5 Things University Professors Don’t Want to Accept

5 Things University Professors Don’t Want to Accept

1. The 60’s ain’t comin’ back – The 1960’s and 70’s were a great time for academia financially. Job growth was enormous, “research” was big business and grants were plentiful. We’re in a slash-n-burn situation, budget cuts mean the milk and honey days are not returning. Time to shut up and adapt.
2. Community college professors as real academics – at nearly any conference you go to drop that you’re from a community college instructor and see what happens. Likely half of the people in the room will turn up their noses, a few may even make crude comments. You’re not a “real academic”. Well guess what as$holes, many community college professors make more than University professors. In addition an increasing number publish and present at conferences without the support and free time that many four-year professionals squander.
3. Words Cause Trouble. You may have to pay a price for what you say. Grow up. You’re not the first one to be persecuted for your word choice. Being an academic you frankly ought to know this. Go read Foucault’s Fearless Speech lecture ha ha
4. Teaching Matters. Yeah, yeah, yeah society sucks. When will they all learn?… oh wait… that’s your job isn’t it? If “they’re all gonna learn” aren’t you supposed to be teaching them? Could that possibly mean you should spend time developing and improving your teaching techniques? Listening to your students? Getting to understand their world and how to relate info to it? NOOOO…say it ain’t so…. Shhh!
5. When you don’t sign paper work, you’re costing people money. That’s right, when you went off to your last trip to Japan and didn’t sign my comps paperwork so I could officially become ABD you cost me 1,000 dollars at my job. If I had been full-time you would have cost me 3,500. When you don’t “feel like” doing paperwork in a timely manner you cost people jobs, money and health insurance. You DO have responsibilities whether you fulfill them or not.

Don’t fall for the Foucault trap

You find this interesting? You think this is the kind of stuff you’ll discuss in grad school? One of my professors ranted incoherently about bio-power *rolling my eyes*. Another professor told me that “if you read Foucault you’ll end up living in a basement apartment with alot of cats.”

Finally during my Ph.D. coursework I found professors into it, but by then quite frankly I didn’t give a fu$k anymore.

Tales of the Graduate Teaching Assistant: Or The Bodhisattva of LSD (Part II)

Abstract: This is part two of a recounting of my earliest experience teaching. As a graduate student, my friend Felix and I, were recruited to T.A. for Dr. Samsara. After taking us to lunch we were driven head in to the deep end.

“Hey mother-fu$ker,” Felix screamed waving his arms and chasing the van down the driveway and into the street. “You forgot us!”

I chuckled for about three seconds and then I got mad.

“What the fu$k are we going to do now?”  He mumbled as he came walking back to the vending machine kiosk.

This is a highway rest stop somewhere near Albany, New York. Three hours from our homes. Three hours from our cars. Three hours…

“What the hell did you do?” Mikey asked, laughing.

“We took a taxi to a bus station in Albany and road the bus back.” I grumbled.

“I bet that was expensive.” He laughed, “He got you good, man.”

I flashed Mikey one of those fake smiles that really means “FU$K YOU”.

Christine coated her lips with her tacky CVS lipstick and then snapped the tube shut, “Well that’s why I stay away from him. He’s just so out of it. I wonder why they even let him teach here. I mean how did you get to Albany anyway?”

Felix and I stood at the corner near the Women’s center. It was cold and dark.

6:10AM: Felix rubbed his hands together and whispered “Jesus”.

6:15AM: I sighed heavily and mumbled “Where the hell are you”.

6:20AM: A blue van pulls slowly down the street. Felix picks up his bag and we step closer to the curb. As the van approaches a short, chubby woman peers out the window at us, glaring as they she expects us to leap from the curb and molest her Dodge. She jams her foot on the gas just before reaching us and speeds off.

6:30AM: A blue van with two broken windows covered by black trash bags spins around the corner and screeches to a halt right in front of us. Dr. Samsara calls from inside, “Good morning! Are you ready for lunch?”

Felix laughs.

“Sure.” I say as I climb into the back seat.

After exchanging pleasantries, no one speaks for thirty minutes. Where the hell is this restaurant, I’m thinking to myself. We cross the border into Connecticut.

“So. Dr. Samsara, have been to this place before?”

“Oh yes,” he smiles. “Its very beautiful. So Sebastian, tell me why you wanted to come to grad school back east. Its such a long way from Wisconsin.”

“Missouri. I’m actually from Missouri,” I mumble. In a louder tone, “Well I really enjoy the field and I feel like politics is something that’s all around us, in our daily lives. I want to study that and I want to teach, because I think it’s a subject that can really enhance a person’s life.” I stop. That really didn’t sound right. How come I can never explain what I want to say?

“What’s your thesis going to be on?”

I have no idea. “Bureaucratic politics, in that kind of area.”

“Oh,” He nods his head. “What about you Felix?”

“Similar to what Sebastian said, I see a lot of potential to help people and give back to the community. I had a great opportunity to work in a Senate office as an intern and I realized there that this is what I want to do with my life.”

“That’s great. That’s really great.”

“How did you get into the field, Dr. Samsara?” I call from the backseat.

“I met my first wife as an undergrad and she wanted to go to grad school out of state, so I applied and followed her. She had such a nice figure back then.” He smiled nodding.

Felix looked at me as if to say “What the fu$k?”

I didn’t understand at the time, but of all of us in the van Dr. Samsara had the most realistic reason to go to grad school, the most achievable reason. It wasn’t the first time I’d heard a story like this. As an undergraduate my social theory professor, when pressed one day to explain why he chose to go into academia said,

“Well. I didn’t know what else to do.” He shrugged. “My dad had some strings to pull and so he got me into a Ph.D. program and so I did that. Then his best-friend got me the job here. Its hasn’t been that bad, I mean I can ride my bike to work.”

“Don’t you love social theory?” a girl on the other side of the circle asked, clearly as upset as I was.

“I like it fine. My sister she’s a dentist. Now that I couldn’t do.”

At the time I thought what an as$hole this guy is. I had nothing but contempt for him. Because academia… it’s a special place right? You go into academia because you love your subject, because you have passion. It’s a luxury, you get to think about the world and help people with suggestions as to how to fix things.

At a recent conference I attended in San Diego, a professor and researcher asked a police chief. “Why don’t you work more closely with us to utilize our research in the field?”

The police chief cleared his throat. “Frankly, sir. Your research doesn’t mean anything to us. One study says one thing. Another says another. We’re out in the world everyday facing crime. We need real solutions not debates.”

The professor’s eyes went dim.

Back in the van, we’ve passed Albany headed west. Felix finally asks, “Dr. Samsara? I thought we were going to lunch?”

“Oh, Lunch.” He smiles. “Yes, lunch. Open the glove box.”

Felix complies, but from the back I can’t see what’s in there. And then I hear it, “Oh dried fruit. Is this lunch?”

“Yes, I love dried fruit. Don’t you? We can stop at this rest stop and get some waters.”

The department chair shook her head, “Outrageous. But you’re okay right?”

“Yeah,” I nod.

“I guess so,” Felix nods.

“Well good. Don’t you two have a class to teach in an hour? How’s that going?”

“Teach?” I say.

“Yeah. Dr. Samsara’s Peace Order Studies.”

“Well where is Dr. Samsara?”

(To Be Continued… in the next segment, Felix and I are involved in a plagiarism scandal that rocks the department).

*** Note these stories are real. I have changed my name and the names of others because I quite frankly fear retribution and problems with employment in this industry. At the same time, I feel like this stuff needs to be discussed.

My New Cover Letter: Taking a new tactic in the application process

Abstract: In this blog entry I attempt a new approach to the job search.

Dear (insert job title) Search Committee:

I meet all the requirements for this job. In fact, I have more education than is needed. I have all the software skills, all the experience working students. I meet ALL the requirements. But you never call me, you bastard! I’ve been to three human resources officers, I’ve passed my cover letters and CV’s around three academic departments. I’ve listened to advise from people who have sat on hiring committees from Louisiana to California to Maine. They all say they’d hire me, or at least interview me.

But you don’t. No, 17 different times I’ve rolled the fu*king dice on your institution and come up empty. What did I ever do to you? Or didn’t I ever do to you? I sit around nights now eating cups of yogurt that have past their expiration. I can’t afford new yogurt, all my cards are maxed out. I plop each new spoonful of potentially deadly delight into my mouth staring at Court TV. Imaging ways to kill you…or myself. Am I the wrong sex? If I had tits could I get an interview? That doesn’t make sense, my wife can’t get one either.

Maybe we’re the wrong color? Wrong age? Supposedly that sh*t doesn’t make it to the committees attention… besides I started marking “decline to answer” on that months ago…Maybe we use the wrong type of paper…one professor told me he throws away applicants packets if they use “ivory” instead of white. Did you date a guy who graduated from our same school who used to fart in bed? That’s it… isn’t it. Some flagellant bastard ruins your erection and now I’m unemployed. Fu%ker!

You see the truth is, I don’t want to work for you either. But at this point I don’t have enough money to finance trips to the interviews that I have been getting in other cities so we’re stuck together. If you wanna get rid of me you’re gonna have to hire my as# so I can save up enough money to quit. How’s that! You like that! A friend of mine wrote a cover letter for me in which he claimed my mother was retarded and my father was illiterate. He said “academics love a hard-luck story makes’em feel all liberal”. He swears he wrote the same letter and it brought to an end an 18 month job search.

My mother isn’t retarded, just a bitch who pushed me to get all these useless degrees. I’d like to thank her now. She worked hard in life so her son could go nowhere. Do you want my mother to have to live with that you pigf*ck? I guess you don’t care. I guess you’re perfectly happy to keep advertising jobs, collecting applications from people who meet all the requirements and then “closing the position”. You disgust me, I hope one of your assistants gets lock-jaw and bites your d*ck off during one of your “HR Meetings”

If you have any questions or comments about my application, I’d be happy to address them.

Sincerely,

Sebastian Wolfe, Ph.D.

Fun Grad-Educated Facts: Or how do you say reality in Dutch?

The average age of a PhD student in the Netherlands is 29, an overwhelming majority are women – and 40% are foreigners, according to new research by careers magazine Intermediair (IM).

The survey indicates that at 13.7%, the unemployment rate among PhD graduates is seven times higher than that of university graduates as a whole. And those who have found a job are not always enthusiastic. Over one-third are negative or neutral about their work.

On the other hand, 45% said they are happy with their salaries. Only 8% said they would have done something completely different and not taken a PhD if they could make their choice again.

Taken from the illustrious DutchNews.nl

I once read an article about these service industry workers in Brazil. I’m not going to look up the citation right now, because frankly I don’t feel like it. I guess if you’re burning up you can e-mail me on the issue and see how fast I get back to you.

Anyway, these service industry people took on the identity of being wealthy. They began to think of themselves as upper crust simply because they came in contact with the upper crust every day. Because they spent all their time around these lavish things which they could never afford, they began to believe they were part of something.

I remembered that this morning because of the class discussion that followed the reading. Some Marxist girl with hairy pits, loose legs, and a pension for indie rock band as#holes that seemed to oddly conflict with her supposed political orientation called it false consciousness. Another student said, “seems crazy to me”. Someone else quoted two lines from another book that we read early in the semester that didn’t quite fit into the discussion. But hey, I guess it gave the appearance he was thinking.

It occurred to me, certainly not then, this morning that we (all of us in academia) are Brazilian shoe salesmen mistaking our time fitting pumps to the feet of the wealthy for being wealthy ourselves. The education industry sells (at least some of us) the idea of status and mobility, but is this a reality? Not really. You will never really escape you’re social class, you’ll only at best end up teaching them. Are overseers better off than slaves? Are prison guards really free?

I guess they can quit. Where as you’re stuck with your debt and the isolation that is a result of your degree. Now everyone thinks you’re a pretentious as#hole, but you still have to see them everyday. You still have to teach them. You’ve gone far Joe College (or Jane College respectively)

I think maybe I should spend time here exploring the various lures of graduate degrees. I should talk about Status, Helping Others, Bildung (who read that sh#t huh? huh? …

MIT Scandal: Everything is Bulls$&t and other not-so-dramatic realizations

“Did you hear?”

“About?” I yawn.

“The news god damn it.”

“No, no, no, no.” I yawn again, this time it lasts several seconds. “I’m just getting up.”

“Well this lady at MIT, she lied.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Turns out she maybe can’t even read.”

“Illiterate type huh,” I plop down in front of the computer, “What is she the chancellor, president?”

“No, no Director of Admissions.”

“Yeah well that figures.” For a brief moment, I reflect on all of the rejection letters for various graduate schools that I received. I think of initial acceptances and rejections for my undergraduate. Perched somewhere inside tiny turn-of-the-century built buildings on distant land-grant campuses, even now, an army of temps with high school diplomas and A.A. degrees riffle through the hopes and dreams of tens of thousands of middle class children… all the while their boss, cracking the whip, has less education than any of them.

Frightening? Empowering? Pointless?

However you call it, I have to accept that I spent 100,000 and change and a decade of my life to come to know that “Everything Is Bullsh$t” to quote a late friend of mine.

“What’s that bi%*h’s name?”

“Marilee Jones” He laughs into the phone, “oh she’s the Dean I guess. You know this kind of sh*t is really gonna f#ck up your current job search. Everyone’s gonna be crazy about checking degrees and all that crap. You know how reactionary everyone is.”

“Yeah.”

What I can’t believe is how listing multiple degrees helped Marilee Jones. I applied now for over twenty admissions officer positions at various institutions trying to land a health-care ready job and not one of them even gave me an interview. So unsuccessful have I been, that I now lie to tell people I have LESS education than I do. This has actually lead to recent interviews.
“So I mean what’s a Ph.D. worth?” Felix is laughing so hard on the phone he can barely choke the words out.

“Well we already knew the answer. Nothing.”

The Bodhisattva of LSD: Part I

The Bodhisattva of LSD: Part I

Abstract: In this article, the topic of LSD, Buddhist enlightenment, and the American fruit-picking industry are discussed vis-à-vis attention to social dynamics of graduate teaching assistants and supervising professors. Special attention is paid to acid-flash backs as well as the contingent nature of “truth” claims.

I’m sitting so close to him that I can actually hear his thumb burst through the skin of the orange. Maybe it’s not that I’m so close, maybe it’s that it’s so quiet. So meditative?

“Feel your finger piercing the skin of this delicious orange.” Professor Samsara speaks softly, only a decibel or two above a whisper. His eyes closed, his lips in a half smile, he could be the Buddha. But he’s not. He’s the bodhisattva of LSD.

Story goes, he was a big Soviet Studies scholar back in the 60’s but then he went west like the pioneers. His frontier? The San Francisco drug craze of the late 60’s. When he returned…

“He was never the same,” Professor Whitehorse shook his head.

“I mean what happened?” I asked taking another sip of my tea.

“Well you can’t repeat this.” He looked at the floor. When it comes to secrets academics open their lips more than a street whore parts her legs… and for free no less. “He left his wife and married a stripper.”

“Jesus” I act more surprised than I am. I’ve gotta get a look at this wife of his. What does an aged stripper turned Professor’s wife look like I wonder.

“Yeah, it was a scandal.” Prof Whitehorse looks out the window. “She still works here. His ex. She’s a Dean in the School of Education”

I make a mental note to take a walk through the education building later that day. Boy will Felix sh%t when he hears about this.

“That’s when he got into the Buddha” Professor Whitehorse lunges forward into the doorway in a panic. He looks left and then right down the hall and slumps back into his chair. “Thought I heard someone coming. You can’t repeat this stuff.”

I take a deep breath and pierce the skin of my orange. The juice coats my fingers. “God damn it. What a mess,” I think.

“Think about the tree… that beautiful tree basking in the sun. Now take a deep breath.” His inhale fills the room like some dangerous beast growling. You see the thing is despite his easy-going “style”, Professor Samsara is scary as hell.

“Think about the worker who plucked this orange from the tree.” Prof Samsara can snap at any minute and sometimes, sometimes when you’re reciting the content of your research project or the conclusions of a paper he asked you to write as an additional assignment… just sometimes at those moments he has an expression on his face like he’s about to f$#^ing murder you. “Think about her delicate fingers reaching up to pull this round supple orange down from the tree.”

I wrote a paper for him the previous semester about traveling, dancing mystics in what is now Turkey. And at the point when I was explaining that each of these mystics that declared themselves the messiah had experienced (according to accounts) bouts of dark depression and seclusion… right at that point… he snapped. “So what makes you so interested in these kind of people. You think you’re the messiah?”

I fidget in my seat. “Um, I don’t think I understand what you’re asking?” I’m so nervous my voice quivers. At this point in my life I still believe in the process, the system, the whole bunch of crap… It still intimidates and mystifies me. I think he’s asking me a question because this is a great learning moment. He laughs, “do you like hip-hop? My wife is trying to get me into it.”

“Imagine that beautiful worker, her long dark curls framing her noble face. Imagine her rubbing the juice from the orange on her apron.” He inhales again. “Imagine her adjusting her breasts in the hot sun.”

“What the f$%^?” I think. Opening my eyes, I notice Felix sitting on the other side of the room trying not to laugh too loudly. Instead he swallows the sound and rolls it into a series of tortured coughs.

“So do you think he was getting horny on the orange?” Felix remarks in the hallway.

“Who knows.”

“Boys… boys…” Prof Samsara comes running out of the classroom waving his arm wildly in the air. “I’ve just learned some news.”

“What’s that?” Felix smiles.

“You are to be my T.A.’s next semester. We need to go to lunch. The three of us. How does tomorrow sound?”

“That’s good for me, what time?” I ask. Felix nods.

“Wait for me at the corner of Armor Street next to the Women’s Center. I’ll be driving a blue van. It’s an old van, but it travels well and has a good spirit.” He pats Felix on the shoulder and winks at us as he takes off down the hallway. “6 am,” he screams back at us as he disappears out the door.

(To be continued…) In the next installment of this post look for a disappearance, hitchhiking and a fight over student papers that almost led to a dismissal.)

NOTE: As noted in this blog, these stories are real stories of my experiences in Higher Education. I have changed names and am writing under a pen name to protect my job and career. I invite each and all to send your stories of higher ed and academia here. I encourage you all for your own good to use fake names. Write to me at wolfesebastian@gmail.com

The Copy Machine Shuffle: Tales of the Adjunct

Abstract: In this article, I explore through personal narrative the relationship between adjuncts and full-timers and also between adjuncts and support staff. Special attention is given to the issue of age as a factor structuring social interplay. And a 42 year old man who drools on himself gets a tenure-track position.

30, its the new 18

I walked past the bullpen (the adjunct lounge) and through the main department offices. An administrative assistant runs toward me, “May I help you?”

“Nope. I’m fine, thanks.” I smile at her. I turn and walk into the copy room.

“I’m sorry this copy room isn’t for students. There are copy machines in the library and downstairs next to the pop machine.”

I nod and pull the final out of my leather briefcase. “Okay”

“This is a faculty copy room” she repeats.

“Yep.” I nod at her. Its not that I’m stupid. Well I am clearly stupid… I am teaching college while other people with 12,000 dollar a day coke habits are in respectable industries like real estate and human trafficking where at least you can be honest. I can’t even figure out how to make an extra 12,000 a year. Ever hear a group of realtors sitting around talking about “changing sh$t”? Ever heard a pimp say, “when is the world gonna wake up and realize we need social justice”?

“You’re going to have to leave”

Here I turn trying to remain calm. “I AM a faculty member. I’ve been teaching here for three years.”

“Oh you look so young” she giggles. “Sorry”

“Sorry? I walk past your desk three times a week. I’m 30 years old” By this time I’m pissed off, but I still fake a smile. This is the fourth time I’ve had this exchange. “Do many students carry stacks of other students papers around? Do they wear ties to school?”

“I said I was sorry.” She storms off.

I hope that I’ve pissed her off so bad she’ll never talk to me again. Pimps don’t have to prove their old enough to be pimps. I place the first page of the final in the copy machine and begin my fifteen minute wait for the copier to power up. Its 7:30 in the morning, I’ve just finished teaching a class of automotive students.

Before class one of my students asked, “do you think I’m retarded.”

“Um… no.” I ask not sure where this is going. “Why?”

“Well my speech professor told me, I’m a retard. She said I shouldn’t even be in college.” He’s on the verge of tears.

A pimp would probably tell a college student they were retarded, but would the student believe it?

“Well I see no difference between you and any of my students. You’re a pleasure to have in class and speaking of the class. I have your last paper.” I delivered an “A” to him.” For once I’m happy I actually forced myself to grade the papers on time.

Still waiting for the copy machine to warm up, the admin assistant walks past the door. Glares at me.

When I enter the classroom another student tells me their speech teacher called him a “piece of sh$%”. I swallow hard. I cannot get involved in conflict between students and other professors. I don’t even have a contract. I don’t have health insurance. No office. No voicemail. I can’t even get the tech lady to re-instate my password so I can use the ELMO. I can’t have a conflict with another faculty member over a student, I make 18 cents on the dollar of what a full-timer makes.

“Well if that’s true. If a professor is mistreating you, what you should do is talk to the division chair. So if you don’t like my performance or another person’s performance, I would say going to the division chair would be the next step.” I look him straight in the eye. His expression is blank. So I repeat myself several times.

Finally I give up. “Go complain to the division chair, this woman is wrong for saying this sh%# to you. If you tell anyone that I told you this, I’ll claim you’re a liar. I can’t loose my job.” He nods and thanks me.

As the copy machine light comes on Tom Carrol breezes into the room and lifts the lid. In one smooth motion he tosses the first page of the final onto the prep desk and lays down his ditto. “Sorry, I’m running late.” He smiles. “So did you apply for the full-time position opening up here? You’re kind of young, but you’ve got some experience.”

I’m ABD and have taught for six years. I’ve worked on five federally funded multi-million dollar grants. Student and peer evaluations place me in the top 2% of the college’s faculty. The last guy that beat me out for a full-time position wears Haiwain shirts and drools on himself. For three months he threw all of my campus mail in the trash, and bumped me in the hallway every time he passed me. During a faculty BBQ, he spent the duration of the time telling me how I was just a twinkle in my father’s eye when the Cuban missile crisis happened. I’ve kicked people in the nuts for less, but that’s out in the real world. This is academia.

I’m not saying they didn’t make a good hiring choice at the college. After all when you look at my credentials and then consider that he has an M.A. and worked odd jobs for five years before he taught for one year as an adjunct, who would you have hired? Its true students drop his class to transfer into mine, but you’ve forgotten the most important fact he’s 42.

“So sue!” my hair stylist tells me.

“Are you nuts?” I shake my head. “I’d never work in academia again. I mean once you sue, lets face it everyone talks. I’d have to get a big cash out and something like this, it just won’t work.”

She laughs. “Maybe you should get into real estate. My cousin does that and makes a killing. Him and his wife they flip houses and she’s illiterate.”

“Is she really?” I look hard at myself in the mirror.

“Yeah, she’s a bitch too. I hate her. Always throwing her boobs up in your face. Big deal.”

“Do you think I’m loosing my hair?”

“Bald men are sexy honey,” she winks into the mirror and smiles.

I sigh.
Back in the copy room, I look at Tom and smile. “Yes, yes I turned in my application early in the week.” After he leaves and I finish my copies, I put three boxes of staples and a box of pens in my jacket pocket and walk out. The administrative assistant is playing online poker as I pass her desk.

Dinner at Professor Z’s house: Tales of Grad School

Abstract: (Like all academics I will summarize my articles into a paragraph so you can skim the abstract and impress the department chair and/or the Dean with the 25 cent version of the tale) This article applies the theory of lowest common denominator and testicular-fondle theory to the phenomena of grad student success and failure. In this study two grad students with manners fail miserably, while a loud and rude grad student who touches his testicles succeeds wildly with the department and later professionally.

Introduction

My parents raised me all f#%ing wrong. I realize that now. I never really had a shot in life. You see I was raised not to manhandle my testicles in public and also not to insult people’s homes. My parents even taught me stupid things like dressing for an occasion and bringing gifts to a host when invited over to their home. All useless archaic bulls#$%t ( sorry, I’m bleeping everything for the benefit of all the soccer moms, FCC employees and good Jesus folk who might stumble upon this blog-o-tragedy).

Anyway, it wasn’t until after grad school that I learned just how badly my parents had done raising me. You see despite volumes of qualitative research which sat in the trunk of my car for weeks on end, I failed to truly appreciate the concept of reflexivity until after graduation.

“This program is bullsh#t!” and other delightful dinner conversations

I was in somewhat of a freak out. I could not believe that I had left the house without the bottle of wine that I purchased for the dinner. My mother suggested I stop and buy a cheese plate… but what if the host was lactose intolerant. I really knew very little about Dr. Z’s dining habits and needs. In the end I opted to go with a nice house season flower. I forget the type. Dr. Z’s wife graciously accepted the gift and showed me to the living room where several of the other grad students were already awkwardly perched.

There was Christine, the driven would-be politician. Grad school for her appeared to be some detour from her sleep-my-way-to-the-middle career in the state bureaucracy. She spent most of her time laughing awkwardly and/or rolling her eyes when anyone else spoke on virtually any topic.

There was Felix who sat well-dressed, politely perched on a blue velvet ottoman. Felix had entered the program at the same time as me and we would later become friends. Next to Felix was Ryan the sneezing Bill O’Rielly wanna be. Denise the feminist and Sara the houseplant. Err I mean colleague who was working on her MRS degree.

And then there was Mikey. Mikey wore stone-washed jeans with torn knees and had a pony tail that almost reached his ass. Mikey had first attracted my attention at a meeting for all the Teaching Assistants. He came into the office with polariods of what appeared to be an 18 yr old Latina sprawled out nude in a dorm room. “Don’t get no better than this” he repeated several times.

At the time I was humored by the fact that he was essentially revealing to me that he was f%$&ing one of his students and photographing it. I imagined he would be bounced out of the program any day. I’ll admit it, I thought he was an idiot and unprofessional. I was so foolish.

Back inside Dr. Z’s house Mikey kicked off the conversation with his usual grace and charm, “This program is a f$#%ing joke, isn’t it.” He laughed smiling from ear to ear. Dr. Z stood in the door way smiling. Felix coughed uncomfortably. I looked at my shoes. Christine said “Dr. Z. do you know William Peterson the Senator? I attended one of his parties last week. He’s so funny.”

Dr. Z sat down, “Yes, yes I think I do.” He requested that we all introduce ourselves. I smiled and spoke briefly about my background noting that I was from Missouri. From that time forward everyone in the department asked me if I missed Wisconsin. Someone also apparently spread gossip that I was a Mormon, an inaccuracy that I could never chase from professor’s minds no matter how much I disavowed it.

Christine smiled, laughed and began to recite every politician she had ever met, had lunch at the same restaurant with or seen crossing the street in front of the capital. And then it was Mikey’s turn, “Man what’s with this art on the walls. This is ugly.”

“My son painted these” Dr. Z responded.

“Oh, I thought so ‘cuz it looked like a 5 year old did it.”

“My son was 34 when he painted these. That’s what he does.”

Christine cleared her throat. Paul went to the bathroom. Felix stifled a laugh. I pretended to tie my shoe. Mikey laughed. Dr. Z maintained the same awkward smile. “Let me check the roast,” Dr. Z said as he shot up out of his chair.

Christine looked at me and whispered (holding her hand in front of her face) “oh my god, he’s playing with his privates.”

Sure enough it was true. Mikey was not only a scholar in the making, but also a professional ball handler.

Good Manners, Good Jobs

I left that night thinking that Mikey was a moron. Felix and I laughed about the whole thing the next day over lunch. Little did we know that three years later Mikey would be making over 60 thousand dollars a year and have an appointment as an instructor at the very school we graduated from and we would be both unemployed.

Hey There Wasted Life!

All you hungry tired grad students out there waiting for that big break… I’m here my babies. I hear your bitter moans and your dreams of tenure, professional careers… I hear your call to arms to make the world a better place, to make a difference.

I’m here. I’m here to tell you this is the best you’ll ever have it. Because when graduation happens the real shit begins. By now its already too late for you, you’ve made decisions that you can never un-do. You got an “education”. But maybe if you join with me in telling your tales we can stop future generations from wasting their lives on things like hope.