Time:
?
Money:
?
More interesting things:
Spotted a guy across the train from me whose eyewear could have served as a modern-day illustration of the “Soviet-style” glasses Dave Barry mercilessly (but accurately!) makes fun of.
Followed Professor Alpha in the direction of lunch, but stopped short when he was about three steps down from that catwalk-looking thing and I was still at the top, leaving us, weirdly, at the same height. This meant that I was in full eyebrow range when I interrupted his description of a guy who “cut a wide swath” at one of the conferences by noting that that wasn’t necessarily saying much; that’s where Alpha stopped, turned back to me with an eyebrow look, and agreed: “Yes, a friend of mine once told not to think I was hot shit at that conference because it’s not exactly a huge number who are, one, not gay, and two, actually involved with all that.” So, okay – but, regardless, I don’t doubt there was a swath there too.
Completed a series of committee-related up-downs, in both the literal and figurative senses. It’s going to be hard to keep this from getting unwieldy, but I’ll do my best.
It began when I informed Professor Alpha that Professor Number Four had turned in our candidacy letters and asked what I should do next. All smiles, he turned to his packet, yoinked the relevant committee form, and told me to go make copies for “the troops.” Off I went, with just a small speck of now-I-have-to-ask-the-question-formally uncertainty burbling in my head.
I returned to find that Yellow Coat had started making her way to Alpha’s office enough ahead of me that by the time I could have passed her I was right in the middle of the hall and would have had to squeeze by her, and even in the throes of will-you-be-my-chair nerves I’m not THAT rude. So instead, I waited for what seemed like enough time to make it appear that I hadn’t been riding her tail across the lobby before leaning into Alpha’s office and handing off the stack. He went to ask why I was giving them all to him, decided that was too much of an interruption, slid the top copy off – and signed on the appropriate line before handing it back to me: “Yesss!” no. 1 and thank you for saving me from my own indirectness. This was enough of a triumph that I was able to work unjumpily at my desk until Yellow Coat had left.
The next question, of course, given that Rebecca had been unable to get her form past the department chair while a blank line remained, was whose names should adorn the next two spots. Professor Number One had made a good case for her own at one point, but, not knowing this, Alpha couldn’t take it into consideration while explaining why Professor Number Three would be good; when I told him about our hallway conversation from awhile back, he agreed that it would be a bit of a politics thing and advised me to talk with Number One.
I did. And Number One made another good case for herself. “Oy” no. 1.
I returned to Alpha, who did not seem entirely convinced that Number One would not in fact be unhappy if I later changed her name for someone else’s (“bullshit” may have been the word he used) and who suggested that I could go chat with Number Three herself just to float the idea out there – maybe she would refuse immediately and I could sort of wangle out of taking direct responsibility for a choice.
For better or for worse (“better” in the end, probably, although it wasn’t doing much for me at the time) Number Three agreed to sign. This was only a pretty small second “Yesss!”, though, because my sense of achievement in the face of pressure came with qualifications left, right, and center. First, Number Three acted like I was completely crazy for caring about this right now; it makes me a little nervous that she – a doc comm co-chair – wasn’t aware of what was taking place around her. Then, she sort of shot down Alpha’s suggestion of another professor (we’ll call this other person Professor Snarky, for reasons to be provided momentarily) as the third signer, acknowledging that Alpha’s description of the two as close colleagues was accurate but didn’t mean Snarky should be included. Finally, she announced that I don’t really have a question. Well, no shit – isn’t that one thing a committee is supposed to help you with? I’ve got a grip on my topic, for chrissakes, and I thought I made my thinking behind my choice of chair (and, consequently, the rush) very plain. If you’re willing to do it but you have a problem with the fact that suddenly it needs to be done this way, let’s tell someone who can do something about the whole thing – that is to say, not me! Big “oy” no. 2.
I went back downstairs to get my form (along with a paper Number Three asked me to fetch from Alpha’s box) and headed up to Snarky’s office, where Number Three was talking with her and a third woman. Number Three seemed exceptionally apologetic at my interruption, explaining with great alacrity that I had a form she needed to sign, as though I were going to derail all their collective efforts by my presence, but she did indeed hack off. Then, as Alpha had directed, I suggested as subtly, indirectly, and humbly as I could – and as a graduate of the Pentagon Colonel School of Tact that’s pretty subtle, indirect, and humble – that perhaps someone else sitting at the table wouldn’t mind signing temporarily, until we figured out whether she was interested in my topic and would be willing to work with me. “That’s an ambush,” she spat, looking up at me out of the corners of her eyes. Well, okay then, chicky! I backed off with all that humility I just mentioned starting the conversation with and added a touch of “I understand completely” placation before retreating at a high rate of speed and feeling a little ambushed myself. “Oy” the third.
I returned once again to my spiritual home on the second floor. Alpha looked up from his computer with an expectant, on-the-verge-of-celebrating “So?”, and I got to tell him that at least Number Three had signed it. “Number Three signed it?” “Yup.” “Snarky wouldn’t sign it?” “Nope.” “She wouldn’t sign it?!” “Mmm, no… actually, I believe she described it as an ambush.” [Insert snarly face here, and the quite loud pissed/protective response of the year here:] “What?! Well… fuck her! Who needs her help anyway?” Exactly what I was thinking, sir, although it also occurred to me that maybe I really had done something totally stupid, and that perhaps Alpha had forgotten that he lives by an unusually inclusive, student-centered, “we-can-fix-it-up” code. Anyway, big “Yesss” no. 3.
Parked myself sweatily, frazzly, and all the more tiredly for trying not to look sweaty and frazzled in Alpha’s office, waiting for the next plan. (Having never put together a diss committee before and in light of recent events, I certainly didn’t know what to try.) His approach involved closing his eyes, steepling his fingertips, leaning back in his chair, and mentally running around our department’s halls. The first suggestion he offered was the Party Professor, and although I don’t take it upon myself very often to contradict Alpha flat-out, this was one of those times. He laughed and moved on to a suggestion that at least in terms of personality I appreciated very much… and now I’m going to have to give this person a name. Hmm. Let’s go with Professor Delta. She’s going to get central pretty quick here, it seems. Okay, so although Delta is an early childhood person, she did work on adult literacy on quite a broad scale earlier in her career, and – as Alpha cleverly observed – is a big social justice gal too (and barring the inclusion of Professors Bravo or Number Two, I’d be at a bit of a loss in that section.) Besides all that, Alpha mentioned, Delta was a “straight shooter.” So all – ha – that remained, then, was to take my chances on running a repeat of the situation upstairs. Yippee. I didn’t really think I’d get my head bitten off this time, but then again I actually care what Delta thinks of me – I see her quite frequently – and I had zero interest in pissing her off. In any case, I told Alpha I’d catch Delta the next morning, he headed home, I followed him as far as my desk… and heard Delta’s voice down the hall. Gulp.
At that point I was already a good few minutes late to Professor Number Five’s class, but I figured she’s pretty invested in this whole thing and decided to bank on her forgiveness before I’d asked for it. I tiptoed towards Delta’s office, committee sheet dangling from two fingers like I thought it might bite me (it was starting to feel that way), and leaned in to find Delta chatting with the young prof from the cubicle near my desk. She welcomed me and the shield of apologies springing from my lips immediately, looking curiously – but with a smile! – at my paper when the phone rang. It was Miss N. calling to add a few things to my Stewing Pot of Nerves by asking Delta whether she minded reading for someone’s defense, whereupon the young prof jumped in with vociferous directions for Delta to refuse. Apparently Delta has gotten stuck reading a million dissertations in which she has no interest. Fab. Now I have to ask a professor who barely knows me to sign off on a form I never mentioned about a paper she knows nothing about when everyone else in the world is asking her to do similar things and on top of all that I have the ambush comment causing my metaphorical tail to droop. “Oy” number whatever it is.
But what happened next I couldn’t believe, at least not in the context of my earlier third-signer exchange. Before Delta had quite gotten off the phone, she began scrabbling through the papers on her desk in the manner of a person who is looking for a pen. She reached out – still smiling! – for my paper and looked for the appropriate spot. By then I was, to be quite honest, babbling. I made a lot of windy-sounding noises before managing to ask whether Delta would like to know what I thought I’d be writing about; the “Sure, honey, sure!” that I got back didn’t cause her head to lift or her pen to stop scratching. From there I moved right into Alpha’s explanation of why Delta would be good, which took us to the point where she was done filling out the paper and held it for me to take back. She interrupted my still-babbly thanks by leaning back in her chair, crossing her arms, and announcing that we teach what we are, that she thought I must have had some pretty good teachers, that she’s enjoyed talking with me so far, and that she was glad for a reason to meet. So on and so forth. And holy crap. Big, BIG “Yesss…” – and up to the chair’s office as fast as that elevator could take me, thinking as I went that if anyone required any further underscoring of the difference between the old guard and the new guarded, this would make a fine illustration.
And the minute I got with the chair was a good one. I started off by nearly smacking right into him, but I managed to avoid that and followed him into his office, introducing myself as we went (which he answered by kind of laughing and telling me he knew who I was. And I think I actually said something about the principal’s office out loud at that point.) Anyway, he stopped me for a second to ask whether it was okay that I work with Professor Bravo in the Fall – better than Professor Fluffy Hair, that’s for sure! – and then let me give him my form. As he signed it (and noted that they were coming in “fast and furious”), I asked if I could share something important about my choice of chair. Before I’d gotten past the names of two of the other schools, he stopped me again and asked if I could write it in an email that he would then copy to the deans in another letter he would be composing before leaving the office. Of course I was MORE than happy to do it, and managed something reasonable despite a) feeling bad about running back out of Number Five’s class and b) feeling worse because she kept making faces at me. I wish I’d had more time, and I only really got through one of about 16 reasons for my choice, but… whatever. It was a pleasure and an honor and the opening salvo of the siege I’ll start if I have to, so that’s that.
So there is the not-that-succinct retelling of the up-downs. I was still tired the next day. But it finished on a hopeful, filled-in-paper kind of note, so that’s saying something, anyway.
