By Ms. Mentor

Question (from "Bix"): I have some valuable equipment and rare books that I want to store in my office at my new job at "Ordinary U." I need them for my research and teaching, and I know that some of my colleagues use similar equipment, but I don't want them borrowing mine. Nor do I want them touching the rare books and getting dirt or sweat on them. So I asked to have a locked case in my office, and my new department chair said there's no such thing, and if I want one, I'll have to pay for installing it myself. Is that fair?

Question (from "Chris"): Big problems in my marriage have kept me from publishing, and have sometimes made me rude and snappy with my colleagues. When should I tell them exactly what's going on?

Answer: It's only very recently, Ms. Mentor notes, that oversharing has become a social problem in the United States. People used to be discreet about telling their troubles, and they hung on to their things—especially those who'd grown up during the Great Depression having to "make do" with little. Your grandparents may still be hoarding half-broken chairs and little bits of string because "we might need them sometime" (and well we might, in the current recession—but that is not Ms. Mentor's topic).

Rather, she would like people to share their wealth but not their woes. Have a banquet, but don't discuss your intestines.

The appearance of generosity is always welcome in academe and, indeed, it's what's meant by "collegial." Colleagues routinely share course syllabi (although a few do bristle at that, complaining to Ms. Mentor, and then forking over the syllabus anyway, lest they appear selfish). New teachers should be told about sources and resources, introduced to helpful librarians and technical staff, and clued in to short cuts and to rules that can be circumvented. Scientists in labs often tussle over lab space, but usually the one whose grant is bigger gets the bigger turf.

But what about Bix's valuable equipment? And his rare books?

Ms. Mentor assumes he can leave the books safely at home, or in a safe-deposit box. He can scan the texts and have them on a flash drive that he can keep with him always, or in photocopied sheets under his pillow or in his microwave. He can download, upload, text, tweet, and more without having them physically present, she presumes. He can hide them on the beaches or hide them in the trenches—but it looks very stingy, even divalike, to install a special locked case in one's campus office.

Locking up one's valuable equipment would seem to be a sensible precaution against thieves, bad weather, and varmints, but it sends a very bad message to one's new peers. It seems to be saying, "I've got mine" and "stay out of my neighborhood" and "I'm not really part of the scientific teamwork here. I'm making my own little kingdom and building my own moat. No trespassing."

But when departments hire new people, they want colleagues and collaborators. If you're a grumpy misanthrope, you may be tolerated as an eccentric—but Ms. Mentor urges you not to count on that. With money scarce everywhere, a sudden expense because "I don't like anyone touching my stuff" will not endear you to anyone. You're apt to be happier if you learn to share your toys—er, equipment. You can make rules and make a sign-up sheet, but don't hoard and hide.

Chris, meanwhile, doesn't want to be secretive at all. Chris wants to spill—to explain last semester's not saying hello, not having lunch, not paying attention, and not writing anything scholarly. Chris may think it's time to level with people and say, "Look, we've been having problems at home. Let me tell you the terrible stuff I did … and then my partner made me feel even lower than a cockroach, so I … whereupon my partner. … And that's why I felt like I was being chewed up, and I wanted to cry and yell and drink and flail and flunk people. Now you know."

Ms. Mentor thinks it unlikely that your colleagues will thank you for sharing.

Astute readers will note that Ms. Mentor has not indicated a gender for "Chris" (who, in fact, did not indicate one in correspondence). For either sex, Ms. Mentor suggests sharing one's grief and pain with trusted friends outside the university. Colleagues are usually willing to offer short-term sympathy ("Glad you're back from surgery" and "I'm sorry about your loss"). (Ms. Mentor recommends vague sympathy when someone has died. "Sorry your mom's dead" can cause a bereft adult child to burst into loud sobs in the middle of a classroom building.)

But Chris's situation is a long-drawn-out saga, as most dissolving marriages are, and only closest friends and counselors will have the patience and good will to hear it. That's what long-term friends are for, and that's why you have them.

Don't draft your colleagues into a new job description they haven't agreed to.

Instead, Ms. Mentor advises you to seek mentoring as a way out of your malaise. This is the time to ask to borrow the rare books or the valuable equipment. This is the time to ask for professional advice about publishing (there are few things more flattering than being asked for advice).

Finally, Ms. Mentor urges readers to ponder whether they would react differently to a male Chris or a female Chris who was in emotional deep waters. Would they say, "Buck up, ole boy" to the male Chris, and "There, there, you poor dear" to the female Chris? Would one get a hearty cuff on the back, and the other a wad of Kleenex? Are Ms. Mentor's readers, some a century or two younger than she, still enmeshed in stereotypes ("Men must work and women must weep")?

Or are we all, in some new and fascinating ways, androgynous or neutered problem-solvers who don't even notice gender?

Question: If you were a male advice giver, would you call yourself Dr. Mentor, or is "Ms." Mentor a singular way to highlight one's gender while also showing solidarity with the great numbers of academicians who hold M.F.A.'s or other nondoctoral titles and yet are superb teachers, creative geniuses, and credits to the human race?

Answer: Yes.

Sage Readers: Ms. Mentor does indeed welcome queries, rants, and gossipy correspondence of all sorts. Confidentiality is guaranteed, and identifying details are scrambled. The column is never about you or anyone you know.

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.