stop apologizing for my field of study.

I don’t know what, they want from me
It’s like the more money we come across
The more problems we see…
Notorious B.I.G. (Indeed, I just went “there.”)

Seriously. I almost just finished giving a paper about the determination of indigenious identity and the criteria for social inclusion in first century Numidia this title. (I didn’t…the frumpy Classics community to which I belong and love wants us all to “blow up the archetypes” but they don’t want us to blow them up that much…I settled on the boring but semi-alliteration rich “Man, Money, or Community?
Extrapolating Communal, Individual and Indigenous Identity from Bellum Africum, despite the fact that I think Mo Money, Mo Problems is probably sufficiently more awesome, especially coming from me, an ordinary-ish looking fellow with a short haircut and sensible shoes.

I read the evidence over and over in Latin, and broke some tough sod in Greek (the term, transliterated “mauros”) looking for a connection to racial identity, (in addition to putting on my art historian hat for a “hot minute” and looking at some physical sources; sculptures, mosaics and the like) but it was too much of a stretch. What punched me right in the face, however, (once I stopped looking so far out to sea for the prettiest waves which were lapping at my toes all along) was the fact that regardless of how one identified himself (stylometrically speaking, I looked for women, but I guess there were none in first century Africa, according to Julius Caesar,) as either a member of a community or an individual allied with Rome or the Numidian client king Juba I, everybody was in it for the money. If a deal could be struck with the Romans (either as individuals or as communities) the locals would sell out anybody. Thus, economy and personal/communal identity are inextricably intertwined. That’s the big issue in play…

It was the first decent paper (30+ pages) that I’ve written from the peaceful solitude of my home office in over six months, surrounded by my books, art, and assorted eclectic souvenirs of global nature. Whereas I’m a believer that most inspiration comes from within, a pleasing environment within which one can work doesn’t hurt, either.

Now I am putting my pseudo-cartographer hat on, and making some awesome maps to augment my already awesome synthesis of a primary source that nobody has really cared much about for the past two-thousand years. (People actually pay me to do this, and teach other people about it!)

My job rocks. That is all. 4 years ago

“Once again I am met
at the door of a dark room
the announcement is loud and clear…

I regret
(or I don’t)
I forget
(so I won’t)
even tell you that I was here.

But I remember how beautiful you are—when no one’s really looking…”

-Eddiee Moffett, Happier Depressed.

Maybe I got my indignant attitude from my father or his father before him. Even my own history plays into this debate raging within me. Regardless, it isn’t doing me any favors these days.

So, I had been feeling fair to partly sunny about my prospects for returning to Chicago in May to teach at UIC whilst finishing off my Ph.D. The people here were great, took me out for coffee over the summer, and told me how “excited they were to work with me.”

Then today, things changed.

Funny how this nasty vocation of ours just punches us square in the face, then kicks us when we’re down. The guy who wanted to be my chief advocate at UIC has decided that, “despite [my] promise and [his] interest in working with me” that thirty + years has been enough, and he can’t wait around for me to finish at CMU, which he regarded as an ill-advised choice of program to begin with. His question: “Why would you ever leave Chicago and the resources here for…that?” Not a question that I had a great answer for. The Harvard scholar? Great guy. Helpful. Fantastic scholar. But Harvard scholars work at better institutions as well. How did I miss that a long time ago?

I’m pretty much screwed. The remainder of the advice I took
today was to finish at CMU, come home, and start over at a
“real” program at the M.A. level or entry Ph.D. level, because
(and I quote) ”...even so much as an M.A. from a reputable
program here will serve your long-term interests more
appropriately than a terminal degree from a mid or lower tier
institution.” I felt like I was going to vomit (again,) but
brave-faced, thanked him for his candor, and told him I’d do
my best.

No clue what “my best” is. No clue what I’m going to do now.
Money isn’t an immediate concern, (no more than it is for anybody else), but being able to look at myself in the mirror is. Ultimately, the latter is all that really matters in this, or any other endeavor. Yet, I’m angry with this indignant streak in myself. Life would be easy if I just sold out like so many of my “peers” have done just so they can stay in the game. These people who become whores to the academe lest they have to go find a real job are a discredit to our vocation, and aren’t worthy of my time, (or the time of any students who would potentially encounter them in a classroom, teaching something they know nothing about just so they can “stay.”) We care about history because it presents allegories which can tell us about ourselves. The collective whole of human history is bigger than just me, especially that of Rome, Byzantium, and their neighbors…I will never be so foolish as to think that treating it with a dilatory negligence is acceptable. It’s not. Again, if I can’t do my best at something I care about, I’d just as soon not do it at all.

But if not this, what?

I went to a coffeeshop on Taylor Street. The same one, in fact, that these people had met me at just two short months ago. I zoned out for awhile. Stared out the window. Watched people. Took note of a woman in the corner who had brown eyes and a yellow dress on. She was holding a Jane Austen book but hadn’t turned a page in a half hour, more concerned about who was watching her hold said Jane Austen book. I was curious about her. I watched a man reading a citizenship study guide. Obviously an auditory learner, he was struggling with the language and reading aloud in a thick, middle-eastern accent the words, ”...life, li-ber-tee, and the pursuit of hopp-ee-ness…”

I smiled, had another drink of my coffee, and was reminded, yet again, of another reason that history does matter. I won’t back down. This attitude will probably find me living a cardboard box before much longer, but I’ll do so with no regrets.

No regrets. Maybe I can’t rewrite the rulebook, but I’ll be no slave to it, either…

Photo: In our October city, summer has failed to notice that it’s expiration date passed some time ago. It’s eighty+ degrees today, but this man was sweeping falling leaves off of his sidewalk on Taylor St. in a full overcoat and gloves. He was incongruous with his situation. (Like me.) 4 years ago