Now, forty years later, I return to a completely different world. And I don't like everything about it, you can bet. One of the main things I don't like is the loss of the concept of the educated person. Most of my professors, who are at least one generation younger than I am, seem so unbelievably limited in what they know, in what they have read. I don't understand why that is. I hope I am not being ageist, but I do believe that my range of knowledge when I was their age was broader and deeper.
I love all the new things I am learning in Women's Studies and women and literature courses, but one of the things I love most of all is comparing those things with what I already know, adjusting my understanding of the true nature of reality, history, etc. But it is really weird to see that my co-students and most of my teachers don't have any basic other knowledge to add to this new material.
These are a bunch of observations, and I know they can easily be written off as manifestations of one or another sort of -ism, some social disease of the politically incorrect, but inherent in this set of observations are some questions. I know that in your wisdom you will discern the questions I am too chicken to ask outright.
What do you think, O Wise Ms. Mentor?
A: In other words, does Ms. Mentor think the current generation is dumber than yours? Well, probably. Certainly every older generation thinks so, and Ms. Mentor is as old as the hills.
Usually, though, each generation's knowledge is different. Your fellow students almost certainly know television and popular music (“media texts”) better than you do. They, and your teachers, may also be more skilled at speaking and writing the jargon of postmodernism (“indeterminacy,” “discourse,” “slippage”). You, like Ms. Mentor, may think much of that jargon is silly, pretentious, and senseless—but it is part of today's concept of what makes an educated person. (Ms. Mentor has more faith in Karl Marx's claim that any great idea can be expressed simply.)
Your underlying questions may be varieties of the bright young person's typical observation when starting a first full-time job: “I'm Surrounded By Idiots.” It is true, unfortunately, that many of the things you value, or at least know well, are no longer valued very much by anyone, including the self-satisfied white males who sanctified them in the first place. You can deplore that, but you can't do much to change it.
What you can do is steel yourself and embrace the “discourse.” Or you can regard it as an anthropologist might, as a quaint set of bizarre native customs. Simply from living longer, you know a great deal of history and psychology, both of which should encourage you to view everything with an analytical, if not jaundiced, eye. You may decide to learn what you like, and in the privacy of your own room, write satires about the rest.
Ms. Mentor has been doing that all her life.
Ungraded, Degraded, Misgraded?
Q: With the exception of one professor, all the professors I've had so far in graduate school return my papers with an A grade, but no comments. And they don't discuss the papers with students in office hours, either. Is this the kind of feedback that will prepare me to publish rather than perish? I'm worried.
A: Ms. Mentor will begin by commending you for your superb perceptions. You have psyched out what pays in academia.
At research universities, where graduate students are trained for whatever paltry positions might someday emerge, teaching is the daily work that is often unmentionable. Meeting classes is talked about, wryly, as the dues that faculty pay in order to pursue the really prestigious fun: publishing books and articles; poking holes in others' obscure or obtuse arguments; posturing at conferences or flaming opponents over the Internet; or pursuing administrative posts through which to protect or punish.
In research universities, teaching provides many psychic rewards (which few faculty will admit), but prestige and money come from writing. If your professors are particularly candid, or rude, they may claim to be modeling correct professional priorities for you: students are little swarmy things to be swatted away in the interests of Pursuing Knowledge and Power, which come through publishing.
Ms. Mentor hopes that once you are a professor yourself, you will not subscribe to the publishing-is-all-that-ever-matters creed. But to aid you in achieving that blessed state, Ms. Mentor suggests these ways to wring some feedback out of invisible or recalcitrant pedagogues:
• Use the graduate student grapevine to finger the most responsive professors. Often they are newer and younger and filled with zeal and grand ideas. (As Jill Ker Conway notes in True North, she was advised to take her Harvard classes from junior faculty. They hadn't already put all they'd ever know in their books; they weren't burned out.)
• If there is no grad student grapevine, create one: a graduate student organization, or brown bag lunches, or coffees. These are not just for gossip or mutual moaning (though those are valuable). Grapevines can spawn writing groups, support groups, and pals who'll help one another get jobs and opportunities.
• Create or join a writing group, with ground rules: How often should the group meet? What should each member be expected to bring or distribute beforehand? How precise should comments be? (Global? A paragraph at a time? Grammatical nitpicking?) If face-to-face writing groups aren't possible, try e-mail (writers' magazines have some suggestions).
• Read up on a subject, at least two journal articles, before tracking down a professor and asking polite, specific questions before writing each paper: “Can you suggest other useful sources on this subject?” or “Have I neglected something important?” or “Why does Koppelman say this?” Vague or whimpering queries—“How should I write this paper?” or “I don't know what you WANT!”—are hard to answer and wearisome, and drive less responsible faculty to evade office hours. (Sometimes such professors can be tracked down in bars near campus. Those are not the best venues for academic feedback.)
As for post-paper feedback, Ms. Mentor adds these tips:
• You may ask the professor: “Would you be willing to read an article I want to submit to a journal?” (It's even better to name a specific journal.) The article may be substantially the same as your class paper, but your strategy will free the professor from feeling hounded to justify a grade. (That, too, often drives professors out of the office and into the bars.) Asked to read a journal article, your professor will have been seduced into feeling that s/he is doing real professional work—and you'll get your comments.
• You may send your papers to journals that provide feedback—such as PMLA, Legacy, and Signs. You will, of course, have studied the journals beforehand: How detailed are the articles? What writing styles are favored? What documentation is used? Do the journals prefer wide syntheses or close readings? How intricate and how tactful (or tactless) are the arguments refuting previous researchers? What seem to be the political stances of journal writers and editors? Given the odds, your work is likely to be rejected, but you may get back detailed, informative critiques.
The critiques may also, sometimes, be scathing, but Ms. Mentor urges you to preserve your ego strength despite the slings and arrows of graduate school. Find people who love you for yourself and won't snipe at you about your GRE scores. Treasure nonacademic friends who ask real-life pointed questions that deserve good answers, such as
• “Why are you clubbing some old dead guy for his racism? He can't mend his ways now”—or
• “Why study a wife beater like Melville? Even Hawthorne wouldn't get it on with him”—or
• “So you're a sanitary engineer. Is our local water safe to drink?”—or
• “Why did that creepy Bettelheim hate mothers so much?”—or
• “So when will you find a cure for AIDS?”—or
• “Why do these smart professors write such long and windy sentences?”
Ms. Mentor exhorts you to flee from those who demand, “What are you going to do with your degree?” They're