Neither Supermom nor Superprofessor

Hi, Miroslava, I’m your “childless academic peer.”

I read Professor Chávez-García’s article called “Superprofessor Meets Supermom,” and I could only think about how absolutely middling my own ambition and performance has been in comparison to hers.

I have to say that I was bothered by Professor Chávez-García’s rather smug — or at least it seemed that way to me — reference to her envy of her “childless academic peers”: “Unlike my childless academic peers, I do not have the luxury — and, yes, it is a luxury I covet — of spending all my time conducting research or simply thinking about the significance of my work.”

Do you think that just because people don’t have kids they don’t have lives?

Do you think that somehow not having a small child actually frees you having the burden of an emotional life?

This is in no way to detract from my colleague’s courageous and daunting ambitions. As a number of the responses to Professor Chávez-García’s article pointed out, many people feel comforted and inspired to know that there are others who wish for big families, big scholarly reputations; I have nothing but admiration for those who are willing to make their dreams public.

My dreams, however, at least these days, have a far more limited scope.

Mostly, I want to get through the day intact.

Not only have I never wished to hold any kind of administrative position in my department or university, but there are times when having an administrative position in my own office — or even kitchen — have seemed overwhelming.

There are days when I mismatch my socks and not on purpose.

There are days when I misspell the word “broccoli” on my shopping list.

I have two stepsons whom I did not raise from their infancy, but acquired only after they were housebroken, when they were in their early teens, and who are now at that absolutely adorable age when they have both finished law school, and have their own complex lives to worry about. Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha.

I don’t wish for a larger family. In fact, I spend a great deal of time ignoring some family members that I do have; my own beloved spouse would include himself, on occasion, in this category.

Let’s put it this way: This morning I resented having to feed my three cats and did so only because I knew: 1) If I didn’t feed them, they would sweep every random earring I have piled on my dresser onto the floor or under the bed (one cat will in fact carry earrings into the litter box); 2) They can’t open those little flip-top cans themselves.

Maybe it’s the difference between being in your forties and being in your fifties. I am willing to accept other people’s kids as my own by proxy.

I often crib the lines from Goodbye, Mr. Chips, when, on his deathbed, people bemoan the fact that he never had children, and he says, “Oh, yes, I did, and they were all boys.” I have a couple of hundred kids a year, and all of them are college students.

“The pressure to be superprofessor, as we all know, comes with the territory in academe. Every two years, one must present a decent record of scholarship, teaching, and service,” says Professor Chávez-García.

What’s the difference between being a “superprofessor” and a good professor?

After all, to be a faculty member at any university is an enormously privileged position.  Maybe you don’t get a cape. Or a parade. Or, for that matter, a raise.

Hell, it’s just really good to have a job.

I want to say that again.

Being a faculty member at a university or college or community college is an enormously privileged position.

It’s not something you get because you were good in school or because people thought you were clever; it’s not something you get because you’re outspoken or wisecracking; it’s not something you get because you’re diligent or devoted. It’s a position that you earn because you’re enormously exceptional.

There are a lot of people who are qualified for these jobs, and a lot of them will never get full-time university tenure-track teaching positions because they are occupied by people who consider every act of scholarship, every “mind-numbing meeting,” and every moment they “stand before a group of students,” a burden.