Back to the Periodic Reminder that My Calling Has Always Been Fraught
I both love and hate the process of researchâat least the meaning that term has in the humanities, where one fact or item or thought could lead you down fifteen different and maybe equally valid paths; where the possibilities are never-ending, and where, quite often, you just have to draw a line and scribble hints about getting to the next project once youâre done with this one.1
It becomes even more frustrating when youâre on your own, with no institution backing you in any number of fundamental ways: access to obscure publications and/or colleagues whoâll sit down and talk to you about puzzling points or blocks in the road; a regular paycheck, healthcare that comes with it, and maybe even grants to enhance it all; time and space, if only through sabbaticals, and frequently, places set aside for undisturbed work and quiet, for you to find the information you need and then to sit down and pull it all together. The dread label âindependent scholarâ so often sneered out by the lucky few with secure appointments, or by grad students confident that theyâll be one of those lucky few in the future, brings with it the accusation of disqualification, a tag applied to an earnest and pitiable quack who still believes they have anything worthwhile to say to the big boys: a failure unable to recognize oneself as such. But the real tragedy of bearing that label isnât so much the disdain; once youâve come to recognize the overall toxicity of academia, along with the fact that you want to stay as far away from most of its practitioners as possible, being disparaged by this crowd often feels like an indication that youâre doing something right. The real problem is that lack of access to the resources mentioned above, and the lessened anxiety those resources allow, in terms of whether youâll be able to see your project to the end.
Itâs not that my local library is any great shakes; it wasnât meant to serve more than the general publicâs interest. But itâand really, the librarians who dive into their own research to track down what Iâm looking forâis a lifeline, one Iâm well aware is under more threat in my crumbling country than ever before. Iâve got a couple of very generous friends who underwrite books I have to buy when itâs impossible to check them outâbut I constantly fear, even with their assurances to the contrary, that Iâm taking advantage of rare and brilliant souls who not only want to lend a helping hand, but who want to talk to me about what Iâve found and made of it all. Because as I said above, one thing leads to another, and suddenly that one book requires five more to really get to the bottom of what it is youâre trying to do, and those five other books sure arenât cheap.
Of course, some version of this problem has always plagued artists and writers; if you were lucky enough to find a patron back in, say, the sixteenth century, you had to walk that fine line between really going for your own thing and not offending your benefactor in a way that meant the money, and maybe the ability even to safely show your face in that city-state, period, would come to an end. And Wallace Stevens and Franz Kafka and any number of greats somehow found time to support themselves, and often handsomely so, with demanding day jobs and still churn out magnificent stuff.2 In other words, I have no cause to complain, and really just need to buck up and do what I can. And hereâs the weird thing: yes, I do wish I had much more time, money, space, and many more connections available to me. But I do have the essential thing without which any of those other factors would be useless: a nutty, probably overly enthusiastic brain that canât stop drawing connections and falling in love with a strangely high percentage of ideas and creations and situations that come my way.
My problem used to be the fear that Iâd never be able to think up anything to write about. Now that all sorts of possibilities are banging around in my skull (and if all goes well, will mean Iâll have to take a bit of a break from weekly blogging in order to attend to them), Iâm sure even the tenured post I used to crave would probably bring up just as many sources of frustrationâteaching and committee responsibilities and departmental personalities and etc.âas my current state of precarity does.3
I donât want to wrap this up with a tidy little Hallmark bow and claim that voilĂ , itâs all for the best! The struggle makes us more authentic! If youâve stuck with me, Iâll just offer thanks for having accompanied me along this regular back-and-forth between despairing envy of the more well-heeled and acknowledgment of belonging to a long line of unknowns whoâve grappled, and will always continue to grapple, with the same sorts of issues and frustrations. At least we havenât just thrown up our collective hands and called a grand halt to the general attempt to contribute something to the world of thought or art or whatever. Letâs keep at it, the best that we can.
1. I canât make any claims about what âresearchâ in other fields entails. There are different requirements for how research is conductedâvia greater use of statistics, or different valuation of (different sorts of) interpretation, etc.â©
2. Thereâs also todayâs âcontent-creatingâ entrepreneurial crowdâwhich is great for them, if theyâre willing to remove most boundaries between themselves and the public, and constantly be on, tending to social media and their own vastly expanded bevy of patrons. But thatâs its own realm of disquiet that doesnât serve the long, slow projects I keep trying and hoping to complete.â©
3. Of course, even the onetime stability of a tenured position is now under threat, along with so much else.â©