Why are we still discussing conference child care arrangements?
In 2001, I attended the women’s caucus of the Association for Jewish Studies for the first time. The topic of the discussion was child care arrangements for conference attendees. At the AJS, it has remained the major topic of discussion every year since -- crowding out all the other issues that face women in academe. Women continue to experience a significant wage gap. Women negotiating for research funds, summer salary, class sizes and leave are often treated differently from men. Women on average take longer to reach tenure and to become full professors.
Combined, these issues mean that women have less capital within the higher education system and serve in less prestigious service roles, with lower salary bumps for doing so. All of this is assuming women can even get tenure-track jobs. Women make up a larger percentage of contingent faculty members, a rate that is increasing as tenure lines are cut and service courses need to be provided. These are major issues that face women within the profession. In 2001, I was a single and childless student; later, as a junior faculty member, I wanted to be mentored in a way that would allow me to navigate many of these pitfalls -- and yet child care remained the dominant conversation at the table.
And here we are, 14 years later, and I now have a baby, and no conference provisions for child care at the AJS. While a limited number of grants are available to help pay for up to 10 hours of child care (during a three-day conference) there is no provision of a child minder for me to pay. At most, this would allow me to fulfill my obligations at three sessions, including giving a paper, chairing a panel and introducing a cultural event -- that is, if I can find a caregiver. It does not enable me to attend the keynote, other papers in my section or any of the evening receptions.
At the Modern Language Association in January, I am scheduled to speak on the first day and the last day of the conference. This requires a four- or five-day trip, due to flight scheduling. After contacting the MLA in July I was informed that organized child care arrangements depend on the number of requests the conference receives. If there are not enough requests for the organization to arrange babysitting, then the hotel may be able to refer me to a company and some compensation will be provided -- though the details at present are unclear and no information would be available until September. (See MLA website.) In order to have my submission for a paper accepted, I had to register for the conference by March, long before there was clarity on the child care issue. This attitude toward child care is common across the profession.
At the recent American Political Science Association conference, which hires an external service provider to offer excellent child care provisions that cover the long hours of the five-day conference, these offerings come at a significant price -- one met by the parents. Those who thought that they could skip some of this cost by taking their child with them to the exhibition hall found they were denied admission. While the APSA provided activities in a dedicated location, at most conferences no such facilities are offered. For those sourcing private child care, where no other alternatives exist, a hotel bedroom is hardly a suitable location for a child to spend several days.
The APSA is actually an exception. It is rare for there to be organized child care, and more often faculty are directed to outside agencies, with no guarantee about the availability of caregivers, nor their quality. Similarly, organizations often provide a limited number of stipends that can help defray some of the expenses involved, but these grants are rarely more than partial and symbolic, and do not alleviate the additional burden of what for many is an unreimbursed trip.
The political scientist who wrote in to defend the APSA policy, saying, “I leave my kids at home with their other parent. I know others who leave kids with grandparents,” assumes an idealistic domestic situation -- one that does not reflect many people’s reality. Academics often live far from their families, may have older or deceased parents, may have spouses who work outside academia, if they have spouses at all, and lack the kind of support that allows many to leave children for extended periods. Rarely do academics in their childbearing years earn enough money to be able to afford full-time care, day and night, while traveling to conferences.
Because here is the rub: In what other profession are people expected and even required to travel for their work without full reimbursement for the cost of flights, accommodation, fees, transport and expensive banquet events? It is only a very lucky few who receive more than partial reimbursement from their institutions (and for many even that is unavailable) without adding the additional burden of child care costs to this trip. Yet conference attendance is a critical aspect of a professional career in academia and not only includes sharing scholarship and creating networking opportunities; it may include job interviews and is a vital part of a career profile in hiring, tenure and promotion decisions.
Child care is a systemic issue within the profession and one that needs to be addressed by the organizing committees at the planning stage. Like receptions, catering, events, awards and book fairs, child care needs to be offered on-site and cover the same long hours that the conference sessions and proceedings do. Child care needs to be affordable not just for tenured academics at wealthy and prestigious institutions but for graduate students, contingent and junior faculty. The questions should not be about the few who benefit from these services, or the risk that associations may lose money by providing these services -- instead we should view providing and subsidizing this resource as an opportunity to hear from scholars who would otherwise be unable to participate. The benefit to the many is the rich contribution that can be made by those who otherwise cut short their attendance, avoid service roles, miss sessions or entirely refrain from conference participation.
Organizations need to provide realistic options for academic parents, male and female, who are primary caregivers (including single parents) that allows participants to take advantage of the networking and mentoring opportunities that ultimately lead to more publications, strengthen research agendas, and acquire and develop skills for professional advancement -- that is, tackle all the other issues facing women in the profession.
It is disingenuous to ask why this topic remains a women’s problem, but it should not be the problem of women’s groups. Instead it is time that program committees and academic associations more broadly take responsibility. For many women to be able to attend conferences, child care facilities need to be provided -- so that this no longer needs to be the dominant topic of the conversation.
Rachel S. Harris is associate professor of Israeli literature and culture at the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign.
On Aug. 10, the City Council of Cambridge, Mass., passed, by unanimous vote, a resolution to which even the local media gave scant notice. But the document merits attention throughout the Republic of Letters, and quoting it at some length seems in order, since paraphrase would not do it justice:
“WHEREAS: George Scialabba is retiring on Aug. 31, 2015, from his job stationed in the basement of Harvard’s Center for Government and International Studies, having diligently fulfilled the room scheduling needs of overpaid professors for 35 years; and
“WHEREAS: Scialabba has published over the same period nearly 400 essays, reviews and commentaries concerning literature, science, politics and morality from the perspectives of the bemused, the nonprivileged and the unsmug; and
“WHEREAS: To that end, Scialabba has spent thousands of hours pacing his apartment on Washington Avenue, gnashing his teeth over the sorry spectacle of American politics and the fearful mayhem of American capitalism, while himself hanging on by his fingertips,
“NOW THEREFORE LET IT BE RESOLVED: That the City of Cambridge hereby proclaims Sept. 10, 2015 ‘George Scialabba Day’ to honor Scialabba for staring unflinchingly into the abyss and reporting what he has found there in sensitive, true and graceful prose …”
In 2006, this column did its part to further the appreciation of George Scialabba by giving notice of Divided Mind, a sampler of his work in the form of a chapbook, issued by a small literary press called Pressed Wafer. Divided Mind was modest both in size and prize run, but it whetted enough readers’ appetites for the publisher to bring out What Are Intellectuals Good For? in 2009. Two more collections have appeared since then; a fourth volume is on its way. (All available through online retailers or the press itself.)
To continue with the Cambridge City Council proclamation, picking up where the ellipsis left off:
“RESOLVED: That the City of Cambridge encourages those of its residents who still practice the habit of reading to place their collective tongues in their collective cheeks and to celebrate the achievements of George Scialabba on Sept. 10, 2015; and finally
“RESOLVED: That the city clerk is hereby requested to forward a suitably embossed copy of this resolution to the Committee to Preserve George Scialabba and Others Like Him (If Any).”
And so Noam Chomsky and Barbara Ehrenreich will be among the featured speakers tomorrow night at “Three Cheers for George Scialabba,” to be held at the Brattle Theatre in Cambridge. Tickets for the event were sold out as of Sunday. And that was before the Boston Globe’s prominently placed feature on the event. (Large blocks of tickets were purchased by well-read but ruthless scalpers, according to the rumor I just thought up.)
The Committee to Preserve George Scialabba consists, as far as I can tell, mainly of John Summers, editor of The Baffler, where Scialabba is a contributing editor. In an email note he describes the planned course of Thursday night’s festivities as a series of toasts by speakers -- running “anywhere from 10 to 15 minutes or so” each, followed by a hoisting of the glasses -- which will be interspersed with the screening of a video consisting of tributes by friends and readers who can’t attend. It will be made available online the next day.
“The toasts will branch out from [George’s] person,” Summers says, “into the larger, collective issues and situations of contemporary intellectual life. We will focus on the persistence of independent-minded writing and thinking outside the professions and institutions -- the sort of people who don't need to ask permission.” (Summers has been named by Scialabba as his literary executor and will presumably handle the Library of America edition of his essays.)
So much acclaim would swell the heads of most people. My impression from speaking with Scialabba by phone is that he is happy but embarrassed and will likely remain in that state for the duration. As a young man he was a member of Opus Dei -- a Roman Catholic organization primarily for laymen, known for its unyielding advocacy of theological tradition. And although studying intellectual history as a Harvard University undergraduate eventually cost him his religious faith (“the foundations had been crumbling all through my junior and senior years”), it seems that the years of quasi-monastic discipline mortified the ego right out of him.
The experience of leaving a closed but rigorous moral and intellectual worldview left him in a position that has been difficult and, at times, painful, but also rewarding, at least for his readers. It taught him “that ideas matter,” the historian Rick Perlstein writes in the preface to Scialabba’s next book. “That they are a matter of life and death …. He believes that achieving freedom, whatever the generals on CNN and the editorialists of The Wall Street Journal say, is neither a function of American arms or the sacred working out of the laws of supply and demand. It is caused by human beings exercising their reason, autonomously, from the ground up.”
The title of that forthcoming volume is Low, Dishonest Decades: Essays and Reviews, 1980-2015. The indicated span happens to coincide with the years Scialabba has been a clerical worker at Harvard, managing the building that houses the Center for International Affairs and a number of smaller research centers. Part of the legend that circulates among his admirers concerns a file cabinet in his basement office that was filled with all the writing he'd done when not busy scheduling room usage or checking on the progress of air-conditioning repairs.
It turns out that not only is the story true but that the files are still there. Clearing them out remains his last workplace-related chore. He says there are no unfinished books among them, or manuscripts for posthumous discovery -- and that with Low, Dishonest Decades, most of the work he’d want preserved will be between covers, apart from a few recent essays. I was disappointed to hear that, at least initially.
But now he has a good pension (“thanks to the Harvard Union of Clerical and Technical Workers,” he stresses) and more time. So let me end by repeating what I said in the video that will be shown on Thursday night: while the world is not exactly crying out for more memoirs, an exception can be made for the memoirs of someone who joined Opus Dei as a teenager and read his way out of it. The tributes to George Scialabba will soon be over; let his late-life flourishing begin!
It’s fall, and the academic year is about to start again, so it’s time for the annual bout of questioning and self-questioning that we teachers of the humanities engage in all the time, but especially now. What shall we teach our students and how shall we teach it? What texts shall we use? What questions will we ask? What will we hope our students gain from our classes?
I have been teaching humanities-based courses over the past 40 years, in high schools and universities, and I’m persuaded that right now the question it is most important to pose to our students (and also to ourselves) is the question of ideals. I ask (and hope that others will also ask) the students who take our classes where they stand on the question of the great ideals. This isn’t just an intellectually engaging question, though surely it is that. It is also a question about how the students, and their teacher, too, should lead their lives.
By posing the question of ideals, one will inevitably encounter some of the greatest writing we have: some of what Arnold called “the best that has been thought and said.” By reflecting on the ideals one can learn a great deal about the tactics of interpretation and the art of writing. But more than that, one can learn to know oneself and begin to think about how to live in the world.
The ancient world offers us three major ideals, which I call (using some shorthand) the ideals of courage, compassion and contemplation. Later in time, great artists have put forward the life of imagination as an ideal, though that ideal is less firmly established than the other three.
Where do you stand on the matter of ideals? To answer that question, you need to develop a sense of what ideals are. I turn to Homer and Virgil to understand the ideal of courage; to Plato to understand the contemplative ideal; and to Jesus, Buddha and Confucius to understand the ideal of compassion. I’m also open to the possibility that my students might want to reject ideals out of hand, or at least carefully modulate their engagement with the ideal (ideals are dangerous). So I expose them to a few writers who have affirmed a worldly but humane and decent way of life: I often use Freud, but George Orwell or Michel de Montaigne could do just as well.
So now we have our syllabus. What happens then? We’ll begin with the heroic ideal, the oldest in the world. We try to learn what exactly it means to be a hero, at least to Homer and Virgil. We reflect on Achilles, who fears nothing and wants to be the greatest warrior who ever lived. We think about the more humane Hector, who is the archetype of the citizen soldier, and who fights to defend his city. We consider Aeneas, the pious warrior who lives for his father, his son and his people -- and who, the story has it, leaves the ashes of the city that Hector has died defending and founds Rome.
We ask questions. Is Achilles really a hero, or is he simply a killing machine? Is Hector being a coward when he flees Achilles, running from him around the walls of Troy? Is Aeneas’s modesty really compatible with being a fierce warrior?
These questions involve careful reading and interpretation. The students write about who they think the heroes are and why they matter -- or do not. But I also ask the students if these heroic archetypes provide them with what the Harvard University philosopher William James called “living options.” How much do they want to emulate these heroes, if at all? What place does courage have in their daily lives and what part would they like it to have? What sort of courage would they want to emulate: that of Achilles, or of Hector, or of Aeneas -- or perhaps of some other figure they have encountered in literature or in life? Would any of them consider committing themselves to a life of martial valor, in which bravery and honor take a central place for them and become their ideal?
We interrogate the ideals. Teaching a liberal arts curriculum is about enquiry, not indoctrination. Is the heroic ideal too often based on vanity and the narcissistic belief that though others may perish we ourselves will never die? I want my students to think about Freud’s critique of honor and heroism, as well as the critique that’s implicit in Shakespeare, and particularly in the King Henry plays. “What is honor?” asks Falstaff -- and he answers himself (and maybe speaks for Shakespeare): honor is a mere word, nothing special. More recent critiques of male violence and male bonding from the feminist perspective also come into play here and allow the students, male and female, to think twice and twice again about the heroic ideal.
Skepticism about ideals -- yes, to be sure: that’s part of the course. But I want to do what James hoped his teaching would do: open up possibilities for life. I also want students to be exposed to the life of compassion through study of Jesus and the Buddha and Confucius and to the life of thought through Plato. I don’t want this to happen uncritically -- even Plato has his detractors, though to be sure all philosophy is a footnote to his work. Yet still, I want my students to be open to the possibility of being influenced by the great ideals -- in small and measured ways, yes. But also in larger ways, too: they should have the chance to consider organizing their lives around the pursuit of an ideal.
Though the earliest promulgators of the great ideals may be male, they are there to be engaged by men and women and people of all races and origins. (If there is a culture in the world that does not revere bravery and wisdom and courage, I have not come across it.) What is feminism, what is egalitarian thinking, if not a call for equal access to the fruits of the best that has been thought and said?
I think that the enquiry into ideals is of particular importance now. This is because students at present often seem to feel that they are facing two options in life. They can pursue what I call the life of the self: they can try to succeed and prosper and live a measured, humane life. Or they can reject this life as sterile and selfish. Most of my students don’t see any other possibility: they can conform, or they can quit. The life of pragmatic success and the pursuit of middle-class happiness seem all there is, and they can take it or they can leave it.
But there is another kind of life: the life devoted in large measure to the ideal. Those who have followed the ideal path have often lived hard lives and met harsh ends. Think of Socrates; think of the martyred saints; think of the aspiring heroes who have died young. But many men and women have also found that commitment to the ideal fills life with meaning and intensity and even sometimes with joy. Those men and women may be wrong. All the defenders of worldliness and practicality may be right. But students should be allowed to hear both sides of the debate and to decide for themselves.
This is not a chance conversation, says Socrates, but a dialogue about the way we ought to live our lives.