Broken feedback loop

I was talking to a friend a while ago about how life in academia leads one to think that one is constantly below average. It doesn't matter what post docs one gets, or how many publications, or how one's talks are received at conferences. Too many successful academics, like competitive runners, get where they are by keeping an eye on the person just ahead.

Except, in a race, it is always clear who the people in front of you, and behind you, are. It is not always so clear who the person in front of me academically is.  I (and many people I know) solve this problem by keeping my eye on the people who are some distance ahead of me, who are clearly better than I am. I call them my competition, and keep going. By definition, since I do not look at the rest of the population (and because I do not like thinking of people as being worse than me) I see myself at the bottom of the pool, and live my life resigned to a state of mediocrity or less.

In graduate school and during my post doc years, I made certain that I had a life beyond my work so I could be reminded that I was not struggling at the bottom of the pack in spite my years of specialized training. It is not so much that I need an ego boost from my neighbors who lead more normal lives, but that I need a counterweight to the machinery of my self image and drive.

Since leaving the US, I have not had the luxury of having that counterweight in my life. it is starting to take a toll. I received a very nice e-mail yesterday from an ex-student of mine who thanked me for the influence I had in her academic life. I wish I could say it turned a bad day into pleasant day. Or even that it turned a bad day into a tolerable day, or that it brought a smile on my face. I am extremely embarrassed to admit that the first thought through my head was something along the lines of "why do people like this not reflect themselves in my teaching reviews?" This is not to say that my teaching reviews are bad. Generally speaking, I have been an above average teacher in all the institutes I have been at that have kept records. But I have never been recognized by my department for good teaching (unless you count the undergraduate teaching chair who wanted me to teach an extra course though my teaching had been bought out because, as he claimed, he was tight on bodies to put in front of the classroom, and did not want to loose a good teacher.)

My second thought was to write my student a thank you note.

I turn into a very twisted person without something else to balance my life. I need to do something about this.

I blinked

And a week went by. I am not sure how it happened, but it did. This week will be better.

It was not that last week was a bad week necessarily. Last Sunday, I had contemplated writing a post about how this is my favourite time of year. The overflow parking lot for a local hotel faces the train tracks. The space between the parking lot and the rail fence is filled with blackberry bushes. I discovered that blackberries growing on bushes in soil that is covered with dead pine needles tend to have a piney flavor. Very complex, very sweet, but not my favourite. We found another bush, just a few yards away with intense tart berries. I have no idea to what soil characteristic I owe the delight of eating those berries. A couple gallons of berries, a dozen jars of jam, and two arms full of thorns and splinters I am still picking out a week later, and one interesting (and fortunately short lived) rash later, I am finally, temporarily, sated on blackberries. We will probably go back next month.

We are finally going to be home for the holidays. It has been three years since I have actually managed to be with friends and family during the holidays that matter. This year, tickets are bought, jars of jam have been made, presents are still being purchased, Epsilon is primed, things are looking good.

I think I have been invited for an interview for a job I applied for. After some confusion about whether or not I was still eligible for the post given travel schedules, and other aggravating factors, it turns out that, no, I just need to wait for the secretaries to officially give me dates and times for the interview. It is at moments like these that I long for the stronger religious protections of the US, where an employer would have to think twice before saying that I am ineligible for a position because I am traveling for religious holidays. The US does not guarantee protection, but the law provides enough support for minority religions that the school would think twice. It was not a problem in my case, everything has worked out as well as can be expected. I am not complaining. But this brings to mind a conversation I had with a playground acquaintance a few years ago who grew up near His Town. My partner had just accepted his current job, and I stood in the playground with our acquaintance  discussing the move. I expressed my disquiet regarding moving to a country without an equivalent of a first amendment. He claimed that the government in this country was reasonable, and that law abiding citizens would not have anything to fear. So many historical counter-examples sprang to mind, along with aphorisms about benevolent dictatorships. I decided to be polite, and not being able to come up with a concrete, real, "this effects normal every-day people today" example, I held my tongue. I wonder if I have just found my counter-example.

Where have you gone, Joe DiMaggio?

I disappeared several months ago, it would seem. The stress of living apart for most of the spring term got to be too much on myself and my family, and I stopped writing, at least publicly. So what have I done these last few months?

Hide it in a hiding place where no one ever goes
Put it in the pantry with your cupcakes.

I started writing privately, my partner and I took a series of steps that felt logical at the time, but have had deep repercussions on our relationship now, we both became a little lonelier, I finished my term in University F, Epsilon is supremely happy to have me living at home with him.

It's a little secret, just the Robinson's affair
Most of all you hide it from the kids.

One of the problem with four year olds is that they are very good at reading their parents. They have little else to do. So when one or both of us start acting strangely, he notices. Not that we believe in hiding anything from our child, that feels too much like lying. Just pointing out that it is not as easy to do as our parents possibly made it seem. Perhaps it becomes easier when the child is older, and less of his life revolves around our facial expressions.

Look around you, all you see are sympathetic eyes

Moving back to His Town, my partner and I have both realized how isolated we are. Living apart for extended periods has always had a toll on our relationship. It is hard to recalibrate with each other, especially when one or both of us are suffering from a bout of depression induced by the associated stresses.

It is not that we do not have friends. We have friends scattered across three continents. Some of them even respond to e-mails. Most of them, we manage to keep in touch with.  I know at one point, I had developed a community at this blog.  And then the D word got in the way, and I fell silent. I have no idea how much of that community I still have. If you have followed me for a while and are still reading this, let me know. I am curious.

I still find the community building aspect of blogs mystifying. A blog is a very intense view on one or two aspects of a writer's life, more personal, sometimes, than the casual reader has any right to know; personal enough that many posts that have generated encouraging comments from readers, when sent to certain friends, dumbfound with the intense nature of the communication. Perhaps I need better friends. Perhaps, like Aadam Aziz, in Midnight's Children, it is easier to deal with a person piecemeal, through a round hole cut in a white sheet.

Whatever the case may be, I think I need to stop writing without an audience. So I return to this forum. What will be different? The visual format is, for a start. At least at first, the next few entries will be a bit raw. A lot has happened these past few months that needs airing. Some of it academic. Some of it not. Nothing salacious. I will still attempt to keep this from being a diary. In the short term, there will be more poetry. I may eventually introduce a few pieces of prose fiction, though with a clear warning. I suspect this space will become less about academia, and more about gender and emmigration, but that is pure speculation at this point.

Sick

I remember as an undergrad, most terms would have a point in them when things started to slide; I'd taken one more class (again) than I could realistically handle; the post teenage drama that filled my social life exploded; my depression flared out of control; I came down with pneumonia during midterms; I signed up for one too many extra curricular activity that I didn't realize far enough in advance that I needed to cancel. It was always something or another. As an undergrad, I had not realized that part of good study and self care habits was working with a buffer for all the things the inevitably go wrong in life.

Grad school was different, and I was a much happier and successful academic there. Somehow, it feels like all those lessons were unlearned with Epsilon. No, unlearned is too harsh. Neither of us realized how much went into being a parent. And we can't exactly punt Epsilon the same way we would pull out of organizing a big social even in college.

So here I am. Two days of grading until after midnight followed by getting up at 6:30 with Epsilon, while he is sick has me in bed with a flu bad enough that I spend Saturday in bed, Sunday asleep, and practically voiceless on Tuesday. One of my classes takes approximately 0 prep time. The other takes 12+ hours/week. I cancelled Monday's lecture of the latter. Today, I think I am well enough that I can stand in front of the board for 2 hours, but nowhere in my fog have I had the coherence to learn and prepare lectures for this class. It is being cancelled again. My 20 year old self is dismayed that it is that time of term again.

This time, however, I seem to have the flexibility and wisdom to take care of myself during it.

To mark another passing.

My ex girlfriend's brother just committed suicide. What a bizarre sentence. Maybe I'll scribble it down somewhere for the start of a poem once I've unpacked my grief.

My ex girlfriend's brother just committed suicide. I didn't know him well. In fact, we met only once on an ill fated visit to her parent's house while we were both in a contentious coming out process. Nor do I really keep in touch with my ex very much. With nearly a continent and 13 years between us, good intentions and warm feelings are not enough to keep our lives from drifting apart. So while I am sad, my feelings  are not from any direct connection to any of the parties directly involved.

Rather I feel like I have passed through a spectre I thought myself long rid of. As someone who lives with depression, who built a support group out of similarly suffering friends, who went to an undergraduate institution with a high suicide rate, I relate too well with the person who does not see the point of tomorrow.

I have sat with a friend on his ex girlfriend's grave, on the anniversary of her death. He pats the grass, says his goodbyes. The entire ritual is necessary, but somehow anticlimactic due to his inability to fully express his love and his anger. Driving back to town, he explains his irrational anger at the windows that open on high rises. ... We both remember the nights, years prior, when I had called him, full of self destruction; the nights he took me away for a few hours in his car, and sat with me on my bed until I fell asleep. Those midnight drives lie heavy in car, heading back to the city. We both know that, but for fortune, he could have also done this for me.

This experience does not help me find words to comfort my ex girlfriend. Maybe, if we lived closer, I could bring over a few board games and Xena reruns, and we could reminisce, or not, as she felt she needs to do. But we don't.

I remember walking along a riverbank during spring break with my room mate. The trees were in bloom; pink and white petals fluttered to the ground. A friend of hers had killed herself a month prior. My room mate looked up at the trees and said "If she'd just waited, she could have had this. If you end your life at a low, you never get to experience the good things that will come after." There is wisdom in those words, both for those considering death, and those they leave behind. I just wish I could filter it and pass it on.

Disappointed

One of the measures my university has taken to tackle the issue of mental health problems among the student body is to set up an administrative position to advocate for students when they feel they cannot (for whatever reason) engage faculty on academic issues.

Usually this means that the administrator verifies illnesses or deaths in the family, etc. for a professor, or explains that they have been working with the student to come up with a plan to catch up on work in classes that they have fallen behind on. Although occasionally they intervene in a case of unprofessional conduct on the part of a TA, RA or professor. This system assumes that the vast majority of student body will not try to abuse the system to get out of doing work. Given the particulars of the student body I am lucky enough to work with, this system works here. It would not in other universities I've been at.

Suicide rates, drug use, depression and other mental health issues are a serious problem on this campus, and as faculty, we are encouraged to be aware of these issues, and keep an eye out for possible symptoms. As an individual who has personally wrestled with these problems, I am sensitive (possibly overly) to the plight of a student at a competitive school struggling with mental health issues.

I recently had a student come talk to me about having a hard time during the term. When he didn't turn in his final exam, the administrator asked me if I'd be willing to grant him an extension for it. Because of words said and unsaid, I assumed that this student needed an extension for mental health reasons. I gave a counteroffer to the administrator that was more generous than it needed to be. Time passed. The student missed the deadline, this time without contacting me. The administrator notified me of physical health issues. I set a new deadline. Time passed. The registrar asked me if I had a grade for the student, given that the second deadline had come and gone. I had neither seen nor heard anything from the student and gave him a grade based on previous work.

.... And I hear from the student asking for another extension.

I understand having a hard time in college. I understand being intimidated by professors. I want to be as lenient as is helpful. But I don't want to be the softie who allows a system set up to help students get over a rough patch be abused. I am disappointed in myself for my actions, and disappointed in the student for his. But I don't know how I'll act next time.

Other disabilities and illnesses have clearly defined policies and expectations for the student and professors to maneuver in. I've taught students with ADHD and MS who get 1.5 time on exams. I've had note takers accompany students with vision or hearing difficulties into the classroom. I've known friends with chronic physical illnesses have their doctors regularly contact professors for appropriate extensions whenever the illness acted up. I'm not saying that these concessions are enough to level the playing field for the students. But they give professors something to work with.

Mental health seems to be different. Insurance often doesn't cover treatment for mental illness well. There is a much greater stigma attached to admitting that one has a drug problem than to admitting that one has Chrohn's disease. As a result, even at a university that tries to be aware of students' mental health needs, those suffering come up with ad hoc solutions to the problem. And as a professor who wants to help, I have no idea what to do.