Marathon over

I’m home and exhausted and happy after a very grueling but enjoyable race.  It was the slowest marathon of my life by far: 4:51.  (On the other hand, the winning time was in the 3:20s, by a fellow whom I know runs an hour or so faster than that on pavement.  I haven’t done a pavement marathon since Napa Valley in 2003, where I ran 3:30.)    I finished 57th out of 110, just missing my hoped-for target of "top half."  The quality of the trail running community in Southern California just keeps on getting better and better.  And Hugo keeps getting slower and slower.

For someone whose prior experiences in Orange County consisted of visits to Angels Stadium and coastal towns like Newport Beach, Huntington Beach, and Laguna Beach, the chance today to run in the Santa Ana mountains was a genuine thrill.   Gorgeous, rugged terrain; thousands of total feet of elevation change — and a great chance to see many different ecosystems.  My view of the OC is changed forever.

A quiet evening of rest lies ahead; regular blogging Monday.  And hurrah for my Golden Bears.

This is a very tired Hugo seconds after crossing the finish line.  Yes, I always run with a pencil in my hand.  (Click to enlarge.)Race_done

A note on Clinton

This afternoon, my beloved and I will drive down to San Juan Capistrano in Orange County, where we’ll spend the night before heading up before dawn to the Cleveland National Forest for the Saddleback Marathon.  (My fiancee will not be running, but is — very kindly — coming to the finish.)  I’m going to spend today eating and drinking lots of fluids….

Tomorrow is the Cal-Stanford Big Game.  Never in my memory has Cal been such an overwhelming favorite (24 points).  It’s a bit frightening, given the long history of upsets in this fine old rivalry.   We won’t be able to watch it on television, but shall listen to the radio broadcast on our drive back from the OC tomorrow afternoon….  (Note to Southland Old Blues:  the dulcet tones of Joe Starkey and the Cal Broadcast Crew can be found at 570 AM, KLAC).

I have eagerly read several articles about the dedication of the Clinton Library.  Several years ago, I sent a small amount of money to the project, just as I had given small amounts to the Clinton Legal Defense Fund in the late 1990s.

I’ve always loved Bill Clinton.  I loved him when he inspired me; I loved him when he disappointed me.  I loved him for his optimism, his dexterity, his raw intelligence, and what I saw — and still see — as his deep compassion.  (I bought his autobiography two days after it came out, and though I admit I have NOT read it cover to cover — who has — I have read quite a bit with real interest). I am not blind to his flaws, and I don’t idolize him.  I certainly don’t see him as a role model any longer, though I confess that when I was a bit younger and more impulsive, I did.  I am aware that he did much to weaken the Democratic Party.  In at least some small way, his shortcomings helped create an America where the presidency and both houses of Congress are in Republican hands.  And yet… and yet.

Am I the only one who sees a fundamental goodness and decency in the man?  Reading the Times account of his remarks, I said "amen, Bill" when I got to this part:

He said  he was probably the only person in America who liked both President George W. Bush and

Senator John Kerry, his Democratic challenger. He said they were both "good people" who "just see the world differently."

Well, I haven’t met either Kerry or Bush, but I heartily echo Clinton’s sentiment.  It’s that generosity of spirit that I think is so characteristic of this immensely talented, immensely likeable, immensely decent and yes, immensely flawed man.  Never before had I taken such an instant like to a politician as I did to him, and as I grow older, I doubt I ever will.

One thing I will say for Bush pere et fils: they too have that certain generosity of spirit that I find quite winning.  Their remarks at yesterday’s dedication were not merely kind, but heartfelt  Of course, if they really do think Clinton is to blame for the collapse of the Democratic party, it’s not hard to understand the source of their warmth for the 42nd president!

I do think we shall have to make a trip to Arkansas soon.  I must see if there is a marathon of sorts in Little Rock.

Annika has put up some Clinton limericks; I have added a few of my own.

The myth of a “Free Speech past”

The Courier published my moderately intemperate letter of earlier this week, and provided a response here. (Scroll down).  I’m not going to enter into a public debate with PCC students — not because I think it beneath me, but because I do think it my job, as a PCC professor, to recognize that I have an obligation to  refrain from public criticism of what young and inexperienced journalists are trying to accomplish.  I’m not trying to patronize, just honoring the "learning curve."

One small quibble with the Courier’s response.  They write:

College campuses in general used to be places where all ideas and concepts could be discussed openly and rationally.

I’ve seen this myth in print many times before.  Actually, there has never been a time — certainly not in the 60s and 70s — when free speech was enjoyed without limits.   True, administrations have become more tolerant of dissent in the last forty years (since the Free Speech Movement at my alma mater.)  But that toleration was never universal.  Since the 1960s, we have moved from a concern with protecting the comfort of the majority to protecting the dignity of the minority, and frankly, I think that’s been progress. (Many of my conservative friends might disagree about how much progress campus speech codes really represent, but that’s another post.)   But no one can point to a moment in American academia when free speech on every imaginable subject was enjoyed without restriction!

But I’ve said my piece.  I stand by the letter as it was written, though I do think my tone might have been more charitable.  When addressing students, one should always be mindful of the opportunity for a "teaching moment" — my anger blinded me to that.

Youth group and “the weight of the world”

I was struck by this Naomi Schaefer-Riley piece, found at National Review Online.  Entitled "The Weight of the World", it describes Schaefer-Riley’s fellow volunteers in a New York City Big Brothers/Big Sisters program.  Noting that she is the only conservative among these volunteers (and that is certainly telling), she bemoans the tendency of her fellow mentors to impose their own political beliefs on the youngsters with whom they work:

…liberals have been transformed of late. And so has the way they interact with children. Now their language is filled hate and fear, and ultimately a total loss of perspective on the lives we are lucky enough to lead in America. I have no problem helping children understand that politics is serious business, that voting is important, and that whom we vote for could have a real effect on the future of the country. But the message seeping through to impressionable children is that darkness has descended on this land, that our freedom will all be gone soon, that people are being sent off to the slaughterhouse against their will, and that anywhere else in the world must be better.

Talking to my "little sister," Janice (I’ve changed her name), who recently started paying more attention to politics, I’ve realized how much misinformation she receives on a daily basis not only from her classmates, but from neighbors, relatives, and even her teachers. She has told me several times that Republicans don’t like poor people or black people, that they want to keep them from getting a good education or a decent place to live. She was even convinced that if George Bush got his way and she went to the emergency room, she wouldn’t be able to see a doctor.

But I think we reached a new level recently. In the back of a taxi the other day, I was stunned when she told me President Bush wanted to draft kids as young as ten years old to send them off to die in Iraq; that Bush and Cheney are only at war because they will personally make money off of oil in the Middle East; that since everyone in the world now hates America, we’ll be bombed again very soon, probably with a nuclear weapon. And it will all be the fault of Republicans. Janice announced proudly that 95 percent of her Catholic school in Brooklyn voted for Kerry in their mock election.

Schaefer-Riley is on to something.  Of course, I know plenty of traditionalist Christians who saddle youngsters with "way too much information".  I’ve been to more than one anti-abortion rally where I’ve seen kids barely old enough to stand holding pictures of terminated fetuses while their elders march and yell and chant.   It’s not clear to me that they need to know the details of how abortions are performed at age eight, anymore than ten-year old kids in liberal churches need to watch videotapes of Marines executing unarmed prisoners of war.

Of course, none of this is new.  My parents pushed my baby carriage in anti-Vietnam war marches in 1968.  My mother told me — when I was three — that if the Vietnam war was still going on when I was 18, she would send me to Canada.  (Not a moment I remember, but my mother has mentioned it often.)  As a slightly older child, I remember hearing my parents and their friends talk about President Nixon with a scowl.  I could pick up on the distaste that every adult in my childhood had for the man, even if I had no concrete idea as to why it was they loathed him so.  (At six, I started hearing about "Watergate".  I imagined a large moat around a castle — the sort I saw in my story books — and a huge gate in the middle of the moat to control the flow of water.  Wicked Nixon had done something to this gate, though I wasn’t sure what.  Even now, that childish image comes into my head when someone mentions that old scandal.)

I’ve talked with some of my friends who grew up in religiously conservative families.  They have similar memories of adults imposing their world views upon them.  (One of my friends grew up believing, thanks to her parents’ oft-vocalized fears, that all black men wanted to look up her skirt and all men with long hair wanted to put her in a van and take her to where black men would look up her skirt.  Oh, and Jimmy Carter wanted all boys to wear dresses.  These were articles of faith in her household.)  The point is, what Schaefer-Riley bemoans is a bad habit that almost all parents — and youth workers — have: the desire to mold the weltansschauungen of the young and impressionable.  She’s right about its deleterious effects; wrong to ascribe it only to those of us on the left bank of American life.

I do think adults should talk to their children about politics.  But I also think we must do everything  we can to avoid transmitting our anger and our fear to the very young.  Even with adolescents, I think we must temper our own anxieties and disappointments.  Kids — be they five or fifteen — have enough about which to be uncertain. 

Two Wednesdays ago (the "day after"), we had a terrific time at youth group.  Many of the kids expressed real disappointment in the Kerry defeat, and we let them do so.  I could tell that at least one of the other volunteer youth leaders was positively despondent, and was eager to spend the evening rehashing the election with the kids.  (The kids wanted to play games and talk about other things.)  Fortunately, we had other stuff planned.  I made an extra effort to project enthusiasm and calm, making certain that no trace of despair or sorrow was visible on my face.  Win or lose, we who work with children must make every effort to shield them from our own doubts and fears about the state of the world.  Kids are not our therapy.  They also aren’t made of moldable clay.  We would all do well to remember that.

Thursday short poem: Auden’s The Common Life

I’ve always loved Auden, enough to post one of my favorites today, even if it’s a "longer" one.  Written for his beloved life partner, Chester Kallmann, it’s as good as any I’ve ever read on what it means to build a life and a home with someone.  God knows, I’ve recited the closing lines to myself countless times.

The Common Life
   
     A living-room, the catholic area you
     (Thou, rather) and I may enter
     without knocking, leave without a bow, confronts
     each visitor with a style,

     a secular faith: he compares its dogmas
     with his, and decides whether
     he would like to see more of us. (Spotless rooms
     where nothing’s left lying about

     chill me, so do cups used for ash-trays or smeared
     with lip-stick: the homes I warm to,
     though seldom wealthy, always convey a feeling
     of bills being promptly settled

     with cheques that don’t bounce.) There’s no We at an instant,
     only Thou and I, two regions
     of protestant being which nowhere overlap:
     a room is too small, therefore,

     if its occupants cannot forget at will
     that they are not alone, too big
     if it gives them any excuse in a quarrel
     for raising their voices
. What,

     quizzing ours, would Sherlock Holmes infer? Plainly,
     ours is a sitting culture
     in a generation which prefers comfort
     (or is forced to prefer it)

     to command, would rather incline its buttocks
     on a well-upholstered chair
     than the burly back of a slave: a quick glance
     at book-titles would tell him

     that we belong to the clerisy and spend much
     on our food. But could he read
     what our prayers and jokes are about, what creatures
     frighten us most, or what names

     head our roll-call of persons we would least like
     to go to bed with? What draws
     singular lives together in the first place,
     loneliness, lust, ambition,

     or mere convenience, is obvious, why they drop
     or murder one another
     clear enough: how they create, though, a common world
     between them, like Bombelli’s

     impossible yet useful numbers, no one
     has yet explained. Still, they do
     manage to forgive impossible behavior,
     to endure by some miracle

     conversational tics and larval habits
     without wincing (were you to die,
     I should miss yours). It’s a wonder that neither
     has been butchered by accident,

     or, as lots have, silently vanished into
     History’s criminal noise
     unmourned for, but that, after twenty-four years,
     we should sit here in Austria

     as cater-cousins, under the glassy look
     of a Naples Bambino,
     the portrayed regards of Strauss and Stravinsky,
     doing British cross-word puzzles,

     is very odd indeed. I’m glad the builder gave
     our common-room small windows
     through which no observed outsider can observe us:
     every home should be a fortress,

     equipped with all the very latest engines
     for keeping Nature at bay,
     versed in all ancient magic, the arts of quelling
     the Dark Lord and his hungry

     animivorous chimaeras. (Any brute
     can buy a machine in a shop,
     but the sacred spells are secret to the kind,
     and if power is what we wish

     they won’t work.) The ogre will come in any case:
     so Joyce has warned us
. Howbeit,
     fasting or feasting, we both know this: without
     the Spirit we die, but life

     without the Letter is in the worst of taste,
     and always, though truth and love
     can never really differ, when they seem to,
     the subaltern should be truth.

I hope I am forgiven for taking my favorite lines and placing them in bold — they are the sort that I recite at the oddest times, while driving in the car or running up a mountain or stuck in the check-out line at Gelson’s.  Poetry is a comfort.

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Tapering to Saturday

Normally at this point on a Wednesday afternoon, I would be racing home; instead, I am sitting in my office, making my way through a huge stack of journals.    My last Wednesday class lets out at a quarter to three.  That gives me enough time to head home, quickly change, and head to the gym.  After some lifting, I’m customarily off to the Arroyo Seco for a quick trail run.   Then, it would be home again for a quick shower before heading off to Wednesday night youth group.  (On a few occasions, I’ve gone in my workout clothes, still sweaty — but that is not pleasant for my beloved teenage charges.)

But today, I’m on taper,  with the Saddleback Marathon coming up on Saturday.  When I first started doing marathons, I hated tapering.  It seemed so counter-intuitive to rest so much.  After all, I initially approached running the way I approached my studies — increase the intensity of the work the closer one gets to the exam! For my first few marathons, I found it very anxiety-producing to rest so much in the days leading up to a long race.  I imagined that I was gaining weight, losing muscle, watching my fitness slip away.  Resting before a race is exactly what you think you ought NOT to do.  (In Hugo’s world, athletic anxiety and vanity are closely linked.)

These days, I’m far more sanguine.  I’ve found you really can’t rest enough in the final five or six days before a marathon or a 50K.  I’ve learned to enjoy the extra free time, to enjoy indulging my body in a respite from its normally disciplined routine.   Since the marathon is Saturday, light carbo-loading starts tonight.  Experience has taught me that the most important day to eat carbs is two days before the race.  I’ll eat a great deal tomorrow, and then more modestly on Friday.  The morning of the race, I’ll have a bagel and a banana, and a small amount of sugar (like a single bite of doughnut).   Other runners have had different experiences; everyone needs to discover what works for them by trial and error.  One thing I learned from my last 50K, however: don’t fly trans-atlantically 36 hours before a major race!

I’m excited about this race — it bills itself as a tough one, and I like difficult, hilly courses.  Part of that is ego, of course: one likes to say one has run the "toughest marathon in California", or (as I did a couple of years ago) the "world’s toughest half-marathon."  Some of it is also a desire not to worry about running a certain time.  I’m quite confident I’ll never break my best marathon time of 3:13 (run in 1999), so I might as well concentrate on running over more arduous terrain.  Stamina, I find, increases with age just as speed declines.  Thus my desire to "bump up" to ultramarathons over the next few years…

Here’s a map of the Saddleback course with elevation points.   And send some congrats to Jen Lemen’s husband Dave, who "broke his maiden" and ran the Richmond Marathon this weekend.

Look for one of my favorite poems tomorrow on Short Poem Thursday …

More on perversion

I do appreciate the very interesting discussion in the comments section below my Appalling and Perverted post of yesterday.  I am challenged, provoked, disheartened, and encouraged — all at once. 

Honestly, I’m still not entirely sure why it is that I responded with such visceral anger to the use of the word "perverted."  Some of it is based upon my work in gender studies, of course, and as a sympathetic fellow traveller with the LGBTQ movement.  But clearly, the whole issue touched something deeper inside of me.

As an undergrad at Cal, years ago, I wrote a long paper in a senior seminar on the history of gay bathhouses.  (I kid you not.  Alas, I can’t find the paper; I typed it on a manual typewriter back in the fall of 1987.)  The course was a course on the history of plague; the instructor was especially interested in the ways in which certain minority groups are invariably scapegoated when pandemics occur.  (One of my classmates wrote a superb paper on Chinese immigrants and typhoid; I wrote about gay men, bathhouses, and AIDS.)

No, I never visited a bathhouse for research purposes!  But in addition to library work, I did some interviews.  Perhaps it was the rebelliousness of being 20, but I became convinced that even the bathhouse "scene" had its healthy and redemptive qualities.  I wish I still had the paper, but I recall that at the end of a long treatise on the history of bathhouses, I noted both the importance of safer sex practices as well as the potentially positive and uplifiting aspects of anonymous sex.  Yes, I was pushing the envelope.  Yes, I was reaching.  Even then, part of me thought I was "full of it" — but part of me genuinely believed that there were good and healthy aspects to this culture of promiscuity.  (Mostly revolving around notions of radical acceptance and so forth.)  A small part of Hugo still believes this, even as I also believe that God only calls us to sexual expression in the context of a loving, committed relationship with one other human being. 

Sigh.  I wonder if I’m not getting too old,  at 37, to still hold — simultaneously and with equal conviction — irreconciliable positions on such profound matters!

What does this have to do with my blast at the Courier?  Perhaps, as Jenell gently pointed out, I haven’t integrated my faith and my gender work as much as I had imagined.  Almost 20 years of gender studies work, and I still have an adolescent self-righteousness — mixed with the rebellious desire to defend the indefensible!  At times, I can be calm and rational, as I would like to think I was in my posts in the aftermath of the bitterly disappointing election of a fortnight ago.  At other times — especially when it comes to certain issues touching on the behavior of sexual minority groups — I become irrationally defensive.

I don’t think that defensiveness is helpful to my students or the causes I so passionately support.

Mind you, I still think that the Courier article was poorly written, open to misinterpretation, and border-line homophobic.  I still think that because of its history, the word "perverted" has no place in a college paper in any context.  But I’ve been humbled by having my own self-righteousness exposed.  I still have some serious reflecting to do on this issue. 

Until I’ve done a bit more reflecting, I think I’m going to hold off on sending any more letters-to-editors.  I’ll also not be pontificating about gay sexuality here for a while!

Commenters — thank you for helping me see where I may be right, where I may be wrong, and where I still need to grow.

“Appalling and perverted”

The article in the Pasadena City College Courier seemed innocuous enough: Vandalism Takes on New Look.  I read it at lunch yesterday with only half of my attention, until I came to the following:

Perhaps the most appalling and perverted form of vandalism was a recent report of male students drilling peepholes with electric drills into restroom partition walls. These holes, which are conducive to the insertion of the male genital anatomy, are known in the underground fetish world as "glory holes." While one male utilizes the peephole, a willing participant in the next stall performs oral favors.

Faci lities Director Richard Van Pelt said, "The situation kept repeating itself in certain stalls on campus. Apparently this is not unique to PCC; it occurs at other institutions as well." In order to protect against this destructive and perverted behavior, extremely strong and durable stainless steal partitions were installed in the problem stalls.

Far be it from me to defend those who vandalize our sacred campus property.  Destructive?  Of course.  Appalling?  A bit of a rhetorical reach, but the sort of overkill one might expect in a college paper.  Perverted, used twice?  Pure, undistilled, bigotry.  (I could also quibble with the characterization of these glory holes as characteristic of a "fetish world" — most folks in the community use "fetish" in a different sense, but I’ll let that pass.)

I have fired off the following missive to the editor of the paper:

Dear editor:

I am writing to express my profound anger and dismay at a phrase employed by Micah Flores in his article entitled "Vandalism Takes on a New Look" in your November 12 edition.

Writing about "glory holes", Flores chose the following words:

"In order to protect against this destructive and perverted behavior, extremely strong and stainless steal (sic) partitions were installed…"

I will not defend the destruction of property.  But to characterize consensual sex behavior as "perverted" is to employ the language of hate and intolerance .  It has absolutely no place in a college newspaper.  Flores could have condemned the damaging of bathroom partitions without condemning the motives for that damage.  He chose not to, and wittingly or no, chose one of the ugliest of slurs to attack the gay and lesbian community.

Had Flores merely used the word "destructive", his point would have been made.  But by using the inflammatory and hate-filled "perverted", he turned an otherwise innocuous article on vandalism into an ugly attack on our most vulnerable minority group.

I ask the Courier to issue an  immediate apology to the gay and lesbian community on campus.

We’ll see what comes of it.   We have a very small and relatively quiet GLBTQ student group (the "Rainbow Alliance"), and they have many battles to fight and not many weapons to fight them with.  They shouldn’t have to respond to this sort of thing alone. 

I don’t know if many hetero folks truly understand the power of the word "pervert".  Since the early 20th-century, when it replaced "invert" as an epithet of choice for LGBTQ folk, it has taken its place alongside "faggot" as one of the ugliest of terms in the anti-gay and lesbian arsenal.  Even if one were to defend the article by suggesting that only anonymous restroom sex was being labelled "perverted" (rather than all forms of male-male sex), the hate-filled history of the word makes it impossible to use in an objective context.

Note:  You can submit your own comments to the Courier here.

Or have I overreacted?

Playboy, responsibility, and prolonged adolescence

Taking  a brief break from grading to summarize my lecture today:

In my men and masculinity class an hour or two ago, I lectured on the advent of Playboy magazine in 1953.  I always put Playboy in the following context:  it made its appearance at a time when the “greatest generation” (those who fought the Second World War) were turning 30.  Men who had fought the Germans and the Japanese at 18, 19, or 20 were now husbands and fathers; they had gone to college on the GI Bill or taken jobs in the expanding economy.  They had transitioned from boyhood to service to nation to service to family without any real “time off” for themselves.

Though he came from a far more privileged background than most of his fellow warriors, I always use the example of former President GHW Bush.  He survived being shot down in the Pacific, returned home to Barbara and immediately started a family.  The former president fathered the current president a month after his 22nd birthday; countless veterans became husbands and fathers at similar ages.  In a sense, they imagined themselves ready for the responsibility of family because they had already borne such tremendous burdens in wartime.  How could they worry about “sowing more wild oats”, when they had watched friends die all around them?  These men were boys for only a moment — and then they were men, ready to rebuild (and repopulate) the world.

Playboy’s title is no accident: “Play/Boy”.  “Play” is the antonym of work and responsibility, just as boy is the antonym of “man.”   Hugh Hefner’s philosophy was a radical redefinition of masculinity.  He made it clear that he believed — and still believes — in a “masculine right to pleasure”.   The sacrifices his generation had made had earned them the right to “play” as it were — or, at the least, fantasize about “playing.”  Hefner surmised, correctly, that the men of his generation were, for all their youthful heroism, over-burdened by duty.  If only for a little while, the Playboy fantasy could help them slip that weight from their shoulders.  (Barbara Ehrenreich’s Hearts of Men: American Dreams and the Flight from Commitment was a key component here.) 

Men of George W. Bush (and Bill Clinton’s) generation hit adolescence in a culture in which Playboy and its imitators were increasingly visible and increasingly accessible, if not entirely accepted.  Young men of the “baby boom” era saw the sacrifices their father’s generation had made, and recognized quickly that among the many things their fathers had given up was the opportunity to prolong adolescence into their twenties and beyond.  The feminist movement and the increased access to birth control meant that these baby boomer boys could also expect to have access to women’s bodies as their father’s generation could never have hoped to have. 

As a result, boomer men either got married later or at least postponed having children.  The current president Bush did not have children until he was 36; Clinton until he was 34.   And compared to their father’s generation, both prolonged their adolescence well past what nature required — Clinton may still be in it, and Bush remained in “party mode” until he was born again at 40.   In different ways, these two most recent of our presidents lived out the Playboy philosophy with which they were raised.

The lecture tends to go over well.  We have some quibbles over whether Playboy is “porn” or not, but for the most part, the students seem to get it.  I usually try and close by asking them to think about the proliferation of films about World War Two that have appeared in the past decade.  I’ve argued for years that our love of these films (Saving Private Ryan being the prime example) has to do with our wistfulness about a lost masculine culture, a culture of premature sacrifice and early manhood, a culture where men accepted responsibility and met their commitments gladly and without complaint.

Sweeping over-generalizations to be sure, but plenty to chew on nonetheless.

 

Letters of rec and the “Lake Wobegon” effect

I don’t have much time for posting today, as I swamped with journals to grade and letters of recommendation to write.  It is that time of year again — transfer applications are coming due.

I write perhaps thirty to fifty letters of recommendation a year.  I get more requests than that, mind you.  About a third of the folks I get requests from are students who have earned Bs or Cs in my classes, who have never come to see me in office hours, and about whom I know absolutely nothing other than that their work is competent.  I always tell these students — gently — that I don’t inflate their capabilities for the purpose of a letter, and thus will only be able to state some basic facts.  Indeed, I’ve been forced to write the following:

Mary McGillicuddy took my History X class in the fall of 2002.  She received a grade of C on her midterm, her term paper, and her final.  My records indicate that her attendance was regular. If you have any questions in regards to Ms. McGillicuddy, please do not hesitate to contact me.

I honestly am left without anything else to say!  I teach seven classes a semester (not counting intersessions); I have over 750 students a year.  Of those, only a small number will make the effort to have contact with me.  Relatively few will come in and talk about their ambitions, their goals, their ideas, their doubts, and so forth.

It’s immensely tempting to “inflate” letters of rec, just as it is tempting to “inflate” grades.  I have a colleague who has a template for letters of rec saved on his computer; he simply punches in the name of whichever student requests a letter, and a near-identical form is spit out.  (He has one for his “A” students; one for his “B” students — and he won’t write them for students who get grades below that.)  I’ve seen his “A” letter.  His template announces that every student is “unique”, “remarkable”, and (I love this), “well-positioned to become an exceptional scholar at X college.”  I haven’t stooped that low yet, but with the demand being what it is, it sure is tempting.

I’ve heard this tendency to inflate called the “Lake Wobegon” effect, after Garrison Keillor’s famous fictional Wisconsin town where “all the men are good-looking and all the children are above average.”

For my “A” students, I try and craft the letters in such a way so that the reader will see clearly that I am NOT using a template.  I also know that if I consistently inflate my comments (by making every student “outstanding”, “remarkable”, and “unusually promising”), the value of my recommendations will decline considerably.   For example, as much as it hurts my heart to do so, I write 10-15 letters to USC alone every year.  Over the course of my career, if I continually over-estimate my students’ abilities, the folks at ‘SC aren’t going to give me much credence when I do write about a genuinely terrific candidate for admission.

For that reason, I always try and rank my students in my letters.  On those rare occasions when I am able to say that “Joanie Jetson ranked among the best students in the class”, I’ve said something that I think is more meaningful.  To be “excellent” and “outstanding” means, of course, to “excell” compared to others and to “stand out” from one’s competition.  Thus I always think it helpful to make at least some remark as to where my student ranks.  If a C student still wants a letter from me, I comply with something along the following lines:

Ms. Jetson showed no less ability than the majority of her classmates.

Yup, I actually said exactly that recently.

To my current and former students who read this blog, take comfort in the fact that my praise is genuine.

Back to the letters.