What Does It Mean to Be a Colleague?

Before he died, my colleague Jon Holmes appointed me departmental poet. Though I had written only one amateurish poem at the time, I was somehow worthy of the honor. During a secret hallway inauguration, I was ushered into the new position and entrusted with very serious, albeit fictional, responsibilities. Along with the new title came fanciful prizes and a large, imaginary hat. The only real thing about his nomination was how much it mattered to me.

What does it mean to be a colleague? I’ve been mildly obsessed with this question ever since it was uttered at our department’s memorial service for Jon. It wasn’t meant to be taken literally. The speaker was merely stating something nice about Jon, and yet her phrase persists in my mind as a philosophical dilemma pointed directly at me for resolving. Pondering the meaning of colleagues isn’t particularly interesting, and, no, I’m not (exactly) trying to address it here. What I am trying to figure out is why I feel so compelled to write about the topic and why it suddenly mattered once Jon was gone.

Who is a colleague? It can be difficult to distinguish colleagues from co-workers. Some argue that “co-worker” is anyone with whom you work, while “colleague” is reserved for those whose titles or ranks are similar to yours. Anyone higher or lower just wouldn’t count.

But some leave the hierarchies aside. Instead, they define a colleague as any collaborator with whom you share the same end goals. When people work together and have the same core interests at heart, it brings a togetherness that deserves a name.

Either way, “colleague” denotes your membership in a group. It means that you belong. It’s an exclusive term, though, because not every person belongs to every group. For this reason, being a colleague is a type of privilege. It’s a form of power, too. It’s a subtle power, not the kind stemming from hierarchical authority, but the kind rooted in collaboration. After all, there is power in being a trusted and respected member of a group. There is power in being a helpful and cooperative member of that group, too. Likewise, harboring knowledge that can benefit the group is immensely powerful—especially when shared with the group. Thus, if being a colleague is a special form of power, then my being one must mean that I am not powerless.

If the ever-so-philosophical Jon were here, I would ask whether my “colleagues have a special power” theory is a bit over-the-top. After all, most discussions on colleagues probably focus on what it means to be a good colleague. There’s no consensus on that. I’m sure the topic has caused disagreement. Even pain.

What does it mean to be a poet? I wouldn’t know, since I’m only a pretend poet and I only earned that title for having the nerve to write a poem during a department meeting one afternoon. Even bolder was my decision to share it. Crazier still, everyone loved it.

My debut poem happened quite by accident. A guest speaker had been invited to our department, and we all immediately noticed his habit of referring to poetry to elucidate his points. I’ll admit that his style felt a bit kumbaya to me and I just wasn’t feeling it. My colleagues didn’t seem to be feeling it, either. We had had lots of animated discussions before he arrived but then fell silent as his poetry filled the air.

Being quiet didn’t bother me. I was an untenured faculty member with a reticent nature. I somehow believed that the real privilege of speaking would be earned, well, later. Later, to me, meant after the status bump of tenure. I can’t explain why my former untenured self felt that way, but she did. In any event, something changed on that pivotal day. My colleagues were yearning to speak but were being forced instead to listen (and to poems!). Sensing their agony, I broke the silence by interrupting our guest and asking to share a poem. When he graciously offered me the floor, I used the opportunity to share some words. None were my own. The poem, in fact, had been composed by us all.

Being the deep listener that I am, I can’t help but burn into memory any words or phrases I find poignant. My colleagues are eloquent speakers—I’ve long admired that about them—so as they sat in silence on that poetic day, I felt compelled to jot down some of the more memorable expressions they had used in the past. Within a short time, I found myself with a list of phrases previously voiced by my colleagues, which, on the paper before me, resembled an evocative poem. So, I declared it a poem and read it aloud. In doing so, I managed to convey a deeply held sentiment, one that hadn’t been voiced by anyone in particular but was nonetheless shared by us all. When the speaker thanked me for sharing my poetry, I solemnly asserted that the poetry wasn’t mine. It was ours. That moment, I daresay, had some real kumbaya.

Looking back, it wasn’t the poem itself—its words, its subject—that earned me accolades. It was courage, of course. It always is. I was speaking to my colleagues in an unusual way, doing my best to contribute to a shared goal. Gestures like that don’t go unnoticed.

Of course, Jon noticed. He was the first to thank me and make a big deal about my poem. He asked about the poem’s title and requested a copy. He paid a lot of attention to my writing, which I deeply appreciated. He understood my intentions, my effort to help. In doing so, he made me feel valued; he made me feel seen.

I was ushered in as departmental poet the following day. Per Jon, my job was to use poetry for healing. Apparently, poetic phrases would spew from me like a fountain every time I spoke. Somehow, my words would form poems whenever my voice was uttered. Naturally, these poems would offer listeners exactly what they needed to resolve specific problems or reach desired goals. I can’t remember what else my poems were supposed to do —probably inspire hope and instill peace, too—but their magical powers had no limits. Nor did Jon’s imagination.

What does it mean to lose a colleague? Shared grief brings new meaning to being a colleague. One of us is missing and yet still belongs. Adapting to this new sense of us is a painful and confusing process. During that time, you learn more about the colleague you lost and the impact they had on the group—and on you.

Among the many things I’ve learned about Jon was how much my colleagues valued him. Like me, they saw him as gentle, witty, creative and kind. He was both profoundly deep and profoundly goofy. He was highly sensitive, too. When he sensed the group was hurting, he visited each person’s office to ensure that everyone felt heard. It was as though Jon could understand the struggles each person faced, even feel the pain they were feeling. He knew exactly what each person needed. Sometimes he gave out imaginary hats.

And then Jon departed. When we convened at our department’s memorial to remember him, these phrases—voiced by my colleagues—resonated most deeply for me: He was the first to reach out, the first to forgive. These words still sit in my mind like a ballad, a poem. They heal. They speak of how to be a colleague—of the kind no longer here.

The hallways are emptier without Jon, but I see glimpses of him still. Recently, a colleague complimented my writing in the very best way, dubbing me our department’s “secret writing assassin.” Like Jon, she made me feel like a superhero, inspiring me to plunge more boldly into everything I do. For a second after she said it, I almost expected Jon to pop out from his office and offer me a superhero’s cape, but then realized I didn’t need one.

I still have my imaginary hat. It came with fanciful prizes and a prominent title. It came from a special world that Jon created and left the indelible mark I tried to describe here. Bestowing him a public tribute was the least I could do. Yes, paying homage to Jon in an essay on colleagues was a bit unusual, but hey. That’s what poets do.