As everyone looks forward to the New Year, professors anticipate the beginning of a new administrative and teaching semester. In two weeks, I'll be re-entering the classroom after a sabbatical from giving courses. I'm looking forward to seeing students again, and trying out new pedagogical ideas (fingers crossed, as always). At the same time, I feel exhausted. I went through some proverbially life-changing experiences, and I spent a great deal of energy learning from my daughter. She has been like my personal Yoda, small, occasionally feisty, and cryptically communicative. As I type this entry, she is lying by my desk, figuring out her teether. Why is it cold? Why is it heart-shaped? Why is it not as tasty as the fist, or any combination of one to four fingers? She is flipping from her back to her belly at every given chance, howling and growling, and teaching me that time management as I knew it (work every possible minute, schedule sleeping and eating for whenever I got tired of working) is now infeasible. Very soon, I'll have to wake up early, teach all morning classes, do my research in the afternoon, and give her my full attention when I return home -- like many parents do. So it's been a productive semester of teaching and learning, as I can say with my cranky little tutor by my side.
Saturday, December 28, 2013
Saturday, November 30, 2013
A Constant Growl
I haven't been posting in the past two months with the enthusiasm that I hoped to share about the challenges of continuing my academic career while working on the other end of the educational spectrum by mothering a newborn child.
Like many other mothers, three weeks after birth, the changes in my physiology shut down parts of my mental and emotional selves. I became a completely different person, and went through every day hoping that my treatments would be effective to restore my "natural self." Many of my carers asked what is normal, and as impaired as I was, I tried to figure out how to describe those characteristics and abilities that I take for granted. Going day by day, week by week, I felt that my intellect was breaking down and that if it fell apart, I could not longer do the work that I value, maintain my relationships with family, friends, and colleagues -- and literally lose everything (while knowing that the rest of the world would be moving along smoothly in my absence).
I am now trying to count the good days on a bumpy road -- this faultless problem still irritates and frustrates me, and no amount of persuasion that it is "normal" to be "abnormal" has been convincing…
So I march, and my daughter, now learning to produce sounds, is cheering me on by growling...
Like many other mothers, three weeks after birth, the changes in my physiology shut down parts of my mental and emotional selves. I became a completely different person, and went through every day hoping that my treatments would be effective to restore my "natural self." Many of my carers asked what is normal, and as impaired as I was, I tried to figure out how to describe those characteristics and abilities that I take for granted. Going day by day, week by week, I felt that my intellect was breaking down and that if it fell apart, I could not longer do the work that I value, maintain my relationships with family, friends, and colleagues -- and literally lose everything (while knowing that the rest of the world would be moving along smoothly in my absence).
I am now trying to count the good days on a bumpy road -- this faultless problem still irritates and frustrates me, and no amount of persuasion that it is "normal" to be "abnormal" has been convincing…
So I march, and my daughter, now learning to produce sounds, is cheering me on by growling...
Thursday, November 14, 2013
Chairs and Bears
I'm returning to this blog more than a month after my last post about leaving home for the first time after giving birth. The trip went well -- the conference was fruitful and I learned much about a very different place (the Russian Far East) as a result of stepping out the door. After that, however, I spent a long month working through some complications with my recovery that are still challenging me.
Taking a break from those obstacles in my life, I am glad to report that like all of my parent-friends have said, my daughter O. and I are getting used to each other. I no longer define O. by the way she was pre-birth, a left-leaning fetus with tough fists and feet, but by the smiling and cooing girl that she is now. She expresses her personality in the predicted ways -- snuggling up to her favourite toy which doubles as a pillow to tilt her lopsided head into a balanced position and now sitting up in a new chair that does not swing like her first and most-loved "throne" (thanks to E. and W.) but can be raised and lowered according to her mood.
We are also close to achieving our goal of working and living together in harmony. She is sleeping next to me as I type this entry, smacking her lips in anticipation of a midnight feeding. I am happy that she can rest well while the computer keys are clicking, since that may be the sound that she hears for many years to come...
Taking a break from those obstacles in my life, I am glad to report that like all of my parent-friends have said, my daughter O. and I are getting used to each other. I no longer define O. by the way she was pre-birth, a left-leaning fetus with tough fists and feet, but by the smiling and cooing girl that she is now. She expresses her personality in the predicted ways -- snuggling up to her favourite toy which doubles as a pillow to tilt her lopsided head into a balanced position and now sitting up in a new chair that does not swing like her first and most-loved "throne" (thanks to E. and W.) but can be raised and lowered according to her mood.
We are also close to achieving our goal of working and living together in harmony. She is sleeping next to me as I type this entry, smacking her lips in anticipation of a midnight feeding. I am happy that she can rest well while the computer keys are clicking, since that may be the sound that she hears for many years to come...
Tuesday, October 1, 2013
Flying Solo
I wrote too soon about achieving my goal of balancing work and my new responsibilities as a mother. The past month taught me that once you think you have it all figured out, even believing so in a modest and cautious manner, you don't. And things can transform in the most unpredictable ways...
Instead of narrating what has happened since my last post (nothing terrible by absolute standards), which the fantastic Edna Mode would deem to be " distracting from the now," I will just say that I'm experiencing something new: ambivalence about traveling. Stepping out of Hong Kong (not counting a weekend in Macau) for the first time this calendar year, I should be ecstatic, since I normally love to roam. The fun should be compounded by the fact that I'm going somewhere new and trying out a language I just learned. But with my spouse on business travel in another corner of the world during this time and my daughter sleeping soundly at home with two loving and capable caretakers at her side, I am left feeling unmoored and overwhelmed by the challenges that I would otherwise cherish.
I hope this attitude is anomalous and I will enjoy traveling on my own again, but for now, instead of pressing on to conquer my fears, I would rather take the safe and comfortable path of giving into my basic emotions and be at home with my daughter. But here I am, at the airport, ready to board...
Instead of narrating what has happened since my last post (nothing terrible by absolute standards), which the fantastic Edna Mode would deem to be " distracting from the now," I will just say that I'm experiencing something new: ambivalence about traveling. Stepping out of Hong Kong (not counting a weekend in Macau) for the first time this calendar year, I should be ecstatic, since I normally love to roam. The fun should be compounded by the fact that I'm going somewhere new and trying out a language I just learned. But with my spouse on business travel in another corner of the world during this time and my daughter sleeping soundly at home with two loving and capable caretakers at her side, I am left feeling unmoored and overwhelmed by the challenges that I would otherwise cherish.
I hope this attitude is anomalous and I will enjoy traveling on my own again, but for now, instead of pressing on to conquer my fears, I would rather take the safe and comfortable path of giving into my basic emotions and be at home with my daughter. But here I am, at the airport, ready to board...
Sunday, August 25, 2013
A Horse at Home
My month of confinement (Chinese: yuezi 月子) will end this coming Saturday, and quite unexpectedly, two thoughts are running through my mind:
1) I will miss being required to stay at home (literally within the four walls of my flat)
2) I need a real vacation
Those of you who know me understand why the first point is surprising. I am a proverbial "horse" (my Chinese zodiac sign). I become antsy if I can't go out everyday. I went and worked at my office until my personnel officer reminded me that "leave means leave" (as in, if I am on campus and were to commence labor, it would be a huge logistical headache, if not potential liability, for the university). My husband and I had many long conversations about how I would cope with the limitations of living at home for a full month (with one two-hour trip to the outside world because I had to renew my employment visa in person -- an interlude during which I realized that after one week, I had not yet regained enough of my physical strength to walk properly). Fortunately, I have observed the basic principle of remaining at home, and have also done well with other guidelines such as avoiding cold foods, wearing socks (in Hong Kong, in August, difficult even with air-conditioning), and eating all the necessary foods to replenish my blood and energy.
And through it all, I am still impressed that I did not even develop the urge to cheat nor did I get upset about not being able to exercise my generally independent spirit.
Granted, I have been lucky to have my housekeeper, father, younger sister, parents-in-law, and other relatives, not to mention my husband, to be my eyes, hands, and feet during this period. My husband registered our daughter's birth on his own, unlike some women who had to take care of that matter without any assistance, and with babies in tow. I could manage errands remotely, asking any person in my household going out to do this or that on my behalf. If I were alone all day long, or raising my daughter as a single parent, I know that I could not live in confinement without running into logistical problems.
I must also thank my daughter because although many an experienced friend had warned me about the sheer chaos that would ensue after the birth, some things are not quite as I feared. My daughter sleeps during the night and fusses during the day (better than the opposite, I imagine). She has already started to help me, wiping her own face after drinking with her mitten (for non-parent readers: mittens prevent infants from decorating their faces with scars), holding her bottle with two tight fists, and giving me some validation for responding correctly to her commands. I know most if not all babies must do these things, but for a new parent like me, each small success has mattered much in the past twenty-six days. For once in my life, I am actually happy to be home.
About the vacation, though, after not being able to travel for eight months, I am chomping at the bit. I have spent a significant amount of time pondering where to take my daughter next month (impossible, but never hurts to fantasize) so we can enjoy a tranquil environment (she can nap and observe the world, I can read and write). If I had my way, we'd be on a flight to an island nation the day after my confinement is over. But since that's not possible, we will have to make the most of the fact that starting today, I still have one month to adjust, to do research (for work and about my daughter's habits), and to enjoy as much "home-time" as I can.
1) I will miss being required to stay at home (literally within the four walls of my flat)
2) I need a real vacation
Those of you who know me understand why the first point is surprising. I am a proverbial "horse" (my Chinese zodiac sign). I become antsy if I can't go out everyday. I went and worked at my office until my personnel officer reminded me that "leave means leave" (as in, if I am on campus and were to commence labor, it would be a huge logistical headache, if not potential liability, for the university). My husband and I had many long conversations about how I would cope with the limitations of living at home for a full month (with one two-hour trip to the outside world because I had to renew my employment visa in person -- an interlude during which I realized that after one week, I had not yet regained enough of my physical strength to walk properly). Fortunately, I have observed the basic principle of remaining at home, and have also done well with other guidelines such as avoiding cold foods, wearing socks (in Hong Kong, in August, difficult even with air-conditioning), and eating all the necessary foods to replenish my blood and energy.
And through it all, I am still impressed that I did not even develop the urge to cheat nor did I get upset about not being able to exercise my generally independent spirit.
Granted, I have been lucky to have my housekeeper, father, younger sister, parents-in-law, and other relatives, not to mention my husband, to be my eyes, hands, and feet during this period. My husband registered our daughter's birth on his own, unlike some women who had to take care of that matter without any assistance, and with babies in tow. I could manage errands remotely, asking any person in my household going out to do this or that on my behalf. If I were alone all day long, or raising my daughter as a single parent, I know that I could not live in confinement without running into logistical problems.
I must also thank my daughter because although many an experienced friend had warned me about the sheer chaos that would ensue after the birth, some things are not quite as I feared. My daughter sleeps during the night and fusses during the day (better than the opposite, I imagine). She has already started to help me, wiping her own face after drinking with her mitten (for non-parent readers: mittens prevent infants from decorating their faces with scars), holding her bottle with two tight fists, and giving me some validation for responding correctly to her commands. I know most if not all babies must do these things, but for a new parent like me, each small success has mattered much in the past twenty-six days. For once in my life, I am actually happy to be home.
About the vacation, though, after not being able to travel for eight months, I am chomping at the bit. I have spent a significant amount of time pondering where to take my daughter next month (impossible, but never hurts to fantasize) so we can enjoy a tranquil environment (she can nap and observe the world, I can read and write). If I had my way, we'd be on a flight to an island nation the day after my confinement is over. But since that's not possible, we will have to make the most of the fact that starting today, I still have one month to adjust, to do research (for work and about my daughter's habits), and to enjoy as much "home-time" as I can.
Tuesday, August 13, 2013
Black Swans
I hesitate to promote certain books precisely because I am employed as a professional intellectual and a civil servant but I must acknowledge the most unusual of handbooks for new parents.
When we received this book from our cousin E., I assumed it was the perfect summer read for me and my husband L. because we love to read about economics and logic. We took it to the hospital, naively believing that we would get some quality time to immerse ourselves in non-work-related reading (as my sister-in-law wisely pointed out, such is the hubris of expectant parents). I did manage to enjoy two chapters during a four-day maternity stay, which is very slow but was ultimately quite meaningful.
The book, to cut to the chase, is Nassim Nicholas Taleb's The Black Swan: The Impact of the Highly Improbable (New York: Random House, 2007). I had first read about Taleb's black swan principle in Malcolm Gladwell's What the Dog Saw (Boston: Little Brown, 2009) but I was surprised that Taleb had already published a full anthology of related case studies/loosely but fluidly connected musings about risk, fate, and skepticism about all that I hold dear as a historian (narratives, empirical evidence, and the basic premise of causation). Given my professional specialty, it would be reasonable that I would be fiercely opposed to Taleb's criticisms (and to be honest, it was not endearing that a historian who shall not be named raved about the work). However, to the contrary, in my "new parent state of mind," I am devouring his observations and advice about the inherent and constant unpredictability of life.
Instead of getting more worried about the world, my daughter's future, and the whole point of my work, I am feeling more relaxed about the apparent "nothingness" of everything that occurs between the "black swan events." I am more confident that I can weather all the random challenges of parenthood, that my daughter will be fine despite all of the errors I will commit, and that her life will have meaning no matter how much the world changes for worse (better is a no-brainer).
I am still too sleep-deprived to reach profound conclusions these days (as a recently written conference paper amply exemplifies) but for any new parent readers of this blog looking for some inspiration and solace, I humbly recommend a taste of Taleb.
When we received this book from our cousin E., I assumed it was the perfect summer read for me and my husband L. because we love to read about economics and logic. We took it to the hospital, naively believing that we would get some quality time to immerse ourselves in non-work-related reading (as my sister-in-law wisely pointed out, such is the hubris of expectant parents). I did manage to enjoy two chapters during a four-day maternity stay, which is very slow but was ultimately quite meaningful.
The book, to cut to the chase, is Nassim Nicholas Taleb's The Black Swan: The Impact of the Highly Improbable (New York: Random House, 2007). I had first read about Taleb's black swan principle in Malcolm Gladwell's What the Dog Saw (Boston: Little Brown, 2009) but I was surprised that Taleb had already published a full anthology of related case studies/loosely but fluidly connected musings about risk, fate, and skepticism about all that I hold dear as a historian (narratives, empirical evidence, and the basic premise of causation). Given my professional specialty, it would be reasonable that I would be fiercely opposed to Taleb's criticisms (and to be honest, it was not endearing that a historian who shall not be named raved about the work). However, to the contrary, in my "new parent state of mind," I am devouring his observations and advice about the inherent and constant unpredictability of life.
Instead of getting more worried about the world, my daughter's future, and the whole point of my work, I am feeling more relaxed about the apparent "nothingness" of everything that occurs between the "black swan events." I am more confident that I can weather all the random challenges of parenthood, that my daughter will be fine despite all of the errors I will commit, and that her life will have meaning no matter how much the world changes for worse (better is a no-brainer).
I am still too sleep-deprived to reach profound conclusions these days (as a recently written conference paper amply exemplifies) but for any new parent readers of this blog looking for some inspiration and solace, I humbly recommend a taste of Taleb.
Thursday, August 8, 2013
The Beginning and End of Life: The Radish Has Launched
My daughter is now more real to me than ever.
And placing myself squarely in the running for the "strangest and worst mother of the world" award, I have started to think about how her birthday, 31 July 2013, is the first step in her march towards mortality -- mine and hers.
I am more conscious of losing time with her, each minute slipping down the proverbial hourglass until, in the ideal scenario, I am at my last conscious moment and I have to say "goodbye." I am already thinking about how her life will hopefully continue to flourish, even as she will be mature and rational enough to understand that she will be facing the same fate as me, curtailing her participation in the lives of her own loved ones at some point.
I am less sad about her eventual demise -- natural and predictable, all said and done. But it's amazing how immense joy and sadness can erupt at the same time. As I held her in my arms for the first time, impressed and frightened by her unfamiliarity, I was thinking, "Our time together is limited, little one."
And placing myself squarely in the running for the "strangest and worst mother of the world" award, I have started to think about how her birthday, 31 July 2013, is the first step in her march towards mortality -- mine and hers.
I am more conscious of losing time with her, each minute slipping down the proverbial hourglass until, in the ideal scenario, I am at my last conscious moment and I have to say "goodbye." I am already thinking about how her life will hopefully continue to flourish, even as she will be mature and rational enough to understand that she will be facing the same fate as me, curtailing her participation in the lives of her own loved ones at some point.
I am less sad about her eventual demise -- natural and predictable, all said and done. But it's amazing how immense joy and sadness can erupt at the same time. As I held her in my arms for the first time, impressed and frightened by her unfamiliarity, I was thinking, "Our time together is limited, little one."
Monday, July 15, 2013
Anti-Academic Elitism
Although I haven't quite embarked on the adventure of parenthood, after five years of being a professional academic, I had a revelation recently that the adage "It takes one to know one" can have the reverse meaning of what most people assume. More specifically, I am grateful that my years in the education field have tempered what unhealthy obsession I may have had with academic elitism.
Why would "doing the best for my children" (as "tiger mothers" and other such types justify their sometimes-cruel and irrational priority on "academic excellence"--read: perfection) be a problem?
1) I am of East Asian heritage (it's nurture, not nature, so please don't believe that I am trying to be racist)
2) I earned all of my university degrees at an elite institution
3) I am supposed to advise and foster new intellectuals
But really, when all is said and done, I oppose the unrelenting pressure that my students here in HK face, what their peers in Singapore and South Korea (among other places) must contend with, and the international trend towards what I deem to be hyper-drive education. Not only must everything be done faster (Advanced Placement examinations in the US being taken in middle or early high school rather than the junior and senior years, as one example) but must also be done in a highly structured and self-centered manner (curriculum vitae for kindergarteners here, if one wishes to enter an elite primary school). I imagine that education, which is already sapped of intellectual "nutritional value" in many countries, is becoming less and less appealing for learners (so no wonder that youth prefer to indulge in social media during class-time and tune out lectures/discussions/activities). I am also concerned that parents have reached a new apex of conditional love -- "I only love you if you're number one in your class" (something Asian-American students hear all the time -- which is frightening when you think about how acceptable it is to think and express verbally)
So, while I am not insisting that all Asians/Asian-Americans/graduates of elite schools are the same (far from it, I do not like absolute statements or archetypes), I *personally* feel very strongly about steering my children towards a more balanced existence that is also more realistic -- "develop your strengths, learn to ameliorate or live with your weaknesses" rather than expecting them to be super-people. I am especially against the "tiger mother mantra" that seems to guarantee success, because from personal experience, I know it does. Being disciplined harshly delivers results but also leaves physical and mental pain that is both chronic and life-disturbing. Perhaps some parents do not care that their children will be left to deal with those scars because the achievements will be obvious (public) and the trauma is private. However, being "mother" to many students whose lives have been marred by the sole concentration on academic elitism, counseling several who would be much happier *not* attending university, and being a survivor of a parental regime that staked everything on being academically outstanding, all the time, no exceptions, I want my daughter to know that academic achievement is a modest fraction of a much larger pie. She should not look down on those who are less successful by academic metrics nor should she worship or be jealous of those who are far more able.
Why would "doing the best for my children" (as "tiger mothers" and other such types justify their sometimes-cruel and irrational priority on "academic excellence"--read: perfection) be a problem?
1) I am of East Asian heritage (it's nurture, not nature, so please don't believe that I am trying to be racist)
2) I earned all of my university degrees at an elite institution
3) I am supposed to advise and foster new intellectuals
But really, when all is said and done, I oppose the unrelenting pressure that my students here in HK face, what their peers in Singapore and South Korea (among other places) must contend with, and the international trend towards what I deem to be hyper-drive education. Not only must everything be done faster (Advanced Placement examinations in the US being taken in middle or early high school rather than the junior and senior years, as one example) but must also be done in a highly structured and self-centered manner (curriculum vitae for kindergarteners here, if one wishes to enter an elite primary school). I imagine that education, which is already sapped of intellectual "nutritional value" in many countries, is becoming less and less appealing for learners (so no wonder that youth prefer to indulge in social media during class-time and tune out lectures/discussions/activities). I am also concerned that parents have reached a new apex of conditional love -- "I only love you if you're number one in your class" (something Asian-American students hear all the time -- which is frightening when you think about how acceptable it is to think and express verbally)
So, while I am not insisting that all Asians/Asian-Americans/graduates of elite schools are the same (far from it, I do not like absolute statements or archetypes), I *personally* feel very strongly about steering my children towards a more balanced existence that is also more realistic -- "develop your strengths, learn to ameliorate or live with your weaknesses" rather than expecting them to be super-people. I am especially against the "tiger mother mantra" that seems to guarantee success, because from personal experience, I know it does. Being disciplined harshly delivers results but also leaves physical and mental pain that is both chronic and life-disturbing. Perhaps some parents do not care that their children will be left to deal with those scars because the achievements will be obvious (public) and the trauma is private. However, being "mother" to many students whose lives have been marred by the sole concentration on academic elitism, counseling several who would be much happier *not* attending university, and being a survivor of a parental regime that staked everything on being academically outstanding, all the time, no exceptions, I want my daughter to know that academic achievement is a modest fraction of a much larger pie. She should not look down on those who are less successful by academic metrics nor should she worship or be jealous of those who are far more able.
Saturday, July 6, 2013
Disquieting Days of Summer
Most if not all professional academics relish each and every day of summer. Like plants, we grow to our fullest potential during this time, going into hyper-drive while many other people are taking it slower. Freed from the administrative routines of the academic year, we can go do research and attend conferences all around the world, write and edit at all hours, and re-direct our teaching hours to searching our souls about the meaning of our scholarly toil. Academics become voluntary workaholics for three blissful months -- those 18-hour days don't seem long as they say time flies when one is having fun.
This summer has been different for me, for obvious reasons. I had to give one conference paper over Skype, and will be giving another by proxy. Instead of visiting research sites and digging up new materials, I had to make do with one boat trip to neighboring Macau and am sitting at home with a pile of things I copied over the past year. Rather than starting each day super-early and ending super-late, I have to figure out what I am physically capable of doing on each given day, which has usually meant starting early but also curtailing academic work by dinner time.
As mentioned in a previous post, I have been fortunate enough to be granted an extra summer by my department in the form of a teaching sabbatical this fall, so with daughter by my side, I hope to make up for my currently diminished capacity by milking every minute from September to December. For now, I am learning how to be more patient about taking things slowly and awaiting a challenge that I haven't studied enough for.
This summer has been different for me, for obvious reasons. I had to give one conference paper over Skype, and will be giving another by proxy. Instead of visiting research sites and digging up new materials, I had to make do with one boat trip to neighboring Macau and am sitting at home with a pile of things I copied over the past year. Rather than starting each day super-early and ending super-late, I have to figure out what I am physically capable of doing on each given day, which has usually meant starting early but also curtailing academic work by dinner time.
As mentioned in a previous post, I have been fortunate enough to be granted an extra summer by my department in the form of a teaching sabbatical this fall, so with daughter by my side, I hope to make up for my currently diminished capacity by milking every minute from September to December. For now, I am learning how to be more patient about taking things slowly and awaiting a challenge that I haven't studied enough for.
Thursday, June 20, 2013
A.B.C = Academic Birth Control
I find myself in a strange state of mind these days. Being 8.5 months pregnant, I feel obligated to be excited about the impending birth of my daughter, yet after years of not being a mother (including several not knowing if it would ever be a possibility -- like many, this daughter of mine is a miracle baby in the works), I keep thinking that it would be perfectly acceptable to remain (human) child-free. My husband and two cats are already more than enough of an immediate family for me, and we have the unconditional love and support of our extended family and friends. So there's no hole in my heart, no particular yearning for "completing" or "enhancing" our brood.
But this is leading me back to my perpetual professional worry about graduate students -- the ones who want to remain in academia, follow in their professors' footsteps, and be happy forever.
Of course there are many success stories -- young scholars who break the mold and sustain long, productive careers -- but as many an education journal has noted, the glut of highly qualified persons has diluted the tertiary education job market to the advantage of universities and their administrators. In other words, it's easy to hire cheap, eager "help" to perform tasks that hardly tap their existing wellsprings of expertise and stunt their potential growth indefinitely.
So, as with environmental issues ("save the planet, don't reproduce"), even we junior faculty members are ambivalent about encouraging prospective graduate students, especially those who want to earn doctoral degrees -- thinking that they will live in research bliss, have flexible and life-friendly schedules, and enjoy solid incomes with super-secure benefits. Historians are particularly nervous about predicting the future but it is evident just based on present-day information that a miniscule percentage (conservatively 5-10%, ambitiously 20-30%) will reap such rewards (and even then, there will be many trade-offs).
But like our advisors, and their advisors, discouraging students from dreaming of academic careers is an awkward business. It's difficult if not impossible to tell a student, "You already don't have what it takes" or "You are highly unaware, whether consciously or unconsciously, of what academic life is truly about." Many of said students receive these criticisms as mere challenges or blanket statements -- some are so optimistic that they believe you are just wrong. It doesn't matter that their grades are just average or only slightly above average. It doesn't matter that they do not exhibit the basic traits of successful professional academics. They will somehow be exceptional, sometime in the indeterminate future.
It's even hard to dissuade outstanding students who have a reasonable chance at establishing academic careers, but may 1) be more well-suited for other professions, 2) have external obligations that will hinder them from developing their scholarship. Dealing with a student in the former category is slightly easier; one can always suggest the two-track plan for their graduate studies so that they can ultimately decide whether to remain in the academic sphere or to pursue a more lucrative/personally fulfilling line of work. Students in the latter category, to be honest, inspire sympathy but also a great reluctance to encourage their dreams. It breaks my heart to talk with a student who wants to be a professor for the "good pay" in order to support a large family but also expects to have plenty of free time to care for elderly and/or younger relatives. Holding a faculty position that comes with generous compensation is not guaranteed (far from it, the wicked voice in my head always cries), and those high-income jobs often entail working long hours and sacrificing evenings/holidays/any scraps of free time one might care to enjoy. Assuming that academics are wealthy and under-committed is a tremendous folly.
I haven't worked out the right way to deal with the majority of students who want to become future faculty -- I have only been able to endorse three out of a hundred students without any reservations to date. I've developed several pitches about alternative careers, as well as the aforementioned two-track plan, and the joys of earning a terminal Master's degree and moving on to the world of work with no less pay than a first-year PhD-endowed assistant professor. I try to teach skills along with knowledge in my courses so that undergraduates see history as a pathway to many different professions, not just teaching and research. I don't mince words about the positive and negative aspects of an academic career, and I will always apply a needle to burst highly romantic (and unrealistic) notions about academia.
Yet I always find that A.B.C. is a delicate matter, and it's a diplomatic quandary how to teach students to be happy *without* chasing the academic dream, much like many people in the 21st century are quite contentedly child-free.
But this is leading me back to my perpetual professional worry about graduate students -- the ones who want to remain in academia, follow in their professors' footsteps, and be happy forever.
Of course there are many success stories -- young scholars who break the mold and sustain long, productive careers -- but as many an education journal has noted, the glut of highly qualified persons has diluted the tertiary education job market to the advantage of universities and their administrators. In other words, it's easy to hire cheap, eager "help" to perform tasks that hardly tap their existing wellsprings of expertise and stunt their potential growth indefinitely.
So, as with environmental issues ("save the planet, don't reproduce"), even we junior faculty members are ambivalent about encouraging prospective graduate students, especially those who want to earn doctoral degrees -- thinking that they will live in research bliss, have flexible and life-friendly schedules, and enjoy solid incomes with super-secure benefits. Historians are particularly nervous about predicting the future but it is evident just based on present-day information that a miniscule percentage (conservatively 5-10%, ambitiously 20-30%) will reap such rewards (and even then, there will be many trade-offs).
But like our advisors, and their advisors, discouraging students from dreaming of academic careers is an awkward business. It's difficult if not impossible to tell a student, "You already don't have what it takes" or "You are highly unaware, whether consciously or unconsciously, of what academic life is truly about." Many of said students receive these criticisms as mere challenges or blanket statements -- some are so optimistic that they believe you are just wrong. It doesn't matter that their grades are just average or only slightly above average. It doesn't matter that they do not exhibit the basic traits of successful professional academics. They will somehow be exceptional, sometime in the indeterminate future.
It's even hard to dissuade outstanding students who have a reasonable chance at establishing academic careers, but may 1) be more well-suited for other professions, 2) have external obligations that will hinder them from developing their scholarship. Dealing with a student in the former category is slightly easier; one can always suggest the two-track plan for their graduate studies so that they can ultimately decide whether to remain in the academic sphere or to pursue a more lucrative/personally fulfilling line of work. Students in the latter category, to be honest, inspire sympathy but also a great reluctance to encourage their dreams. It breaks my heart to talk with a student who wants to be a professor for the "good pay" in order to support a large family but also expects to have plenty of free time to care for elderly and/or younger relatives. Holding a faculty position that comes with generous compensation is not guaranteed (far from it, the wicked voice in my head always cries), and those high-income jobs often entail working long hours and sacrificing evenings/holidays/any scraps of free time one might care to enjoy. Assuming that academics are wealthy and under-committed is a tremendous folly.
I haven't worked out the right way to deal with the majority of students who want to become future faculty -- I have only been able to endorse three out of a hundred students without any reservations to date. I've developed several pitches about alternative careers, as well as the aforementioned two-track plan, and the joys of earning a terminal Master's degree and moving on to the world of work with no less pay than a first-year PhD-endowed assistant professor. I try to teach skills along with knowledge in my courses so that undergraduates see history as a pathway to many different professions, not just teaching and research. I don't mince words about the positive and negative aspects of an academic career, and I will always apply a needle to burst highly romantic (and unrealistic) notions about academia.
Yet I always find that A.B.C. is a delicate matter, and it's a diplomatic quandary how to teach students to be happy *without* chasing the academic dream, much like many people in the 21st century are quite contentedly child-free.
Sunday, June 9, 2013
The Force of Filial Piety
I'm now in the stage of pregnancy that can be most aptly likened to the final leg of a marathon, an event that I am more familiar with as a former high school athlete and enthusiastic (if not so talented) recreational runner. My physical and emotional resources are exhausted. I greet each day with an ever-weakening resolve. As my sister-in-law mentioned to my husband once, "I just need this kid to be born."
While none of my present conditions are in any way novel (thank goodness), I must acknowledge my daughter-to-be's unconscious sense of filial piety. Crawling onto my soapbox, I must proclaim to all that we academics are 1) not as lazy as we may seem, 2) but are in fact, always working. Since I started my Master's degree in 2000, I have not actually taken a complete day off from work (yes, that includes periods of family-mandated vacations, wedding, and all) aside from three episodes of medical emergencies. Whether reading, writing, grading, managing administrative tasks, or doing the myriad of other things that academics must do (so to correct another myth, we do have set responsibilities -- it's not just a buffet of self-selected activities), my mind has been married to the academy for about thirteen years.
So it amazes me that I will be compelled to not only vacate the office for a set period of time but that I am already feeling the literal and figurative weight of shifting my energies in a different direction. The customary symptoms of pregnancy brain and weight gain have slowed me down, physically and mentally, in considerable measure. I have learned to take hour-long breaks between two-hour work periods just so I can catch my breath, store up enough oxygen, and firm up my back. I have to wake up as soon as I feel able so I can maximize my day, and stretch my concentration to reach the endpoint which is becoming ever earlier, from 1am to 12:30am, and I suspect, may reach 11pm (the bedtime that my father has always advocated) before long.
My daughter-to-be's impending arrival has also spurred me to finish many non-academic projects while I possibly can, including editing a family history, submitting a publication proposal for a children's book that my sister and I have been working on for several years, and organizing everything in my home so that my husband can find everything while I'm preoccupied.
And quite impressively, I will be taking a semester off from teaching -- which I have not done since I started working as a teaching fellow during my PhD studies and then as a faculty member. I know I should rest up during this precious sabbatical so that I can be more productive in the future, but I also hope that my daughter will be amenable to keeping me company as I do more reading and writing than I have been able to schedule in the past few years.
My mother took a picture of me when I was three years old, which has gained a bit of notoriety after being featured in some slide shows. I was deep in thought while working on my typewriter (yes, my parents expected a lot from me in the literacy department) and on my right-hand side was a doll wearing only a diaper, lying on the table. One former boyfriend deduced that I would be a negligent (wife and) mother. Friends have teased me for being overly dedicated to work. My husband, a fellow academic, said, "Well, just remember to put some clothes on our real-live kid."
I shall keep my better half's recommendation in mind, and in August, I plan to be sitting in front of my computer (although finding a typewriter would be great fun too) with daughter in portable crib, grateful for her filial piety in giving me some much-needed "selfish scholar time" (only research, no teaching and admin) and the pleasure of her company.
While none of my present conditions are in any way novel (thank goodness), I must acknowledge my daughter-to-be's unconscious sense of filial piety. Crawling onto my soapbox, I must proclaim to all that we academics are 1) not as lazy as we may seem, 2) but are in fact, always working. Since I started my Master's degree in 2000, I have not actually taken a complete day off from work (yes, that includes periods of family-mandated vacations, wedding, and all) aside from three episodes of medical emergencies. Whether reading, writing, grading, managing administrative tasks, or doing the myriad of other things that academics must do (so to correct another myth, we do have set responsibilities -- it's not just a buffet of self-selected activities), my mind has been married to the academy for about thirteen years.
So it amazes me that I will be compelled to not only vacate the office for a set period of time but that I am already feeling the literal and figurative weight of shifting my energies in a different direction. The customary symptoms of pregnancy brain and weight gain have slowed me down, physically and mentally, in considerable measure. I have learned to take hour-long breaks between two-hour work periods just so I can catch my breath, store up enough oxygen, and firm up my back. I have to wake up as soon as I feel able so I can maximize my day, and stretch my concentration to reach the endpoint which is becoming ever earlier, from 1am to 12:30am, and I suspect, may reach 11pm (the bedtime that my father has always advocated) before long.
My daughter-to-be's impending arrival has also spurred me to finish many non-academic projects while I possibly can, including editing a family history, submitting a publication proposal for a children's book that my sister and I have been working on for several years, and organizing everything in my home so that my husband can find everything while I'm preoccupied.
And quite impressively, I will be taking a semester off from teaching -- which I have not done since I started working as a teaching fellow during my PhD studies and then as a faculty member. I know I should rest up during this precious sabbatical so that I can be more productive in the future, but I also hope that my daughter will be amenable to keeping me company as I do more reading and writing than I have been able to schedule in the past few years.
My mother took a picture of me when I was three years old, which has gained a bit of notoriety after being featured in some slide shows. I was deep in thought while working on my typewriter (yes, my parents expected a lot from me in the literacy department) and on my right-hand side was a doll wearing only a diaper, lying on the table. One former boyfriend deduced that I would be a negligent (wife and) mother. Friends have teased me for being overly dedicated to work. My husband, a fellow academic, said, "Well, just remember to put some clothes on our real-live kid."
I shall keep my better half's recommendation in mind, and in August, I plan to be sitting in front of my computer (although finding a typewriter would be great fun too) with daughter in portable crib, grateful for her filial piety in giving me some much-needed "selfish scholar time" (only research, no teaching and admin) and the pleasure of her company.
Saturday, June 8, 2013
Mothering without a Mother
I have thought long and hard about writing this post, because I have a wonderful mother-in-law who has done everything in her power to love and care for me just as if I had been born to her, two excellent fathers (my daddy, who has always seen me in the most positive light, and my father-in-law who provides much support and encouragement), and a husband who has all but carried our daughter-to-be (and to his credit, he has volunteered to do even that, if it were at all possible). So for having so many blessings, I have nothing to complain about...
But still, the feeling of remorse that my mother, who passed away last November, will not be physically present to witness the "big day" (arguably of greater magnitude than my wedding, which was just the formality preceding the real treat of being married), is growing ever heavier. I'll be frank and say that for all that we both tried to make things work, my mother and I were not naturally compatible. I disappointed her a lot, and I often wished I could be the ideal daughter that she had always hoped to know. Despite a lot of creative effort, I could never become as close to her as I had wished. We had to be content with me trying to make her happy but expecting to fail in achieving that objective time and again.
So perhaps this occasion would be like many others -- full of love, yet many imperfections hanging in the air. I know my mother was not that fond of babies or small children (she articulated this sentiment many times so I am not just hypothesizing) so a granddaughter may have brought as much stress as joy. But the bottom line is that all along I wished that she and my beloved late grandmother would be with me when I became a mother.
I have no specific purpose in posting about this subject, but I would like to express my wish that I can at least channel some of what I learned from my mother, my relationship with her, and combine it with what I have learned being a mother figure to my students. I understand that my daughter may feel the same way that I did as a younger person ("Why can't Mom and I be closer? Why doesn't Mom feel satisfied with my achievements?") but conscious of my own experience, I'll try to assure her that I accept her as is, foibles and all.
I also hope that I can forge my own path as a mother, even though I will make a lot of mistakes and may not suit my daughter's style, as with teaching students who have diverse personalities and learning preferences.
But still, the feeling of remorse that my mother, who passed away last November, will not be physically present to witness the "big day" (arguably of greater magnitude than my wedding, which was just the formality preceding the real treat of being married), is growing ever heavier. I'll be frank and say that for all that we both tried to make things work, my mother and I were not naturally compatible. I disappointed her a lot, and I often wished I could be the ideal daughter that she had always hoped to know. Despite a lot of creative effort, I could never become as close to her as I had wished. We had to be content with me trying to make her happy but expecting to fail in achieving that objective time and again.
So perhaps this occasion would be like many others -- full of love, yet many imperfections hanging in the air. I know my mother was not that fond of babies or small children (she articulated this sentiment many times so I am not just hypothesizing) so a granddaughter may have brought as much stress as joy. But the bottom line is that all along I wished that she and my beloved late grandmother would be with me when I became a mother.
I have no specific purpose in posting about this subject, but I would like to express my wish that I can at least channel some of what I learned from my mother, my relationship with her, and combine it with what I have learned being a mother figure to my students. I understand that my daughter may feel the same way that I did as a younger person ("Why can't Mom and I be closer? Why doesn't Mom feel satisfied with my achievements?") but conscious of my own experience, I'll try to assure her that I accept her as is, foibles and all.
I also hope that I can forge my own path as a mother, even though I will make a lot of mistakes and may not suit my daughter's style, as with teaching students who have diverse personalities and learning preferences.
Friday, May 31, 2013
In Retrospect
With all due respect to my students, I am bemused whenever I receive signs that my teaching was effective...long after the fact (of a particular course/semester). Teachers are not celebrities--we don't crave constant attention and affirmation. It bugs me that South Korean film stars/popular musicians are always thanking their fans for showering them with love and support. As always, I can't speak for my peers in the primary/secondary education sectors, but I am hard pressed to imagine that university faculty seek such adoration (well, some do--they say they feel like rock stars when they are lecturing--will comment on this phenomenon another time).
As mentioned in my previous post on dehumanizing faculty, professors mean well and try very hard to inspire, nurture, and facilitate knowledge transfer into all sorts of student brains. If we share any purpose across the spectrum of disciplines and sub-fields, it is to show our students that accurate, diverse information (AND proper analysis thereof) matters, for the "life of the mind" and for daily life. Of course, not every student likes every faculty member or every course, so a bit of hit-and-miss action is to be expected.
But touchingly, I received a postcard from a student who finished his undergraduate studies this month (one of the last to complete the three-year curriculum, hurray) and is now enjoying a well-deserved vacation abroad. He described his sight-seeing adventures, with a lengthy discourse about antiquarian bookstores, and then...in the last two sentences, expressed his sincere wishes that I would understand his initial distaste for my course (and me) because he didn't like my pedagogical style at all, but upon reflecting on that first-year experience, finally comprehended its "grand design" (more my words than his, but I have tried to capture his tone).
I knew that he was not that motivated while taking the course two years, but upon reading that postcard (at 8am, sitting in my sunny office), I felt enlivened and vindicated. I was happier, more than anything, that our relationship had changed over time, and that he accepted my good intentions.
I presume that parents feel similarly relieved when their children hint that "things were not so bad" (especially when uttered by adolescents who are remorseful about acting irrationally or spitefully).
As mentioned in my previous post on dehumanizing faculty, professors mean well and try very hard to inspire, nurture, and facilitate knowledge transfer into all sorts of student brains. If we share any purpose across the spectrum of disciplines and sub-fields, it is to show our students that accurate, diverse information (AND proper analysis thereof) matters, for the "life of the mind" and for daily life. Of course, not every student likes every faculty member or every course, so a bit of hit-and-miss action is to be expected.
But touchingly, I received a postcard from a student who finished his undergraduate studies this month (one of the last to complete the three-year curriculum, hurray) and is now enjoying a well-deserved vacation abroad. He described his sight-seeing adventures, with a lengthy discourse about antiquarian bookstores, and then...in the last two sentences, expressed his sincere wishes that I would understand his initial distaste for my course (and me) because he didn't like my pedagogical style at all, but upon reflecting on that first-year experience, finally comprehended its "grand design" (more my words than his, but I have tried to capture his tone).
I knew that he was not that motivated while taking the course two years, but upon reading that postcard (at 8am, sitting in my sunny office), I felt enlivened and vindicated. I was happier, more than anything, that our relationship had changed over time, and that he accepted my good intentions.
I presume that parents feel similarly relieved when their children hint that "things were not so bad" (especially when uttered by adolescents who are remorseful about acting irrationally or spitefully).
Tuesday, May 21, 2013
Professors are People Too
I already worry that I may say this too often, but it crosses my mind at least once a semester that some of my students choose to dehumanize professors because doing so eases their consciences about feeling resentful about completing homework, taking examinations, or otherwise exerting effort to do coursework. At this point in my life, I can only remember what it was like to be eighteen years old vaguely, but I imagine that if I wasn't so terrified about being at the institution that I was, I would have expressed my fair share of discontent.
It's probably not easy to accept that professors have their students' best academic interests in mind, actually care about their well-being, and usually get jaded about any one student's ability to succeed after multiple manifestations of apathy or inability emanate from that person. Otherwise, each semester starts out as a new opportunity to foster as much intellectual development as possible in eleven to fourteen weeks.
So allow me to be trite, and remind readers who are students:
"Appearances may be deceiving (as well as your perceptions) -- your professors do care about you, and they are very human (prone to misjudgment and bias, but generally not in a malicious way"
And a forwarded citation from my sister, an archivist (by profession) who plays many other roles avocationally...
http://www.phdcomics.com/comics/archive.php?comicid=1585
It's probably not easy to accept that professors have their students' best academic interests in mind, actually care about their well-being, and usually get jaded about any one student's ability to succeed after multiple manifestations of apathy or inability emanate from that person. Otherwise, each semester starts out as a new opportunity to foster as much intellectual development as possible in eleven to fourteen weeks.
So allow me to be trite, and remind readers who are students:
"Appearances may be deceiving (as well as your perceptions) -- your professors do care about you, and they are very human (prone to misjudgment and bias, but generally not in a malicious way"
And a forwarded citation from my sister, an archivist (by profession) who plays many other roles avocationally...
http://www.phdcomics.com/comics/archive.php?comicid=1585
Tuesday, May 14, 2013
Surprise Success
I haven't been writing because respiration has been hard...literally and figuratively.
Veteran mothers will nod or shake their heads at my naive assumption that the seventh month of waiting for the big event would be as smooth and uneventful as the sixth one.
Besides chewing my humble pie meekly, I am also trying to express agreement in any way that I can (moving whatever limb isn't tortured by spasms) that now I feel like a beached whale, a trite but true metaphor.
But more than just surviving the rude awakening of being in the third semester, I am grading (or marking, as we say here in Hong Kong) papers and exams.
I presume that some angelic faculty enjoy performing this labor of love. I wish I were still full of verve and excitement at the end of a long semester to ooh and ah over their magnificent ideas, expressed fluently and vividly in a variety of forms.
But no, I am exhausted and humorless after giving the last exam (before which everyone in the class, including me, has panicked for days if not weeks).
So unfortunately for my students, I usually choose to grin and bear the task, one paper/exam at a time.
I didn't expect this round of grading to be different, except of course, as indicated above, my physical condition makes it hard for me to be as productive as I usually am. Nights are especially difficult because I expand (like an automated balloon) and so breathing, sitting, standing, lying down (virtually any position), and thinking all become very challenging.
I am used to working around the clock, save for the hours that I am sleeping (or am semi-comatose because I should be sleeping but am trying to get a few more things done), but now, I have to endure several hours of semi-productive existence every day.
All in all, it has not been the best of times (inadvertent borrowing from Charles Dickens) but for once in a long while, I have been very happy and daresay, astonished (in a positive way) by how some of my students have performed on their final assignments.
I have gotten to know quite a number of them through their papers in a different way than I did in class, and a few that I worried about throughout the semester seem to have pulled through and absorbed more than I assumed they did.
I may be overgeneralizing when I say that most university faculty are like parents -- they want their students to succeed (contrary to students' beliefs that professors withhold good grades deliberately and want to blight their academic records) and feel terrible (arguably worse than the poorly performing students) when they read sub-par papers and exams -- so it's a huge mood-booster to encounter these instances of "surprise success."
Veteran mothers will nod or shake their heads at my naive assumption that the seventh month of waiting for the big event would be as smooth and uneventful as the sixth one.
Besides chewing my humble pie meekly, I am also trying to express agreement in any way that I can (moving whatever limb isn't tortured by spasms) that now I feel like a beached whale, a trite but true metaphor.
But more than just surviving the rude awakening of being in the third semester, I am grading (or marking, as we say here in Hong Kong) papers and exams.
I presume that some angelic faculty enjoy performing this labor of love. I wish I were still full of verve and excitement at the end of a long semester to ooh and ah over their magnificent ideas, expressed fluently and vividly in a variety of forms.
But no, I am exhausted and humorless after giving the last exam (before which everyone in the class, including me, has panicked for days if not weeks).
So unfortunately for my students, I usually choose to grin and bear the task, one paper/exam at a time.
I didn't expect this round of grading to be different, except of course, as indicated above, my physical condition makes it hard for me to be as productive as I usually am. Nights are especially difficult because I expand (like an automated balloon) and so breathing, sitting, standing, lying down (virtually any position), and thinking all become very challenging.
I am used to working around the clock, save for the hours that I am sleeping (or am semi-comatose because I should be sleeping but am trying to get a few more things done), but now, I have to endure several hours of semi-productive existence every day.
All in all, it has not been the best of times (inadvertent borrowing from Charles Dickens) but for once in a long while, I have been very happy and daresay, astonished (in a positive way) by how some of my students have performed on their final assignments.
I have gotten to know quite a number of them through their papers in a different way than I did in class, and a few that I worried about throughout the semester seem to have pulled through and absorbed more than I assumed they did.
I may be overgeneralizing when I say that most university faculty are like parents -- they want their students to succeed (contrary to students' beliefs that professors withhold good grades deliberately and want to blight their academic records) and feel terrible (arguably worse than the poorly performing students) when they read sub-par papers and exams -- so it's a huge mood-booster to encounter these instances of "surprise success."
Thursday, April 25, 2013
Burning the Midnight Oil
I won't promise to be creative and original on this blog -- I do that all day with teaching and research, so I feel comfortable about resorting to cliches and other crutches when writing this blog. After all, I know I can't say anything revolutionary (nothing to match, much less, beat all the professional bloggers and veteran parents' insights), so I'll just be myself and say whatever comes to mind...
That caveat in place, I'm writing at 11:23pm on a Thursday night, nervous about my 95 students who are submitting their final papers by tomorrow at 5pm. In the previous stage of my life, I was the anxious student who had either procrastinated to the point that I was writing my first draft (freshman and sophomore years of college) or revising my n-th draft obsessively (junior and senior years of college). Now I'm still on edge, and I'm grading the darn papers.
The more important thing is that I'm still trying to keep up the blissful schedule of "working all the time" that most academics embrace. People think we have light, easy, flexible schedules when in fact, we are pulling long days and nights like our peers in other professions such as law, investment banking, and government. Our hours may not be fixed to office schedules but we do try to keep churning out quality work for as long as possible each day, so a 10 to 15-hour work period is not that unusual. And things get worse during crunch time (yes, we have crunch time too, not just certified public accountants during tax season or attorneys preparing for court).
So, well-meaning friends and colleagues have been asking me if I plan to "keep it up" once my bundle of joy arrives in July. They don't automatically assume that I'm going to drop everything (although the inquiry about whether my career will proceed post-baby has come up more than once) but the implication is clear that time will be the most constrained resource. Not good when your professional well-being is predicated on squeezing productivity out of every non-essential-for-other-functions hour. [True to stereotype, a lot of academics don't even take time for leisure travel -- attending a conference or doing research in a location other than one's own home base is already considered a luxurious trip -- some "faculty brats" grow up thinking that their vacations were earmarked periods for Mom and/or Dad making breakthroughs in archives]
Hmm, will I be waiting up to see if my students are writing to me late at night, panicking about their assignments? Will I be checking email every few hours to stave the tide of correspondence from colleagues and students, so that they all get a response from me in a timely manner? Will I be telling my daughter that "Ooh, we're so lucky, we're visiting X-country because Mommy needs to do research there" (in fact, she may be going on one or two such trips this very year)? Perhaps, perhaps.
And if I'm up anyways at some ungodly hour for feeding, soothing, or whatever, I may turn a sideways glance to email to see how my non-blood-related (but nevertheless precious) "kids" are doing. :)
That caveat in place, I'm writing at 11:23pm on a Thursday night, nervous about my 95 students who are submitting their final papers by tomorrow at 5pm. In the previous stage of my life, I was the anxious student who had either procrastinated to the point that I was writing my first draft (freshman and sophomore years of college) or revising my n-th draft obsessively (junior and senior years of college). Now I'm still on edge, and I'm grading the darn papers.
The more important thing is that I'm still trying to keep up the blissful schedule of "working all the time" that most academics embrace. People think we have light, easy, flexible schedules when in fact, we are pulling long days and nights like our peers in other professions such as law, investment banking, and government. Our hours may not be fixed to office schedules but we do try to keep churning out quality work for as long as possible each day, so a 10 to 15-hour work period is not that unusual. And things get worse during crunch time (yes, we have crunch time too, not just certified public accountants during tax season or attorneys preparing for court).
So, well-meaning friends and colleagues have been asking me if I plan to "keep it up" once my bundle of joy arrives in July. They don't automatically assume that I'm going to drop everything (although the inquiry about whether my career will proceed post-baby has come up more than once) but the implication is clear that time will be the most constrained resource. Not good when your professional well-being is predicated on squeezing productivity out of every non-essential-for-other-functions hour. [True to stereotype, a lot of academics don't even take time for leisure travel -- attending a conference or doing research in a location other than one's own home base is already considered a luxurious trip -- some "faculty brats" grow up thinking that their vacations were earmarked periods for Mom and/or Dad making breakthroughs in archives]
Hmm, will I be waiting up to see if my students are writing to me late at night, panicking about their assignments? Will I be checking email every few hours to stave the tide of correspondence from colleagues and students, so that they all get a response from me in a timely manner? Will I be telling my daughter that "Ooh, we're so lucky, we're visiting X-country because Mommy needs to do research there" (in fact, she may be going on one or two such trips this very year)? Perhaps, perhaps.
And if I'm up anyways at some ungodly hour for feeding, soothing, or whatever, I may turn a sideways glance to email to see how my non-blood-related (but nevertheless precious) "kids" are doing. :)
Monday, April 22, 2013
Patience, Thy Name is Professor
...Or substitute "professor" with "teacher"
Long gone are the days when professors could be moody, make scathing remarks about immature and pathetic their students are, or cast indifferent looks at the adoring (or at least cowering) masses in front of them in the lecture halls.
Now, we are for all intents and purposes, service providers, dishing up knowledge to our students ("consumers," as they are sometimes called in administrative scenarios). We are supposed to be cheerful, altruistic, and ever-understanding of their physical, mental, and emotional needs. Some students have cultivated serious habits of blaming all the problems in their academic lives on inadequate professors.
What they forget is that we're just as human as they are.
And it's hard being a role model (or a saint) every single day of one's life.
I've had students ask me if I ever leave the office (I want to answer, "No dear, I sleep in a coffin next to my desk"), why I don't answer emails at 3am (I may just be asleep -- at home, in a bed), why I expect them to be in class (why not?), and so on.
As much as I would like to be accessible to my students and to exercise compassion during the most challenging moments in their lives, I wish that some of them would remember that we have hearts and minds too. Until someone invents the Perfect Professor (a robot), teaching and learning are two sides of the same coin, and can only be productive with compromise and empathy.
Long gone are the days when professors could be moody, make scathing remarks about immature and pathetic their students are, or cast indifferent looks at the adoring (or at least cowering) masses in front of them in the lecture halls.
Now, we are for all intents and purposes, service providers, dishing up knowledge to our students ("consumers," as they are sometimes called in administrative scenarios). We are supposed to be cheerful, altruistic, and ever-understanding of their physical, mental, and emotional needs. Some students have cultivated serious habits of blaming all the problems in their academic lives on inadequate professors.
What they forget is that we're just as human as they are.
And it's hard being a role model (or a saint) every single day of one's life.
I've had students ask me if I ever leave the office (I want to answer, "No dear, I sleep in a coffin next to my desk"), why I don't answer emails at 3am (I may just be asleep -- at home, in a bed), why I expect them to be in class (why not?), and so on.
As much as I would like to be accessible to my students and to exercise compassion during the most challenging moments in their lives, I wish that some of them would remember that we have hearts and minds too. Until someone invents the Perfect Professor (a robot), teaching and learning are two sides of the same coin, and can only be productive with compromise and empathy.
Sunday, April 21, 2013
Semi-Loco Parentis
Teaching at the university level is hardly different from doing so at the preschool through secondary phases of education. Many people assume that it's easier to teach undergraduates (graduates, yes, but that's material for another post) than three-year-olds or fifteen-year-olds. I concede that each grade requires specialized expertise, but in all, we share the profound burden of being "semi" in loco parentis, not with legal responsibility but the even greater moral challenges of helping them become better people while preserving their sanity (and ours).
Being female, younger (less than 20 years older than them), and short in stature (height does matter!), I encounter at least one student every semester who insists on criticizing and "re-educating" me. I am still not sure what motivates all of these individuals (all male, to date) to take on the mission of informing me that I am wrong and flawed, but I admire their attention to detail. Sometimes the criticisms occur in face-to-face conversations (ok, bearable and manageable), through email (where we can start really heated textual debates), and now to take the cake, verbal shaming on Facebook (wow, the bar goes up or down, depending on how you choose to think about it).
I wasn't too surprised that my current self-appointed tutor, Student A, has decided to vent his frustration and dislike of me on Facebook. Students do it all the time for all sorts of reasons. Student A may have even learned a lesson because despite getting some support for his vitriol, he has also encountered some pushback, others wondering why he wants to critique me for being a foreigner, for not understanding his language and culture, etc. Being born and growing up as an ethnic minority and then reprising the same role here, I'm used to all of these forms of disparagement, but I'm not 100% prepared to dismiss each and every case as it manifests.
I do wonder if I'm not being empathetic enough -- students may find me an easy target to disrespect (for my gender, my nationality, my ethnicity, my amount of professional experience), they may gain a tremendously fulfilling sense of empowerment by threatening me (despite my attempts to engage them in productive dialogue and to be considerate of their needs). Maybe they will develop into more mature versions of themselves through nit-picking, although I wish that they would cultivate self-confidence and a sense of purpose in other ways. And as my father always reminds me, their hatred is small potatoes as problems go.
But my general conclusion is that I don't understand what causes certain students to revile my teaching methods or to find fault with every little thing that I do. I know that not every teacher suits every student (and vice versa!) but I would prefer indifference to the passionate frenzy that drives them to hate me. I can learn from some of their discontents, and I have definitely tried to be objective about them, but I also wish that they will utilize their youthful energy in other ways that will be more constructive for their education.
All of this relates to parenting because I've heard that children can be the harshest critics of their parents, so I realize I have to brace myself for soul-crushing commentary from my daughter and her siblings, if they come into existence. When I am in (full) loco parentis, will I be able to handle it? That is the question.
Being female, younger (less than 20 years older than them), and short in stature (height does matter!), I encounter at least one student every semester who insists on criticizing and "re-educating" me. I am still not sure what motivates all of these individuals (all male, to date) to take on the mission of informing me that I am wrong and flawed, but I admire their attention to detail. Sometimes the criticisms occur in face-to-face conversations (ok, bearable and manageable), through email (where we can start really heated textual debates), and now to take the cake, verbal shaming on Facebook (wow, the bar goes up or down, depending on how you choose to think about it).
I wasn't too surprised that my current self-appointed tutor, Student A, has decided to vent his frustration and dislike of me on Facebook. Students do it all the time for all sorts of reasons. Student A may have even learned a lesson because despite getting some support for his vitriol, he has also encountered some pushback, others wondering why he wants to critique me for being a foreigner, for not understanding his language and culture, etc. Being born and growing up as an ethnic minority and then reprising the same role here, I'm used to all of these forms of disparagement, but I'm not 100% prepared to dismiss each and every case as it manifests.
I do wonder if I'm not being empathetic enough -- students may find me an easy target to disrespect (for my gender, my nationality, my ethnicity, my amount of professional experience), they may gain a tremendously fulfilling sense of empowerment by threatening me (despite my attempts to engage them in productive dialogue and to be considerate of their needs). Maybe they will develop into more mature versions of themselves through nit-picking, although I wish that they would cultivate self-confidence and a sense of purpose in other ways. And as my father always reminds me, their hatred is small potatoes as problems go.
But my general conclusion is that I don't understand what causes certain students to revile my teaching methods or to find fault with every little thing that I do. I know that not every teacher suits every student (and vice versa!) but I would prefer indifference to the passionate frenzy that drives them to hate me. I can learn from some of their discontents, and I have definitely tried to be objective about them, but I also wish that they will utilize their youthful energy in other ways that will be more constructive for their education.
All of this relates to parenting because I've heard that children can be the harshest critics of their parents, so I realize I have to brace myself for soul-crushing commentary from my daughter and her siblings, if they come into existence. When I am in (full) loco parentis, will I be able to handle it? That is the question.
Wednesday, April 17, 2013
Complexes
As evident from the blog title/theme, I teach and conduct research in an university. I started my career as a professional academic five years ago, so I am still a junior member of the trade, but as all of us go through arduous apprenticeships for at least five years (six and a half in my case) before we earn our certification (piled higher and deeper, or whatever you would like to call it), I have been "in the business" for over a decade.
So I feel (smugly) qualified to say that I corrupt (read: nurture) the minds of 17-40 year old persons every day, all the time. I have served as a mentor, substitute parent, elder sister, cheerleader, counselor, and in many other capacities. I am a historian but what I propagate about my discipline is far less significant than what I hope to achieve by guiding and encouraging people to learn all sorts of knowledge and to improve not only the intellectual but also physical and emotional dimensions of their lives.
But like many other professors (I use the term humbly, not to elevate myself as some superior being), I did not learn how to teach systematically, according to theories and frameworks. Unlike educators toiling in the kindergartens through secondary schools, I did not spend years of my life studying child psychology, pedagogical method, and other related subjects. By virtue of spreading knowledge as transmitted to me by my own instructors (with some of my own innovations as garnish), I have been endowed with the privilege of doing "cutting-edge" (as the university administrators would like to believe) research on teaching and learning -- but I never claim to be a "professional educator," but just a "professional researcher who teaches."
So, I have an enduring complex about becoming a parent. I helped my parents raise my younger sister who is seven years younger than me. I have been the mother of two cats for ten years. So perhaps because of the empirical evidence I have collected through those experiences, I am more apprehensive about embarking on the task of being one of two primary "parental units" for a person who will be my responsibility until she reaches legal and social maturity.
This blog will therefore be partly therapeutic, helping me working out a variety of issues, and partly philosophical, contemplating how I can adapt some of what I have learned from teaching to parenting -- two skills which are very different but which share some common aspects.
I hope that my daughter will be forgiving of the many mistakes that I will make, that she will recognize that while I am far from perfect, I am not vainly unaware of my shortcomings, and that she will be a happier child than I was able to be (for many reasons to be explained in future posts).
So I feel (smugly) qualified to say that I corrupt (read: nurture) the minds of 17-40 year old persons every day, all the time. I have served as a mentor, substitute parent, elder sister, cheerleader, counselor, and in many other capacities. I am a historian but what I propagate about my discipline is far less significant than what I hope to achieve by guiding and encouraging people to learn all sorts of knowledge and to improve not only the intellectual but also physical and emotional dimensions of their lives.
But like many other professors (I use the term humbly, not to elevate myself as some superior being), I did not learn how to teach systematically, according to theories and frameworks. Unlike educators toiling in the kindergartens through secondary schools, I did not spend years of my life studying child psychology, pedagogical method, and other related subjects. By virtue of spreading knowledge as transmitted to me by my own instructors (with some of my own innovations as garnish), I have been endowed with the privilege of doing "cutting-edge" (as the university administrators would like to believe) research on teaching and learning -- but I never claim to be a "professional educator," but just a "professional researcher who teaches."
So, I have an enduring complex about becoming a parent. I helped my parents raise my younger sister who is seven years younger than me. I have been the mother of two cats for ten years. So perhaps because of the empirical evidence I have collected through those experiences, I am more apprehensive about embarking on the task of being one of two primary "parental units" for a person who will be my responsibility until she reaches legal and social maturity.
This blog will therefore be partly therapeutic, helping me working out a variety of issues, and partly philosophical, contemplating how I can adapt some of what I have learned from teaching to parenting -- two skills which are very different but which share some common aspects.
I hope that my daughter will be forgiving of the many mistakes that I will make, that she will recognize that while I am far from perfect, I am not vainly unaware of my shortcomings, and that she will be a happier child than I was able to be (for many reasons to be explained in future posts).
Monday, April 15, 2013
Inspiration
Thanks to my mother-in-law for starting this blog by giving me this garment (not for me to wear, of course).
More to follow in future posts...
More to follow in future posts...
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