And Then I Wished I Were Dead

Soon I'll get off this death thing, seriously.

This weekend has been all about those most eye-stab-inducing of academic scenarios--the seminar with guest lecturer. El Hijo was the assistant for this weekend project, which involved lots of fetching and setting up and copy making. It also involves being present for what passes as social functions for such things. The guy who came in was one of the biggest names in his research field, which is a real opportunity to get to schmooze with him. This business is all about contacts. I chose to keep my sanity and not attend the seminar, but as the spouse of El Hijo, it is the dignified thing for me to do to attend the social functions involved with this project.

The best time was probably driving him back to the Pitt airport. See, I know this sounds dumb, but in academia, we have the equivalent of "rock star" professors. This guy was one of them. So, it's like getting to take Mick Jagger to catch his flight. Even better is hearing the gossip about other rock star profs. It's like having Mick Jagger tell you that Ozzy Osbourne sleeps with a teddy bear. But just like this guy is the rock star, everybody else in attendance are the groupies.

The people who flew in from all over the country to go attend this little series of workshops came from a wide variety of backgrounds, but most of them all had one thing in common--they were completely self absorbed. It was the kind of event where people were more interested in spewing their own research activities all over the table rather than absorbing and sharing and coming away with something at the end of the whole thing. Or, if you like the rock star metaphor, sort of like standing at the edge of the stage and screaming "Me!! Me!!! Look at me!!!"

After discussing this with some of the "real" professionals in this field, I have come to the conclusion that this is especially the case with people in this particular field, which is American Indian studies. You can call it a variety of things, and they would spend most of the day probably arguing about just what to call it, but that's what it boils down to. Indian studies is something of a sacred cow. JP knows that first hand. It's one of those areas where people are willing to overlook, say, mass murder by one tribe by another, because they are just so enamored with "preserving" the culture of a particular tribe. It's so ridiculous that one white Jewish guy who'd recently discovered that he was Lakota fought vehemently with another dude over what that person's grandfather's "real" Indian name was. The guy was of Cherokee descent, and that tribe took on Western names much earlier than other tribes did because they came into contact with Europeans earlier. The Jewish Lakota guy who wanted to argue was convinced that the other guy's granddad should've been named "Young Deer" and the fact that his name was "John Smith" just did not fit with his desired view on American Indians.

At first, I only had to hear about these traumatic moments from El Hijo as he came home more and more exhausted by them. But I screwed up big time when he asked me to go to the "Feast" with him, which was their main social event. I sort of felt obligated. For one thing, it's part of the social function of academia--it looks weird if I don't show up. But also, the "Feast" was in the heart of Preston County, and if anybody got lost, I probably knew my way around better than anybody else. Or, I could call D/B and she could talk us through it. Turns out this "Feast" dovetails with one of the other deadly disciplines in any English department -- Appalachian studies. While not as sacred a cow as Indian studies, being in this area entitles you to flaunt your "back to the woodsiness" at people, require them to drink your "crystal clear" spring water, and shove various "native" foods down their throats. All this was represented at the "Feast." As I had feared, this was just a ploy by one of the proffies in the department to capture an audience to show off her cows, her spring house, and all manner of "customs" she claims to have grown up with.

Speaking as a real Appalachian, I mean, one whose family goes back so far they owned the whole holler at one point, I can tell you we don't A) not offer some kind of alcohol to guests, B) leave the dogs out so they don't annoy people C) force venison with local mushrooms down people's throats, D) spread a blanket full of gifts (mainly department books that we are still trying to give away) and insist it's a tradition that you can't leave until the blanket is empty or E) declare it's a tradition to bless the food--with some bizarre African chant, which included pouring out water Tupac style or F) force people to go see your "medicine wheel."

She might as well have just brought out a giant mirror and masturbated in front of it.

Most people seemed to know they were a captive audience. Hell, this was the English department--half of them didn't even eat meat. When she announced the table fare, I hissed at El Hijo: "Do not eat the mushrooms." Thinking my stomach was stronger than his (it usually is), I had 1 1/2 mushrooms, for which I paid in full this morning at the toilet. I was just glad there weren't only soup beans and cornbread to pick from. Most people were extremely uncomfortable--the bugs were eating them alive, and there was no clear agenda. Should we eat now? Later? What the hell was in the venison? Will a cow bite? It was pretty clear someone was just trying to show their street cred--or I guess their "mountain" cred.

I couldn't wait to leave. As one of the profs said to me as she leaned in, "This is like every family reunion I ever went to." Exactly. There were some of us who knew just how fake all this was, and for everyone who didn't, well, they were astoundingly uncomfortable. The Hostess seemed to delight in keeping them off balance. Some profs believe they had to use the outhouse, or it would offend the hostess. She had electricity in her outside john. There were probably copies of the New Yorker in it as well. The road to get to her house was so scraped up we drug the bottom of the car several times. It didn't do much for our mood. When I pulled out, I kicked up mud all over somebody else's car. Couldn't be helped.

Nothing is worse than somebody who desperately wants to prove their roots.

-- Virgil