The Guest Lecture Menace

I just realized that I was way ahead of the curve when Covid-19 struck and social distancing became a thing. Back when I was tenured and I finally got a corner office with two windows, the first thing I did was to bring a couch and a Mr. Coffee machine into my office. Sitting alone in my office with the door shut and locked was safer and infinitely more pleasant than sitting in an auditorium listening to another professor read his paper written in a language called educationese.

"We must disintermediate compelling paradigms through the collaborative process. It is incumbent upon us as educators to discern school-based methodologies through grammatological universalities and limitations..."

A third-year lecturer whose contract (unknown to her) would not be renewed next term leaned toward me and whispered in my ear.

“Paradigms through the collaborative process? What in hell  is he talking about?” she asked.

“He means that one kid does all of the work for the group while the rest check their Facebook accounts”.

“Thank you,” she said. “What about school-based methodologies through  grammatological universalities and limitations? What’s that?”

“It just means that we shouldn’t take Noam Chomsky’s ideas too seriously.”

“Oh. Okay.”

At the end of that lecture, the speaker asked if anyone had any questions, so I spoke up and asked the question that I thought was on every male professor’s mind.

“There are many girls in my classes who don’t wear brassieres during warm weather. It’s quite distracting. What do you suggest I do to disintermediate these compelling paradigms in class?” I asked.

When everyone settled down, someone changed the subject. As I listened to how we could explain holistic paradoxes in authentic, real-world scenarios, the department chair marched me out to the hall and told me that she didn’t want to see me at any more guest lectures.

“He was a guest lecturer? I wondered why I didn’t recognize him. He spoke kind of funny.”

“Didn’t you get the memo?” she asked.

“No. The IT department says that I can’t access my email because there’s a huge boulder and a piece of chewing gum  that blocks all of my incoming notices,” I said. I almost used the word correspondence, but I don’t want anyone to get the idea that I actually engage in such things.

“The memo was sent out as email and in paper form. Didn’t you check your mail box in the mail room?” she demanded.

“Actually, I don’t have a mail box. I never had one,” I replied. (It’s the truth. That was the first thing that I sabotaged when I began working at this armpit of academia).

“Well, I’ll fix that,” she said and stomped back into the lecture hall.

It has been nine years since then, and I still have no cubbyhole mail box. I quit checking my email, so I’m not sure if that problem has been fixed either.

A few hours after the lecture, the third-year lecturer caught me in the hall.

“You really cut through the bullshit, don’t you?” she said. “Thanks.”

“Hey, No problem. There’s just one thing you need to know in order to have a long, happy career as a university professor,” I said. “Remember: It’s all bullshit.”

She pursed her lips, and bobbed her head slowly and turned to teach her class down the hall.

I believe I provided an inspirational moment for her, an epiphany.

Maybe if I had spoken to her sooner, her contract might have been renewed. Who knows? Maybe she had already found her way to greener pastures and a bigger paycheck, smarter coworkers, and brighter students. Maybe she was waiting to say goom-bye before the department chair could break the news to her first. I'd check my email to see if there's a thank-you letter somewhere in there, but it might loosen that boulder and chewing gum and release a flood of unwanted notices.

Though students and colleagues complain about me, I  do help people around here.

Really.