By Ms. Mentor

Question (from "Melissa"): I'm a young, new faculty member, and I've been assigned a mentor who hates the world. "Dr. Spite" calls our department an anthology of dysfunctional scenarios. According to him, Dr. Sweet Lady is a "secret slut," Dr. Lamb is an unindicted would-be embezzler, and our department is a "snakepit of psychopaths."

Dr. Spite likes to haul me into his office or take me to lunch, during which he diagnoses the mental ills of our colleagues. Professor Peacock, according to my mentor, "suffers from narcissistic personality disorder. He can't bear the sound of anyone else's voice." Among the senior professors, according to Dr. Spite, are obsessive compulsives, passive aggressives, and Oedipal-fixators who want to knock off our department head ("Don Corleone") and leave a horse's head on his desk.

I've heard that Dr. Spite has had a hard life, and I know I should be understanding if he's sometimes bitter. But Dr. Spite is scaring me rather than mentoring me. What should I do?

Answer: First of all, do no harm to yourself. In short, be selfish. Ms. Mentor knows that some young Ph.D.'s want to learn from their elders without offending anyone. Often they sacrifice their own needs, thinking that their elders are superior in knowledge and infinitely sage in the ways of the world.

And then they meet someone like Dr. Spite, who strikes Ms. Mentor as more than a little bonkers.

Many academic departments do have formal mentoring programs. Experienced professors and neophytes are matched up, sometimes by gender, field, or proximity. Sometimes senior professors volunteer, or they're drafted for the job or wooed with small financial incentives. Sometimes the professor-newbie dyad is required to meet once monthly or weekly, often over lunch. Sometimes there are mentor-mentee events—like awkward school dances where everyone looks down and shuffles about. Even lunch is almost always a little artificial, a required conversation that can quickly turn into a monologue by the senior professor.

Those senior scholars who've taught large lecture courses for years may not be used to conversation, and some can't hear high female voices. Many men simply do not know that young female faculty members can be judged, tested, and bullied by their students. Many straight white people have no idea that their African-American, Latino, Asian, or openly gay colleagues can be routinely stereotyped and insulted. Some mentors, having forgotten their own trepidations, just pooh-pooh the anxieties of the young.

And so the wise mentee creates her own mentoring team, selecting colleagues who can answer her questions about classroom management, getting published, doing research, finding parking spots, and obtaining library cards, bookstore discounts, pet sitters, dentists, and child care. She chooses upbeat, energetic people who like their lives, their colleagues, and their town. She befriends department administrative associates (and doesn't call them "secretaries" if they hate that). She has lunch or coffee with everyone she can schedule, but she never announces, "I want you to be my new and special mentor! You're the one I must have!" That might make anyone twitch or flee.

But has Ms. Mentor forgotten about Dr. Spite, who's still spewing his venomous little stories to a captive audience?

Not at all, for he's a cornerstone of the mentoring team. Every department in the universe has at least one inhabitant wallowing in resentment for real or imagined slights. Sometimes department wits have a secret title for their malcontent: the rumormonger, the yenta, the griot. Often the title is said with some affection, because the Dr. Spites of this world can be entertaining. Students adore them. If literarily inclined, they can make the mundane world of academe into a death-defying epic, a Manichaean battle of good and evil. A dramatist named Paul once told the young Ms. Mentor, "The dean says we use too much paper, but he really wants to rip our throats out. I know he does. I can read the fire in his beady eyes."

Ms. Mentor used to hide in the bathroom, shaking with laughter—which she recommends to Melissa. Dr. Spite won't know what she's up to.

But shouldn't Melissa just storm into her boss's office and demand, "Give me another mentor! Dr. Spite is a major loon"?

Ms. Mentor says no. That would violate the rules of "departmentese," Kathryn Hume's term for the coded, bland language and behavior that academics use when they want to appear rational and "collegial." No hysterics, no scenes, and everyone has saved face without having to growl. Denouncing Dr. Spite would make Melissa look disrespectful, and she would make enemies even among those who agree that Dr. Spite is a major loon. He's been their loon for a long time, and they circle their protective nests around him.

Instead, Melissa should take his gossip as information of a sort. She can politely ask other members of her mentoring team about Spiteful scenarios. She can initiate discussion by making admiring comments (never diss your elders): "Dr. Sweet Lady and Dr. Lamb seem like such interesting people."

But she should not bother her head about why Dr. Spite is the way he is. That is a major pitfall for young people, especially women: devoting energy to explaining, and excusing, the bad or strange behavior of others. "He had an unhappy childhood" does not excuse his bullying others—nor does "he wasn't promoted when he thought he should be," or "she couldn't have children," or snarky in-laws, delinquent kids, foul neighbors, or rude dogs. Disabilities should be handled with compassion (but not patronizing: "You're so spry for your age."). But twisting yourself into knots to blame yourself, or trying to rescue others from their own choices at the expense of your own time and your own life—no, no, no.

And except perhaps as a parlor game among your closest, closest friends, resist the temptation to diagnose others ("Dr. Spite has an obvious personality disorder. It's called …"). It can be entertaining to find hebephrenia or chlorosis, but do not share the news.

Diagnosis is an art, like advice-giving. It should be left to the professionals.

Question: Will you be my mentor and buy me a nice lunch?

Answer: No.

Sage Readers: As always, Ms. Mentor welcomes queries, gossip, and rants, including additions to her collection of academic tales of heroism and pusillanimity. Ms. Mentor regrets that she can rarely answer letters personally. Confidentiality is guaranteed, and identifying details are scrambled. Your omelet will seem to be someone else's frittata.

© Emily Toth

Ms. Mentor, who never leaves her ivory tower, channels her mail via Emily Toth in the English department of Louisiana State University at Baton Rouge. She is the author of the recently published "Ms. Mentor's New and Ever More Impeccable Advice for Women and Men in Academia" (University of Pennsylvania Press). Her e-mail address is ms.mentor@chronicle.com.