How To Become A Professor (When You Don't Know What You Are Doing)-- Lesson 4: Know Your Audience

I'm gearing up for my third week teaching at my new job, and I'm quickly figuring out just how different my current students are from the ones I had taught at my previous institution. I got my PhD at a large and prestigious public university in California, where I had taught writing and Ethnic Studies courses. I had attended a school like that as an undergraduate as well, so that was the landscape most familiar to me: one where the students were diverse in a variety ways, from what they were choosing to major in to their level of preparedness walking into the university, from socioeconomic background to ethnicity. (Though I should say "diverse" really means "lots of Asian American kids" in this context.) My current institution is just the opposite. It's a small (about 5,000 students), private university that specializes in business-related fields. It costs $50,000 a year to study and live here, and since the school doesn't seem to brag about offering a ton of financial aid and scholarships, I'm guessing this means the students here are from distinctly middle-upper class backgrounds. Aside from the international students, the students are largely local, mostly from Massachusetts and the surrounding New England states. The first thought that crossed my mind when I met my first class was, "Man, this school is hella white."

I knew upon accepting this position that I would have to adjust to this unfamiliar environment, but I didn't anticipate the extent to which the environment could impact my teaching. After all, the English and Media Studies department hired me specifically for my Ethnic Studies and Asian American literature background. The professors and administrators all talk about wanting to diversify the student and staff population, as well as the curriculum. And my department chair is pretty much giving me free reign in how I want to design my courses. From what I can tell, the university wants me to teach the students about social justice, train them to think critically about the world and their place in it, and encourage them to be creative.

But mission and practice are two very different things, and impacting the culture of this university is going to be constant uphill climb. First off, I wonder if a specialized business school can ever be a place where a literature/cultural studies practitioner can thrive. In the short time that I've spent with my students, I can tell that they're generally uncreative and conservative in their thinking. They're not so interested in challenging the status quo. Their idea of "social justice" and "ethics" probably means "how to make a profit without being a total asshole." A word like "counterhegemony" is definitely not in their vocabulary. (Case in point: On the first day of my expository writing class, I had the students read a Michael Pollan essay, "We Are What We Eat," which isn't doesn't even promote any particular political agenda but simply describes the ways in which our food industry is entirely made up of corn. One of my students got really pissed and said, "Who cares so long as it makes money?") I suppose this shouldn't be at all surprising, because it probably takes a very particular kind of 17-year-old to commit to a major like Accountancy and close off all other options by attending a school where you can't major in much else. I just don't understand that kind of focused channelling. Aren't we supposed to float in "undeclared" land and figure out what we really like before we resign to being "practical"? I remember thinking the same thing about a girl I knew in college who said that she always wanted to be a dentist. I definitely found her scarier than the goth girl who majored in ethnomusicology and performed spoken word in the middle of the quad.

This isn't to say that my students aren't bright or inquisitive. On the contrary, my freshmen in my expository writing class pepper me with tons of questions and exhibit pretty sharp close-reading skills. Aside from a few knee-jerk reactions, they've been very willing to engage in discussion, however unfamiliar the topics may be. It's the juniors and seniors in my Asian American literature class that lend me to believe that their curriculum is doing such a good job and conditioning them for their chosen professions, that it's completely foreclosing them from any other types of thinking. They've been trained so well in tasks like estimating profit margins and understanding audit regulations, they aren't so good at seeing the bigger picture.

On the first day of my Asian American literature class, I introduced to the students some key issues that one really can't avoid talking about in an Asian American literature class: racism, immigration, citizenship, class, labor. I asked them to think of current debates related to these topics. I was dismayed to find out just how little they've heard about Arizona's SB 1070, how difficult it was for them to name one example of economic unfairness, how uneasy they are when they're asked to talk about race. And I don't think I even hit them all that hard. I introduced them to the class by playing a song entitled "We Belong" by Asian American hip-hop artists Magnetic North and Taiyo Na, figuring that they would enjoy some music by people not much older than themselves. The students seemed to enjoy the song well enough, and they were able to identify the themes of the song: the trials of being a migrant worker, racial stereotyping, poverty. But when asked to reflect on the themes (as well as the form in which these themes are being articulated), they exhibited resistance. One student, who is Asian American, declared that he had seen Magnetic North perform live and had decided that he "hated" them. When I asked him why, he initially said that he didn't understand why Asian Americans should perform "black" music, and then revealed that because he never experienced racism before in his life, he didn't understand why these artists would make a deal about it.

In my view, the student experiences racism regularly whether he notices or not, because the society in which he lives is one grounded on white privilege. But I can't fault him for not sharing this view, for growing up never having to doubt American meritocracy, for never experiencing the sting of a racial slur. But the refusal to see beyond his own experience and acknowledge validity of the experiences of others is what bothers me. What bothers me even more is the fact that none of his classmates contradicted him.

I certainly had plenty of students like him at my previous institution, but I could always count on other students to offer dissenting opinions to spark some productive discussion. And I think that's the main difference between the large state school and the small private one-- For every student who wanted nothing but to climb up the corporate ladder, there was one who organized labor strikes as an extracurricular activity. And the reason for this diversity isn't just because of size of the university or the fact that it's public; the university has also instituted departments and programs that foster different kinds of learning. While disciplines like Ethnic Studies are always being threatened at any institution, the legacy of their existence, at the very least, offers a space where students can question the very institution in which they are learning. So the aerospace engineering major may very well have to ask herself how she feels about learning how to build weapons used to blow up other countries.

I'm not so naive to say that the large public university churns out socially-conscious world-changers. Quite the contrary. But at the very least, I was able to stand firm in the belief that my expertise was legitimate, that it played a good and necessary role in my students' education. And perhaps that's even more true at my current job. Certainly, if I were to get my students to think in ways they aren't asked to in any of their other classes, that should be even more gratifying than teaching to those already in my corner. I guess I wish that I was working in a culture where I don't have to sell my class to my students and pitch it at a level suitable for students who never think about the sorts of issues I discuss. I wish that I was simply operating in a system that already has use for my work, rather than feeling as though I've been hired to start a system from scratch. I wish I was at a place where I can feel like a normal professor rather than a radical one. Oh well. I guess I'll just treat this new job as a challenge and a learning experience! I'm up for it.

On Teaching Race

Unless I get recruited to head-start a new Ethnic Studies program at the university for which I'll be working as a new assistant professor, this quarter may be my last teaching an Asian American Studies class. I am currently teaching two classes: one upper-division English course at a women's liberal arts college, and one upper-division Asian American Studies course at my home university. One is a seminar of 8 students, all women, mostly white, all English majors. The other is a class of 60 students, co-ed, vast majority of whom are API, and whose majors run the gamut of Asian American Studies, political science, and economics.

My English course at the women's college, being on the semester system, started in January. I was immediately struck by how refreshing and satisfying teaching English majors can be, especially since I had never had the opportunity to teach English majors at my home campus. The students are immediately engaged and invested, and are coming in at the same level of preparedness. On the first day, I brought in some pieces of poetry, and right away the students started explicating it together, breaking down the literary devices. The atmosphere is also striking when the class is all-female. Whenever I teach co-ed classes, even when there are only one or two men in the class (which has been the case in some of the writing classes I've taught), and even when these men aren't even close to being the smartest students in the class, they tend to dominate (and often derail) the class discussion. It's really nice not having to monitor that as a female instructor. It's also nice not having to justify why gender is a relevant topic of discussion when we're discussing literature, history, or whatever. I also tend to like smaller classes, because I like being able to give each student individual attention. So in many respects, this English class has been my ideal teaching experience.

But something happened these last couple of weeks that has made me appreciate my big Asian American Studies classes. My English class is on Vietnam War literature, which, given the war that it concerns, is always about race. But in these last couple of weeks, I've chosen to put race front and center as the topic for discussion. We talked about the musical Miss Saigon. We read Le Ly Hayslip's When Heaven and Earth Changed Places. We talked about Kim Phuc, the young girl running from a napalm bombing, who became a humanitarian and figure of reconciliation. I talked about how Asian women are figured as a sort of romantic fantasy, through which the white male American soldier can at once exert his colonial power (in other words, Orientalism) but can also "save" her and assuage his guilt. I asked the students to think about where the Orientalist fantasy comes from and how it's continually perpetuated.

As students in a women's college, these students have been more than ready to discuss how war is premised on notions of masculinity, how women are excluded from the notions of citizenship that serving in war is supposed to grant, etc. But to get them to talk about race has been like pulling teeth. Only the two women of color-- one Asian, one Latina-- have been at all willing to engage with me. What the white women tend to say in response to any question I pose is, "But isn't that the case for all women?" So when I asked, "Why does Kim have to kill herself at the end of Miss Saigon?" one white student said, "Like in Victorian literature, the woman always gets punished in the end." Well, yes. The self-annihilating woman is a common trope in many cultural traditions. But does the fact of her being Asian, especially given all the various incarnations of the Madame Butterfly character, mean anything? Silence. Until the Asian American student speaks up.

This road block became even more apparent this week, when we were discussing John A. Williams's novel, Captain Blackman, which is one of the very few texts by an African American written during the time of the Vietnam War. It's also clearly concerned about black historical authority, not only during Vietnam (a war in which a disproportionate number of black soldiers served, and a war that became known as a "race war"), but all of American history. The protagonist, Blackman, is a Vietnam War soldier who blacks out and then find himself transported to the Revolutionary War. So, I ask the students what Williams may be saying about the meaning of the presence of black soldiers in American wars. On the one hand, the novel seems to be calling for their recognition, reminding us that African Americans have served in every war in the nation's history. On the other, it's also critical of that history as one that the "community" should claim, given that all these wars were in the service of a nation that systematically oppressed, betrayed, and violated black people. So I ask the students to ponder whether the Vietnam War, or any war for that matter, could be read as a "race war." No response. I ask if citizenship can indeed be gained through submitting yourself to military service. "Yes, but isn't that the case for everybody?"

That's the go-to answer, it seems. Isn't that the case for everybody? We're all the same. I guess race doesn't matter anymore.

I know I'll have to expect many more exchanges like this in my teaching career. And that's not only fine, but a welcome challenge. The fact that these students can't see beyond their own privilege and have been trained to believe that "multiculturalism" erases racial difference means that my job is even more important than I had thought.

But still, I can't help but wish that I could just teach Ethnic Studies courses for the rest of my life. There's something amazing about gazing out into a class filled with 60 students of color. Or 200 students of color, as was the case with my Intro to Asian American History class last quarter. In the lower-div courses, I do have to make an effort in explaining to the students how structural racism still exists. Some of the Asian American students are conservative. Some can't see beyond their own class privilege to recognize how they're subject to racism. But even in those classes, the students are at least willing to talk about race. And, at the very least, I don't have to convince them of the fact that white privilege exists. They already know that it does, because they've experienced being denied opportunities because of the fact that they're not white. I've encountered some messed up comments in those classes (last quarter, one Chinese American student even tried to justify the interment of Japanese Americans during WWII), but I've never been shut down by a, "Well, doesn't everybody experience that?"

I suppose I could always apply for Ethnic Studies positions again after I've settled into my new job for a while. But the thing is, too, Ethnic Studies positions are few and far in between. And they're oftentimes the first to get cut when universities lose funding. I'm glad I'll be working as an English professor. Really, I am. And the university that hired me is letting me teach anything I want, and they're receptive to my idea of teaching a literature course that's based on critical race theory. They've also mentioned wanting me to develop Ethnic Studies curriculum with other faculty on campus. So I'm sure I'll find plenty of ways to direct my political energies and intellectual investments. Still, I am facing the fact that I may never get another teaching opportunity like the one I have now, where I don't even have to ask the question, "Does race matter?"

How to Become a Professor (When You Don't Know What You Are Doing): Lesson 2-- Work Ass-Backwards

While it may be true that one needs a PhD to become a professor, it is also true that one needs to become a professor to get a PhD. I realize that in saying this I'm speaking from the privileged position of someone with a tenure-track position lined up. I don't want to come off as an asshole who is nonchalantly joking about a system in which most graduates end up jobless. I just want to draw attention to the fact that "normative time" for finishing can certainly vary, depending on the particular standards of your committee members, which are subject to change. While I'm sure my committee members wouldn't have signed off on my dissertation if they didn't think it was good enough to be filed, I also discovered that they weren't nearly as picky about my work after I secured my tenure-track position. Which makes sense-- There's no sense in delaying my graduation and keeping me around if I have a job lined up. But a part of me also wonders if they would have signed off on anything. As my dad likes to joke, "Your degree doesn't count!"

The thing is, finishing a PhD can take a really, really long time. Even if everything goes well-- if you have plenty of funding, your health is good, your family isn't overburdening you, if you know what you're doing-- your advisors could still stall your progress by making you revise revise and revise. My dad told me that when he was a graduate student, a classmate of his got so frustrated with his chair's refusal to let him graduate, that he shot the guy and then shot himself. I've never felt that level of frustration with my committee. (Actually, I complain more often of them not pushing me enough.) But I do have a committee of perfectionists whose level of excellence is something I feel pressured to emulate, even if they don't necessarily impose it on me. And this is why I'm surprised that they so quickly signed off on my dissertation. I was expecting that they would have me take the spring quarter to revise the entire document several times.

So really, the biggest factor that enables you to finish your PhD is to get the job, which is something I'm experiencing now as both a lecturer and someone with a t-t job lined up. Unfortunately, getting the job and teaching are two of the biggest timesucks that can also stall your progress.

The academic job market for literature folks goes like this: Starting in the early fall, schools start posting their job listings (onto databases like the MLA and the Chronicle of Higher Ed), and you look through them all. At the very least, you have to prepare a writing sample (usually a dissertation chapter or a journal article you've written), a cover letter (the most important document you'll write in your entire life), a C.V., and letters of recommendation from at least three advisors (your dissertation committee). Some jobs will ask for more documents, like a teaching portfolio, a dissertation abstract, and a research plan. You send out these documents to all the schools you're applying to. Sometimes you have to cater your documents to different jobs, especially if you're trying to market yourself in different fields. (I applied to positions in Ethnic Studies and English. For English positions, I applied to Ethnic American literature, Asian American literature, 20th Century American literature, and Postcolonial literature positions. So I had several versions of my cover letter.) From August to January, you're constantly visiting the job listings and sending out more materials. If a school puts you on their short list of about 8-12 candidates (out of several hundred), you get a call to meet them at the MLA conference in late December, during your winter break. Until then, you prep for your interview, practicing how to answer all sorts of questions that hopefully your advisors will supply you. You fly out to wherever the conference is taking place that year and do your interviews. If you make it to the school's list of top 3 candidates, you get a call a few weeks later with an invitation for a campus interview, which you then have to prep for. For the campus interview, you get flown out to the school, meet with the faculty, staff, students, administrators. Generally you have to do some form of a presentation, though the particular form varies-- Some schools ask for a research talk, some a research talk and a teaching demonstration, some will ask you to come into someone else's class and teach for the day. When your campus interview is done, you go home and bite your nails until you get a call again. Hopefully, it's a job offer. If it isn't, then you either plan to do this whole process all over again in the next fall, or your start looking at the spring listings and do this process all over again. It's kind of a ridiculous amount of work for a job that you might end up hating. Needless to say, I didn't get much of my dissertation written during the time that I was going through this process.

Teaching generally takes up a ton of time, whether you're doing it as a full-time or part-time employee. These last few months, I've been teaching two very different courses at two very different campuses, one of which is a class I had never taught before. When I'm teaching a class for the first time, it's not uncommon that I'll spend 5 hours of prep for 1 hour of class time. And one of my advisors tells me that I'm in good shape-- She'll take 10 to 1. This is why graduate students are not encouraged to teach-- It takes too much of your time, and ultimately what determines your career is a finished dissertation. But fellowships become more of a rarity, especially at public universities that are experiencing budget crises. I have had to teach or work for the university in some other capacity every quarter that I've been a graduate student. And I've been asked to teach classes that professors typically teach, from large GE classes to upper-division. So I've basically worked as a professor that the university can hire for cheap.

Which brings me back to my first point: One must be a professor in order to get a PhD. And I don't mean in the sense that teaching helps you become a better scholar, though that is indeed true. I mean being a professor means that you are no longer a student.

Because I had not quite finished my dissertation by the time I secured my t-t job, and because the budget problems in my university and the scarcity of funding opportunities have determined that advanced graduate students can no longer teach at the university after a certain number of quarters, I had figured that I was going to have to go on filing fee for the spring quarter. (Filing fee means that you have nothing left to do but finish your dissertation. You pay a modest fee instead of your tuition, but it also means that you have no access to the school's facilities or employment. And you have to buy your own health insurance.) At the very end of last quarter, though, the Asian American Studies department, where I've been teaching for several years now, asked if I could substitute for a professor who is taking a sudden leave of absence. As a student, I would not be able to get this gig-- I had exceeded my teaching quarters, and was told that my appeal for an additional quarter was going to be denied. Going on filing fee would have meant that I could not be employed by the university. So my only viable option was to graduate so that the department could hire me as a lecturer. I knew I would need the income, so I pushed for this.

I wrote to my committee members about my situation. Because they had already deemed my dissertation good enough to be filed, they had already supplied their signatures. But they still preferred to have more time to review my entire document and give me comments before letting me file. Fortunately, they're also very sympathetic individuals who didn't want to deny me a source of income, so they agreed to let me file and give me comments afterwards. That is how I ended up finishing my PhD during what just might be the busiest time in my life.

I do feel good about the document I ended up submitting. But I also recognize that there's a whole lot that could be improved. That's always going to be case, though, which is why finishing a PhD takes a really, really long time.