My Year Away: World Cruise Edition.

First, I went on Sabbatical. Then I Retired. And, now I'm on my first Cruise Around the World!

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A Sabbatical and a Cruise. Who Would Have Thought?

As I have written about in other posts, part of the goal of My Year Away is to try new things. One of the things on my list is to take a cruise. While this might seem like a strange item to put on a sabbatical list, I added it for two reasons: 1. I would go with my best friend, Kathy, who loves cruises. I have long been curious about why Kathy enjoys cruising so much. Personally, I didn’t see the appeal, but I wanted to give her the benefit of the doubt. 2. It’s good to try new things. I don’t know why, but it is.

So, off to a cruise. I drove 10 hours straight south until I hit Miami, met up with Kathy and hopped on our 1,000 foot vessel, the Norwegian Getaway. Considering most of my boating experience has involved sailboats or my rowing shell, it was difficult to get my mind wrapped around what a 1,000 foot-long boat would be like. The most common phrase I had heard was “floating hotel.” Let me just say that the Getaway was not like any hotel (floating or otherwise) I have ever visited.

It was fairly incomprehensible from bow to stern. Getaway

First, the ship reaches port at 8 every Saturday morning. It offloads 4,000 people; someone cleans all the staterooms and then 4,000 different people get back on at noon. (I’m not making this up.) And this is all done with a “hey, it’s no big deal” confidence.  This might be hard to believe, but we parked the car (and spent a few minutes memorizing where we had parked it), went through security, filled out health forms, went through another kind of security, and walked on to the ship in under an hour. The whole week was like that. Organized, non-frenetic, easy peasy.

Besides my one bout with seasickness (I know, it’s hard to believe that I could get sick on a ship that size.), I had a blast. And I learned some things over the week. Here are my top four.

  1. Being disconnected is a good—albeit, rare–experience. When I go on vacation, I try to stay away from digital things. But “staying away” and being totally disconnected are two different things. Even while I was a gazillion miles away in Tbilisi last June, I was able to email people, check in on Facebook, and talk to my husband via Skype. You can’t do any of that on a cruise ship unless you want to pay for it. On principle, I was not willing to shell out 75 cents a minute to connect with the world so I was completely offline for an entire week. It was lovely.
  1. A cruise ship might be mammoth, but compared to the ocean, it’s actually just a tiny bobbing blip. So the prevalent image you see while cruising is water. Every inch of the ship (except the casinos, the stores, and the auditoriums, in which I spent next to no time) is geared toward a water view. Windows are everywhere. And, there are multiple outdoor areas—many more than I expected. Besides our balcony where I could read in private, or hang over the railing and look at the miles of ocean with no one to bother me, there were pools (I have no idea if we discovered all of them, but we saw at least five), a basketball court (where we attempted Salsa and Zumba exercise classes), an outdoor giant chess board, a ¼ mile jogging track, an outdoor promenade with restaurants and bars and plenty of quiet seating areas (it took us four days to discover this deck!), and that is just a partial list. I looked at the water all day long. This is a good thing, which I’ll write about in my next post when I review Blue Mind (which I read on the cruise), a book about the science behind the benefits of water.sunset

I felt like I was on a boat. I was glad, because I was worried that it really would feel like a hotel and if that was the case, why not just stay at a Hilton?

  1. People sort themselves into communities wherever they are. On a cruise ship, there are an unlimited number of activities. While they are all supposed to be fun, some to me sounded dreadful. Uh, Bingo? No thanks! Fun with balloon animals? Are you kidding me? Bidding on Thomas Kinkade art? You can’t make these things up. But, amidst all the goofy things on a cruise ship, there are plenty of things to do that I did find appealing. One of the favorite evening activities we discovered early in the week was listening to Brazilian pianist and vocalist Paulo del Souza. No matter what bar he was playing in, we found him—and so did lots of other people. Kathy and I started to notice his groupies. “Hey, wasn’t that couple here last night?” By the end of the week, we noticed each other, talked to each other, even shared a few bottles of bubbly together. In between Paulo’s sets, we would talk about all sorts of things and found we had lots in common. We even joked about some of the other activities on board that we agreed were sub-optimal.  It didn’t take long, but we had, indeed, found “our people” on this cruise.

Yes, I was on a vacation, completely out of my comfort zone, but I still found comfort by discovering a community of like-minded people. I also started being more observant around the ship and noticed other groupies: the group gathered around the Backgammon sets. Or the Trivia Challenge group. (I’m guessing there was a community of Thomas Kinkade art collectors, too, but I definitely didn’t see them!)

  1. Developing a routine helps us sort out our lives. Given how new cruising was to me, I didn’t expect to develop a routine so quickly, but I did. Without saying “Hey, Kathy, let’s develop a routine to make the most of our trip,” it just happened. By the first full day, here is basically how our days shaped up.
    1. Wake up.
    2. Grab workout clothes and hit the jogging track for a mile wake up stretch.
    3. Leisurely breakfast, chatting about anything and everything.
    4. Work out, either in a class or on the machines.
    5. Hit the therapy pool, the sauna, and the salt room.
    6. Leisurely lunch, chatting about anything and everything.
    7. We’d go our separate ways for a couple of hours in the afternoon. I would typically sit outside in the shade and read.
    8. Reconvene early evening where we would get ready for dinner.
    9. Leisurely dinner, chatting about anything and everything.
    10. Go find Paulo and listen to his set while drinking Prosecco.

There were variations, of course. While there are no pictures to prove this, we did, indeed, dance the night away at the Disco party under the stars. And we did watch a fairly bizarre musical rendition of Legally Blonde. But, we basically found a rhythm and a routine that was comforting, helpful, restorative, and productive. (We each got a good amount of writing accomplished during the week as well.)

It’s taken me about a half a century to realize how much I like a routine.

And, so here I am on my sabbatical where, theoretically, I can do anything I want for an entire year. I’m finding that what I want is to lead a productive life. And I’m realizing more and more that routine helps me do that. So does having a community to rely on. And so does disconnecting sometimes.

And so does going on a cruise.


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All the World’s a Stage—Even When It Comes to the Life of an Academic.

During My Year Away, I’m trying to carve out a balance between travel, trying new things, and keeping the pedal to the metal on my research. August was designated as a travel month. Between my academic field’s national conference (Association for Education in Journalism and Mass Communication) at the beginning of the month and the Accrediting Council on Education in Journalism and Mass Communications meeting (I sit on the council) at the end of the month, I had the skeleton of an interesting car trip.

The AEJMC conference was in Montreal this year, which meant that I could drive up the east coast visiting friends. That first week was an absolute blast. I rowed with my rowing friend Patti in Chapel Hill, NC. I stopped in to see my friend Kathy’s new house in Massachusetts. I caught up with my high school friend Polly in upstate New York. The trip was turning out to be everything I was hoping it would be.

Too soon it was time to make an appearance at the conference. It was jarring to barrel into Montreal with my academic game face on. I was deep, deep, deep into thinking like someone on sabbatical. AEJMC, on the other hand, is the conference that marks the end of summer and the beginning of the semester. So everyone is abuzz with the anticipation of the potential of all the great things that await a fresh start at the university.

I have attended this conference for over 20 years. I worked my way up the leadership chain becoming president in 2009. But this year I was attending the conference for the first time in a long time as a bone fide—and nothing else—academic. I was there to do only traditional professor things. I (along with my co-authors) presented two papers (https://carolpardun.com/2014/04/01/hooray-for-writing-deadlines/). I participated on a panel about qualitative research methods. I got together with colleagues around the country to talk about research.

It was invigorating—but also a little intimidating. During the whole week, I kept thinking about whether I would actually be successful in this new chapter of my academic career. In some ways, I felt like I was simply playing the part of successful researcher–trying on the role for size and hoping it would fit.

During the question and answer session of the panel mentioned earlier, a young assistant professor asked a question with the follow-up comment, “I feel like a great imposter,” referring to her lack of confidence in her research ability.

Sitting on the panel next to me was a media historian with a stellar reputation. I have admired this scholar for years for deep thinking and high level of publication productivity. My Media History Guru laughed out loud and said, “I’ve got news for you. We all feel like research imposters.”

It’s a bit of a relief to know I’m not the only one who thinks this. But I’m also curious. I don’t feel this way about other parts of my job. Take teaching, for example. I’m confident that I’m a good teacher. I felt that way from the first day in the classroom—when I knew absolutely nothing about pedagogy.

But, research, now, that’s a different story. Perhaps it’s the peer-review process. In case you haven’t published in a refereed journal recently, here’s how it goes. You think up an idea. You do a literature search to make sure that no one else has thought up this idea already. You lay the groundwork to demonstrate that there is a gap in the literature and you are going to provide the “empirical bridge” (as my favorite grad school professor used to say) to find the answer. Next you figure out the method you’ll use. Then you create the instrument you need to collect the data. Then you package it all up and send it to the university Institutional Review Board where you await scrutiny to make sure you’re not going to damage someone’s psyche. Once you get the okay, you launch the instrument, collect data, analyze the data, think about the data—and, okay, perhaps downright torture the data—hoping against hope that you’ll learn something interesting. If you do, you write up the results, then shape the whole paper into a coherent well-written piece of art, send it off—and then wait. Often for months. Eventually, you get the news: “reject,” “revise and resubmit, or “accept.” A first-round “accept” is almost impossible these days, so you pray for “R & R.”

Once you get the okay to revise the manuscript, you go at it again. Suggested changes can be minimal (“Could you please clarify how you calculated the inter-coder reliability?”) to you’ve-got-to-be-kidding-me bizarre (“Great manuscript! Just wondering if, instead of the survey that you did, could you run an experiment?”). If you’re fortunate enough to eventually get your manuscript accepted for publication, you’ll wait months (and sometimes even years) before the piece is actually published.

Top-tier journals typically reject 85% to 90% of its manuscripts—so publication is never a sure bet. That’s one reason scholars have multiple manuscripts “in the pipeline.” This is not something you can do one project at a time and hope to make your mark on the scholarly world.

The AEJMC conference has about a 50% rejection rate—still somewhat intimidating, but definitely manageable. The accepted papers are presented as “first runs,” and every scholar at the conference hopes his or her manuscript will be well received and that the scholar will be encouraged to send a revised version to a journal. The conference is both a celebration and a place to exhibit great anxiety.

I was among the anxious. Graduate students are in abundance because if they don’t have multiple conference papers and at least a couple of publications by the time they graduate, they have little hope of landing a tenure-track job. I’ll be the first to admit that the graduate students of today are a whole lot more productive (on the publication scale anyway) than the students were in my day.

Assistant professors are also in abundance at the conference as they frantically try to amass publication credits before they stand for tenure.

Less abundant as paper presenters are full professors. They have nothing to prove. Unless they do. I had something to prove. Getting back into the “publish or perish” rat race a decade after walking away and entering administration is not for the feint of heart.

Sure, I wrote while I was an administrator. There’s my book, Advertising and Society (ISBN-13: 978-0470673096). And a couple of invited pieces. Even a few journal articles that I worked on during my “research years,” but didn’t come out until after I had entered administration. But the day in, day out, living and breathing research projects? No.

So, for me, AEJMC was my coming out party. A time to play the role of the researcher. Yes, perhaps as an imposter. But, apparently, I’m in good company.

I’m two months into my sabbatical. How am I doing? Well, I haven’t had anything published yet, of course. (See tortuous paragraph above.) But, one of the presentations from AEJMC is now safe in the hands of a good journal, waiting review. I’m rounding the corner on the other conference paper as well and hope also to have it in review soon. Data is collected on another project. Some research background written on two other projects. A few ideas sketched out on some others. I’m in the process of filling the pipeline.

I had a blast at AEJMC. But, by the last day of the conference, I was ready to hop in my car and continue my trek, which included two days of driving across Ontario and along Lake Michigan into Wisconsin. My trip ended 4,500 miles after it began.

It’s September now and I’ve designated this month as a writing month. As Shakespeare penned in As You Like It, “All the world’s a stage/ And all the men and women merely players/ They have their exits and their entrances/And one man in his time plays many parts.” Imposter or not, it’s time to go on with the show!


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The Adventure Begins. My Year Away Starts….NOW!

My science skills are rather limited, but I am a huge fan of Albert Einstein nonetheless. (Check out the movie IQ. My favorite line is when Einstein soars down the road on a motorcycle, hands in the air, joyfully shouting “Wahoo!”) Six months ago when I started this blog, it seemed like it would take forever before I started My Year Away. And, now it’s July; I have begun my sabbatical year. If this isn’t proof of the Theory of Relativity, I don’t know what is. As Einstein said, “When you are courting a nice girl an hour seems like a second. When you sit on a red-hot cinder, a second seems like an hour. That’s relativity.”

I am no longer an administrator. I’m a professor.

Monday was my last day as the head of the journalism school. I signed some papers, listened to some griping from faculty, spoke with my administrative assistant about strategies for scheduling classes. But mostly I just packed up and moved to my new—-and much smaller–office. It was a remarkably uneventful day. Except to me.

So now what do I do?

Well, for starters, catch up with sleep. Slept 12 hours Monday night. Check. Get ready for 4th of July company. Check. Get organized for the year. Oops. Needs work.

I have a full year to reignite my scholarly life. That seems like forever. But the Theory of Relativity tells me it is not. Better get at it. My Year Away has begun. Wahoo!


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(Not) Lost in Translation: Why Working in Another Country Is an Excellent Segue into My Year Away

I’m in Tbilisi, Georgia, for three weeks. When I return to the states, I’ll go to the office for one day. And then I’m done. The sabbatical begins.

What was I thinking? I’ve got too much work to do before I begin My Year Away. But, alas, I’m here. Tbilisi makes me discombobulated. It’s a collision of Old World and New. Soviet influences and democratic ideals. Breathtaking scenery and traffic-jamming pollution. Mouthwatering organic, locally grown food and cigarette choking-smoke everywhere. The language doesn’t look or sound like anything I’ve seen before. I’ve been here 10 days now, and I’ve had my days. But once I realized I could create a routine, it’s been better.

On days I teach, it’s easy. I get up. Have breakfast. Work a bit. Walk 45 minutes to school. Get ready for class. Teach. Walk 45 minutes back to hotel. Eat dinner. Go to bed.

On days I don’t teach, I get up. Have breakfast. Work a bit. Walk 45 minutes in a different direction than I would go if I were going to the school. I walk up the hill to a Georgian bakery where the baker does not speak a word of English, but now recognizes me and, I think, is glad to see me. I give him a one gel coin (about 56 cents) and he gives me several coins back. Then he hands me a loaf of gigantic, straight-from-the-oven Georgian bread. I stop at the corner apothecary and buy a big bottle of Borjormi (very strong seltzer water) and an itsy-bitsy slice of Georgian cheese (as small as I can convince the counter girl to cut it since she doesn’t speak English either and seems confused on why I want such a teeny piece). I work in the afternoon at my desk with the French door open. Then I walk again. Eat dinner. Watch an hour of Discovery channel (the only channel in English; it only seems to air “Baggage Battles” and “Dirty Money”). I take care of some work issues back in South Carolina (with an eight-hour difference, the best time to communicate for me is in the evening). Then I drift to sleep as I think about the next day.

I suppose it’s not the worst way to live. But, it’s strange. On days I don’t teach, I don’t talk. There is no one to talk to. And while everyone wants to be helpful, it’s not like the South where you “Hey, how are you?” to every passerby.

Perhaps this is good practice for My Year Away.

I realize that I’ve created a good routine that is helping me do my work the best way I can in the situation I am currently experiencing. And I’m noticing the world in ways I might not when I have everything instantaneously at my fingers. While I’m working at my desk, I look out at the high-rise apartments that surround my hotel. Most of the windows are open. In one apartment, someone practices the piano. I think she is better than she was 10 days ago. In another apartment I see a woman hanging clothes to dry. In others, women wash windows. Lots of people wash windows here.

On my way to the school, I see the same hunched-over women clad in black, sitting on the steps of the underground walkways, hands outstretched, holding a note that I can’t read. I put coins in some of their hands, hoping that it helps.

I see the same workers at restaurants I’ve visited in the evenings, sweeping and washing windows, waiting for customers. I see the parking monitors ready to help five cars fit in parking spaces made for two. I see the same teeny Smart car that doubles as a coffee shop, parked and ready for business.

I miss South Carolina. I still have work to do to finish up my administrative duties there. But I can tell the change is in progress. Faculty have clearly begun to make the adjustment to the new administrative team.

When I return at the end of June, I’ll have to carve out a new routine. I hope this time in Tbilisi is helping me get ready for the change. Meanwhile, as they say in Georgia, “კარგია.” Seriously. This is what they say.


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And So, The End Is Near…But Did I Do It My Way?

It’s June. That means I’m in my last month of administration. In the words of Frank Sinatra “The end is near.” July 1 is right around the corner. Here’s what I have to do before I check out and begin My Year Away.

  1. Faculty Evaluations. Yuck. I don’t know why I find this an unpleasant task, but I do. I enjoy reading what the faculty have accomplished over the past year. I just don’t like to write the letters commending them for the good stuff (that part is easy) but nudging them to improve in areas that need work. More times than not, I’m impressed with all of the willing service to the university they provide. Even so, it’s an interesting exercise to read 40 self-reports. Garrison Keillor isn’t the only one who lives in a town where Everyone Is Above Average.
  2. Finding adjuncts to cover the classes we have scheduled, but don’t have enough faculty to teach. We’ve got a record number of students returning to campus in August and somebody’s got to teach them. Finding qualified adjuncts who are available to teach at paltry sums and who have the academic credentials to satisfy the university accreditation watchdogs is a challenge, that’s for sure.
  3. Finding someone to take over our graduate program. Yup. Our brand-new grad director jumped ship after one semester. I’m trying not to take it personally.
  4. Read dissertations or dissertation proposals and participate in the defenses. Over the past week, I’ve had three. It’s just that time of year.
  5. Launch four faculty searches to start in August. Let’s see, five faculty members and one graduate student for each committee, justification paperwork for central administration, selection of advertising venues.
  6. Go to Tbilisi, Georgia, to teach a doctoral seminar on academic writing and to lead a workshop on pedagogy.   Georgia, in case you don’t know, is next door to Ukraine and eight time zones away. You might question why I would do such a thing during my last month of full-time administration. Let me just say that I have asked myself this question many times.
  7. Clean my office and move to my new (smaller) office. It’s amazing how much paper a person can accumulate in the era of paperless digitation.

There’s more, but I’d rather not think about it right now.

As I wrote in my March 12 post “When Administration Duties Backslap You..” (https://carolpardun.com/2014/03/12/when-administrative-duties-backslap-you-on-both-sides-of-the-head/), it’s been one crazy semester that has just about done me in. But, as I look back, I’ve accomplished quite a lot, both as an administrator and in preparation for becoming a regular faculty member. I got word that both my papers for AEJMC (https://carolpardun.com/2014/04/01/hooray-for-writing-deadlines/)were accepted for presentation in August. I successfully completed the first course in the Data Scientist Specialization via Johns Hopkins and Coursera. (I’ve decided I need to read more about R and practice writing code more before I tackle the R Programming course. One more thing to add to my sabbatical list!) I successfully completed teaching two courses and three independent studies (https://carolpardun.com/2014/02/26/i-taught-all-day-today-and-it-was-okay/)  My teaching evaluations were solid. One student even suggested that I was a cool hippie back in the day. Whatever that means.

I helped my new administrative assistant adjust to her new job responsibilities. By the way, she is phenomenal. Every day at work, I marvel that such a qualified (and crazy young) professional found her way to our school.

We completed our search for our new Big Data assistant professor. The process continues because our choice is an international graduate student who has just completed his PhD. (Visas, work papers, spreadsheets, etc. It’s quite amazing what it takes to demonstrate to the government that there is not a U.S. citizen more qualified for the job.) He is excited about joining us, which makes me happy. I love seeing young scholars decide that the J-School at South Carolina is the place to launch a career.

The renovations for our new building began this semester. Our meetings with the architects, construction team, interior designers and technology consultants have taken up hours upon hours this semester, but the meetings have been worth it. The construction is underway and when I get back from My Year Away, I will be in an office on the third floor with two windows and a tremendous view. (Our school has been stuck in the basement of the coliseum—yes, a real coliseum—for years. No windows does things to people. Just sayin’.)

And then there’s all the other regular stuff that goes into running a journalism program with too many students, not enough faculty, and bare-bones staff support. Perhaps I didn’t always go about things in the most conventional ways, but I got the work done. So with apologies to Sinatra, “Yes, there were times, I’m sure you knew/When I bit off more than I could chew/But through it all, when there was doubt/I ate it up and spit it out/I faced it all and I stood tall and did it my way…The record shows I took the blows and did it my way!”

Okay, taking the blows, absolutely; however, a lot of times I didn’t really get to do things my way. (https://carolpardun.com/2014/01/25/when-the-one-speaks-for-the-many-and-other-oddities-about-faculty-governance/). Instead, it was often compromise, pleading, trying another angle, more compromise. But, still our school has made progress over the past six years. So that’s what I choose to remember.

Meanwhile, it’s 30 days to go. I can do that. And if it get’s too harried, I’ll just start humming a little Frank Sinatra. That ought to clear the office!


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Riding the Train and Taking a Sabbatical Is Statistically Significant

When I think about My Year Away (which starts in just under two months, but who’s counting?), I know I have to be strategic in order to return to the university with renewed vigor for teaching and research. How to do this? Is writing all day every day an option? Crunching data? Mining the literature?

If I’ve learned anything about being an effective scholar/teacher, it’s that I have to pace myself. Read, write, think, analyze, read some more, write some more, think, think, think. But not all day, every day. I’ve often found that if I do something else, I can solve problems and get ideas that will then help me get back on (insert train metaphor here) track.

When I wrote my dissertation 22 years ago, I did two things primarily to fuel my brain. First, I picked up pinecones in our front yard. Living in Atlanta at the time, we lived on a very woody lot. Let’s just say that the yard was pristine by the time I defended my dissertation (right on time I might add).

I also took piano lessons. I had taken lessons as a kid, but thought that the discipline of piano practice might help me keep a regular schedule for writing. It actually worked. I became a bit obsessed with Bach. My piano teacher insisted I (re)learn Bach’s Two-Part Inventions with the fingering that Bach used, which, just trust me, was bizarre. She even made me write a little piece of music “in the style of Bach.” (I’m not sure Bach would have approved of my effort, but I was kind of proud of it.)

I found these little exercises of discipline helpful. That’s why I’m already creating my list of things I might try during my sabbatical in order to keep chugging away at my research.

And that’s why I’m riding the train today.   I thought it might be fun to take a cross-country train trip during My Year Away. The idea would be to write and read along the way, see new sights, and come home with renewed vim and vigor. My husband was all for this trip, but reminded me that I am prone to extreme motion sickness. How prone? Let me put it this way. When we were shopping for our first sailboat, we went to a boat show in a convention center. On land. I boarded a boat (mounted on the concrete!) and proceeded to get seasick. Over the years, I’ve learned techniques for getting control of my motion sickness. When I sail in the ocean, I know how to grab the helm and stare at the far horizon before I blow. I know how to make sure I don’t fixate on the water while I’m rowing (sitting backwards while rowing presents some challenges). I still can’t use my reading glasses. And I only made it 15 minutes with Google Glass.

So my very smart husband suggested I “try” a train trip before we “buy” the long-haul (and expensive!) cross-country excursion. A business trip to DC seemed the perfect trial run. Ten hours on the train. Would I be able to read? Write?

Yes and no. I’m writing right now and it’s going pretty well, but I can tell that I’m starting to reach my limit. Horizon-gazing time! I’m not yet sure about whether the coast-to-coast trip is going to happen. But it’s still on the list. And here’s what else is on the list. (I reserve the right to add or subtract from the list at any time!)

  1. Rowing camp. I’ve been before and it’s always incredible. Rowing three times a day with coaches yelling at me through every stroke. I concentrate too hard (and I’m in too much pain, anyway!) to think of anything other than improving my rowing. I always return with renewed energy for the academic life after four days of intense rowing.
  2. Stand Up Comedy workshop. I think I’m pretty funny—but not necessarily when I have to plan it out. How in the world does someone write a joke, practice it for cryin’ out loud–and still deliver it funny?
  3. Grow English peas. Seriously. Peas are awesome.
  4. A cruise. I have resisted the cruise line industry for my whole life. My friend and academic soul sister, Kathy, on the other hand, loves cruises. I hate “shows.” I hate watching people eat copious amounts of food. I don’t gamble. I’ve sailed in the Caribbean on a real sailboat. (where you can really, truly experience the water and the islands.) Still, since I’m trying new things, Kathy and I have hatched a plan. We’ll get a room with an ocean-view balcony and sit out there and talk/write about our research in the mornings. Then we’ll do whatever we want in the afternoons.
  5. Play in the hand bell choir. I’ve never touched a hand bell. I don’t know a thing about them, other than I’m intrigued about how a group of people can stand there holding one or two bells, swing them back and forth periodically, and come out with a song that I sometimes recognize.
  6. More statistics courses. As I wrote about several months ago, I took a stats class from a Princeton professor via a MOOC. I loved it. I’ve just finished the first course in a Data Scientist specialization from Johns Hopkins. (Once I figured out how to set the lectures to regular speed rather than 1.5 speed, the instructors were a whole lot easier to understand.) I’m ready for the next course.

And maybe I’ll take a coast-to coast train trip with my husband. So far this current train trip is going well. I’ve only had a few moments when I thought I might get sick. I’ve been able to read (although not for hours) and as you can see, I am able to write.

One thing I’ve learned is that when I want to do something, I need to start planning for it now. That’s why, even though My Year Away doesn’t start for two months, I’ve already started doing some of the things on the list. They are helping me get ready for what I hope will be a very productive sabbatical.

So far, I’d say this planning ahead seems to be working. I’ve already gotten more done this semester than I would have thought possible. In addition to doing administration full time, I’ve written a lot, I’ve begun working on some research with colleagues, I’ve read more than I have in a long time, and I’ve been thinking.

I’ve got a lot to accomplish before July 1 (faculty annual reviews, lots of meetings about our new building, a business trip eight time zones away, just to name a few.)

I can see the light at the end of the tunnel. Full steam ahead. (And thus ends my train metaphors!)


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Joe Biden Is Our Commencement Speaker. Honestly, I Had Nothing to Do With This.

One of the least favorite things I’ve had to do as an administrator is talk to strangers on the phone, trying to explain things that aren’t my fault. I answer my own phone. I learned this from my dad, a former GE exec who answered his own phone. I always thought this was rather admirable. Until the other day.

Over the past six years, I’ve had phone calls from students asking me why they couldn’t get into a particular class (including students who aren’t even in the J-School!). I’ve had parents call me asking me why their high school student didn’t get a scholarship. I’ve had people from the community call me and ask me if I could edit their books. I’ve had compassionate community leaders ask me to help free innocent men from Death Row.  

But the other day, I got multiple calls from parents demanding (I’m using the nice word here) that I get them more tickets for graduation. It was just announced that Joe Biden would be our commencement speaker. Graduation occurs in a gargantuan arena, but apparently with extra security, the university has determined that only six tickets will be distributed to each student. One mother screamed at me. Another mother sobbed, begging me to do something.

For the record, I have absolutely nothing to do with who gets to speak at graduation.

Over the last several months, I’ve written about some of my least favorite things about administration. I don’t mind working hard. I don’t even always mind people expressing disappointment in my decisions, begging me to change my mind. But, these calls just about did me in. It was already a busy day.

A scheduled 90-minute meeting, discussing wiring for our new building (it’s mind-boggling how many decisions have to be made) became a three-hour meeting. I had to squeeze in reading an entire dissertation for a defense. Then I had to scramble to get ready for my three-hour doctoral seminar. And the second that class was over, I had to leap into the car and drive 150 miles to choir practice. (I know. An explanation for that will take an entire post.)

But these screaming episodes on the phone took the cake. Why were they calling me? Did they actually think I could do something? Or was I simply an easy target for a frustrated parent? It was kind of unnerving, actually.

For all would-be administrators out there, get ready. They don’t teach you this stuff in administrative school.

But, here’s the thing. Once the Biden brouhaha calmed down, I had a very productive rest of the week. I ripped through a mountain of paperwork. I answered untold faculty and staff questions. I solved problems.

My office has two doors and these last couple of days, someone was walking out one door while another person was walking in. And I loved it. I was making a difference. Truth is, I’m going to miss leading this journalism school. I’m not having second thoughts about stepping down. It’s time. But, I’m a bit melancholy about it.

Maybe Joe Biden will perk me up!


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Hooray for Writing Deadlines!

Anyone who is an academic in the field of journalism and mass communications knows how traumatic April 1 is. And I’m not talking about navigating the school newspaper that takes its First Amendment rights to places it probably shouldn’t go by publishing the April Fools Edition. Instead, April 1 is the deadline for paper submissions for the national conference of the Association for Education in Journalism and Mass Communication (AEJMC). Given budget realities in many universities, having a paper accepted for presentation is the only way to get funding to attend the conference—and even then, full funding is a distant memory for many.

At the J-School that I lead, I try to be supportive of all things AEJMC. As a former president of the organization, I have a sweet spot in my heart for this conference. I want my faculty there. I want other schools to see how successful our faculty and graduate students are with their research.

Therefore, I encourage any faculty member who has even the mildest legitimate reason to attend the conference.   I fund each faculty member at $1,200. It’s not unusual for us to have 15 or more instructors attend so it’s a lot of money. Some complain that it’s not enough. (I tell them to talk to some faculty at other universities and they might not feel so bad.)

But it’s not the money that brings me to my point today. It’s the stress of waiting to see if your paper is accepted. When I was a regular professor, I didn’t worry about this very much. I had lots of research in the pipeline and it was always fairly easy to whip something into shape that would be a sure bet for the conference.

But it’s different now. I’m a full-time administrator without a lot research time—especially this semester because I’m trying to finish up my administrative duties by tying up as many loose ends as possible and at the same time launch my “regular professor” life that begins on July 1 with My Year Away.

True, I can probably justify one more conference without a paper but I will need a legitimate reason next time. Since this is my transition year, I decided I might as well start experiencing the trauma just like everyone else.

I had to get a paper ready for April 1. I figured I better hedge my bets and get two papers ready. I needed a strategy. First, I called one of my long-ago research colleagues (who also happens to be a best friend, which makes it all the easier) and said “hey, let’s do a paper for AEJMC.” Even though she’s a provost with absolutely zero free time, she was in.

Second, I called a former graduate student who is in her first year as a tenure-track assistant professor. We had talked about doing some research together and she had a lot of unused data from her dissertation. Plus, the girl is a research machine. She, too, was in.

All this occurred in the fall when it seemed like there was lots of time to get this done. Then, of course, work got in the way of all our plans and we all found ourselves down to the last week with more work to do.

Today is April 1. Phew. Both papers are done and uploaded into the mysterious “All Academic” site that begins the blind review process.

I really didn’t want anyone to know that I was submitting papers because I didn’t want to deal with the humiliation of having to tell people if they were rejected. (And at least half of the submitted papers will, indeed, be rejected, so this is not a case of false humility.) But one reason I started this blog was to write what’s on my heart, to let people peek inside the life of an academic, to allow me a venue for working out my fears and joys about giving up administration and to head toward my sabbatical with my head in the right place. Somehow, owning up to insecurities about research, in my mind, is part of the process.

Plus, I wanted to publically declare that I love writing with these two academics: one a just-washed-behind-the ears assistant professor and one a senior academic with an awesome (the classic definition being “terrifying”) job. Social science research tends to be collaborative and I’m glad. I couldn’t have written these papers without them. I learned from them both. I was amazed at each of their strengths. The “young one” is a statistical whirling dervish (in the best sense of the word) and the “mature one” is a writing fiend.   She can spit out an elegant opening to a paper in about 30 seconds. I am second author on both of these papers and I couldn’t be prouder.

The academic life has some warts, no doubt. But, one of the best parts is sharing in the joys, the frustrations and, yes, the trepidation of rejection as we try to create new knowledge. We do this together. Full professors, brand-new assistant professors, graduate students. We might be at different places on the continuum of tenure, but as one of my favorite professors from graduate school said, “We are all colleagues-in-training.” Nothing like an April 1 deadline to remind us of that.


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When Administrative Duties Backslap You on Both Sides of the Head

According to the dictionary, “backslap” means to demonstrate “effusive goodwill.”  It seems strange to me that a word that sounds painful is such an ebullient word.  With 110 days left as an administrator, today I’m thinking about the times I’ve been backslapped while leading the journalism school at South Carolina.

I arrived at USC just in time to experience massive budget cuts.  Ouch. I kept a stiff upper lip and dealt with it.  Unfortunately, “dealing with it” meant cutting some staff positions.  At least I was able to say “Hey, it’s not you; it’s the economy.” Because this was a personnel issue, I couldn’t discuss the process with the faculty.  So very early in my tenure—after touting my commitment to transparency and faculty governance—the dean of the college and I had to make some tough decisions and then not talk publically about them.

Talk about baptism by fire!  To say that this made my first year tough would be an understatement.  I thought no matter how long I stayed at the university, I would always regard my first year as the toughest.

I was wrong.

Here’s how the current academic year has been going.  The semester began while I was still licking the wounds from my Aestas Miserabilis (roughly translated “Summer from Hell”).  I was still trying to figure out why the dean’s job I dearly wanted (and would have been perfect for, or so I thought) was shut down.  And I was still recovering from the surprise of outpatient surgery for melanoma. Truth be told, I got a little freaked out about it.  I look at the scar on my shoulder and still marvel at the bizarreness of it all.  Simply put,  these two events wore me down. I was ready for vacation and the semester hadn’t even started.

 Things had to get better.  Oops.  Wrong.

 Four weeks ago, my administrative assistant died.  Debbie was more than my personal secretary (that was a term that I never dared use in front of her!).  She was the administrative assistant for the entire school.  We are so short staffed that we don’t have room for redundancy.  So there were lots of things Debbie handled that no one else did.

 Debbie died in the middle of class scheduling.  Scheduling classes is a nightmare—even when everything is working.  It’s a balancing act between offering the classes that students need to graduate, trying to accommodate faculty requests (i.e. “I can’t teach before 9”), finding qualified adjuncts who are willing to teach for meager wages, figuring out which graduate students are ready to teach, finding available classrooms (we have so many students, we teach our classes all over the university), going to battle for the shared classrooms.  Once those challenges are met, the hassle really begins.  Everything has to be entered into a computer program just about  everybody hates.

 To complicate matters this semester, we are rolling out our new curriculum, so every old class has a new number and some of the new courses are using some of the old numbers.  (Don’t ask.)

 Debbie died on a Friday evening.  I got to work extra early that Monday because I couldn’t bear to look at her desk with anyone else around.  It was exactly as she had left things—chaos.  Evidence of frustration with the scheduling was everywhere.  I wept.

 I had a meeting that morning and I realized the toner cartridge for my printer was empty.  I went to our tech guy to ask him to put in the new toner because  “Debbie always did it for me—and I’m embarrassed that I don’t know how to do it.” And then I wept again.

 Debbie kept a basket of candy on her desk.  The basket was empty.  Students asked about the candy.  I didn’t know what to say other than “Debbie died.”  More tears.

 I lost a colleague and a friend.  But, I also lost an administrative assistant and the schedule deadline was looming.  I had no idea how to get the half-created schedule into the computer system, but I dove in anyway.  It wasn’t pretty.  A faculty colleague recognized my look of hopeless desperation  and asked if his wife, Susan, (who was between jobs) could come in and help me out.

 Susan didn’t know the software either.  But, she tackled it anyway.  She called people.  She kept calling people.  Thanks to her, we have an almost-completed schedule.

 Susan also cleared out all of Debbie’s personal belongings.  She boxed them up and gave them to Debbie’s family while I was at another meeting so I wouldn’t have to experience that.  She has organized everything so it is ready for the new administrative assistant who will start next week.

 So just when I think I’ve learned everything there is to know about administration, I can add at least two more things to my list.

  • Don’t think things can’t get worse.  They can.
  •  Learn more than your own job.  When something needs to get done—and there is no one else to do it—you have to do it.

The administrative hiring season is in full throttle.  As I observe this year’s list of candidates who are reaching for the next rung of the administrative ladder, I wonder if some of them really know what they’re getting into.

Sure, it’s great to be a visionary leader.  To see the big picture.  But, it’s what you do down in the weeds that can make or break you.  It’s been a tough six years for me at the University of South Carolina.  Really, not much has come easy.  But, even now, I can say that it’s been good.  Through it all, I’ve come to love this university.  It’s ripped out my heart a few times, but it’s also been a place where I have grown as an academic.

I’ve invested blood, sweat, and tears—tons of tears—into this job.  I’ve been backslapped—and not always in an “effusive goodwill” gesture.   But I’m pretty sure I’ll look back and say it was worth it.  With just a few months remaining until I begin My Year Away, I might be limping, but I’ll cross the finish line.


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I Taught All Day Today. And It Was Okay.

I don’t admit this always, but one of the reasons I was hesitant to give up administration was because I didn’t know how much I would like being in the classroom full time again.

Before I became a full-time administrator, I was a competent teacher, garnering excellent student evaluations and a handful of teaching awards. But as my research productivity increased, I started teaching fewer classes as my funded research “bought out” my teaching time. Sometimes people would ask me why I didn’t teach more since I was so good at it. I used to respond that teaching was a lot like fertilizer. You didn’t need very much to reap the full benefit.

Academics talk a lot about teaching load. A lighter teaching load is almost always considered the ideal. Even for those professors who love to teach.

So now here I am, getting ready to abandon administration. Since my scholarship is currently in a wee bit of a shambles, when I return to the faculty after My Year Away, I will not have any kind of teaching reduction. Sure, I’m at a flagship so that means just two courses a semester, but four classes a year feels like a lot to me. It’s been over a decade since I’ve taught a full load.

In this blog, I’ve been writing a lot about the things I’ve been doing to ready myself for my sabbatical including studying statistics, creating various research groups, reading a variety of books, etc. I also decided that sucking it up and teaching more right now would be a good idea as well.

This semester I’m teaching a doctoral seminar in pedagogy. I’m also overseeing three undergraduate independent studies—and just recently, I starting teaching a five-week course I created called Historical Milestones in American Advertising. On Tuesdays, I do it all—finishing the day with the three-hour doctoral seminar. It wears me out. But, it is also exhilarating. My ad students are amazing. We meet at 8:30 a.m. They are ready to go. Today we talked about the history of self-regulation in the advertising industry—a topic I wasn’t expecting them to embrace. But they did.

The doctoral students are simply fantastic. Today’s topic was technology in the classroom. We covered a lot of topics. (Princess Di’s funeral, The West Wing, MOOCs, Twitter, Blackboard, and this blog were just a handful of subjects we explored.) The three hours zipped by. (For me, anyway. You might have to check with my students to get their take on the afternoon!)

The good news is that I taught all day today. And, I did more than survive. I enjoyed it. I enjoyed preparing for class. I enjoyed being in class. I enjoyed my students, both undergrads and grads. And, maybe. most important of all, it felt normal. I’ve got a few months to go before I start my sabbatical, but I’m already beginning to see a glimmer of hope that spending my days as a teacher and a researcher are going to be good days. Maybe even great days.