Choice is a Privilege

Yes, I'm back. I'm not going to give excuses other than:

1. I'm writing a book -- which tends to sap your ability to write anything NOT the manuscript. 
2. COVID-19. I thankfully didn't have it, but of course the disruption to the semester was intense. 
3. The death of George Floyd and the political implications to higher education's stance and statements on race. As the faculty trustee at my institution, it's been mine (and our Board's) focus at the moment. 

COVID-19 became a nightmare for educators at every level, and will continue to disrupt in varying degrees for semesters to come. I'm not surprised that masks have become politicized. I'm not surprised that universities are coming to realize the importance of face-to-face instruction for students as students consider gap-years rather than deal with an entire course load online. Concurrently, faculty such as myself are coming to realize the importance of having online components to our classes. Luddism here was a privilege to which none of us can adhere any longer. While technology broadly construed is my specialty, I was not a fan nor adopter of online or blended models of teaching. The technology wasn't (and still isn't) seamless enough for me to dynamically present material or facilitate discussion. That is my opinion, and it still is. I envy my colleagues who have managed this balance and who create rich and dynamic online learning experiences for students. I have been -- and will continue to -- look to them to guide me. 

The death of George Floyd and the spotlight on race and police brutality have put universities into (rightfully) awkward positions.  I'm sure many administrators and faculty alike have been blindsided by the activism of colleagues; or, conversely, lacks of activism. I won't go into the details of my own university's response, but I will say that what is abundantly clear is that for some, like myself, the death of George Floyd was a gut-check of my personal privilege, and a reassessing of the privilege and power that comes with it. Personally -- let me emphasize this -- personally, I found that I was not doing enough. My selective activism was a privilege in and of itself. As what will probably be one of the last generations of faculty to have tenure, I have an invaluable asset by and through which I can actively affect change. The challenge is for me to do so responsibly: not in the context of keeping anyone "comfortable," but in the context of not doing harm to those already being pulled in different directions by the intersectional forces of race, gender, poverty, and a myriad other vectors of power. 

I think that many of us in academia -- particularly in the humanities and social sciences --  have been talking about these things for so long that we forget that we have internalized and naturalized the discourse of race and gender studies. We simply can't believe that anyone but a college freshman could say "all lives matter" without malicious intent. Yet, when it does happen, we have a moral obligation to educate in the most effective manner possible. As a philosophy professor, I am spoiled in the fact that I face resistance on a daily basis to the things I teach in my classes: not necessarily because they are politically volatile, but because they are just ... well ... ridiculous. YOU try explaining to a student who never read ANY philosophy in their lives Plato's theory of Forms. Or try to thread the needle with Nietzsche and Sartre so that students realize that neither was a nihilist (in fact, both are as anti-nihilist as one can be). 

So when a community member, or relative, or administrator proudly -- and without malice -- says "all lives matter"* or declare themselves "colorblind"** in the context of wanting to be an ally or at least do no further harm, my duty is to be the educator that I am. Notice the context, however. There are plenty of people who have declared "all lives matter" or that they're "colorblind" with the same political fervor and intention as am internet comment section troll who has just learned the term "virtue signalling." 

Indeed, I've had some relatively important people declare that they'd love to sit down and have coffee with me because they'd find "real debate" with me to be "entertaining." I can't help but think of showing up in a toga yelling "ARE YOU NOT AMUSED?!" Instead, I politely decline, saying that while I'd love to talk about philosophy any day, I'd rather not take part in what will inevitably be the rhetorical equivalent of professional wrestling. They want me to follow the script of the liberal academic while they follow their own script of whatever they think the opposite of a liberal academic is.  

Yet, that's the real issue here, though, isn't it? I had the privilege of saying "no." I had the privilege of walking away from a so-called "debate" and get on with my life. Just as I could easily take another Facebook hiatus or "sit out" diversity discussions on campus simply because I was tired or just didn't feel like it. 

There are those who simply cannot walk away from these issues. They cannot sign out of Facebook and not have to deal with systemic racism. Every act of theirs becomes a political act simply by the color of their skin and/or their gender identity. Between this and COVID, I was given a double-dose of privilege-checking. Just like the moment when I sat down to write this entry and told myself that I was specifically NOT going to discuss any of the above because I wanted to focus on something else. Yes, I will focus on other things in future entries, but this entry needed to be written. And I had a responsibility to write it. 

Black lives matter.

* saying "all lives matter" as an answer to "Black lives matter" is akin to saying to the owner of a burning house that "all houses matter" as their house burns down; or saying to someone who lost a child that "all children matter." 

** When one is "blind" to race, it also infers that one is blind to the experiences unique to that race -- both the challenges that race has faced as well as the pride and accomplishments therein. 

Academic Work and Mental Health

I've always said to my students -- especially those thinking of doing Masters or Ph.D. programs -- that graduate work (and academic work in general) can psychologically take you apart and put you back together again. It will often bring up deeper issues that have been at play in our day-to-day lives for years.

As I was annotating a book the other day, I felt a familiar, dull ache start to radiate from my neck, to my shoulders, shoulder blades, and eventually lower back. I took a moment to think about how I was sitting and oriented in space: I was hunched over -- my shoulders were high up in and incredibly unnatural position close to my ears.  I thought about what my current acupuncturist, ortho-bionomist, and past 3 physical therapists would say. I stretched, straightened myself out, and paused to figure out why I hunch the way I do when I write.

It’s like I’m under siege, I thought to myself.

And then I realized there was something to that.

If there’s one refrain from my childhood that still haunts me when I work it’s “You’re lazy.”

My parents had this interesting pretzel logic: The reason I was smart was because I was lazy. I didn’t want to spend as much time on homework as the other kids because I just wanted to watch TV and do nothing. So I’d finish my homework fast and get A’s so “I didn’t have to work.”

No, that doesn’t make sense. But it was what I was told repeatedly when I was in grade school. Then in high school, on top of all of the above, I was accused of being lazy because I didn’t have a job at 14, like my father did.

And then in college, despite being on a full academic scholarship, getting 4.0s most semesters, making the deans list, (and eventually graduating summa cum laude), I was perpetually admonished by my parents for not getting a job during the 4 week winter break, or getting a “temporary job” in the two or three weeks between the last day of classes and the first day of my summer jobs (lab assistant for a couple of  years, and then day camp counselor). Again, according to them, it was because I was “lazy.” My work study jobs during the school year as an undergraduate didn’t count because they weren’t “real jobs.”

And even though I was doing schoolwork on evenings and weekends, my parents often maintained that I should be working some part-time job on the weekends.

So doing schoolwork (that is to say, doing the work to maintain my GPA, scholarships, etc.,) wasn’t “real work.” In retrospect, the biggest mistake of my undergrad days was living at home. But I did so because I got a good scholarship at a good undergrad institution close to home. It was how I afforded college without loans.

But just about every weekend, every break, or every moment I was trying to do work, I was at risk of having to field passive aggressive questions or comments from my mother and father regarding my avoidance of work.

My choice to go to grad school because I wanted to teach was, of course, because I didn’t want a “real job.”

Most confusing, though, was how my parents (my mother in particular) would tout my achievements to family and friends, even telling them "how hard [I] worked.” But when relatives or friends were gone, the criticism, passive aggressive comments, and negativity always came back. It’s no wonder why I hunch when I do work. I am in siege mode. It explains also why my dissertation took me so long to write, and why that period of my life was the most difficult in terms of my mental health: the more I achieved, the more lazy I thought I was actually being.

Even though I have generally come to terms with the complete irrationality of that logic, I do have to take pains (often literally) to be mindful of how I work, and not build a narrative out of the negative thoughts that do arise as I submerge into extended research. I went back into counseling last summer, mainly because I was starting to feel a sense of dread and depression about my sabbatical, which I knew made no sense. I'm so glad I did.

The things we achieve -- whether academic, professional, personal, etc. -- are things of which we should be proud. Sometimes we have to be a little proactive in reminding ourselves of how to accept our own accomplishments.

And maybe every 30 or 60 minutes, stand up and stretch.

Excavations and Turns

"To take embodiment seriously is simply to embrace a more balanced view of our cognitive (indeed, our human) nature.  We are thinking beings whose nature qua thinking beings is not accidentally but profoundly and continuously informed by our existence as physically embodied, and socially and technologically embedded organisms."

 -- Andy Clark, Supersizing the Mind: Embodiment, Action, and Cognitive Extension, (217).  

I've reached a point in my field-related research that I've internalized certain ideas to the extent that they have become the conceptual bedrock of my current project. However, as I dug up my annotations of Andy Clark's Supersizing the Mind, I realized that I have taken certain assumptions for granted ... and had briefly forgotten that I didn't always think the way that I do about phenomenology, materialism, and particularly distributed cognition. Apparently, as little as seven years ago, I wasn't convinced of Clark's hypothesis regarding the ways in which our cognition is functionally and essentially contingent upon our phenomenal environments. Now, of course, I am. But reading my sometimes-snarky comments and my critiques/questions about his work gave me valuable insight into my own intellectual development, and pointed at ways to sharpen my arguments in my current project.

Seven years ago, I was still thinking that language was the mitigating factor in the qualia of our experience. In fact, I had written a chapter for an anthology around that time, working under the aforementioned idea. Now I realize why that chapter was rejected and left to literally collect dust in my office. The rejection of that chapter really affected me, because it was an anthology in which I really wanted to be included. I knew that something was off with it. It never felt quite "right."

Then, filed next to those notes, was a different set of notes written around eight months later. Those notes represented a complete 180 degree turn in my thinking. Unsurprisingly, that chapter was accepted into a different anthology ("Thinking Through the Hoard" which appeared in Design, Mediation, and the Posthuman).  That piece was really the beginning of my current journey. I suppose Clark's ideas had "sunk in" with the help of other authors who pointed out some of the broader implications of his work (like Jane Bennet and Hans Verbeek).

There are a couple of takeaways from this anecdote: 1) as academics/researchers, our ideas are always evolving. Several philosophers, including Heidegger, experienced "turns" in their thinking, marked by a letting go of what seemed to be foundational concepts of their work. My own work in posthumanism has made a couple of turns from its original literary theory roots, to an emo existential phase, to its current post-phenomenological flavor. 2) Embrace the turns for that they are. There are reasons why we move on intellectually. Remember why we move on is helpful when anticipating critiques to your current thinking.

Sabbatical: The True Meaning of Time

So no apologies or grand statements regarding that my quiet academic blog is now alive and awake again. No promises as to what it will become, or how often I will update. I'm going to let this evolve on its own. Like all the best things I do, I have a sketch in my head as to what I'd like this blog to be while I'm sabbatical -- as I research and write what will hopefully be another book. But, things happen and unfold in interesting and unpredictable ways. I have been doing a great deal of research in the past several months, all in preparation for what will be several months of concentrated work.

For those who may not be familiar with what a sabbatical is or how it works, it's basically a paid leave from one's usual responsibilities on campus in order to do intensive research or writing. Most universities grant year-long sabbaticals; but since Western isn't the most cash-flush or research-oriented university, our sabbaticals are one semester long ... we can take a year if we'd like, but at half-pay. Since I can't afford to live on half of my salary, I opted for the semester-long sabbatical. Sabbaticals are something for which faculty have to apply and be approved. It's a multi-step process that requires proposals and evidence that one has actually done research while they're gone. Once you are on the tenure track, you can apply for a sabbatical once every 7 years. 

This is my first sabbatical. So I have no idea what to expect nor can I wax philosophical on what it's like. 

I can say, however, that this will be the first time I'm not on an academic schedule since I first started going to school. And I don't mean grad school. I mean Pre-K. My years have been portioned by the academic calendar since I was 4. Elementary school. High school. College. Grad school. Teaching. There were no breaks. I have always either been in a classroom as a student or as an instructor since I was 4 years old. I am now 46. You do the math. Sure, there are semester breaks, but this was the first time I entered a semester break without having to think about the next semester's classes. It was less disorienting than I thought it would be. 

Not many people who aren't teachers understand exactly how much time and energy teaching requires. I normally have a teaching load of 4 classes per semester. I'm physically in the classroom for 3 hours per course per week (spread out over a Monday/Wednesday/Friday or Tuesday/Thursday schedule for each). I am also required to have at least 5 hours per week of "office hours" for students. So that's 17 hours per week of teaching/office hours. That doesn't include class preps, grading, committee work, meetings, and the administrative side of directing the philosophy program. Most days, I arrive on campus by 8:30am and leave after 5pm. Most days before or after that I'm prepping/reading for classes, grading, or doing paperwork. Weekends are the same. When I leave for the day, I bring work with me. 

I get up at 5am on weekdays in order to have a little under 60 minutes to do my own research. Semester breaks are also times when I've been able to do my own research. But 1/3rd to 1/2 of those breaks are filled with writing recommendations for students, prepping for the next semester's classes, and dealing with the inevitable committee work that brings me to campus during those breaks. 

With a sabbatical, 85%-90% of the above work goes away. 

This is why sabbatical are precious ... because it gives us time. 

Time to let the big thoughts develop. Time to sit down and THINK. Time to actually read something that isn't a student paper or a committee report. Time to write through a problem without looking at the clock and thinking about how you're going to make Kant into a remotely interesting class. Time to focus on your own work instead of the at-risk student who has been looking really tired in class and probably isn't eating because they just got dumped by their fiancee or their dog is sick or they flipped their car over for the 3rd time in 2 years. Time to sit in quiet instead of dealing with yet another new directive from administration to fund raise or recruit even though you have zero experience or expertise in doing so. Time to read relevant writing in your field instead of being asked to justify the importance of your field or to report back as to exactly where your students from 7 years ago are working now and how your classes got them that particular job. 

There is time. 

Time to recharge myself so that when I do return, Kant will be an interesting class. Time to become re-invested in my field and feel legitimate as an academic again so that I can pay better attention to my students and reach out when I know they're at risk. Time to research so that when I return I have evidence of exactly how important my field is, and exactly why studying it isn't just important, but imperative to making students marketable to employers. 

There is time for me to focus on me, so that I can eventually focus better on my job and doing it well. 

That's what sabbatical is all about, Charlie Brown. 

Professional Milestones and Unexplored Territories: A Past-Due Update

I was a little shocked to realize that it has been this long since I updated Posthuman Being. I do have a couple of things in the pipeline now that I'll be able to discuss when each moves out of the revision stage. I'm optimistic about one of the projects. The other is a piece liked by the editors, but the project itself is in editorial limbo. I've been lucky on other pieces and their speedy turnarounds. I was due for a slow one. These projects will be the symbolic end of a chapter, and the last before I anticipate a "turn" in my work within the field of posthumanism. There have been glimmers of where I'm headed in my previous Posthuman Being entries. But now it's time for me to actively begin the next chapter. There will be much reading to do.

Concurrently, I've hit a professional milestone which needed its own moment of reflection: my promotion from the rank of 'associate professor' to 'professor.' For those not familiar with academic rank and promotion: after achieving tenure and promotion from 'assistant' to 'associate' professor, this is basically the final step. While I can't speak for everyone, there is a kind of  academic "mid-life crisis" that one can experience during this transition. I've had some decent accomplishments for someone at a teaching university with a 4/4 load (as opposed to a research university where the full-time load is fewer classes with a higher expectation/weight placed on research and publishing). I spent eight years as an adjunct teaching a 5/5 load or greater. The rest have been in the tenure-track and as a tenured faculty member. In total, I have logged 20 years teaching full-time. So, in both my professional and personal life, I am in one of those contemplative phases.

So I'm in that space between what I have accomplished and what I still want to accomplish. And for me, many of my personal and professional goals intertwine. So there's a bit of an added dimension to this introspection.

There are topics that I've wanted to cover in my research that, prior to tenure and promotion, I thought were too "out there" to explore. But now I have the privilege (and it IS a privilege in all connotations of the word) of choice. I can choose my direction, both in terms of research and in terms of institutional service goals. In the latter, I can choose my battles and pursue the issues which I think are important. To a certain extent, those battles tend to find me, but now I can face them directly without having to hold back. That feels good.

That being said, I also know that this privilege can disintegrate with one fell swoop of a budgetary ax, or under the whim of administrative politics. This is not a situation unique to myself, but to any academic serving in academia. Tenure and promotion is not a shield from reality.  It is however, a chance to respond to issues with confidence and a clear voice. It is an opportunity to take risks, knowing full well that the opportunity can vanish at any time.

That confidence and clarity comes around full-circle. I have learned a lot. I still have much to learn. I have been shaped by academia, which -- contrary to popular opinion of those outside of it -- can be  harsh and unforgiving environment. I have witnessed people broken by it. I have watched ambition smothered by institutional folly and inescapable economic realities. Yet I have endured, and thrived, and the passion for what I do remains intact and has grown even more intense. There are unexplored territories that remain.

I think Seinabo Sey put it best in the beautiful "Hard Time"

"This time I will be
Louder than my words
Walk with lessons that
Oh, that I have learned
Show the scars I've earned
In the light of day
Shadows will be found
I will hunt them down"

Although I'm not sure it I'll be hunting shadows or dancing with them. Then again, it is my choice.

Update: Semester Breaks, New Technology, New Territory

This is more of an update post than a theory/philosophy one.

The semester ended a couple of weeks ago and I am acclimating to my new routine and schedule. I am also acclimating to two new key pieces of technology: my new phone, which is a Galaxy Note 4; and my new tablet, which is a Nexus 9. I attempted a slightly different approach to my upgrades, especially for my tablet: stop thinking about what I could do with them and start thinking about what I will do with them. One could also translate that as: get what you need, not what you want. This was also a pricey upgrade all around; I had been preparing for it, but still, having to spend wisely was an issue as well.

The Galaxy Note 4 upgrade was simple for me. I loved my Note 2. I use the stylus/note taking feature on it almost daily. The size was never an issue. So while I momentarily considered the Galaxy S6 edge, I stuck with exactly what I knew I needed and would use.

As for the tablet, that was more difficult. My old Galaxy Note 10.1 was showing its age. I thought -- or rather, hoped ... speculated -- that a tablet with a stylus would replace the need for paper notes. After a full academic year of trying to do all of my research and class note-taking exclusively on my tablet, it was time for me to admit that it wasn't cutting it. I need a full sheet of paper, and the freedom to easily erase, annotate, flip back and forth, and see multiple pages in their actual size. While the Note tablet can do most of that, it takes too many extra steps; and those steps are completely counter-intuitive than when using pen and paper.

When I thought about how and why I used my tablet (and resurrected chromebook), I realized that I didn't need something huge. I was also very aware that I am a power-user of sorts of various Google applications. So -- long story short -- I went for the most ... 'Googley' ... of kit and sprang for a Nexus 9, with the Nexus keyboard/folio option. I was a little nervous at the smaller size -- especially of the keyboard. But luckily my hands are on the smallish side and I'm very, very pleased with it. The bare-bones Android interface is quick and responsive; and the fact that all Android updates come to me immediately without dealing with manufacturer or provider interference was very attractive. I've had the Nexus for a week and am loving it.

This process, however, especially coming at the end of the academic year, made me deeply introspective about my own -- very personal -- use of these types of technological artifacts. It may sound dramatic, but there was definitely some soul-searching happening as I researched different tablets and really examined the ways in which I use technological artifacts. It was absolutely a rewarding experience, however. Freeing myself up from unrealistic expectations and really drawing the line between a practical  use rather than a speculative use was rather liberating. I was definitely influenced by my Google Glass experience.

From a broader perspective, the experience also helped me to focus on very specific philosophical issues in posthumanism and our relationship to technological artifacts. I've been reading voraciously, and taking in a great deal of information. During the whole upgrade process, I was reading Sapiens, A Brief History of Humankind by Yuval Noah Harari. This was a catalyst in my mini 'reboot.' And I know it was a good reboot because I keep thinking back to my "Posthuman Topologies: Thinking Through the Hoard" chapter in Design, Mediation, and the Posthuman, and saying to myself "oh wait, I can explain that even better now ..."

So I am now delving into both old and new territory, downloading new articles, and familiarizing myself even more deeply with neuroscience and psychology. It's exciting stuff, but a little frustrating because there's only so much I can read through and retain in a day. There's also that nagging voice that says "better get it done now, in August you'll be teaching four classes again." It can be frustrating sometimes. Actually, that's a lie. It's frustrating all the time. But I do what I can.

Anyway, that's where I'm at right now and I'm sure I'll have some interesting blog entries as I situate myself amidst the new research. My introspection here isn't just academic, so what I've been working on comes from a deeper place, but that's how I know the results will be good.

Onward and upward.

Perseverance and Writing Regularly, Part 1 of 2: (A Post on the Writing Process)

The main function of this blog has always been as a space where I can tease out certain ideas that may or may not be ripe for deeper, more academically solid exploration. I also envisioned it as a place where I can talk about the writing process itself, especially since several of my readers are or were students of mine. I am currently revising a multi-part post on connection, interface, and control. So don't worry, I'll be back to technological themes soon. In the space between finishing up the first draft and beginning a major revision, I had a moment to reflect more deeply upon being granted tenure and promotion. I wasn't sure if I was going to actually post this entry, but after a really interesting dinner conversation with a colleague and some exchanges with students, I decided to give it a go.

A challenge that comes with working at a teaching -- rather than a research -- institution is that my main focus is the classroom. With a 4/4 teaching load (that's 4 classes per semester; whereas a research university it may be 2/2, 2/3 or some variation of that depending on rank, seniority, grants, etc.), it's not easy to find the time to research or write. Summer breaks are that time. Winter breaks used to also be that time as well, but the brutally short break between the Fall and Spring semesters at my current institution makes that difficult. Summers are also the time for class preparation, and just simply catching up with every project at home that I couldn't get done during the academic year. Add to that visits from family and friends, travel/vacations, and whatever "emergency" committee or task force upon which one is called to serve on campus, and the time can fill up very quickly. 

With tenure comes a little bit of a break. An "invitation" to be on a committee during a break is just that, rather than a veiled requirement (i.e. "this will be really good for your tenure application").  So, for the first time since 2005, I have finally had the time, and motivation, to write on a regular basis again. I am somewhat ashamed to admit that I haven't written daily for an extended period of time since I was writing my dissertation. I definitely wrote, but came in desperate spurts among grading, writing committee reports, class preparation, and the week or two before deadlines. There were always summers, but it's amazing how quickly I fell into bad habits of waiting until the very end of the break to actually write. The idea that the pressure of a deadline will "force" one to get things done is a myth students and some academics are very good at perpetuating. Accomplished scholars who say they write that way may be revising that way, but they aren't composing that way. 

The past two months have been a revelation in regard to my writing process. Since I already have a piece coming out soon in this anthology, I am under no deadlines. I have kept campus commitments to an absolute minimum. I have been able to make writing a priority in my day. It is my first project in the morning at least 5 days a week, and I write for a minimum of an hour. The first product of this was my previous 3-part Google Glass review. But it's the post(s) on which I'm currently working that the real benefits of prioritizing my writing and research have become apparent. I have started to work through some of the more complicated aspects of technological/human interface that I wasn't able to in my first book. Of course, much of that comes from just knowing more based on the reading I've done since then, and being able to make more connections to established philosophy due to all of the classes I've taught between the last book and now.

It's clear that the level from which I'm working now is much deeper than my previous pieces. I attribute that to my slowed down and regular approach. Sometimes I think that my background in English works against me: no matter how much I know about process and writing, no matter what advice I give to students regarding giving oneself time to write, there is still that romanticized vision of the exhausted writer "birthing" out some kind of tome that comes only when one occupies the borders of sanity. And after that overwrought, cathartic blast, we hope that there is something salvageable in the mess.

But after a couple of months of slow, steady, and regular writing, I find that 6 hours of writing spread out over 5-6 days is just so much better than 6 hours of writing done in a single, coffee-fueled, trembling day (or night). The embarrassing part is that, when I look back on it, it was the former, more methodical technique that allowed me to finish my dissertation, rather than the latter. The main difference was that I was writing for two or three hours at a time then. Some days there was literally nothing in the tank, and most of my time was spent thinking through a particularly difficult problem.  Other days, I would labor over one or two paragraphs for the full session. There were also times when I would write voluminously in those hours. It varied, but it was a set, scheduled process. Doing it every day allowed me to finish. Success came with an awareness of my process and a commitment to finishing it up. In retrospect, my writing process matured. It made me ready for the next level not just in my writing, but in my career.

As flawed as academia may be, there is something to be said for its "hierarchy." As I've said to every student whom I've counselled regarding grad school and Ph.D. work, the dissertation is not simply about carving out a niche in a given field; or just being able to answer the "so what?" question when you've come up with something new. Writing a dissertation is a process designed to push an academic to his or her limits intellectually, emotionally, and professionally. It is a crucible, an arena, a battlefield, and a very personal hell, where you are perpetually harassed by your own demons while still at the mercy of circumstance (your advisor decides to take a sabbatical? Too bad; one of your committee members decides to work at another institution? Oh well. You or your partner are diagnosed with something horrific? Tough break). If there is one word that describes the point of the process that captures all of this, it's perseverance.

For a perilously long time, I was ABD: "all-but-dissertation." This is an informal term (yes, there are those ABDs who actually want to put this as a suffix on their business cards, thinking it carries weight), which means that all the requirements for the Ph.D. have been fulfilled except for the dissertation. It is when the student is solely responsible for his or her progress. It is the most dangerous time for any Ph.D. student, because it is when the perseverance I mentioned is most tested. The negative psychological backslide that can occur during the ABD phase is insidious. I found myself wondering why "they just couldn't let me finish," and lamenting "but I just want to teach!" I began to question and deride the entire Ph.D. process as antiquated, elitist, and unfair. I amassed a pile of teaching experience, however, desperately using it as an excuse not to face my writing ... and also hoping that magically, the dozens of courses I had taught would somehow make my lack of a Ph.D. something that search committees would ignore. I became satisfied with less and less at the teaching jobs I did have: I was taking jobs out of guilt -- at least if I made money and was 'busy,' it meant that I hadn't stalled. I even thought I could make a permanent career out of my adjunct, ABD teaching. When my wife completed her Ph.D., I offset my jealousy with even more magical thinking: yes, that was her path. For what I want to do, I don't really need the Ph.D. at all. 

But after truly hitting bottom, and being faced with some very serious ultimatums (one having to do with being dropped from my Ph.D. program), I rebuilt from the ground-up. I sought counseling, and uncovered deeply entrenched issues that were hindering me. I faced my fears and actively engaged my dissertation committee. I started writing regularly. It took 3 years of rebuilding before I was on track again. But with the help of committed and compassionate faculty, an excellent therapist, and a partner who had been through the process herself and really, really loved me, I found my rhythm. I found a way to put all of the work I had done previously to use. Circumstances also finally aligned toward the end of those 3+ years. My wife was offered a tenure-track position 2,000 miles from where we lived. If I had any hope of being employed at the same place, I would have to finish my dissertation within a year of moving there. Within 4 months of moving and despite the chaos of unpacking and settling into a new place, I wrote regularly, drawing from every false start and red herring in my research, and finished. Eleven years had passed from the day I took my first graduate level class.

Getting the Ph.D. is more of a personal milestone than a professional one, because having a Ph.D. doesn't guarantee anyone a job. Ever. In most academic fields, the tenure-track job market is abysmal, and repeated runs through the job search process can be utterly demoralizing. However, the Ph.D. does improve one's chances dramatically, however -- and in many academic fields, it is an absolute necessity for finding a tenure-track job. And having one "in hand" versus "defending in August" does make one more attractive to a search committee.  But when that tenure-track job is found, the professional gauntlet truly begins. I'm lucky to be at a teaching University because the tenure process is five, rather than seven (or more) years. For those five years, I was an Assistant Professor (aka, "probationary" or "junior" faculty). In a nutshell, that means that at the end of any one of those five years, I could have been let go without any reason given. And that does happen sometimes. So during those probationary years, any junior faculty member will take on any and every project that is thrown his or her way: extra committee work, extra-curricular activities, moderating a club, volunteering, etc. And if a trusted mentor, department chair, or any administrator shows up at your office door with an "opportunity that would really support your tenure," you say yes. Of course, at a teaching institution, you are being judged primarily by your teaching evaluations, with research and professional development as a slightly distant second. But nevermind that all of those commitments mean less time for your classroom preparation; or that you have to leave students in the dust to run to a meeting. You balance it. You do it because you've already proven that you can balance yourself during the dissertation process. You dig deep. You persevere.

I did my fair share of work, and with the help of a particularly insightful administrator, I chose my committee service well. I did take a few risks here and there, and had one or two minor -- and ultimately resolved -- disagreements with colleagues, but I pushed myself. I squeezed in some writing where I could, and managed to completely revise my dissertation and get it published and then write two more articles: one was rejected at the very last stage; the other is the one included in the new collection. I applied for tenure with a strong portfolio. Putting that portfolio together was much more time consuming and emotionally draining than I expected. That process, plus all of my other duties, pushed me to a point that was very similar to the final weeks of dissertation writing: that place where you have to once again dig very deep for that last bit of motivation and energy. But I could look back to my dissertation process and know that I had it in me to finish. I had excellent support from my spouse, colleagues, and even students. All of my supporters reiterated a variation of a theme: "You earned this." Yes. I had earned it, and I would persevere.

Being granted tenure is not an "end." Just like getting the Ph.D. or first tenure-track position is not an end. It is a new process of self-evaluation and professional development, but one that comes with the privileges one has earned in the process. There is more freedom to engage in both research and course development. Student evaluations -- while still very important -- no longer hold such psychological weight. There is room for experimentation and trying out things that one has always wanted to try. Projects can be more long-term. Professional evaluations are set at longer intervals. And, as I hinted at earlier, one can be more selective as to the types of service in which one engages. With rank and seniority, there are more opportunities for leadership in committees and campus-wide initiatives. However, as an "associate professor," there is still one more level above. This is very institution-specific. At a research-level university or college, being promoted to a "full professor" is contingent upon criteria particular to each institution. Some require major publishing and/or research achievements; others require commendable teaching. Regardless, if one wants to move on from "Associate Professor" to "Professor," it is another round of evaluation and assessment. One earns more opportunities. And yes, the system is flawed. Institutionalized sexism, racism, classism, etc. persist even in the most liberal-leaning academic edifices. But at least academia tends to be more aware of these issues than in other places.

When I sat down to write this post, I intended to make it solely about my writing process -- not necessarily about the journey up the academic ladder. But for me at least, the two are absolutely intertwined. I gained confidence from my writing successes, which bolstered my ownership of my own expertise, which, in turn, pushed me to take more risks through my writing. The process is circular and iterative: it reinforces an identity. I try to think to the moment back in grad school when I turned myself around. But really, it was a series of moments over the course of weeks ... perhaps months. One incremental advance after another. But they compounded. And with each iteration, I became slightly more confident in my voice and my subsequent identity. This process really never ends.

It took tenure, promotion, and a summer without any major commitments for me to gain the perspective necessary to verify what I always suspected: one's identity is something that is always a process. I experienced my greatest failures and made my worst decisions when I lost sight of that fact, and passively allowed circumstance and my environment to shape me without actively engaging in the process of that shaping. Each success reinforces my identity as an academic.That identity isn't static. It is an ongoing and active process of evolution, with every stage being a regeneration.

I rather like where I am now. Yet, I will persevere.