- Why, when my male colleague is out of the office, do students expect me to know when he’ll be back? They don’t ask him the same question when I’m away.
- I’m the only woman at a meeting along with one senior male academic and two junior male academics from the same department. We’re discussing a grant we have recently received. When I make a suggestion, it is ignored. Until the senior male academic says *the same thing* and the junior male academics say gushy things like ‘excellent point — very strategic.’ Now I know what you’re thinking: this is too much of a cliche to have actually happened. But it did…three times in the same meeting!
- On one of the student evaluations, in response to the question “What aspect of the course and/or the instructor’s teaching did you find the least valuable”: “prof’s loud, shrill voice.”
- On the weekend, the subject of being a stay at home mother comes up in conversation and this woman says to me – “But if you were a stay at home mother, what kind of role model would you be? I mean, who would your daughter look up to?” Wow.
- Directly copied and pasted from rateyourprofessor.com: “BEST PROF EVER, AND WHAT GREAT GAMS!!” (and what is even more embarrassing is that I didn’t know what “gams” were until a colleague of mine explained it to me…I naively assumed that it was a comment about my sense of humour in the class)
- Being referred to as “Miss.” This is a pet peeve of mine, but a default option (at the very least) should be “Ms,” and I’m sick of feeling guilty or elitist if I correct people and say “Dr.”
- By the end of the first year of a tenure track job I started taking pre-natal vitamins. One clock was ticking louder for me than the other one. When one of my senior (female) colleagues found out she said, “You better not get pregnant. I could be on your tenure and promotion committee, you know. hahahahahahaha.” So not funny then, and it still annoys me. But: I now have a kid, tenure, and promotion. hahahahahahaha.
- I had a meeting with a senior partner at a law firm to finalize some documents we began drafting in April, when I was a few months pregnant and just starting to show. When I met with him in September, his first words weren’t “Hello, how was your summer” but rather “Wow, you really were pregnant last time I saw you – you look way better now.”
- I learned that my son’s grade five teacher will insist that we use Miss. Yes, that’s right, Miss. Not Ms. and not Mrs. as she’s single (and, BTW, maybe 25, at the outside). Apparently it matters whether she is married or not. I also learned that this concern is based on MY (said, with capitals, by the accuser, “YOUR”) value system and does not reflect on her teaching skills or style.
I don’t know about you, but I seem to be getting busier every day. The more established I become in my field, my department, my university, and my community, the more my name seems to be top of mind when someone needs a paper reviewed or a chapter written, a committee seat filled, a report written, or a public talk delivered. People ask a lot more of me now than they did, say, when I landed here in Waterloo with a freshly-framed diploma and my excellent collection of ironic t-shirts. And yet, my time available seems to have dwindled significantly in the interim, just like that Astroboy shirt doesn’t quite seem to go over those yoga-powered deltoids and that pregnancy-‘enhanced’ belly roll.
That is, I have way more to do but seem to have less time to do it.
It’s a pickle, it is. Right now, for example, I’m sitting on my couch in my polar fleece pajamas, sipping gin and decompressing after my second public lecture of the week. Next week, I have an article draft due to a peer-reviewed journal, and soon after that, a deadline for my draft of one chapter of a writing handbook revision. I just handed in a SSHRC SRG grant, it seems.
I used to think I could do it all, if only I would be important enough for people to ask me to do it. I said yes to everything, to increase my profile and test my mettle. My mettle, it turns out, is not unlimited. I am, perforce, shifting my work philosophy from an ethic of multitasking to one of multipurposing.
Here’s how it works: Got a contract to revise a writing handbook? Angle to teach a first year course, then assign them the current version of the handbook. BOOM! It’s teaching, and it’s work on the revision, all at once. Scheduled to give two public talks on something about your research and teaching interests in two different towns two nights in a row? Give a thinly reworked version of the same damn talk (apologize profusely to the one graduate student who attends both events). Bonus points if the talk can use as one of its four case studies the survey results that form the backbone of that article that’s due … next week. Bonus bonus points if you’ve organized your grad class to have as its assigned readings material you need to complete this current research. All of this work should be drawing liberally from the literature review from the SSHRC SRG bibliography. Doing university service? Can it be on a web design committee that is great fodder for your digital design seminar?
I am so. frigging. busy. that it is a matter of some urgency, lately, try to wring the maximum amount of product from every research activity I undertake. Perhaps this is a ‘well, duh’ insight for you. Not for me. I used to think (ha!) that every talk, every class, every committee, every article had to be something new. I had this idea that it was somehow cheating to do otherwise, like how students are told not to submit the same paper in two different courses. For me, it’s only ever rarely the ‘same’ paper, but I have really needed to stop creating everything from absolute scratch for every occasion.
So now, I don’t multitask anymore. I multipurpose.
In that vein, if you want to know more about social media and privacy, why don’t you read this newspaper article? The writer wanted to talk to me about my ideas, but I handed him the paper copy of my lecture when it was over and told him to quote as liberally as he liked. No extra work for me, and, bonus! he quoted me exactly, from my own script. (God bless him, he’s made the whole presentation sound coherent, to boot.)
I’m sitting in a dark room with 13 colleagues who’ve gathered to talk about pedagogy. Or so I was led to believe. But now I’m not sure, because the guy at the front has been meandering around … something … for over a half hour now, and shows no signs of wrapping up. Painfully, we can see that he is on slide 7 of 12. The slides are so packed you can hardly read them – but I suppose it doesn’t matter, because he can. And he does. Every word. Then he decides to show us something on the internet. When he opens safari, there’s the site for my presentation, primed and ready to go. He blithely closes it and then starts rummaging around for the URL he’s after.
It’s like watching a “How Not To” video, all the way through.
The kicker is that all conferences are like that. This summer I explored both ends of the rigor spectrum. One required a 2500-word proposal plus citations and generated four sets of feedback. Reviewers graded us out of 100 (range of marks: 35%-98%) and said things like, “Although it was helpful to have a list of works cited, I would have liked a more representative bibliography. I’m not convinced these scholars are acquainted with the full history of GIS-based scholarship.” Bibliography? Did I mention this was for the proposal? for a poster?
The other conference asked for a four-sentence summary and responded within 90 minutes of submission: You’re in!
Both conferences were equally bad, and bad in the same ways. By bad I mean, principally, boring. Let me get this out of the way: most academics are nicer – more tolerant, more polite, more attentive, more forgiving, more generous – than I am. Regrettably, this chronic condition shows no sign of improving. In fact, the older and busier I get, the less forgiving I am of having my time wasted.
For instance, by being read to. I have reached my lifetime limit of sitting in a room being read to. I learned to read when I was 5 and I have a PhD in English. Reading is something I can do for myself. So, please. Stop.
If you can’t stop, if for some reason you cannot imagine any other way to reach your audience (for instance, if you have spent your entire life in a media deprivation tank), then read. But for the love of all things holy, run through your presentation first, and if it takes longer than the 15 minutes allocated to you, it is too long. What to do? Shorten it. Yeah, that’s right: take some stuff out.
Being timely would meet my minimum standard for conference presentations. Not everybody can be brilliant, but everybody can read a clock. If you’re ticking that one off Ye Olde List of Lifetime Accomplishments, then I challenge you to the relevance test. Before you present a point-by-point elaboration of an obscure novel dredged from the depths of your field, stop and ask yourself this question: Who cares? Look, I’m sure the use of ellipses in pre-colonial Spanish poetry is fascinating, and I bet you’re right that you can only truly understand its implications by contrast with post-colonial Spanish poetry’s elimination of ellipses. I’m prepared to concede all of that. In fact, I insist: let me concede the technical details of your argument and give me the good stuff – the punch line, the implications, the reasons I should care.
Finally, a word to session moderators. Moderate! You are the only person in the room who can shut this gong show down. We rely on you to do so. No polite “2 minutes” signs passed along three times. Once: fine, even I can be that polite (or, I can try). But once those two minutes are up, clear your throat, stand up, and interrupt. Reach over and shut off the mic. Start to clap. Not only the other presenters, but every member of the audience will thank you for doing so.
Until that happy day, you can find me in the back row, where I’ll be checking my email.
Getting my blog fix this cool but lovely fall weekend, still a little high after Calgary managed to elect as our mayor Naheed Nenshi. Racism, homophobia, Islamophobia definitely raised their ugly and omnipresent heads during and after the election, and yet…I feel that collective pride in a job well done. Many of my students wore their purple t-shirts and tweeted non-stop @nenshi.
There is a but coming, and you know it.
However, when I take stock, as I frequently (over)do, of my academic life in all of its contexts, I know that my impatience this year overflows at work. And why? I have designed an ace course (“The ethics and politics of gaming”) and the students are, gamely, attempting to work out all of this inquiry-based stuff and perhaps have some fun too (this weekend, watching them try to complete a tournament, has been a blast, which again gives the thoughtful pedagogue in me pause: when did I stop having real fun with students? did I ever? do other professors have fun? perhaps I am not a fun kinda gal, just plain prone to grumpiness). In my older-middle age, aka wisdom, my recent and more frequent fits of mini-lashings out, polite refusals, strategic-if-not-always-clever complaints—as well as inner sighs and eye-rollings at many twists and turns—are triggered by how increasingly and dauntingly our academic lives are slowed down by processes of numbing inefficiency, form-filling (paper, in this day and age?), be-there-or-be-square organizing (sure, I can make that meeting at sunrise), querulousness, posturing and (hear it in this post), defensiveness.
In the end, I worry politically about the inculcation of these values in the first-year students I feel both protective towards and so deeply frustrated by (hear the old cry of the inquiry-teacher: where is their curiosity? their drive to find things out? their connectedness? their gratitude?). Well, duh. Where has ours disappeared to in this place of performance indicators and whoever gets most bums in the seats wins and have we survived the term yes or no? My most memorable moments from the last two weeks have been to hear what is usually unvoiced in our carefully-articulated academic free state. “We will do this because we have been told.” “We have to.” Worse, I realized that I fully accepted that logic, and then turned on my heel, entered my classroom and expected students in their first term at university not to, to ask the tough and confusing questions while I chatted to them about structures, rules, liberatory pedagogy, and asked them to play card games without rules. [Wonderful game, Fluxx, for the curious.]
Sure, I am having great fun this weekend, but that overlays my jittery anxiety about an ongoing and increasing trend in an academic game (in its most serious sense) that really has forgotten to ask questions that many activists brought to the academy in the first place. What an irony that women, particularly racialized women, or women with illnesses and disabilities (the list is much longer of course) are being overseen and thus overlooked, a trend that is mirrored in the classroom. Back to playing the game, though. One of my students has completed the quest and the blog is abuzz, if confused. Someone has suggested a games night. Hallelujah!
One week from today you can drink – sputter – spew – your coffee over the October edition of “This Month in Sexism.” Sitting on a story you want included? Drop a note to sexism [at] hookandeye [dot] ca. We’ll run whatever we’ve received by Friday morning.
Reminder: stories are short, anonymous, and related to our lives as women of all ranks and roles in the academy.
It’s the end of week 6 for me, midway through the term, or as I like to call it, the trough of the term. The energy and potential of early September has wilted like those impatiens that reproach me from my sad looking front porch. Ambition falls away like all those leaves dripping wetly off the maple trees on campus. Early assignment, first papers, midterms have been written, graded, and returned. Some people are elated: students who have done well, professors who have successfully graded everything that’s been handed in. Some people are demoralzed: students who have done poorly, professors irritated by late papers, poor results, cheating. We’re in that kind of void now before the big push of final papers, final assignments, final exams.
We’re all, it’s fair to say, exhausted.
What to do? I can’t change my deadlines, or my students, or my workload, or the weather. I probably can’t change your deadlines, or your students, or your workload, or your weather, either. But how are we going to get ourselves out of this pit, and maybe with enough energy to spare that we can maybe our students up into the light with us?
Here’s the question that’s animating my climb: What do I need?
I can be flip and say “I need a sabbatical,” or “I need to assign self-grading papers,” or “I need an invisibility cloak.” However, when I can articulate more seriously to myself what I need, I then can start to think of the steps to take to get it. My mid-term needs, it turns out, involve time and freedom from details, and since I can’t magic time out of nothing, I have instead taken my family out for dinner twice this week, which saves me the time involved in cooking, and cleanup, and dishes, and leftovers, and the stressful management of the details of shopping and menu-planning that I just, frankly, don’t have it in me to deal with right now. I have also temporarily given up bed-making and laundry. I have enough clean underwear to go for another two weeks, and I just might. This leaves me a bit of energy to take my girl to dance lessons, and to watch The Ultimate Fighter with my husband, and to write two public lectures and bring some life to my teaching.
What do you need to make it to the end of term? It feels great to write ’em down and share ’em–then they seem like goals, and from goals we can create plans, right?
I was pretty sure my first year class needed schooling in Awesome Music as well as New Media Art, and I surely needed a mid-afternoon dance party so you can rock out to this while contemplating what you need:
My partner and I chose to have a baby during our graduate studies – before I hit the job market and before the start of his medical residency. We wanted to ensure we’d both have time with the baby, despite the missing financial comfort of maternity or paternity leave. Although we are known for our high energy, determination, and multitasking skills, our decision sparked some gossip amongst our peers. I was barely four months pregnant when I overheard the following conversation take place in the staircase that unites the two floors of our department:
I heard Veronique’s pregnant.
Yeah, me too. No surprise there, given she just married that doctor. She won’t need a job now. They can easily live off his salary.
No kidding. I was kind of relieved, you know. Now I won’t be competing against her on the job market.
She told you she wasn’t applying?
No, no. But a baby leads to more babies. Universities won’t hire unless she publishes the next big study on CanLit. And with a baby on the way, that’s unlikely to happen. How many women do you know who have successful careers and families?
Not many. God, I can barely handle my dog.
Indeed, having a child in grad school could jeopardize or delay a career. Common concerns revolve around the delay of the doctoral thesis, the disappearance of promising publications, and perhaps even the abandonment of the PhD altogether. In my prenatal naïve haze, however, I never worried about postponing my thesis or dumping my career. Rather, I was predominately concerned with writing as much as humanly possible prior to my daughter’s birth in order to enjoy a bit more flexibility once she arrived.
When our daughter was born a month ago, I began finding pockets of time to get work done; I sent myself email messages with ideas from my iphone as I fed her at night – I transformed my baby buddy pillow into a laptop desk – I read articles aloud to get her to sleep instead of Goodnight Moon. After a month with a newborn (albeit a very calm and content newborn), I feel I can get the thesis written by the end of this year as planned – at least, a full draft – and although I’ve had to readjust my schedule and writing habits, I certainly don’t think I have to give up on my professional goals and writing ambitions.
What I didn’t expect, however, was the obstacle of a baby (and breastfeeding for that matter) when it comes to public academic engagements. I may be writing, but participating in academic discourse beyond the page has become more difficult. I no longer have the luxury of attending every talk hosted by the university (I missed the Markin-Flanagan “passing on the torch” reading for the first time since I moved to Calgary), and I won’t be jumping from reading to reading at Wordfest this year. I’ve had to sacrifice my spontaneous academic interactions, and although none of them are “requirements” for my degree, I do consider them essential to my overall experience. Sure, I can organize childcare when necessary, but this requires pre-planning and money – and even then, sometimes, pre-planning fails.
This month, for instance, I missed my first conference – a conference I was looking forward to for months. I’d registered during my pregnancy and I knew I’d have a one-month-old baby, but the conference was in Edmonton (not too far and where my mother-in-law lives), which seemed manageable at the time (and it should’ve been). Worst-case scenario, I figured I’d only attend my panel and the plenary talk. I wrote a draft of the paper prior to delivery, and my husband organized his schedule to accommodate mine and watch Lalina as I enjoyed the conference. Then he got sick. He was in no state to drive to Edmonton, let alone watch Lalina under a flu medication haze. My mother-in-law had a dance show, my family is in Quebec, and because of her young age, I couldn’t take Lalina to a drop-off day care. Hence I failed to attend the conference and cancelled my presentation.
Never once did I consider taking her to the conference, despite her easy disposition. Not once. It would be unprofessional, no? To show up at my panel with a sleeping baby in a sling? Even if my paper was on balancing motherhood and writing – even though it was a women’s writing conference and should, from an outsider’s perspective, be supportive of my predicament. But no – I didn’t even think to ask or explain what had happened to the organizers. Instead, I said I had a family emergency and missed the conference. Only when I told one of my husband’s colleagues why I hadn’t attended the conference and she asked “why didn’t you just take Lalina with you?” did I find myself wondering why the thought never crossed my mind. My immediate response was, “well, it would be unprofessional.” She said, “I don’t think so. You were stuck, so why not? We have a preceptor who just had a baby and she brings her to class, and once she even breastfed while teaching.” I was filled with envy – this preceptor was comfortable enough with her roles as mother, doctor, and teacher to breastfeed in front of her students. Until that moment, I’d always considered medicine far less accepting of women balancing motherhood and profession – I was wrong.
I still think that showing up at the conference with a newborn would’ve proved unprofessional. After all, it’s not like Lalina was a registered participant and therefore had a right to attend. My problem isn’t with how it may have been misperceived if I’d showed up with her, but rather with my assumption that my profession, in this instant, had to be put on hold because of circumstances that seemed on the surface to be beyond my control (husband’s illness); and yet, there were options that, unfortunately, never even crossed my mind as possibilities. Was this my subconscious telling me that I can’t do it all? Is this post, perhaps, my refusal to admit that academic superwomen are an abominable myth and that women can’t balance career and family? But what about that preceptor breastfeeding and teaching? She’s got it together – isn’t this the type of professional I need to be to raise a daughter who will forge ahead and believe, not in Santa, but in the fact that she can have it all? And I use the word “fact” purposefully because I want her to have it all – and I believe she can have it all. The “all” just needs to be confidently claimed by herself and those around her – starting first and foremost with myself.
Veronique Dorais Ram, PhD Candidate
Department of English, University of Calgary
Of all the feminist actions I might take in a day, none is more invisible – to me – than being out.
Mostly, I just live my life. I live the better in ‘it gets better.’ Although the process of coming out wasn’t easy, my family, my employer, and my nation all settled this business long ago, leaving me to ponder big questions like, did I reply to that email yet? or, is this skirt tighter than it was last time I wore it? or, should I have stuck with Plan A, long haul trucking, instead of going to graduate school? As you can imagine, that kind of deep thinking doesn’t really allow ‘oh yeah, and I’m a lesbian’ to come to the surface very often.
But this fall’s horrific rash of stories about queer students taking their own lives has brought me back, powerfully, to the perilous fragility of these lives we lead in the midst of such reckless everdayness.
For many people, these stories are visceral reminders of how harrowing it can be to come out to your family and friends. For some, they bring back hideous memories of being bullied. The stories are almost certainly about mental illness or, less clinically, the dark pull of a high bridge: I’ve been there too, and it does get better.
For me, though, these stories are primarily about students. They remind me of how fundamentally hard it can be to be a student, how difficult it is to succeed in a game you don’t necessarily understand, how tough it can be to feel overwhelmed, and anxious, and uncertain, and exposed, and shamed, how hard it is to be away from home, to be out of context, out of your depth, out of touch, out of solutions.
But these stories also call me to the dream I hold for university life as a place where you can be yourself and remake yourself, a place where you can think new thoughts and try new things, a place to start over, if you want, and over and over. A place to figure things out. A place to be creative. A place to be.
And so here in this blog post I want to give a shout-out to the amazing queer students I’ve taught over the years. Yeah, Kristy, I mean you – and the other Christie, and the Four Corners Press gang, and the brilliant RB, and Cynthia (I still miss you), and M. Almodova, who was in the first class I ever TA’ed for and who came out to me by confessing he was into erasure (and he didn’t mean Derrida). I’m thinking about Kim who left grad school to take care of her girlfriend’s kids, I’m thinking about HK the public intellectual, slippery A, and all the queer kids in the Edmonton course a couple years back who just up and outed themselves on day one: do you have any idea how thoroughly that blew my mind? I’m thinking about you in the back row with your ball cap: you don’t fool me for a second, but don’t worry, we can play it that way. I’m thinking about the ridiculously talented Trevor, who understands the couture call of white designer jeans and the siren call of suicide and just recently made a brilliant film about it. And I’m thinking of a whole bunch of other people who might not be comfortable being named.
To all the sissy boys and the gay men, the lesbian feminists, the brave transgenders and the sex-positive grrls, the womyn-identified-womyn, the high femmes and the bears, the gossipy queens, the Real Lesbians, the pretty boys, the hard butches and the soft butches and the baby butches (especially the baby butches):
I’m wearing this kicking purple dress today for you.
Peace, Tyler Clementi, Seth Walsh, Justin Aaberg, Raymond Chase, Asher Brown, Cody J. Barker, Harrison Chase Brown, Billy Lucas, Jeanine Blanchette, and Chantal Dube.
The rest of you: be careful out there.