I’m reading a book in which the main character finds herself in a relationship with a professor. She describes him as someone set in his opinions, confident his is the only way to view the world, sure that his purchase of organic vegetables and theorizing about child slave labour in Africa are models for her and everyone around him to follow. His eyes shadow over with disappointment when she doesn’t enjoy the art he exposes her to; his friends over-complicate useless conversation topics.
This book crystallized, for me, blobby thoughts that have drifted through my head over the last six years. In many ways, I am that girl. Aside from having dated a string of former-Catholics-turned-philosophers-slash-musicians (who said I didn’t have a type?), I am the girl who side-steps dead-end analysis and over-thinking my subject matter.
The clearest manifestation of that is my decision to stop applying for professor jobs this year. After six years of mailing out 70-page applications and never even getting an interview, I figured I shot myself in the foot (and head) by studying Canadian country and decided to drop out of the field. I know, I still teach. This announcement might also be unfortunate in that I still edit a publication for an academic organization. But I see what’s in front of me, and I never liked being an academic anyway, so I’m moving on, taking the pieces of it that I like (writing and research) and leaving behind those that I don’t. I’ve said more about the employment situation faced by university instructors elsewhere, so I won’t bother with it again here.
Though I’ll temporarily bring up the argument that university music classes are of use; even if you don’t think people need to learn about music, I’ll tell ya, it isn’t taught in a vacuum. Students will at least learn that the Civil War era and the Civil Rights Movement happened a century apart. (I hope.) Or that Bach probably didn’t hang out with Napoleon. Or that when you use the possessive, you employ the apostrophe.
By the way, I’m having a funeral for the apostrophe next Sunday; you’re all invited. No, sorry, youre all invited. Aside from musical taste, the one area where I see the shift in student generations is in grammar mistakes. The texting generation is now officially entering adulthood. These are kids who did not live when there was no internet
And who grew up typing their life out to friends on a phone, never worrying if an apostrophe had to be inserted, because the phone would probably figure it out. Luckily, there are those that still reserve the apostrophe for special occasions, such as making something plural. I find these shifts in language use pretty interesting … maybe in five years the apostrophe will be a silly thing of the past, used in the “olden days”.
It always bugged me that the system was designed to make me feel stupid. Instead of going to classes and conferences and asking about things I didn’t understand, which is the natural thing to do, I found the expectation was that everyone nodded as if they knew what was going on, then went home fretted about it, and got up at 5:30 the next morning to catch up on their reading. Official diagnoses of this institutional enforcement of fearing one’s own stupidity included conditions like Imposter Syndrome.
So onward I go, doing what I have already done, which is trying to take subjects I find interesting and generate discussion about them in a language that non-academics (and many academics) would prefer to use. This may come as great relief to my mother, who used to say, “Why do you analyze music so much? Why can’t you just enjoy it? You’re going to ruin the experience.” I was actually just doing what came naturally: 1) hearing things in music other than the lyrics. I never hear lyrics; I always pay attention to the other stuff; and 2) writing about it. It’s just what I am able to do. If had the same talent for making cookies (actually, I totally do. I’d be a baker if it didn’t mean getting my friends and co-workers on to Biggest Loser Canada), or making shoelaces, then I would do those things instead.
This decision frees me to enjoy music and not wonder why. There ain’t no self-reflection going on when I listen to metal. I have no idea why I like it. I just do. If someone else wants to figure that out, then go ahead. It also allows me to not listen to music at home, something I never do anyway, and not be faced with the accusation that because music is my work, then it is obviously my passion (wtf is that?) and if I don’t listen to it at home, then I’ve obviously ruined what could have been a good hobby. Instead I can read or go to ballet class or just sit at home and get stoned; all good hobbies that have nothing to do with music.
When I do listen to music, I can like Justin Timberlake. And not have to explain it or apologize for it.
Ok, seriously, who came up with a movie that has both cats and Justin Timberlake in it? Coen brothers, you have been infiltrating my dreams:
In all seriousness, I think it’s important for us to step back from analysis, maybe a tall order on a website dedicated to discussing music at length. What I like about No Depression, though, is that these are normal conversations, rooted in taste and natural excitement about favourite musicians. Within that context, we can bring up interesting topics and engage in healthy debate without over-thinking any one topic. I guess that’s my way of saying happy holidays to my ND friends. Don’t think too much about your playlist of Christmas carols.
