November 2021
Me, as a kid. Thanks for sending this to me, brother. (Photo Courtesy: Kelly Couri)
A recent theme in my classes has been the discussion of relevance. By relevance, I mean many things; the word itself is polysemous. By relevance, I mean importance. Impact. Timeliness. Purpose. So, what exactly are my classes discussing as being either relevant (important, impactful, timely, and purposeful) or irrelevant? Our work.
This discussion is not new and I’m afraid it will never be old either as each new generation dredges forth the same misgivings and worries of those that came before them. Is what we are doing meaningful? Does it matter? Are we making a difference? Humanities or not, I argue that all of higher education gets mixed up in this age-old debate of if what we do ever makes it off of dusty old bookshelves and into the “public sphere.”
When I asked two professors this week how they find fulfillment and relevance in their work, they told me that it was through teaching. I can guarantee this answer is not universal, although I think it may be more common than I once imagined as, after all, you don’t have to be good at something to find it meaningful. (Side note: That sassy comment does not apply to these women, or really anyone in my department. We have great educators here. Other places I have been… not so much). Nonetheless, attending an R1 (i.e. research-driven/focused) university for the past six and a half years has made me skeptical of how much we care about teaching as opposed to research (and don’t even get me started on the third academic category, service…).
Searching my own heart, I also find that I get the greatest fulfillment from teaching, however, I don’t think that at this tenuous juncture I consider it my work. Right now, borne of necessity or fear, my work must be my writing because that is my ticket to continue teaching and writing for a living. What is so scary about this is that my writing is merely an extension of me; it’s my consciousness embodied in a text. So, if it does no good, if it doesn’t save the world, what good am I doing? What is my work? What is it worth? What am I doing here? Why does it matter? Does it even matter? By extension, do I?
As I searched the hollow halls of the ivory tower for this answer, it seemed to recede further and further into the shadows… which is why, instead, I will turn to a small-town Friday night concert and a five-minute story told in folding camp chairs with tacos all over them for the answer. These stories are not woven; it is not cohesive; it may be hard to follow because, well, I am not that good at this yet. I am not confusing “on purpose” like a recent text I read; what I am is growing. So, be patient with me. Take what you need, get rid of the rest. Without further ado, the answers to my hubris: humility, via humanity(ies).
The Rock Star, The Book Club Members, and Me
My faculty advisor is in a rock band. No, seriously. More specifically, she is the LEAD singer and guitarist in this band, and she is beyond cool. Earlier in the semester, she had all of her advisees over to eat fish tacos and just chat. I wrote this that night:
I should’ve known then that this woman and her work, scholarly and rock-band wise, would be next-level incredible. She and her bandmates’ performance covered different genres from rock to pop, and different eras, from classic Prince and Joan Jett all the way up to music by The Weeknd. As I stood there in the cold, I ran into another of her advisees. We talked for a minute, made introductions, and she left, leaving me with a woman who is in a book club with my advisor. We stood together in the crowd, chatting during the breaks and watching otherwise, not comfortable in each other's presence, but not uncomfortable, either. She eventually introduced me to another book club member, then left me with this new woman as she went out to dance. The new book club member and I struck up another conversation until, much as the time before, she found a new friend, and our duo split up. Maybe it is the romanticist in me, but I couldn't help but think of the line in The Great Gatsby that talks about groups forming and dissolving in a breath:
Everything was ever-shifting and dissolving without the formal milieu often required of strangers, because, when it comes to music, no one is a stranger. As the concert began to wrap up, the first book club member managed to convince me to uncross my arms, lighten up, and dance, if only for two songs. And at that moment, it happened. With my advisor six feet in front of me – for now, simply a Rockstar – singing a song about how we are okay, repeating the lines over and over again. We haven’t been okay for months. We can’t pretend that the pandemic hasn’t affected every one of us. It has. But, while I have spent the last few weeks caught up in a swell of nascent ego, hope, and fear, I kept looking for a way to save us. Trying to define my work and why it mattered. Trying to heal this eternal human condition. I was wrong. There, listening to her, I knew deep in my soul, I don’t have to save the world, we’re all okay anyway, and the world is slowly healing itself. Through live music. Through supportive book club members. Through small children dancing in the streets. Through adult children dancing in the streets. Through hugs. Through strangers becoming friends, through the artistry surrounding us, through the brilliance of the lights on the stage, through community. Friendship. Joy. And, as always, love.
Tiffany
There is a scholarship named after a student who passed away while she was here. Our lead graduate director, a 34-year-old faculty member, told us that the award is less about the money or accomplishments, and much more about the character of its recipient. Tiffany touched the lives of people on this campus so deeply that 24 years after her passing, faculty that have been with the university long enough to have known her still advocate strongly for which student deserves the honor of such an award. She would have been 47 this year, Tiffany. When she died, our graduate director would’ve been going into fifth grade; I was 4 months old. That is how long the memory and impact of Tiffany has lasted. She was only 22 when she died and the faculty that remain to remember her must have been not much older, perhaps the age of my graduate director now.
As I stumble around searching for significance, trying to define my work, and hoping it makes a difference in the world, the thought of Tiffany stops me in my tracks. I don’t know what Tiffany studied. What course she TA’d for. What she planned to do with the rest of her life. What I do know is that she touched the lives of those around her in ways that, though they may not fit into a CV or a job application, keep her memory alive even after most of the faculty who knew her are long gone. I have plenty of dreams and aspirations, plans and goals for my future. I don’t think that’s a bad thing. But I have to ask myself: what legacy am I leaving behind each day I set foot in Bolton? When I one day leave those halls, maybe my name will make it onto one of my old professor’s syllabi, but will they share stories of anything but my writing? My writing is not my work. My kindness is my work. My relationships are my work. Those are the things that matter, things I am working to cultivate and put time into; the well-being of myself and those around me.
The End
That moment at the concert and in the camp chairs were both fleeting. Ephemeral. But their consequences in my life have been real. We’re all alright, not every day, not a lot of days, but at the end of the day, love exists. Go out and play in a rock band if you want. Go out and watch one. Support local artists. Have adult beverages in the cold with your friends. Go to a football game. Dress up for Halloween with your kids. Take lots and lots of pictures, make lots and lots of mistakes, and make sure to tell the person next to you how grateful you are that they are still here. WE are still here. Even after 20 months of a global pandemic. Never underestimate the power of love and its role in your life. And, if you are lucky enough, make your life’s work one of love rather than papers.
It is a privilege, to do so. Since I have it, I won’t waste it.
– Delaney Couri
Delaney is a first-year Ph.D. student in the College of Liberal Arts.
A recent theme in my classes has been the discussion of relevance. By relevance, I mean many things; the word itself is polysemous. By relevance, I mean importance. Impact. Timeliness. Purpose. So, what exactly are my classes discussing as being either relevant (important, impactful, timely, and purposeful) or irrelevant? Our work.
This discussion is not new and I’m afraid it will never be old either as each new generation dredges forth the same misgivings and worries of those that came before them. Is what we are doing meaningful? Does it matter? Are we making a difference? Humanities or not, I argue that all of higher education gets mixed up in this age-old debate of if what we do ever makes it off of dusty old bookshelves and into the “public sphere.”
When I asked two professors this week how they find fulfillment and relevance in their work, they told me that it was through teaching. I can guarantee this answer is not universal, although I think it may be more common than I once imagined as, after all, you don’t have to be good at something to find it meaningful. (Side note: That sassy comment does not apply to these women, or really anyone in my department. We have great educators here. Other places I have been… not so much). Nonetheless, attending an R1 (i.e. research-driven/focused) university for the past six and a half years has made me skeptical of how much we care about teaching as opposed to research (and don’t even get me started on the third academic category, service…).
Searching my own heart, I also find that I get the greatest fulfillment from teaching, however, I don’t think that at this tenuous juncture I consider it my work. Right now, borne of necessity or fear, my work must be my writing because that is my ticket to continue teaching and writing for a living. What is so scary about this is that my writing is merely an extension of me; it’s my consciousness embodied in a text. So, if it does no good, if it doesn’t save the world, what good am I doing? What is my work? What is it worth? What am I doing here? Why does it matter? Does it even matter? By extension, do I?
As I searched the hollow halls of the ivory tower for this answer, it seemed to recede further and further into the shadows… which is why, instead, I will turn to a small-town Friday night concert and a five-minute story told in folding camp chairs with tacos all over them for the answer. These stories are not woven; it is not cohesive; it may be hard to follow because, well, I am not that good at this yet. I am not confusing “on purpose” like a recent text I read; what I am is growing. So, be patient with me. Take what you need, get rid of the rest. Without further ado, the answers to my hubris: humility, via humanity(ies).
The Rock Star, The Book Club Members, and Me
My faculty advisor is in a rock band. No, seriously. More specifically, she is the LEAD singer and guitarist in this band, and she is beyond cool. Earlier in the semester, she had all of her advisees over to eat fish tacos and just chat. I wrote this that night:
We sat on her back porch in her aquamarine scalloped chairs. All except for two of us who were in camp chairs because “one of the scallops” broke. The air was ambient in temperature and the only lights came from hand-strung paper lanterns, decking the wall above her window in shades of blue, gold, and orange. The station one advisee DJed for played on in the background through a handheld speaker, intertwining with the lights and the chairs to create an atmosphere reminiscent of the idealized 70s, with the smooth rock and alternative music setting the mood. The feeling was distinctly coastal, with a neighbor cat hunting for prey via the loud, far-hanging bug zapper that my advisor put up midway through the dinner of fish tacos and key lime pie. As the cat rushed back and forth through the bushes and miniature statues, the dog chose to lay belly up next to the nearest person willing to provide pets.
I should’ve known then that this woman and her work, scholarly and rock-band wise, would be next-level incredible. She and her bandmates’ performance covered different genres from rock to pop, and different eras, from classic Prince and Joan Jett all the way up to music by The Weeknd. As I stood there in the cold, I ran into another of her advisees. We talked for a minute, made introductions, and she left, leaving me with a woman who is in a book club with my advisor. We stood together in the crowd, chatting during the breaks and watching otherwise, not comfortable in each other's presence, but not uncomfortable, either. She eventually introduced me to another book club member, then left me with this new woman as she went out to dance. The new book club member and I struck up another conversation until, much as the time before, she found a new friend, and our duo split up. Maybe it is the romanticist in me, but I couldn't help but think of the line in The Great Gatsby that talks about groups forming and dissolving in a breath:
"The groups change more swiftly, swell with new arrivals, dissolve and form in the same breath; already there are wanderers, confident girls who weave here and there among the stouter and more stable, become for a sharp, joyous moment the center of a group, and then, excited with triumph, glide on through the sea-change of faces and voices and color under the constantly changing light” (F. Scott Fitzgerald, 1925, public domain).
Everything was ever-shifting and dissolving without the formal milieu often required of strangers, because, when it comes to music, no one is a stranger. As the concert began to wrap up, the first book club member managed to convince me to uncross my arms, lighten up, and dance, if only for two songs. And at that moment, it happened. With my advisor six feet in front of me – for now, simply a Rockstar – singing a song about how we are okay, repeating the lines over and over again. We haven’t been okay for months. We can’t pretend that the pandemic hasn’t affected every one of us. It has. But, while I have spent the last few weeks caught up in a swell of nascent ego, hope, and fear, I kept looking for a way to save us. Trying to define my work and why it mattered. Trying to heal this eternal human condition. I was wrong. There, listening to her, I knew deep in my soul, I don’t have to save the world, we’re all okay anyway, and the world is slowly healing itself. Through live music. Through supportive book club members. Through small children dancing in the streets. Through adult children dancing in the streets. Through hugs. Through strangers becoming friends, through the artistry surrounding us, through the brilliance of the lights on the stage, through community. Friendship. Joy. And, as always, love.
Tiffany
There is a scholarship named after a student who passed away while she was here. Our lead graduate director, a 34-year-old faculty member, told us that the award is less about the money or accomplishments, and much more about the character of its recipient. Tiffany touched the lives of people on this campus so deeply that 24 years after her passing, faculty that have been with the university long enough to have known her still advocate strongly for which student deserves the honor of such an award. She would have been 47 this year, Tiffany. When she died, our graduate director would’ve been going into fifth grade; I was 4 months old. That is how long the memory and impact of Tiffany has lasted. She was only 22 when she died and the faculty that remain to remember her must have been not much older, perhaps the age of my graduate director now.
As I stumble around searching for significance, trying to define my work, and hoping it makes a difference in the world, the thought of Tiffany stops me in my tracks. I don’t know what Tiffany studied. What course she TA’d for. What she planned to do with the rest of her life. What I do know is that she touched the lives of those around her in ways that, though they may not fit into a CV or a job application, keep her memory alive even after most of the faculty who knew her are long gone. I have plenty of dreams and aspirations, plans and goals for my future. I don’t think that’s a bad thing. But I have to ask myself: what legacy am I leaving behind each day I set foot in Bolton? When I one day leave those halls, maybe my name will make it onto one of my old professor’s syllabi, but will they share stories of anything but my writing? My writing is not my work. My kindness is my work. My relationships are my work. Those are the things that matter, things I am working to cultivate and put time into; the well-being of myself and those around me.
The End
That moment at the concert and in the camp chairs were both fleeting. Ephemeral. But their consequences in my life have been real. We’re all alright, not every day, not a lot of days, but at the end of the day, love exists. Go out and play in a rock band if you want. Go out and watch one. Support local artists. Have adult beverages in the cold with your friends. Go to a football game. Dress up for Halloween with your kids. Take lots and lots of pictures, make lots and lots of mistakes, and make sure to tell the person next to you how grateful you are that they are still here. WE are still here. Even after 20 months of a global pandemic. Never underestimate the power of love and its role in your life. And, if you are lucky enough, make your life’s work one of love rather than papers.
It is a privilege, to do so. Since I have it, I won’t waste it.
– Delaney Couri
Delaney is a first-year Ph.D. student in the College of Liberal Arts.