“Thanks for a country where nobody's allowed to mind his own business. Thanks for a nation of finks.” W.S. Burroughs
Buck: Had another encounter with a neighbor today. I am sitting at home working on my canvas when a blonde woman about 40 mounts our stairway and knocks upon the door. A barking Canino is immediately sequestered in the next room. I ask the woman to enter and she says something about seeing footsteps in our backyard. I assume she is a concerned citizen worried about people tromping through our yard. She has some sort of European accent, which leads me to further assume that this is a potential dinner guest—near our age, not from the area, probably an intellectual of some sort. But then she becomes more adamant about pointing out the tracks in our backyard and the tracks in her backyard across the way and it becomes clear that she’s accusing either myself or Sally of having walked with Canino through her backyard, scaled the fence and leapt down into our yard. Not only is this accusation untrue, it also seems physically challenging. She says that last year, she saw a woman walking with dogs through her yard and that she doesn’t like people to walk dogs through her yard. Duly noted. Will be on the lookout for the next perpetrator. Will also give Canino the “attack” signal next time the woman arrives.
Buck: It seems to be an unspoken agreement at academic wing-dings between academics and non-academic spouses: Neither will talk shop. Which is just as well since a couple of the academics betrayed serious gaps in their knowledge of both my field and theirs. Mentions of Robert Rauschenberg and Jasper Johns drew blank stares. But then again, so did mentions of Leonard Peltier and moveon.org. Common ground is found in discussion of local sleazeball politicos and businesspeople, cars and dealerships, subdivision living, the scourge of billboard advertising, golf. The Super Bowl surprisingly did not come up, though I’m sure most present would have been thankful had I mentioned it. Faculty seem divided here between two groups—older, entrenched folks content with their lives and their nerdy pursuits, bitter ironists discontent with their lot, and junior colleagues who become one or the other, or leave. My preference here is clear. Much discussion about the offspring of Blonzeville-ites. The general line here is that it is a great place for children to be (ahem) reared, but an informal survey suggests that kids tend to be less intellectually curious and ambitious than their parents. Post-cocktail dinner was pleasant enough, though at times came to resemble a meeting with hard-sell officials from the local chamber of commerce as various suggestions were made about what Sally and I should be doing with our time here—volunteering, joining a religious group, coaching soccer. Noble activities, to be sure, but perhaps a bit too reminiscent of activities suggested to a gleeful stay-at-home mom who has become a depressed empty-nester. Still, the locals tend to get glassy-eyed when they discuss the merits of Blonzeville (“Our relationship was never as deep as it became once we got here”). I keep thinking about cults, Stepford Wives and pod people, then musing as to which faculty member is stealing away with the others for trysts in the back of one of the ubiquitous mini-vans with tinted windows, then asking myself why any of them would bother. Conversation turned at one point to the fate of a junior colleague on an extended sabbatical. “I think there’s a chance he might come back,” quoth Sally’s boss at dinner. Godot might too.
Sally: We just returned from a veritable marathon of departmental socializing: a cocktail party, where Buck met a range of my colleagues, followed by dinner with Nigel and wife. The big take-away value of the evening is that my colleagues are nice, or at least fine, and totally unremarkable. They’re content with their lives, complete with the golf and housekeeping magazines. Good for them. Nigel is the hipster in the crowd. And he knows he has to worry about junior faculty retention. Much of dinner was spent justifying why I hadn’t hooked up with life outside the university yet. What life, I made the mistake of asking. The truth is that Blonzeville may be a very lively community, but neither Buck nor I feel we’ve reached the life stage where Blonzeville can meet our needs. I have a great job (the best job I’ve ever had), but there are limits to how much I feel at home among the middle-aged Caucasian gentlemen who populate my department. The ordinariness of tonight’s encounters, rather than any “culture clash”, drives home, to us, the impression that we won’t last here.
Buck: In advance of tonight’s meal, I am somewhat nervous that the matter of becoming a member of the SHU adjunct faculty may be dangled as some sort of carrot. But having more closely inspected the tenured members of said faculty, I have some reasons for trepidation and fear that the carrot may look a whole lot like a stick. First of all, despite the fact that I have had some success in the artistic field, having crossed paths in some small ways with the Damien Hirsts and Bruce Naumans of this world, I have always steadfastly avoided any sort of art class and wouldn’t know how to teach one. Whereas SHU faculty, even though a few of them seem nice enough lasses and blokes, are lifers in this arena. And, though I work with what are considered fairly mainstream media, nearly 50% of them here are weavers or do needlepoint work. Not sure what to do. Most likely I will be offered nothing. Must learn how to work with needle and thread.
Sally: Cracked a joke about the Vatican in class today. Uproarious laughter ensued. I am thrilled finally to have found a clue to what amuses my students. Anti-Catholicism goes over big in these parts.
In my defense, there was a reason for singling out the Vatican, one directly related to classroom discussion: the Vatican as a unique state whose constituents live outside its own territory and which prohibits reproduction within its borders.
Now that I know that my anti-clericalism gets me some laughs, perhaps I should branch out to other denominations, for equal-opportunity reasons. Alas, not only will it be more difficult to work that into the subject of the lecture--the more important problem is that I might offend some Bible-thumping Hells Angels in the classroom. Better tread carefully. Still, I need to capitalize on this new comedic momentum. (Suggestions will be appreciated and fully credited.)
Buck: Canino and I have a choice of two tennis courts when we’re not being harassed by Unabombers with fur-collared denim jackets. But the court where we usually play has recently been littered with broken glass, and, though I cannot prove it, I suspect Mr. Kaczynski. Therefore, we have been playing in Court #2, which is, at present, glassless and also covered with snow. About ten inches have fallen in Blonzeville, which means that I have been taking advantage of my snow-shoveling skills that usually remain dormant. Another plus for the Heartland. Conversations with locals remain few and far-between, although a nice 11-year-old kid today did tell me that Canino and I should move to the side of the road because a pick-up truck was approaching. Unencumbered by personal interaction, my artistic productivity continues unabated, although when one spends the day talking to the hound, one can only suspect that madness lies near. Yesterday, an article about my work appeared in a well-known national publication. I suggested to Sally that she inform her colleagues about the article in order to, if not qualify me for some sort of adjunct teaching position (God help us all) at least to cut off patronizing conversations with academic types who have suggested that an artist can easily find work here—after all, there are houses to be painted and AARP journals to be designed and instructional videos to be made. Alas, my request amounted to naught; Blonzeville’s bookstores do not stock the publication.
Sally: I’ve been instructed to start building my tenure dossier early, i.e. now. I am to set up three boxes, labeled “research,” “teaching,” and “service,” respectively. Every time I have any interaction that might bear on my tenure case, I am to create a record and archive it in the relevant box. Hence, I have been scrutinizing last semester’s e-mails for material worth depositing in the Bowles Tenure Archives. My boss has been particularly forthcoming with praise. Here are a few items that will go into the “service” box:
"From: Nigel_Tufnel
To: Sally_Bowles
I agreed with what you said at today’s meeting. You are making a HUGE contribution to the department. I’m not the only one to notice."
"From: Nigel_Tufnel
To: Sally_Bowles
Your points in today’s meeting were right on. You’ve become a REAL contributor in all kinds of ways. Let’s talk."
"From: Nigel_Tufnel
To: Sally_Bowles
I really liked how you handled yourself in today’s meeting. You stood your ground and showed INTEGRITY—a rare quality in academics. Keep it up."
Not sure where to file last semester’s student evaluations. Perhaps the compost behind the garage.
Sally: Today's job talk produced the following gem:
"Schwarzenegger is a social liberal and an economic conservative. I know, I know, he likes to grope women, and frankly I don't approve of that--I've been married for thirty years."
The talk also came with great graphics.
Sally: Matt/Brad/Dan has either dropped the class or decided to switch to long-distance mode. No loud yawns from the front row today. Hence, no opportunity to try out the new liver-treat regimen for desirable behavior.
Meanwhile, the break-out session was a smashing hit, if I do say so myself. Unfortunately, the students only get talking when I leave the room. I'd rather not think about what that means. (Note to self: Must practice smiling out of context. Scientific evidence indicates that smiling makes you more relaxed.) There's a liability to getting reticent students to talk, though: you can't shut them up when they make no sense. But I'll worry about quality later. Right now, quantity (of people shooting their mouths off) is the ticket.
Sally: I wake up fighting for pillow space with a grunting Canino, who normally limits his imperialism to the lower half of the bed. This gives me time to think about classroom management: What’s to be done about Matt (Brad? Dan?), who likes to sit in the front row and yawn loudly, but fails to contribute to the discussion? Is it time to apply some behavioral theory that I had the privilege of picking up from Canino--follow the undesirable behavior with a predictable response (by calling on the offender to answer a substantive question)? That way, I either involve Matt/Brad/Dan in the conversation (such as it is), or he concludes (after a few repeats, let's be realistic) that making a big show of yawning yields unwanted attention. A winning strategy either way!
Perhaps there are other ways in which I can use what I’ve learned from Canino and transfer it to the classroom. I’m all prepared to dole out cheese cubes for desirable behavior. However, my job is not to shape behavior, but to impart knowledge, the presentation of which remains a challenge. Ever responsive to audience suggestions, I’m now using PowerPoint. I’m posting lecture notes on the web, something I would have refused a month ago, arguing that I wasn’t teaching a correspondence course. Now, the students want the lecture notes posted on the web BEFORE class. That may be a sign that they want to free their minds for intellectual exchange by dispensing with the more clerical sides of learning. Why not give them the benefit of the doubt? Alas, my lectures get prepared on the day of class (one of the benefits of teaching in the afternoon), so there isn’t much time to provide this secretarial service. Once I teach a canned version of this course, I may return to the idea.
Meanwhile, the instructional support office is pushing the use of in-class group assignments. Break-out sessions! The term alone gives me pimples. I hated small-group discussions when I was a student, but then I didn’t have to endure many large lecture classes. Break-out sessions are probably a reasonable way to get the less narcissistic students talking. A public good indeed—hence it is on today’s agenda. I’ll report back from the laboratory.
Sally: Not to waste precious bandwidth by airing my entirely inconsequential views of US politics, but I have to say that the cult building around the Dean Scream has energized me verily (unlike teaching). The remixes of Howard's Howl are a source of great mirth around our little Blonzeville compound. If only more leaders inspired the public imagination to the extent that Howard Dean has! Idiosyncrasy, when proffered without apology, seems to be an untapped resource of political mobilization. But of course, it doesn't fly in the heartland...
Sally: An uneventful Friday and Saturday are followed by an equally uneventful Sunday. Canino and I went running by the reservoir; later Buck and Canino played in the snow. Now Canino is chasing lint floating in the tub while Buck warms himself with a bath. Dinner with the boss threatened to degenerate into a mere breakfast appointment, but given our various schedules, we’re back to dinner (next Saturday!). Our social life is really taking off.
The boredom is affecting my reading habits. I feel the onset of attention deficit disorder. Thus, I can’t muster the patience for fiction (whether contemporary or classic). Fighting sleeplessness after too much wine, I did manage to finish an Atwood novel (Surfacing), whose imagery and substance struck me as dated.
ADD aside, reading fiction actually seems increasingly frivolous, as it offers no obvious payoff for my research. Instead, I’m finding myself turning to essays (Sontag, Orwell). They’re short, the writing is superior to most of what I read for my work, and they offer a definite take-away value (for instance, that good fiction is an aesthetic exercise rather than a vehicle for a message). I’m becoming an unabashed utilitarian. The heartland has me in its grip.
Sally: Saturday night looks similar to Friday night. Went to the mall. This time it was to buy Buck a couple of sweaters, as the house is quite chilly. It’s a nice little house, by far the most attractive of the dozen places we looked at, but it could benefit from some renovations. The basement floods every time it rains. The water comes in through the floor and the basement walls. The shower drain pipe has a leak. Our bedroom doesn’t heat properly. The yard could be fun if the gardening services we’re paying for were actually rendered. Much as I like composting, pulling weeds, and planting things, the work that’s required is of a more fundamental nature, and frankly I don’t feel like upgrading the value of someone else’s real estate when I don’t even get what I’m paying for.
Incidentally, the fact that we live in someone else’s real estate is another source of irritation for my colleagues. One in particular could not suppress a sneer when she heard we were renting, not buying. Never mind that, as a recent PhD, I’ve spent my entire adult life in poverty (albeit a very privileged version) and am not exactly in a position to think about capital investment. The reasoning behind the rudeness is that junior faculty who rent are likely to leave before they’re up for tenure. Which we might even if we owned the object of my domestic fantasies—a farm house with goats and ponies, in biking distance from my office.
Still, Blonzeville is a great place for raising kids. Everybody says so. Services for natural childbirth abound. And Buck is getting antsy. Not that my department would want to see me get pregnant any time soon. At any rate, I’m more ambivalent. Even if Buck and I shared parenting work equitably (which I have yet to see any couple do), I’m not at all confident that I can be a productive researcher and a good parent at once. I’m having a hard enough time figuring out how to be the former. Buck is much better at multitasking and working in chaotic surroundings. Still, I like the idea of living with kids. In fact, I have this vision that living with five kids rather than just one or two reduces the burden of parenting, as the youngsters will take care of each other instead of being fixated on their parents. Probably this is not how things work, though. Buck wants twins.
Furthermore: Do I really want to raise children in an environment where the nuclear family would be the kids’ (and my) principal social network??? The boundaries between family and friends seem more flexible in cities than among my academic peers in this small town, most of whom are transplants like us. Can social anomie be greater in a small college town than in a major metropolis? Absolutely. Blonzeville is all about subdivisions and gated communities.
Sally: It's Friday night and the big entertainment of the day consists of a trip to the grocery store. As I'm bagging my three organic zucchini, I hear Buck yacking it up with someone--rather enthusiastically, I might add. I'm thinking, "It's happened again. I actually live in this town, yet Buck is the one who's running into old buddies." As I approach, zucchini in hand, I realize that Buck is talking to my boss. Turns out that Buck recognized the man despite having met him a year ago for only about 2 minutes. (Plus we saw him perform with his hair band at a local joint, where he managed to ignore us even though there were only four people in the audience.) My boss has since changed his look (he's added facial hair). Hence, it's all the more surprising that Buck had the presence of mind to slickly call out the guy's name and embarrass him thoroughly, for my boss has no clue of who's accosting him in the vegetable section.
Once Buck establishes his identity, my boss gushes forth uncontrollably. We have to get together! In fact, did I get his flyer for tomorrow's band performance? I say I saw the announcement in the local paper (which I had scrutinized earlier for suitable weekend activities, coming up empty-handed). We manage somehow not to commit to attending tomorrow's performance. But now we're on pins and needles concerning the (inevitable?) dinner get-together. Not only that, but we'll be attending a cocktail party for a senior recruit at another colleague's house. It's Buck's coming-out moment!
Sally: Buck has just returned from a visit to his parents. For the second time in his life, he has yelled at someone, he says. Mulligan Sr. has been frightening his wife (and now his son) by calling attention to symptoms of life-threatening afflictions for which he refuses to get medical care. Buck is marveling at the discovery that yelling at his father has enhanced his status in the elder's eyes.
I myself hit the roof rather more quickly. When I do, though, I lean toward profanity rather than increased volume. Usually I am rebuked by Buck, who objects to my lack of civility. Of course, I tend to think that civility is altogether beside the point in the face of whatever causes me to fly off the handle. Thus, I'm curious about this new skill of Buck's. Will he be offering Deanesque displays of rage when my colleagues suggest he look for work in the local hospitality industry? For his part, Canino (who enjoys travel and hence accompanied Buck on his filial visit) seems glad to be back. He doesn't like it when people yell (profanity is OK), though he himself can do a very credible Dean impersonation.
Some people clearly fare well with occasional displays of poor manners. Perhaps it's the aptitude to shift gears suddenly that produces results. A colleague who joined the department the same time I did startles everyone with his ability to switch between old-world aristocratic etiquette and angry convulsions over whatever. People think the guy has guts. Things fall into place for him (or so he says). It helps not to be afraid of public self-gratification. The guy holds forth on his own talents ("I have a real knack for teaching" and "The thing about me is I work really hard") and people are in awe. He's usually the last one to show up for an event and the first one to hand out his business cards and leave. There's something to be learned from that. But I fear it works better for guys than for chicks.
Buck: The one thing that must be said about Blonzeville is that it allows one to catch up on one's sleep. For me, a record ten hours last night and Canino is still snoozing on the futon. To date, on my current three-week stint in the Heartland, I have met exactly one person--a Unabomber lookalike who gruffly reminded Canino and myself that there is a leash law in this town. Would that were true for bearded men in fur-collared denim jackets who wear radio headphones with antennas over their hooded sweatshirts. Better, I suppose, than last trip's less-than-swift grocery bagger who thought it would be amusing to grab Canino around the neck and then pull the Duke of Glocester routine on him and playfully blind him. Canino's response, which I will not divulge here fearing legal repercussions, was appropriate.
I have learned that Blonzeville holds many advantages over the Big Apple. The aisles in the supermarket are wider, there is a larger selection of Yoplait yogurt products, and my favorite potato chip brand is available. Further, movies are nearly $3 cheaper, should one feel the need to see "Stuck On You" or "Love Actually" at one of the many nearby malls. I spent most of yesterday's drive into this town listening to sports talk radio on a major metropolis's station, which has a particularly long range. Today, before I get to work on my art--much time to do that--I may wash some dishes and continue to organize the attic.
Sally: Recruitment time. My department is hiring and I'm thrilled at the prospect of maybe having some peers to party with in the future. Recruitment brings out the best in academics. Before people are even invited for an interview, much discussion goes into the question of "compatibility"--which at this point is mostly based on a person's intellectual interests. Unlikely candidates are ones that work on, for instance, AIDS activism in the US or genocide in Africa ("So what sort of research agenda is that? Is this person going to research genocide for the next thirty years?!"). Not that I don't also think about whom I want to have as a colleague--specifically, I figure this place could use a few jocks.
Compatibility concerns notwithstanding, enhancing diversity among the faculty is a goal that most find it difficult to argue with (though some do try). But Blonzeville is a hard sell. Candidates are regaled with details about the local community, as in "Our mayor is a person by the name of Richard PATEL" or "There is a great dairy store run by a lesbian couple." The counterculture in and around town is spectacular. Everybody says there is no town in the state they'd rather live in. I couldn't agree more.
Sally: Canino knows a crazy guy when he sees one, though occasionally he errs on the safe side. He had a run-in with the custodian one night when we were working late at my office. The custodian objected to Canino's presence, a matter that the department manager has since kindly clarified in my favor. Today I hear the custodian spew forth some conspiracy theory and I know Canino was right. We mostly work at home in the evenings now. There goes one of the perks of teaching in a bucolic setting.
For Canino this move has been a mixed blessing. He's noticeably more relaxed, thanks to being relieved of policing a wide range of neighborhood nuts out east. But his days are boring. Except for a few regular walkers whom we encounter on our morning runs in the nearby nature preserve, he doesn't interact with anyone. I don't have a social life.
I could have a social life if I went to the gym (though that wouldn't help Canino). My colleagues all work out religiously. But I don't like to do physical stuff in front of them--or in front of students. I'm finding it difficult enough to deal with being asked, by grown-ups around campus, how my major is coming along. No need to sweat in public under such circumstances. The news that professors aren't all white-haired bearded guys in sports coats and corduroy pants has yet to make it to this part of the world. Meanwhile, I deliberate daily whether I need to get a perm or highlights and show up in a suit or acquire other status-appropriate accoutrements. But this isn't a job on Wall Street. I bike to work (another faux-pas), which makes suits impractical. And I don't generally have this problem in the classroom, where I haven't failed to intimidate my students ("needs to become more approachable" and "never smiles" is what they say in their evaluations).
Sally: On the first day of class in the new semester, I am having my students introduce themselves by naming their favorite book they read in 2003. Learning students' names early in the semester is important for establishing a rapport, all the more because the class I am teaching (yes, my teaching load is light this first year) is a big lecture class. I'm hoping that personal details such as favorite books will help me distinguish one baseball-behatted bloke from another.
I take heart when I hear titles such as Life of Pi, War and Peace, and Living to Tell the Tale. A popular one seems to be Liar's Poker--lots of business students in the classroom, it turns out. And of course there's the inevitable reference to The Fountainhead, a timeless crowd-pleaser in mediocre lands.
Many students say they don't have time for pleasure reading outside of their classes. One guy (Gus? Cody? I can't remember) reveals that he doesn't put much stock in books about made-up stuff, which is why he likes to keep his reading focused on the Bible. Though his classmates find this entertaining, I suspect he's hardly the only one who regularly turns to Scripture for edification. On Sunday mornings, Blonzeville's churches burst out of their seams. Many of my students sing in the church choir or participate in other ecclesiastic activities. The billboards that greet visitors on their way into town are emblematic: "God can do anything--except fail" and "Waiting for a sign of God? THIS IS IT!"
Sally: My boss says I need to get cable TV. In fact, he recommended I charge it to my research account, which is otherwise meant to finance conference travel, books, software, and research assistants. The reason is that I need to learn how my students think. He's hoping that David Letterman and Sex In The City will provide windows onto cognition among the college-aged and thus help me figure out how to talk to my clientele.
I don't think I will follow his advice, though it's clear I ought to work on my communication skills. Turns out I was talking over my students' heads all semester, thinking that their lack of complaints was due to their satisfaction with my teaching, not to the deference and rule-consciousness prevalent in this part of the country. Though they have trouble reading a book cover to cover, they are sophisticated consumers of education who expect PowerPoint presentations, handouts, and lecture notes posted on the web. Forget self-directed learning, which I always thought was a prerequisite for access to higher education. In order to get my students to understand scholarly texts, I've been advised, I have to have them summarize paragraph after paragraph for an entire semester.
Not quite what I expected when I forced Buck and Canino to move to the heartland with me. Meanwhile, Buck's work as an artist and his sojourns to the East Coast are a never-ending source of titillation for my colleagues. We've yet to be invited to dinner together, but people have shown their interest in our arrangement in other ways. It's been suggested that finding work in the local community (as a waiter, for instance) would obviate Buck's need to travel. One colleague inquired whether as an artist Buck actually makes enough money to afford his commuting lifestyle. Their wives must all be thrilled to live on professors' salaries.