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. 

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.