sometimes you just ask

When a magazine asked four top-level women executives about strategies for obtaining a raise, the advice was uniform: ask for it. A tough broad who is also a professor in New England makes the same claim and suggests that this tactic is how she reached the place she is right now. Advice books (e.g., Lean In) might seem common-sensical except that the suggestions often work. Maybe it's not knowing what to do but rather realizing that you can or should do it. Instead of thinking I could keep warm by huddling around my smoldering resentment, I met with my supervisor. I told him all the things I was doing and explained that I felt there should be financial recognition for my skills, exertions and conscientiousness. The result was a couple extra thousand in my annual pay. Equally valuable was the reminder that making desires explicit may be all that is required to realize a goal.

It puzzles me that such reminders are even necessary. After all these years, I feel I have had as much success for making the ask as anybody else. The poet Taylor Mali came to my conference and had his time paid for by my dean – because I asked. The faltering professional association that wanted assurances that their conference I was hosting would generate desired registration dollars – I asked for and received the legendary lobster costume. Admittedly, not all of my asks turn out as I intended. But even that can work out okay. Friday night I bumped into one of the 5 young women who decided to go to Cape Town a few years ago even though my dean and his henchman made it impossible for me to chaperone their trip. In this case, the failed ask resulted in a great story, one that I gleefully and tearfully recounted to my innocent companions.

This all changes when the asking involves someone new and unfamiliar. For example, if I was interviewing for a job and had to make the ask for a particular salary, it's not so easy predicting how that might go. We had a fine candidate last spring who made her ask too early in the day and pretty much tanked as a result. Also, there are situations where the ask is all or nothing. If I receive a "no" (or worse yet NO reply) then there is no recourse. If that's an important ask, then the fear of "no" can almost overwhelm the prospects of even repairing the ask. But then again, regrets are by-products of never taking chances. Happily, a recent ask elicited this warm response:

It is fascinating to me how roads intersect and how small of a world it is. Your conference sounds fascinating, and I'm looking forward to exploring the website. I would be happy to share any of my experiences that would be considered helpful.

Maybe there would be another way to have broached this without surreptitiously buying crafts via Etsy as a prelude. Frankly, the images of goofy yellow bag-heads on the opposite coast made for a very satisfying story. As a result, deciding to make the ask felt less risky. Had I been turned down, this would have become a tale about oafishness proving to be my undoing. THAT moral will have to wait for another day. Now we just have to negotiate a decent venue at the right time and the rest will fall into place. Don't believe me? Just ask.

travel revelations

Having spent nearly ten days away from home visiting foreign lands, it is reasonable to expect some discoveries. Alas, what I learned from this trip was mundane and unoriginal. This “discovery” is widely known and many can attest to its accuracy – probably with a derisive “duh.” Nobody would buy a travel guide with such a dull theme; no travel program on the television would sustain a viewer with such a simplistic notion.

Here is the “epiphany” that revealed itself upon my return from Cyprus: Travel is best done with good companions. As a case in point, this picture shows the first 10% of the food that filled our tables one evening. There was no menu. We had a choice of beverages. But once we were settled in, there was a continuous parade of delights. It began with a sprinkling of rosewater to wash our hands and to welcome us to the table. Then it came — a cavalcade of kebabs, salads, meats, and even a serving of snails. There were many efforts to quell the flood but our pleas barely slowed the onslaught. Perhaps the last few dishes of treats came a little more slowly to the table. Or maybe the blood rushing to our digestive systems created a sense of time dilation. NONE of this would have been pleasant had it not been for the NINE wonderful folks at the table: Aussies, Koreans, Canadians, South Africans, grandparents and single folks. Otherwise, it would have just been food. Instead, it was a memorable event. Companions!

Cyprus was not an especially photogenic place. Instead, it's a place where people live. Lots of coffee shoppes with excellent brews. But coffee is consumed everywhere and typically in the company of others. Even at the taxi stands, men sit on crates and share tiny cups of caffeine and conversation. The fancy coffee joint near our suburban hotel was also a place where people hung out, for no other reason than to enjoy the company of others. 

There was lots of history there that caught me off guard. For example, the picture to the right shows our approach to the church built on top of the tomb of Lazarus. Yes, that guy. Almost every written reference we found indicated that this is where he was buried for the "second and final time." Not far away, we found a mosque that one of us wanted to actually go into. Two others in our party wandered away, but Lara boldly asked the man washing plates in a fountain about gaining access. He retrieved a key, led us up the steps and before I knew it I was barefoot and standing inside the old building. We didn't spend very long, but long enough for the guy to give my companion an English/Arabic version of the Koran. It was thick and heavily embossed. He said that in his free time he had occasionally read the bible and that's what he wanted her to do -- just to learn about the religion. Some might suggest that the three of us were companions between one life and the next. My preference is to be satisfied that I was tagging along with someone unassuming and innocent enough to ask a simple question about access.

Through a series of loose yet trusting connections, a local family had arranged to pick us up a short distance from the mosque. They delivered us to a coastal restaurant. No, that's not a good description. This was a seafood cafe operated by family friends. In this picture you see my 3 companions striding across the patio. At the opposite end of the platform is the Mediterranean. Wooden steps descend through the break in the railing into the sea. Our friend's father regularly swims there and then climbs out for an ouzo and fresh fish. A Cypriot family of three, my three companions and me. Plates of four or five kinds of ocean beasts (octopus, squid, bony fish) and a couple of large shared bottles of the local beer, Keo. We talked about all kinds of things until the preschooler began nodding off. It had grown dark but we could have lingered for hours. Not for the food, not for the sound of the waves, not for more drink: to relish the time we had together. A great life lesson, revealed and re-learned.

snooze

out of phase

Sunday night and there was no home-cooked dinner forthcoming. Instead, we jumped in the Mini Cooper and headed to a nearby picnic table drive-in burger joint — with killer chocolate malts. Typically, it’s crowed with motorcycles transporting large women tough enough to make me quake but also enchant me. But that evening, it was threatening to rain. We walked right to the window and placed our orders. Without much delay, they called “Sue” and I received the quizzical look I also get when I claim to be the intended customer. As is often the case, we were ahead of the trend. Not long after we started munching, a considerable line had formed. In Europe this happens because our bodies long for an evening meal several hours before the sun sets. But in general, we seem to have our stomachs calibrated to signal the need to seek nutrition before the rest of America lumbers up to the counter.

That’s how things have been lately. For example, my 11 aspiring STEM teachers are approaching peak anxiety levels. I felt they’d been overly mellow and happy during their summer courses. Meanwhile, I was worried they were entirely unconcerned about the immensity of the challenges they were going to face. But at the last class meeting, I was ready to let them go because I was convinced we had nothing more to teach them. They had tried stuff out in the real world. A former advisee came that last day to share advice and I thought it was a delightful way to show them it was possible to survive and prevail. Looking around the room, most of their tanned faces had become ashen. I’m ready to buy rounds of drinks for my lovely instructors but we can barely pry the student teachers out of their chairs, down the steps, and out into the gritty world. Tomorrow evening I’ll see them after they have spent a few days in school. I am eager to be in their delightful company. Truthfully I anticipate they’ll be trembling with a school-onset version of PTSD: nails and hair chewed to a frayed condition, eyes wide and twitchy. Me: I’m proud as an uncle who after teaching my siblings' kids to make fart noises from their armpits. I am up and my students will probably be down.

For several months, I am experienced this odd sensation that my emotions are completely unsynchronized with the rest of the world. Here’s an example: my new post-doc is eagerly hiring “minions” to help collect qualitative data in schools next month. AND she wrote the IRB application plus is coordinating the protocols with other members of the project. Similarly, even though our participation rates on our survey were less than half of what I wanted, we STILL hit some important milestones in terms of statistical significance and adequate effect sizes. All of this is frosting on top of the delicious cake that is my preservice STEM program. When I hear about others who aren’t have the same time of their lives as me, I worry and wonder whether there might be something to the notion of karma. My brother’s depressed because his “baby” graduated from college, a former doc student just buried his father-in-law, a local outdoors buddy just told me his wife* is leaving him, and someone I remotely know just spent two weeks sleeping on a hospital bench next to her daughter who was recovering from a scary ailment. I don’t really believe the universe cares enough to make sure the happiness quotient is zeroed out. I feel nothing resembling guilt because others are talking to divorce lawyers or funeral directors or pediatric residents. I suppose what I wish is that others could be as tickled by their work and lives as I am right now.

But that’s not going to happen soon. My teacher friends are frantic because their classrooms aren’t fully stocked and set-up for the invasion of knowledge seekers. My professor friends are realizing they must tuck shirts into long pants and shuffle off to lecture halls and office hours. Me? After assuring my underlings that even though the work is demanding and that they will eventually find moments of delight (or at least decent stories to tell others), I walk out the door and prepare for a European expedition. Yes, while you’re worrying whether the Find/Replace feature caught all the dates on your slides so nobody knows you are recycling old presentations, I’m struggling with whether it will be dry enough in Cyprus that I can depend on hand-washing undies so I can get by on half the number of briefs relative to the number of days of travel. Department meeting next week? Sorry, I’m away at a conference. Paperwork for accreditation? It’ll have to wait until mid-September. Paid trip to Athens, Georgia? Oh sure, I’ll be back in time for that! And I will happily buy drinks for my compadres!

- - - - -

* Note: Use google translator to see how to say "bitch" in Spanish.

rueful admissions told across a stone wall

Mr Collins spoke at length Wednesday night and I listened intently to almost every word. It might come as a surprise that listening requires so much energy, but it does. The reason it was so draining was because I was inspecting and harvesting the words ideas that drifted my way. My ambition was to etch the better phrases in my mind, both the words themselves but also the rhythm, tone and pace with which they were delivered. Standing outside the crowded sunken garden, peering over the wall as if seeing his head made it easier to make out what he was saying, I probably appeared calm even though my mind was frantically spinning the information around in my hands, looking for blemishes where there were none and then having to quickly decide which to try and preserve even as a fresh volley was launched over the rugged rock barrier.

Neither he nor the phalanx of introducers cautioned us against recording or memorizing what was spoken that evening. And yet somehow, even if I had been able to preserve exactly what was said, I'm not sure I have the authority to repeat anything. My inability to perfectly repeat what I just said, let alone the utterances of somebody else, helps preserve the unspoken covenant with poet. What I can recall are mere snatches – haikus about eel in a sushi house, a dog driven to madness by the sound of his tags, losing track of the names of rivers and book characters, an unhinged moth above the lovers' bed, and imaging a musician handing over a saxophone to an audience member.

What Mr Collins didn't share was this. One path for solving a problem is by walking is by turning away. Diogenes the Cynic is reputed to have avoided an annoying individual and situation by leaving it behind. Rather than ponder and wander, abandoning a person or problem does in fact serve as another way to enact the "make our way by walking" maxim.

the PROPER boots

As those who follow the blogosphere already know, the topic of boots has been the cause of recent lamentation and philosophizing. Certainly there are worse offenses against family and humanity then buying brand-new footwear far in advance of actually need it. But more than raising a defense against such purchases, I wish to take the time to highlight the wisdom by which boots are being bought.

 A couple weeks ago, I had the good fortune of making a trek to the White Mountains of New Hampshire for a weekend of winter recreation. The simplest thing I accomplished was downing two, twenty-ounce glasses of a wonderful IPA. The came on the heels (quite literally at it will turn out) on an extensive x-country ski tour. I'd estimate we were out moving for close to four hours. The land was flat and groomed, the air was just below freezing, and there was almost no wind. Even though it was quite overcast, the landscape was subtile yet satisfying. The day before, we put on the snoeshows that have seen little action since they were moved from the Wasatch Range. And in the morning, after a monstrous breakfast, we did more hiking up to a serene peak along a trail that began at an Applachian Mountain Club lodge.

 

The only issue were the boots. There are multiple outfitters so we went with a larger business thinking they'd have the best variety. The price was superb — something like $25 for a full day of rental. The boots were cleverly designed with a zipper shield to conceal the laces. The fit was snug but not tight. I did feel some hot spots but slapped on moleskin and that did the trick. I was tender afterward but the ales eased the pain. My intermittent forays to the local gym gave a sense of satisfication since the exertion from the skiing was not too much. It felt good to be out there. Except for what the boots did to my feet.

I realize I have been a little too cavalier on longer expeditions. Aside from a half-dozen band-aids, some moleskin, sunscreen and ibuprofen, I have not been adhering to the scout motto of preparedness. The conditions during the cross-country skiing were mild and I had some spare layers. But if the weather had turned, I would have been screwed. The biggest problem was what the boots did to my feet — not a big deal for a halfday within shouting distance of houses. But it all reminded me that I need to be careful. My feet ached and throbbed which made putting on dress shoes on Monday morning before heading out to teach class an unpleasant process.

In addition to wearing away a considerable disk of flesh from each heel, the iimproper boots damaged my toes. My sense that my toes had been squeezed was confirmed when I checked them the next morning. My longest toes at first looked elongated from being compressed. But on closer look, I saw they each had sizable blisters on the tips when made them almost pointed. Even after the skin healed (thanks to antibiotic cream and band-aids) my heels were still tender and even though the bruising isn't visible, I am pretty confident that the improper boots had done some deep tissue damage. Now I have faintlly purple nail on my big toe because the bad boots squeezed so much that there is a bruise there.

And all of this is not to complain about rental ski boots. Nobody should be surprise, especially for as much as we used them that day. What this is intended to affirm is that proper equipment is not always a matter of vanity. A perfectly fitted, well-constructed boot is a wise investment, especially for long excursions in the wilderness. I have re-learned the painful lessons of my youth about the dangerous costs of buying cheap boots. That my new pair look  awesome is a  by-product of reason trumping the foolish effort to save money — especially when the risks loom too large.

 

boots and friends

A year ago, I was on the hunt for hiking boots and I finally bought the pair I wanted on sale. This past week, I discovered a rip in the sidewall that was big and low enough to allow snow to reach my sock. While it ought to be fun to search for replacements, I was not eager.

Last time I scoured online reviews for boots that wouldn’t be too heavy, hot, or ugly.  Back as Boy Scouts, the “best” boots had the opposite characteristic. We put a premium on blocky, brown and brawny footwear. The goal was to clomp along trails in leather boots shiny from layers of waterproofing wax. The tradeoff for blister avoidance was wearing multiple layers of socks, ideally with the outer wool pair rolled over like a collar over the tops of the boots. 

When I was able to find relatively lightweight, Gore-texed Merrells at a discount, I felt I had scored. This cold morning, they serve as slippers. I check the condition of the shoelaces that I may scavenge before trashing the rest.

Off I go again to read boot reviews. The pair I settled on is not locally available so I printed out the picture for future reference. This was perhaps my favorite endorsement by the owner/publisher of Snowshoe magazine:

 "While many pairs of shoes and boots will fade in and out of my gear arsenal, I think my Firebrands will stick around for the long-haul.  Come December 2012 when the world is expected to end … I’ll be wearing my Firebrands to help me dodge falling rocks and leap over ground fractures."

None of this should suggest that I am going around shoeless. In truth, I rediscovered an old pair of Nike boots in our garage. They are super-snug which I like because they won’t slop around if I wear only one pair of socks. One loop for the shoestrings has failed. Otherwise, they are more than serviceable. They are lightweight and have stood the test of time. And that is why looking for a replacement is so laden with anxiety. If I lose my hat while hiking or the elastic in my underwear gives out, the trip isn’t ruined. I probably could finish out a backpacking trip if these Merrells had failed in the mountains rather than in a campus parking lot. But that’s risky. If a tire fails, there’s a spare in the back or I could call AAA or I could find a garage to patch the hole. In the backcountry, boot problems are not a joking matter. A big worry is that if my gear failed, I’d be even more of a burden to my fitter companions. Although comfort is a relative term, boots that give out while in the wilderness create major problems. Perhaps it’s that fear that accompanies my boot shopping.

Yesterday, I attended a presentation given by a state official about the teacher certification process. Most of the audience consisted of soon-to-be graduates because this was a mandatory meeting. They fidgeted about every ambiguous answer. When we heard that the legislature may someday shift its Masters degree requirement after five years of teaching to become a subject area degree, the lamentations rose. All I could think was that our students believe that entering our program was their biggest hurdle and that the pressures and demands would eventually fade to nothing. It seems they hold onto their pampered illusions about privilege. Or to be less political, they have yet to realize that life will always throw new challenges before them. What a relief to receive an email from a former student to distract me from the whining.

Joe was writing for advice. He earned is chemistry and physics teaching certificates two years ago and landed a job shortly after he graduated. I can report that he was an energetic, smart, creative and dedicated individual and his school is highly rated. That doesn’t mean Joe had an easy time of it:

I think the hardest thing about that particular position was trying to balance myself inside and outside of the classroom.  I've always been an avid outdoors person and I've always wanted to try and incorporate that in the chemistry/physics classroom, but for one reason or another I wasn't able to achieve this goal there.

Joe resigned his position and is looking to start afresh. He mentioned plans to do outdoor conservation work and then look for teaching options “out West” to contrast with his northeastern experiences. I wrote and told him I had connections and offered to help him explore options.

Beyond the contrasts between the sniveling pre-service group and this embattled young teacher, I saw connections between Joe-teacher and those older boots. At the store, those Merrells felt great when on tiptoes I tested them on the artificial boulder poking out of the carpeting. A year later, with only moderate demands, they are no longer suitable for their intended use. Meanwhile, the steadfast Nikes (embarrassed by the paint spatters from my sloppy technique) have proven their reliability. As much as I enjoy being an instructor, advisor and mentor to future teachers, that barely compares with those relationships with former students who are now teachers. Plus, there is the bonus when they sometimes rise above the shame of their struggles to reconnect with me.

As messages bounce around about who will be at what conferences, I am reminded that the best things in my life are not the new adventures or the new acquaintances — even as I relish those. The comfort, delight and satisfaction of an established network of reliable friends is what truly makes life worthwhile. Replacing boots is a challenge but far easier than establishing genuine friendships. My iTunes playlist contains 20 songs with “friend” in the title and only 6 contain “boot” and the boot songs are not all that good.