Erin's most recent post, on the gamble that is the leap off the cliff from graduate student to ... whatever ... comes ... after ... is compelling for several reasons. The awkwardness of the situation--of being neither here nor there, one of us or one of them, or the question of how to become member of a tribe as yet undetermined, the looming unknowns of money of travel of location, of permanence and impermanence or lock-in versus flexibility--stresses the body, the soul, the wallet. It hampers the vision of the future; it colours the present, usually in greyish tones. The gamble has high stakes; it plays out over years.
But I'm struck most forcefully by the bind that Erin articulates in the comments: how can she write honestly about any of this when she's still in between? How to be anything but positive, a good team player, before all the teams are chosen and you're still hoping to be picked? How to talk about teaching when your experience is thin enough that generalizations don't protect the innocent or the guilty? How to take yet more risks when standing on the knife-edge between in and out?
I don't know. She can't, I guess is the short answer. Nor can many of you, those of you who are contingent or temporary or contractually limited, or who are students, and thus have very little weight to throw around. Maybe Heather can't either: she's Vice Dean now and her words have, maybe, too much weight. Maybe she's bigger than herself, in the ways that those of us who lift up the institutional mantle to carry it forward necessarily become first person plural.
Who's left, then?
Me, probably. Tenured, but still young. Wising up to the way the institution and the profession works, without yet having been sucked up into actually making the machinery operate as an administrator. I've often heard of the particular and heavy burden that the mid-career (that is, tenured) associate professor faces: a ton of committee work, some administration, a lot of peer review and evaluation. But I think it's less a weight right now than a power. Can you even imagine? With tenure part of my responsibility is to promote those ideas I think are the absolute best ones, damn the torpedoes. And I'll still have a job if I do draw enemy fire. Academic freedom protects the process and products of my research from any kind of interference, but the model of collegial governance under which universities are organized extends this privileged capacity to speak--this responsibility--to more mundane and consequential questions of how the work we do gets done, and by whom, and under what conditions or circumstances.
I'm in the sweet spot. Tenured and in full possession of my academic freedom, without the weight of all the necessary balancing of interests that a chair or a dean or administrator might have to deal with. I already serve on committees where I get to advocate for graduate students, for our curriculum, for what kinds of computers the labs should get, for whom we should hire. The trick now is to expand my view, to try to take in the interests of all those members of my department, my institution, who can't express their needs with as full-throated a job-protected, academic-freedom granted volume as I can muster. And I can muster it, believe me, effective or not.
So. The job falls to the associates now: it's our job to call bullshit, our job to notice when the emperor has no clothes, or when those clothes have been created from skinned graduate students and sessional labourers (figuratively, of course). We've got the biggest, least fractured, best protected voices on campus, and we should use 'em. We must use 'em.
Are you an associate professor? How do you see your role in speaking up for those without your privileges or access? Not an associate professor? What gaps in my knowledge should I address to better serve the interests of all the members of the university?
I'm in the sweet spot. And I'm willing to be cranky on your behalf. Bring it.