“I’m flexing my muscles. Come see me flex my muscles!”
The digital humanities (DH) is a proud discipline. Its members will be the first to tell you when they have done something impressive. Lately, that pride has started to wear on our non-digital colleagues who have quietly begun pushing back, by setting aside applications that look a little too digital, and rejecting high-profile journal submissions from digital scholars. I can’t prove it, but as an early-career scholar, I can feel it. They don’t like us.
But maybe it’s not them. Maybe it’s us.
For the past decade we’ve been living in the age of digital hubris, and we can therefore hardly blame people for getting sick of us. Did you hear about the size of Soandso’s newest grant? Or did you read the latest on Whatshisname’s research in The New York Times? Did you know more people read that popular DH student’s blog post yesterday than have ever read your book?
In April, one of the most successful DH projects of all time turned 11 years old. The Old Bailey Online (OBO) first appeared in 2003, and brought 127 million words of transcribed criminal trial records to the Internet. In the decade since its launch, 309 publications have cited the OBO, the project has helped thousands of genealogists piece together their family histories, and it has even inspired a television series. As far as academic projects go, few have as much to be proud of as the OBO.
So 11 years on, what do the project leaders regret? Their hubris.
Professor Tim Hitchcock, one of the principal investigators, wrote on his blog that his enthusiasm for the project’s potential had “simply raised the ire of a group of historians ... who felt their own expertise was somehow threatened.”
It’s not just their expertise that humanists see as being under threat. Traditional humanities monographs are becoming economically unfeasible. Nonetheless, the perceived slow death of the book hasn’t been enough for many scholars in the digital humanities. They want everyone to know their stance: good riddance! Why bother with a publisher and a two-year turnaround when the internet is free and immediate?
Research budgets everywhere are being slashed, yet there always seems to be a million here or a hundred thousand there to get the next big DH project off the ground. That means less money for traditional research. A few years ago a historian colleague of mine assured me that she “does her own research” and didn’t need to waste grant money hiring someone to do it for her. She was a real researcher -- or so implied the cold fury in her intonation.
Who cares what other people think, we might say. On their own these non-digital colleagues won’t be able to put a stop to the private funding, or national-level competitions targeted at DH projects, or the pressure from humanities departments to attract grant funding. However, while they continue to sit on hiring committees, adjudication panels, and act as peer reviewers, they do still hold a number of keys to the academic world. A dose of digital humility may be in our collective best interest, not least for the sake of those of us just starting our careers.
DH is inherently interdisciplinary. My “core” discipline is history. As a (recent) graduate student, that meant my scholarship and job applications typically went through panels of historians. When the application was for something digital or not explicitly disciplinary, I (with all humility) did quite well. But if I had to convince a group of anonymous historians that my work was worthy, I seemed destined for the “no” pile.
Times are tough. I can accept that there are other great candidates out there who may have been better for the job, or more worthy of the scholarship. But it’s not just me. Most of my colleagues in Britain were self-funded during their Ph.D.s, or supported their studies as part-time developers and project managers. I know of none with the golden-ticket scholarships that have long been a measure of the top students in the humanities. I’m grateful I can support myself in other ways. But it’s difficult to ignore the feeling that young scholars are being kept on the other side of the gates by an establishment that’s decided those DH people get enough already.
I’ve seen it in traditional publishing venues as well. One of the most influential digital history articles ever written has been repeatedly rejected by traditional historical journals and is still without a home. This is despite the fact that I’m quite confident that if you are a DH scholar you would recognize the visualization that formed the basis of the article.
Some scholars are getting cunning in an effort to sidestep this digital backlash. A colleague of mine working at the corner of DH and history obfuscated his digital connections in an effort to get hired by a history department. It worked. I followed suit and immediately found my prospects improved when applying for funding.
Is it a conspiracy? No. DHers have many allies in the halls of power. But we all have room for more friends, and the wave of early-career scholars in the field can ill-afford to have people on their selection committees and peer review panels viewing them as a threat, or as arrogant, just because of their field of study.
We can dig in for another decade of covert gatekeeping, or we can move into a new phase of digital humility and mend the divide that has grown between us. I’m sure everyone would agree that DH’s proper place is alongside traditional humanists, supplementing rather than eradicating their techniques with new ways of looking at old problems. Non-digital scholars add depth to our breadth, and focus to our vision.
So I’d like to encourage DH to join me in a decade of digital humility, in which we remind our colleagues that we’re all here because we love the humanities. We appreciate their work, even if we don’t always say so. And we’d like to be on the same team.
That doesn’t mean we need to stop flexing our muscles. We’ve worked hard on them. But, when we are flexing, maybe we can let people notice on their own.
Adam Crymble is a lecturer in digital history at the University of Hertfordshire, in the United Kingdom.
Nine years ago I wrote a column for Inside Higher Ed entitled “The Professor as Personal Trainer.”Back then I was A.B.D., adjuncting, and had basically never exercised in my life. Today, I’m a middle-aged, tenured professor and I’ve hired a personal trainer to try to get in shape. Now that I actually am a professor, and really do work with a personal trainer, how does my original piece hold up?
I still stand by a lot of what I said in the original piece: Education is not a commodity that can be bought and sold, but is a process of personal transformation. Student learning is the student’s responsibility, not the teacher’s. It requires commitment outside the classroom, not just in it. And, I maintained then (as now), the best "job skills" we can give our students are the generalized capacities cultivated by a liberal arts education.
But I’ve also learned a lot. Some of it I learned working with my trainer, and some of it has come to me as I grew into my profession. For instance, I’ve come to value concision in writing, and I cringe now when I look at how deep I buried the lead in my original article.
In some ways, however, my views have shifted. In 2005 I argued that students didn’t know what they wanted when they sought to be educated. I’m not quite sure I agree with this today. Today I think my students and I do have a concrete idea of what and when we seek to become “educated” or “fit.” What we lack is not a sense of the what, but the how: the means by which to improve.
Getting fit has been transformative for me. Sure, I’ve learned to keep my weight on my heels when I hit the squat rack. But it’s also taught me how to think about nutrition, movement, posture and my daily routine. Learning to exercise involved major culture shock -- and I say this as an anthropologist whose work has sent him to the highlands of Papua New Guinea. It started before I even set foot in the gym. Just buying the right kind of workout shoes involved immersing myself in a kind of masculine culture that’s always been alien to me.
This experience has helped me realize what it is like for my students – particularly those who didn’t grow up in the white middle class, which is most of them -- to enter college. I’ve gotten so used to doing university work that I’ve forgotten how strange and disheartening it can be. Hopefully, this experience will help keep me empathetic.
So getting fit has meant testing unknown waters. But it’s also reaffirmed a lot of what I’ve already known. The culture of fitness has a huge pop-psychological component focused on commitment, motivation, inspiration as well as a slightly more kinky side focused on fighting through the pain, conquering, enduring, and so forth. In the past, I couldn’t tell the difference between websites about losing weight and Onion articles lampooning websites about losing weight. But after a little committing, enduring, persevering myself I have come to see that the idioms of fitness are just another way of discussing familiar academic virtues.
My students often ask me how I can live my life reading boring, poorly written books. I’ve never been sure how to answer since, let’s be honest, a tremendous amount of academic work is boring and poorly written. Now I have an answer! You have to push though the pain and persevere, never relent and keep fighting, if you want to get mentally strong. Never give up. Never surrender. Previously, I thought this was a cliché from Galaxy Quest. Now I know it’s about Deleuze. Working out has helped me understand my intellectual regimen in a new way.
I’ve learned a lot from my trainer about teaching, and from the other guys in my workout group about learning. When I say I have a “personal” trainer, that’s not quite right. I actually work out in a small group with three other guys, since an actual personal trainer is ridiculously expensive. Working out with people who are further along than me gives me a strong sense of what I’m supposed to look as I progress -- and it also helps confirm that the current amount I’m benching is, in fact, peanuts. I suppose they put things into perspective for me.
My trainer has also been great. Although professors are right to rail against the retailification of teaching, we might actually learn something from someone who actually gets paid by their students to help them improve! In our rush to defend our prerogatives we may accidentally dismiss the value of being supportive and considerate (even indulgent) of our student’s needs. And of course, it's just valuable to watch another teacher at work -- something that rarely happens in the academy.
I’m still beginning the process of becoming a healthier person. Like, really really beginning. But my experience with my trainer has confirmed for me what I originally learned dabbling in the performing arts: Although Seneca excluded wrestling and other “knowledge that is compounded of oil and mud” from the liberal arts, any attempt to educate the whole person should recognize that that person is, importantly, a body.
More then that: I think my liberals arts education has taught me to imagine my trainer as a professor, to imagine me as a student, to take lessons learned from dancing and transfer them to lifting weights, and to find the familiar in the strange. Would I be able to bring this capacity to my workouts if I hadn’t gotten a broad, general education? I hope so, but frankly I don’t think so. But then again, maybe it’s something I could learn from my trainer. After all, he went to a liberal arts college himself.
The prominence of Marxist thinkers in many academic fields ensures that graduate students study commodification; the prevalence of self-serving pedagogical practices ensures that those students too often become commodities themselves. You’ve read the book, now act, or be acted on, in the movie.
Competition for graduate students, some of it inevitable, occurs frequently within and among graduate programs. They may vie with each other to attract the most desirable candidates for admission. (Justifications of the decision at Johns Hopkins University to increase graduate stipends tellingly conflate the laudable motives of helping students to avoid debt and the dubious one of encouraging them to select this program even if other institutions might offer a livable though somewhat smaller stipend and a program that is more appropriate to the applicant in other ways.) And decisions by administrators to downsize doctoral programs may lead to competition for warm bodies to fill a seminar that might otherwise be canceled.
Most troubling, however, are the techniques some professors use to encourage students to choose themselves as dissertation director. These issues assume different form in disciplines, notably the sciences, where graduate students often join a team addressing the adviser’s own project. Hence this essay concentrates instead on areas where students’ projects do not involve actual participation in the adviser’s research — and on institutions where the regrettable behavior in question flourishes. Its absence or delimitations elsewhere (including Fordham University, where I now teach) demonstrates that many issues are not only field- but also institution-specific.
A professor’s motives for attracting — when does it become luring? — potential dissertators, like the practices deployed to do so, occupy a spectrum: the unexceptional, the ambiguous, the dubious, and too often the downright egregious and pernicious.
At one pole, being a good teacher typically involves delight in sharing interests and enthusiasms; one may also wish to support new or, alternatively, neglected trends in the field. All those understandable, even desirable, reactions may lead us to encouraging students to choose a topic for which we would be the obvious director. Some faculty members may believe they are in a better position to help a given student intellectually and professionally, though that realization can be compromised by more self-serving motivations.
Similarly, attributing to certain colleagues prejudices and stereotypes — racial, misogynistic homophobic, and so on — that would render them bad choices for a given student, a faculty member may attempt to steer that dissertator away from such people. The intentions may on occasion be largely or entirely honorable and the anticipated outcome preferable — but even in such instances one always has to be sure that a desire to supervise the thesis oneself is not being rationalized and that the information about the putative prejudices is grounded in solid evidence, not the gossip that jealousy and resentments often breed.
Departments that base course reductions or other perks on the number of dissertations supervised thus encourage competition for dissertators. Faculty members who discover — or fear — that they are supervising fewer theses because other people are dubiously attracting dissertators may feel that justifies similar behavior, thus turning regrettable behavior into a snowball, or an already-stormy departmental climate into a thunderstorm or blizzard.
Sadly, the most common motivation for pressuring students to choose oneself as director may be ego and the attendant rivalries with other faculty members. Indeed, as noted below, sometimes longstanding animosities and more generalized competition between Professors X and Y, not necessarily the desire to supervise the dissertation in question, may impel X to discourage students from working with Y.
But more to the point, faculty members too often judge themselves and others by the number of theses being supervised. The widespread practice of listing on vitae not only the dissertations we have directed but also the current professional position of the student indicates the significance of such status systems. Even more troubling: the desire to replicate oneself, so risky in more literal parenting, sometimes encourages people not only to corral dissertators but also to try to encourage undue imitation of one’s own work. In short, the line between enthusiastic and disinterested engagement with a student and pernicious pressure is an important — and sometimes blurred — boundary.
Some war stories culled from reliable sources around the country abound (repeated here with a few minor details altered):
Graduate students in one department soon learned via the grapevine that Professor A would consent to work on dissertations only if selected as director or co-director — and only if Professor B was not on the committee.
Elsewhere a faculty member heard reliably that another department member was telling students that if they chose her as director they were very likely to get a job but very unlikely if they chose my informant. Any scholar who knows this person’s field and her sterling reputation within it would realize the advice was not worth the venom it was written on.
Too many students continue to report being instructed in virtually so many words by a potential director that she or he, not a colleague with similar credentials, is the only appropriate director. This pressure intensifies if the person applying the pressure is someone with a major reputation or someone in a respected administrative position in the department.
Debating between working with Professor X on one topic or Professor Y on a topic for which he would be the more logical supervisor, the student is firmly instructed by Y not to mention in any way to X that he is considering an alternative topic and director. Does Y fear that that knowledge would propel X into pressuring the student? Or does Y see the situation not as a collegial collaboration where he and X are working with the student to identify his best interests but rather as a rivalry where the stealthy bird will get the worm? (And at their worst scenarios like this do indeed treat students like worms, though ones that are attractive fodder for the more predatory birds.) Or are both explanations true, proving that we attribute to others our own behavior and values in such situations?
One faculty member was puzzled about why, after being asked to serve on committees and sometimes direct for several years, these requests abruptly dried up. He learned that a colleague senior to him had recently started offering informal evening workshops, both on campus and at his house, for people approaching the point of choosing a director. Given that this person had a reputation for dropping students who didn’t follow his advice, my informant could not help but suspect that these sessions were designed to attract students their organizer wanted to work with. And others might wonder whether or not a senior colleague, aware that someone junior to him was increasingly attracting students, perhaps felt a need to define and protect what he saw as his territory.
Pressuring students to choose oneself as a director is dangerous in several ways. The student may select an adviser who is not ideal in terms of interests and pedagogical practices. To ensure the desired outcome, faculty members may urge those students to choose a director early, before they know their own interests and the options well enough to make an informed decision. These types of behavior build tension among colleagues and, as noted above, may snowball.
Moreover, the faculty members who pressure students to select themselves as director often also pressure them to become intellectual clones. As one distinguished professor observed to me, “If students try throughout graduate school to become better versions of themselves, they may well succeed; if they try to become versions of someone else, they are likely to turn into second-rate imitations.”
Other fallout from the practice of competing for dissertators too often includes what insurance companies often describe as cherry-picking: seeking the most desirable clients or dissertators while hoping to avoid the others. The attitudes that lead certain faculty members unabashedly to compete for the top students often make them uninterested in working with the people whom they perceive as less promising — hence more time-consuming for the director and less likely to yield reflected glory. This too can compromise collegiality: faculty members who are willing to work with such students may resentfully note the fact that their colleagues never will assume what is often a more burdensome responsibility. And mightn’t being rejected by a potential adviser, especially one known to encourage other students to work with her or him, create insecurities in the students not sought after, thus compromising productivity and turning the perception that these students are less promising into a self-fulfilling prophecy?
The most perilous consequence of pressuring students in these ways is also the most subterranean: faculty members who do so are modeling regrettable behavior for their students — instructing them not only in how to write a thesis but also how to compete with colleagues and manipulate students.
How can we limit the deleterious effects of aggressively hunting for potential dissertators? Perhaps the most promising potential solutions are also the hardest to effect. Competition is inevitable in our profession, like so many others, and not always destructive. But some of the attitudes that encourage pernicious rivalries might be modulated, although of course a comprehensive discussion of these broad issues demands a different conversation. For example, as I have argued elsewhere, the huge salary inequities resulting from matching outside offers can encourage rivalries and resentment. One professor aptly responded to my queries about avoiding competition for dissertators with, “Morale is all.”
Moreover, celebrating both undergraduate and graduate teaching may discourage some from putting all the fragile eggs of their fragile egos in the latter basket; such celebration can occur when the most respected professors volunteer to teach elementary classes and when hiring committees make a good faith effort at the difficult task of determining whether a candidate would perform both pedagogical roles well. Graduate seminars can not only teach critical approaches but also model attitudes critical in more senses than one; for example, classes in which students edit each other’s papers can, if that system is carefully structured, encourage cooperation and respect.
Other possibilities for limiting competition for dissertators involve responsible mentoring and thoughtful institutional practices. Faculty members can counterbalance pressure students may receive from other quarters by encouraging them to delay choosing a director until they are further along in the program and, in particular, have worked with more people and by stressing that the decision about a director needs to be made by the student himself, not anyone else.
Some graduate programs have also adopted structural solutions to destructive competition for graduate students. Co-directing arrangements can be successful. The transformation of the position of director and second reader into a committee structure is working well at certain Ph.D.-granting institutions, of which Harvard University is one of many examples.
Graduate students at some universities now have the option of either retaining the traditional first reader (director) / second reader model or setting up a three-person committee. One member of those committees is designated the nominal director for administrative purposes; in many instances the triumvirate does assume equal responsibilities, though in some the nominal director proves to have a significantly larger role. But even when one person in practice becomes the main supervisor, the committee structure may well encourage the student to consider a number of professional models, avoiding the risks of cloning. And such procedures reduce the possibility of one a faculty member without warning calling for a major overhaul very late in the game. This system is not without its own risks— for instance, one observer at another institution reports situations where one member is happy to get the credit for supervising the thesis while passing the lion’s share of the hard work onto other committee members. But the committee structure is proving a fruitful option in many instances.
In contrast, the fruit of the poisoned trees of coercion, which thrive in all too many academic orchards gardens, is the knowledge of commodified goods and professional evils.
Heather Dubrow is the John D. Boyd SJ Chair in the Poetic Imagination at Fordham University and taught previously at several other institutions. Among her publications are six single-authored monographs, a co-edited collection of essays, an edition of As You Like It, and a volume of her own poetry.