took notes all day! I encountered terrific ideas about AI and ethics, why we shouldn’t make robots look like people, and I met one of my student’s brothers. And I was energized and interested.

I’m dead tired from the travel, but I have all sorts of appointments lined with students and a tentative work plan for my own research.

Check my thoughts/principle/idea: I am not going to agree to do uncompensated teaching any more

I work pretty hard to be a good mentor, both inside and outside the classroom, and in general I enjoy getting to know students and colleagues through workshops and whatnot that I am often asked to do, but I am inclined to start to say no when asked to do uncompensated teaching. Figuring out what a “reasonable” amount of service to do is a perpetual struggle, especially for women and faculty of color, and it’s too easy to say yes to teaching.

Why say no? For one it does eat up time. And just like writers and artists who want to draw a line at doing uncompensated work for “exposure”, free teaching strikes me as a way to devalue the very real work of teaching well..

Moreover, the “free teaching” requests that come out of USC benefit the institution. I love having pipeline programs and getting diverse students interested in things, but you know, I never have any grace or leeway granted to me regarding my teaching duties. One enrolled student short of the cutoff for a TA? Sucks to be you, no TA. By some weird kink we have 2 credit hour classes that fit with with nothing else and burden junior faculty with more course preps? The fact that some really nice faculty member 30 years ago once taught two sections of that for 2 hour credit means that you have to do so, too. Sucks to be you, you owe us the other 2 credit hours come hell or high water. Or take a pay cut. Up to you.

Given that institutional rigidity, why exactly should I teach for free as a service task? No matter how minor the actual teaching task?

I haven’t thought this all the way through, so I’m interested in opinions. Not ones that start out “Look, bitch from hell, you are worthless at your job because I hate women but here’s a bunch of pretexts as to why this comment isn’t really about that…”

Instead, happy to hear real ideas: should I do this as somebody who is institutionally protected as a means to say to administrators “dammit, teaching is our bread-and-butter and it deserves compensation” or does my stance somehow make things harder for adjuncts and contract faculty to do so as well? I 100 percent support them in setting the same limit.

I have a serious question: why does Joel Kotkin get to be considered “an important urbanist” but I don’t?

I admit, to no small degree, I likely ask this question out of a bruised ego, but my ego or not, I think this question is enlightening.

I asked this question to Manuel Pastor a few weeks ago when I interviewed him for the podcast. Now, Manuel is one of the greatest, if the greatest, scholar I know. *He* is an important urbanist. It took USC way too long to get its poop together and start heaping him with endowed chairs and university titles, but it finally did, and it’s way well-deserved. ( Please do pick up Manuel’s book and listen to the podcast if you get a chance because it’s a very nice, unwonky policy/politics book from an excellent policy scholar. Oh and you can watch Manual talk about it here. )

Manuel called Kotkin “an important urbanist” in his (otherwise excellent) book, State of Resistance, and I called him out on it, and it got uncomfortable even though Manuel is one of my favorite people in the world, and I think most of the time he likes me, too (not always an easy or pleasant thing.) Bugging him about it wasn’t particularly nice.

But when genuinely, authentically important scholars like Manuel validate people like Kotkin as important, I die a little.

Manuel didn’t have a good answer to this “Why are you calling Joel Kotkin important” question, and I think it’s because Manuel’s very fast brain, in mid-interview, made the connections that I see, only after he couldn’t do much about it: Kotkin gets to be important because he gets published in various media outlets and the rest of us validate this. Why? He’s a white male contrarian who writes decently well, and self-appointed contrarians get to be treated seriously because Americans love “balanced” things in an uncritical way because it allows us to substitute virtues like “listening to both sides” as an end in itself instead of a means to “a resolved, deliberated course of action.” The former allows us to feel like good, nice people without having to deal with the latter’s hard work of rhetoric, conflict, sacrifice, and rigor.

You can make a really good living exploiting this tendency (see Brooks, David). Much more seriously, if you are one of 4,000 scientists who are like, yep, we’re cooking planet with likely disastrous consequences, you have a 1/4000 chance of getting the call to comment when a reporter from the NYT calls. If you are 1 of 20 scientists willing to say anything, no matter how factually or morally wrong, to feather your own nest, your shot is better at being a “singular” expert in the NYT. Journalists seek “balance.” If other university administrators reward media hits as much as USC has done (learning the hard way that not all publicity is good publicity), the latter strategy has real merits for becoming an “important” scientist without having to do any real work.

I see Kotkin the same way. Why be one of the 12,000 urban scholars who agree that infill is a good idea when you can stand up for suburbs which, btw, are in general growing and many doing fine without you? Deploy finger guns here.

Normally, I can stand this stuff. Even relatively superficial contrarianism like Kotkin’s “if a New Urbanist says one thing I’ll say the opposite” strategy can help us think more rigorously if good critical scholars pull apart the trolling and see what kind of weaknesses there are in things around which a consensus has formed. I’ve generally told people to hold their fire, don’t get too wound up, the noisy world of pundits is full of fluff, and the more attention you pay to dumb stuff, the bigger platform you give it. And there’s always work to be done empircally examining various claims among the dominant paradigmers and the contratrians.

Kotkin’s recent garbage essay in the Daily Beast, is, however, a bridge too far. And I’m not linking to it because not today, clickbaiters. Here, Kotkin wants us to understand the American, European, etc baby factories (aka women) are a problem, speaking just demographically, natch, except among those EN-VI-RO-mentalists who see procreation as a practically a sin. Why, employers gotta scramble for labor! And of course immigration isn’t an answer because those people are all uneducated and poor and competition for US’s own uneducated and poor people. They aren’t sending us their best! Instead, baby factories should flip to “on.”

Kotkin just keeps repeating this “immigrants can’t be the answer, it must be the baby factories” claim over and over and over in this painfully long exercise in bad thinking. Why is immigration just an impossible way to have young laborers join an economy? Wait for it: “immigration upsets people.”

Gee, the rest of us hadn’t noticed that, Joel. Thanks.

This is the level of insight it takes to be “important”? This is rewarmed 1980s demographic thinking and FoxNews-level xenophobia provided a gentler intellectual cover. Stahhhhhhp. No wonder the rest of us are fed to the teeth with old dudes telling us how great they are when this is the game they bring. We’re bored.

And we should be.

#MuellerReport text mining

My student Herri Gulabani (gulabani@usc.edu) and I nerded out during class the day that the Mueller Report dropped. Herry basically used a set of scripts that I gave them earlier in the semester for analyzing tweets about bike subscription services in New York and Minneapolis. I’m putting us both as creators because of that, and because I want to be able to make sure that I get the pushback in case any of Donal Trump’s fascist followers decide to make an issue of it at USC.

Here are probably the most informative graphics (and my personal favorite) from Herry’s exercise:

We did this with retweet and tidyverse.

Ina Caro as a re​search collaborator and research that takes time

First off, a note: I will be maintaining this blog and social media accounts to some degree, but I am no longer responding or engaging to comments. I will use social media primarily for promoting books, the podcast, and my students.

I’ve been reading Robert Caro’s little book called Working, and as virtually all my close friends know, I am a sucker for writing process books, and this one is often really delightful. I have a longstanding dispute with Robert Caro over his paragraphing–he lets them go on entirely long. I get that his watchword patience, but good paragraphing can still let you go on as long as you like.

Reading this book has been lots of fun, not only because I have a fondness for Caro, but because his attitudes about so many things reflect my own: it boils down to, look if I could have written dozens of books quickly, I would have done that, but I couldn’t. I wrote and researched the only way that felt right to me.

Bless his heart for saying it out loud. For everybody looking at tenure track professors and financially successful authors, it’s easy to treat that statement as so much privilege. Perhaps it is. But perhaps it’s also actually true. I spent my early years on the tenure track, and before that, as a consultant, playing the game, and while I did it, I wasn’t all that good at it, and it hollowed me out and made me sick. I was really, really unsuited to the 8 to 7 world of a regular consulting gig; I can’t work around other people. That job finally drove me to a breakdown. This is one reason why now that I have tenure and full I spend a lot of time and energy standing against unreasonable expectations for productivity and adjunct exploitation.

Since the PR stuff around Caro’s book came out, there has been quite a bit of criticism about how his process reflects his privilege, and while it is true, it’s probably best to remember that a whole damn bunch of us who look like we’re sitting on top of the world weren’t born there and sacrificed a lot to get there.

There has also been a lot of speculating about how much Caro acknowledges his wife’s contributions and sacrifices, and if you are worried about Robert being grateful to Ina, don’t be. In this book, she is front and center, and it seems they are like Plato’s two halves made whole. She’s his lobster, and he hers. (He’s always talked about her extensively in his acknowledgments, too, but most people don’t read those unless they are looking for themselves or hopelessly nosy like me.)

Here’s Caro on how both he and Ina sacrificed and paid dues for the Power Broker:

When I was a reporter I blamed this feeling on the deadlines. I just hated having to write a story while there were still questions I wanted to ask or documents I wanted to look at. But when I turned to writing books, the deadlines were no longer at the end of a day, or a week, or, occasionally if you were lucky in journalism, a month. They were years away. But there were deadlines: the publisher’s delivery dates. And there was another constraint: money—money to live on while I was doing the research.* But the hard truth was that for me neither of these constraints could stand before the force of this other thing. It wasn’t that I was cavalier about deadlines. As it happens, I was lucky enough to have a publisher who never mentioned them to me, but they loomed in my mind nonetheless, as I missed them by months and then by years. * And I hated being broke, having to worry about money all the time. (I didn’t know the half of it. It wasn’t until, in 1974, when, after I had been working on the book for seven years, The New Yorker bought four excerpts from The Power Broker that my wife, Ina, said “Now I can go to the dry cleaners again.” I hadn’t realized—because she had never told me—that we had been unable to pay the bills at our local dry cleaners (or, I later learned, butcher shop) for so long that she had been doing her shopping in a more distant shopping area. (As years earlier, we had moved to an apartment in Spuyten Duyvil in the Bronx after I came home one day to the house on Long Island that Ina loved, at a complete loss as to how to go on without a regular paycheck, to find her standing in the driveway to tell me, “We sold the house today.”

*See any of these spots for a paragraph break, friends. Would that be so much to ask?

Yes, certainly, lots of young writers don’t have a Princeton education and lots of young journalists never get a house to sell for their books, but the idea that this was all sunshine and roses it’s very accurate either. I’m for the idea that spouses who contribute as much as Ina did deserve authorship, it dishonors her considerable agency and commitment to the work–not just to Caro, to the work–to act like she was a long-suffering spouse who had no choice in how her life rolled out. One reason why the Caros took time over the stories they told was, simply, that they wanted to give proper time and attention to the people that nobody else paid any time or attention to.

Ina’s contributions become particularly important when getting information to precisely to the of the Texas Hill country:

And, of course, as Ina became friends with them, they told her intimate details they at they would never have told me: about the perineal tears, caused by childbirth without proper medical care, which seemed to be common in the Hill Country. (And indeed were: I was looking up federal statistics and studies from the New Deal days all the time now, and one study by a team of gynecologists had found that out of 275 Hill Country women, 158 had perineal tears, many of them third degree “tears so bad that it is difficult to see how they could stand on their feet.”) And yet, Ina would tell me, her eyes brimming, how these women had told her they had no choice but to stand on their feet and do the chores; with their husbands working from “dark to dark” (…) there was no one else to do them. I recall many moments of revelation like that; as I say, I hope to write about more them someday.* When Ina said to me one evening with real anger in her voice, “I don’t ever want to see another John Wayne movie again,” I knew exactly what she meant. So many of the women in western movies were simply the background figures standing at stoves or pleading with their husbands not to go out to a gunfight. You hear a lot about the gunfights in westerns; you don’t hear so much about hauling up the water after a perineal tear.

*DITTO WITH THE PARAGRAPH BREAK.

It’s certainly not a radical critique, it’s not a revolutionary insight or marriage, but Ina Caro was essential to it all, and it’s pretty clear that Robert Caro was the public face of a working partnership that suited her pretty well even if she didn’t receive the public acknowledgment she should have.

Do we get rid of the notion “public service” or do we reinvent it with the moral authority it requires?

My apologies for wordiness.

I was wittering about on Twitter yesterday, and somebody’s comment caught my eye, and then in the way of Twitter, it disappeared down my timeline, and I lost it. But the pith was: “it’s time just to get rid of the term “public service” because politicians are all about the money and feathering their own nests.

I certainly understand the cynicism, as it has been the prevailing sentiment about politics and, to no small degree, government employees, throughout my lifetime. I grew up in a family where working in government or politics meant serving your neighbors. Throughout the US, leaders in small towns do such public service every day with very little hope of lining their own pockets on part-time salaries. When I stepped into what became my adult world, that was so not the sentiment. “Why do you want a degree to get the a….government job?” sneered one MBA after another. Politics was crooked and lame, instead of the necessary, if often messy and difficult but potentially honorable work of sorting out collective futures for shared lives. It was the purview of losers who couldn’t hack it in the private sector, marked by lower salaries and “union protection” instead of the raw talent private sector firms thrived on according to its own mythologies. No matter what size it really is, the government is too “too big” (ever notice how nobody is ever asked what the right size of government is? It’s just always “too big” no matter what size it is.)

Donald Trump is, for me, the final, unfortunately logical, outcome of the folksy Reagen revolution where people decided that the world was simple, there was good and evil, and the simple facts are the private enterprise (both business and philanthropy) was good and government, especially the welfare state, was terrible. That government had only two real missions that boiled down to one: 1) ensuring social (read racial and class) order so that 2) the wheels of business could turn and make everybody (supposedly) richer. Democrats joined Republicans in supporting mass incarceration and one war after another, ensuring our own impoverishment through our lack of investment in our own young.

And so now we have government-by-grifters, whose fans love, rather than deplore, the naked exercise of state power by a petulant strongman they think will hate and punish all the same people they do. Gramsci, fascism, etc, and the rest of us befuddled by a man so entirely without any public ethics besides “Me first” that it has laid bare just how much of our executive leadership has been regulated by the honor and self-control of prior leaders, now utterly absent in the ones we have in men like Donald Trump and Mitch McConnell (who just got his Russian pork for helping get Russian mobster Oleg Deripaska out of sanctions; the emerging global world order is now a visible crime state, and while horray for workers in Kentucky, is this really what we are doing now? Really? )

If we ever get rid of our grifter-in-chief, whither the institutions he has so degraded? I’m seeing that question everywhere, and I don’t know what to do with it. Do we attempt to regulate the presidency so that we no longer rely on norms and expectations about the prudential use of power, or do we re-commit to judging our leaders based on precisely those virtues? And, in turn, do we re-commit to expecting it—and honoring it—in all our representatives, as well as in the people who work in our institutions day by day? Americans seem so utterly ungrateful to other people, from teachers to janitors in our public buildings, that I am not sure I can ever envision us doing right by them anymore.

I’m not fool enough to believe in a prelapsarian where government and politics were all shiny and truly democratic or representative. The US government has been hamstrung since the beginning by bargains struck to immiserate slaves and indigenous people for order and power for European settlers and subsequent generations of white people.

But I do very much worry about who steps into the power vacuum left once government work and politics becomes so hopelessly stigmatized as the purview of the rotten and hopelessly self-interested because it strikes me as a self-fulfilling prophecy. And we don’t want those people in charge.

I can also see the value of just getting rid of the pretense, if that is all it is, that people can behave virtuously in the exercise of power and, simple as that, put in so many limits and accountability checks that people who hold the reigns on state power don’t go to the bathroom without sunshine laws and effective oversight making sure it’s legit.

I don’t know anymore.

What role does gratitude pay in feminist mentoring?

In the universe of feminist pedagogy, I support approaches that de-center mentors in favor of prioritizing students and junior faculty. The decks are so stacked for the tenured faculty vis-a-vis more junior people that you have to think about mentoring here as an exercise of using power ethically. Groveling for whatever crumbs you get thrown from the great I Am is bad for both student and mentor (who is trading a real, gratifying relationship for cheap power trips).

That said, I’ve been encountering a lot of drive-by Twitter proclamations that dictate what your students are entitled to and how you are scumbag, unprofessional faculty member if you don’t do them. I recently found a very snippy Tweet about not answering emails in a timely manner, about how that’s “unprofessional” and students deserve better.

I am guilty of this one. In my defense, I get 100+ emails a day, and those are not spam. I try to get the ones from students as fast as I can, but I try to limit the hours I spend on email, and I have to admit, sometimes I put it off.

What struck me about the tweet was the tone. Now, Twitter is what it is, and nobody needs me to tone police, but I also kinda wondered about all of it: so many of these smell of a) faculty sending out “how you should be” messages that are essentially virtue signaling that these actions are the Right Way To Care About Students because they do them that way and b) projected anger from graduate students who feel like their needs aren’t being met and can’t direct that anger safely at the faculty who aren’t helping them. Neither are all bad, but neither are exactly speaking to truth to power in the manner I suspect their authors think.

To wit: no, I often don’t answer emails right away. But my students–all of them, including my undergrads–have my cell phone number. If a student needs something, they can call or text. If they prefer not to do those, then I hold between 8 to 10 office hours a week. If they don’t want to do these, then I guess they have to wait until I get my lazy ass around to answering emails, which is usually about once a week, on Friday afternoons. Sorry. A better person would think about student needs 24/7, but I got old and sick and couldn’t do that anymore. Does it help that I feel guilty?

I think all this is reasonable. I am sorry that I am not great at emails, but I’m not, and I’m pretty damn stretched most of the time. And moreover, I am not willing to accept “professional” as the behavioral standard I am expected to work to. “Professional” has always been a way to reinforce hierarchies in my experience, and I find the fetishization of the concept in the academy to be a worry. My university–like most–are puh-lenty corporate and willing to treat students like customers and me like retail salesperson vending shirts (btw, I don’t’ think retail salespeople should be expected to endure the emotional abuse of being happy clappy all the time, either.)

Too much of this “customer”/professional business reduces everything about my relationships with students. If we want to be nasty about it, ‘professional’ may mean you as a student are entitled to a timely email response to class-related questions, but then I get to kick you out of my office if you start telling me about your life if it doesn’t strictly pertain to the class? Your hopes and dreams? Screw that, I’m not a guidance counselor, and every second I spend with you smiling and nodding and supporting is a second out of my hide. I could be researching or relaxing.

I don’t listen to hopes and dreams or, conversely, dreads and worries because it’s my *professional role.” I do it because it’s what I think the old owe the young in payback for all the ways we were supported when we were young and trying to get where we were going when we were coming up. It’s human, not professional per se. I do it for students because I happen to be in a university, but I also listen to people on the bus and at the farmer’s market, and lots of other places because it’s good to support aspirations.

I do this not because it’s my job but honestly, out of gratitude to professors like Professor Jackson at the University of Iowa who listened to my prattle when I was 18 and wanted to be a classics professor. There strikes me as a great deal about being a mentor that is about paying back by paying forward. I will never, ever be able to repay Randy Crane for the faith he demonstrated in me as a wounded, fucked-up, social disaster of a PhD student. So I did my best by trying to be a credit to him, saying thank you (awkward though it was for both of us), and doing for younger people what he so sweetly did for me. Was he perfect? Nope. Am I blind to his flaws? Nope. But he saw all my flaws and stood with me anyway. And to me, that’s about as good as anything gets, ever. Ever.

It leaves me wondering about what all this “hey tenured professor shithead, do your job and attend to us with less power” stuff does to gratitude. Nobless obliges stinks, but I have to say, ingratitude stinks, too. Maybe institutions that run off noblesse oblige poison things like gratitude. But for me, I feel better in all this call-out culture of progressivism being grateful, too, even as we demand better from people who have power. At some point, we are all just limited, broken things making out way in the world, and gratitude and grace strike me as pretty important in all this.

Note: I should probably add that if you haven’t been a student of mine, you don’t get to have opinions on how I treat students.

My apologies to Rivers Solomon and nonbinary folks in general for misgendering in this recent podcast

Our Bedrosian club podcast recently discussed Unkindness of Ghosts by Rivers Solomon. At the beginning of the podcast, I misgender Soloman until about partway through when it finally occurs to me to ask what their preferences are! After that I do ok (not great, but ok). One listener has suggested that we go back and re-edit, but we really don’t know how to do that properly, I’m sorry to report. It’s a good suggestion, but our skills are not there yet.

This misgendering is particularly annoying of me because the novel so masterfully renders nonbinary genders in multiple, enlightening ways. On top of it, I misgendered the novel’s protagonist. Gah, Schweitzer. It’s particularly annoying because I’m the podcast host, and I should have done better leading everybody to proper representation.

I have two defenses neither of which are any good. About misgendering the protagonist…ahhhhh this character is so wonderful and brave, and I identified with and wanted to be like them so much, that I started imposing my identity on them. It’s one of the most soothing things to me about fiction, being able to find role models that are missing in my life. But it’s also not cool. Trans, nonbinary, and queer folk deserve their own representations without me doing that stuff on podcasts instead of just in my head working through my own issues.

The second defense isn’t much better. I’m pushing 50 now, and it’s hard to break gendered speech habits you’ve had for that long. It’s *annoyingly hard* because it’s not just affecting my ability to re-script hurtful patterns of speech, it makes it hard to acquire new language skills, like Arabic, that I am learning. I’m trying to reprogram my brain to use gender neutrals, and I succeed sometimes, but I am still not doing it right with consistency. I will do better.

Please still do listen to the podcast despite my bad leadership this time out, and please DO get yourself a copy of Unkindness of Ghosts by Rivers Solomon. They are an astounding talent and their work deserves all the attention it can get. Listen to the podcast *after* you read, as in addition to my incompetence, we do tons of spoilers and this isn’t a novel where you want to know any plot twists ahead of time.

All of us regulars at the podcast support gender and race inclusive feminism. We want every single soul safe from violence and oppression and free to be themselves. I regret I didn’t help out as much as I should have this time out.

Best wishes, friends, and keep reading.