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...

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.

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.

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."

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.


 

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. 

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.