Dr. Mongolia and the Ever-Expanding CV

As promised, I have much to report (mostly only tangentially related thoughts) from my first academic conference presentation. It was a bittersweet endeavor, though certainly a valuable one.

First of all, if you are ever told to give a 20-minute presentation, don't believe that you will actually have 20 minutes to deliver it. After 12 minutes, I was given the signal that I had only three minutes remaining, which caused me to panic, skip most of the meat and potatoes of my paper's argument, and leave the stage having completely butchered my own work. Thankfully, I wasn't the only person who encountered this problem, which softened the embarrassment a bit.

Second of all, and more importantly, the paper that I presented unexpectedly (to me, at least) won the conference's "outstanding achievement in student research" award! This was surprising, because I don't yet have much confidence in my work. As a result, on the rare occasion when somebody else thinks highly of it, I feel like a fraud. I sincerely believe that they must have missed the point, because if they understaood my work, then they would surely find it to be as flawed and inconsequential as I do (O.k., I don't find it exactly flawed and inconsequential, but in a field so pregnant with brilliant people, I find it hard to believe that anybody would see flashes of brilliance--or value--in my "little engine that could"-style work).

At any rate, this was my first conference presentation, and, it turned out, my first real academic award (yay for CV building!!). Before I was even called to speak on my paper, I was shockingly identified by the chancellor of the host university as one of 7 award winners and was asked to say a few words in acceptance. It was a wonderful moment, and I am most grateful to the host institution for their recogntition, undeserved as it may be.

I've found that the academic world is one in which the appearance of success is just as important as actual success. Departments are judged by the quality of their faculty, who are in turn judged by the quality of their research output, which in turn is judged by the number and frequency of publications/conferences/awards, which are then measured by the reputation of the publishing/hosting/awarding institution, and so on. The academic ego is complicated and fragile, and it is one trait of the successful professor that I hope to avoid, and yet I must still engage in the seemingly frantic "award collecting" that is necessary for a successful career in the academy.

This egotistical ballet unfolds in ways that are often surprisingly juvenile, and even within departments, much jockeying occurs for status and legitimacy in a given field. For instance, within a biology department, professors in the molecular biology specialty might be upset because the cell biology group is receiving more funding than they are, while the cell biology group might be bitter because the molecular biology specialty gets more journal ink, etc.

Flashing back to my master's program for a moment, there was an amusing war of words and ideologies between the Tibetan Studies program and the Mongolian Studies program. I kid you not--these programs do exist, and they do not play well together, at least at the university where I earned my master's (this is one of the many reasons why I lovingly refer to it as an Ivy League freakshow).

The Mongolian Studies "department" consisted of one fairly well-regarded professor, who nonetheless was bitter at the fact that he clearly must deal on a daily--or hourly--basis with people who, because of their political views or research interests or hair color, are not nearly as brilliant as he is, and so they cannot possibly grasp the gravity of the subject that he studies. He is a prolific author and political activist (heavily misguided, in my estimation, but it's his right), and he is angry, because the Mongolian Studies program does not secure nearly as much funding as the Tibetan Studies program. He is also angry because he believes that the world has generally sold Mongolia down the river, and he seems to blame certain ethnic groups in the U.S. (??) for aiding in that misfortune, but again, this is another story for another post.

Let's now take a stroll down the hall where--while Dr. Mongolia is stewing and brooding away in his office--the four-strong Tibetan Studies contingency is busy working the phones, the conferences, and the schmooze circuit to secure outside funding. They are presenting papers, publishing, and inviting such illustrious dignitaries to campus as the Dalai Lama (one of my biggest regrets: turning down for some insane reason/schedule conflict that I cannot even begin to remember now the opportunity for a semi-private [meaning me and 150 of my closest friends] audience with the Dalai Lama. I'm still kicking myself for that one two years after the fact, and if you are ever invited to an audience with the Dalai Lama, please do take advantage of the opportunity, because then I will at least feel that others are succeeding where I failed myself). As a result, the department is productive, growing, and successful in securing funding from outside sources, which in turn leads to increased funding from the university.

Their response to Dr. Mongolia? "Ha! Enjoy the solitude of your office, little man. Just don't come asking for our help when you finally figure out how to fundraise."

...and the beat goes on. Academia is a funny little field full of egos, petty conflict, jockeying for scraps of notariety, and compensating for personal insecurities. And yet, I'm intrigued by it, and I look forward to someday, perhaps, entering the fold.

This conference presentation was a good--if truncated--start. The "outstanding achievement in student research" award is gravy.