What if I Don't Know the Ropes?

Question (from "Cardozo"): Very cute column on blackboards. But you failed to ask the basic question: Where is it written that one must erase a blackboard before leaving a room? At least around here, there is no such obligation.

Answer: Ms. Mentor appreciates the compliment for her December morsel ("Why Won't He Erase the Blackboard?") -- a column that has evoked more shrieking and pontificating than anything she's written in years. Two discussion threads on The Chronicle's forums also took up the topic, one morphing into a war over PowerPoint versus chalk ("White Lung Disease").

Ms. Mentor should perhaps have anticipated that the question of who erases the blackboard would provoke lively reactions. After all, her sainted foremother Ann Landers once pooh-poohed those who obsess about the right way to install toilet paper rolls: should the paper come down from the top, or up from the bottom? She got thousands of letters about that.

Readers care most about the things that they can control, especially at the end of a semester -- and coming upon an unwashed blackboard, when one is about to inscribe deathless profundities, is enough to make a nun seethe. A non-erasing personage "must be an exhibitionist, leaving his droppings," declared one correspondent to Ms. Mentor. Another complained that even when the previous teacher did erase the board, it was never done to the successor's satisfaction: "So I always bring my own bucket and squeegee."

Others debated whether not erasing the board is worse than not flushing or not cleaning the lint trap, and several cited All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten by Robert Fulghum: "Clean up your own mess."

One clever scientist solved the problem by asking the non-eraser not to "leave ideas that have been discredited for 75 years on the board. It so confuses my students."

But Cardozo, more philosophical, inspires Ms. Mentor to broader questions: Where is it written that one must erase? Indeed, most of the rules for academicians are unwritten. Presumably we learn at home to share, to flush, to sauté the onions first, and to hurl the pasta against the wall to make sure it's done . . . but how do we learn the rules for successful, or at least peaceful, life in academe?

College campuses in the United States do have rules-that-are-not-rules, true urban legends. Students everywhere believe that if the teacher does not appear within 10 minutes of the official class starting time, they are free to leave -- although it may be 15 minutes if the teacher is a revered or grouchy full professor.

Among new faculty members, there's the myth that one cannot leave a department party until the most senior person has left -- and if you have a party-loving good old boy for a chair, you'd better engage an overnight babysitter.

Some campus traditions have died in recent years, such as public drinking contests, or the expectation that faculty women will "pour" at the fall tea. What to wear is a vexing question for newly hired people for whom the general rule is: Be fairly formal until you're established. But call all your colleagues by their first names, even if they're old enough to be your grandparents. If they are, they don't want to be reminded. And never praise anyone for being "spry."

But most of those are simply good manners, much like not chewing with your mouth open, not depositing used chewing gum on the furniture, and not indulging in criminal activity unless it's expected of you. (The French ex-convict author Jean Genet was famous for lifting the service at chic intellectual gatherings, and people would reputedly watch and coo delightedly: "Oh, look, Genet's stealing the silverware again.")

What else should academics help themselves to, or keep away from? And who will tell them?

Ms. Mentor may indeed be the only dedicated arbiter of academic etiquette, although much may be gleaned from savage academic novels by the likes of Alison Lurie, David Lodge, and James Hynes. One should not dive sexually after colleagues' spouses or anyone's students. Nor should one dance in a kilt, in class, without a proper American undergarment -- unlike one "Professor McShameless," who was recently reported to Ms. Mentor for sartorial correction.

As for other on-campus behavior: what is written is in the faculty handbook, which may hint at great feather-ruffling secrets or describe noble goals. Mission statements, for instance, all call for excellence, but Jesuit universities also mention justice and often encourage peace and social activism. Some mission statements sound like promises: Clemson University aims to hire outstanding faculty and "compensate them at nationally competitive levels." Marshall University pledges to "provide a safe and secure employee work environment" and "enhance the quality of health care in the region," while Drew University seeks "intellectually prepared students who want to learn."

All of those statements -- which Ms. Mentor found through a random Google search -- are clues to the rules, and the challenges, at those institutions.

Promotion and tenure policies, too, should be read with care and an alert imagination. If the policies are very detailed, they may have been redefined or smothered in jargon to protect the university from litigation. Where policies are vague and short ("excellent teaching, research, and service"), the unspoken factor ("collegiality," or whether they like you) may be the main criterion.

Ms. Mentor reminds all untenured newbies to keep their own tenure diaries at home, along with all job-related correspondence, including praise and criticism. They should notice which policies are followed and which are ignored; they should jot down any unseemly comments or predictions. "Wilfred," a worrier, once asked "Torvald the Tactless Senior Prof" about his tenure chances -- to which Torvald replied, "snowball in hell," and promptly forgot the incident. Wilfred wrote it down, though, in case he needed evidence that the deck was stacked against him. But he also worked twice as hard to publish, did get tenure, and -- with a show of suavity few people could pull off -- invited Torvald for a celebratory schnapps.

And so Ms. Mentor decrees that two unwritten rules are "Be gracious" and "Be thoughtful" -- to secretaries and maintenance people, as well as to students and colleagues. That means starting class on time, getting out of a classroom as soon as the session is over, not allowing students to leave food messes to fester, and smiling at everyone (it doesn't hurt, and they'll either like you or think you have a hidden agenda, which gives you the reputation for deep thought). It may also mean teaching students the rudiments of manners that some seem not to know: no cell phones, no interrupting or erupting, no racing out while discussion's continuing, and no whining or eating carrots during class. Amorous students should also be discouraged from sharing their love publicly in front of their classmates.

But finally, at the root of it all, is the heinous offense that started all of this: the professor who would not erase his own blackboards. Ms. Mentor hopes he has learned from having his faults dissected in public and diagnosed ("narcissistic"; "typically puerile psychologist -- they're worse than engineers"). She trusts that his colleagues will send him her column and that he will wince, mend his ways, and resolve to be a good fellow in 2006 and erase the blackboard already.

Ms. Mentor still has the rest of the world to wash and wipe.

Question: For my senior, high-school research paper, I need a description of the differences between the liberal arts and the sciences in colleges throughout the United States, especially missions, funding, teaching expectations, and campus climates. Get it to me by 2 p.m. Wednesday, OK?

Answer: Sure thing.

Sage Readers: Ms. Mentor plans to take on larger controversies in 2006, and invites queries, success stories, and teeth gnashings, especially about disability, religion, and homophobia. Anonymity is guaranteed, and identifying details will be scrambled. Ms. Mentor reminds readers that she rarely answers letters personally, but many problems have been solved with her perfect wisdom in her archive and in her tome, Ms. Mentor's Impeccable Advice for Women in Academia.

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. Her Chronicle address is ms.mentor@chronicle.com

Her views do not necessarily represent those of The Chronicle.

Ms. Mentor's Impeccable Advice for Women in Academia, by Emily Toth, can be ordered from the University of Pennsylvania Press by calling (800) 445-9880 or from either of the on-line booksellers below.