Lived Experiences of Women in Academia: Metaphors, Manifestos and Memoir 9781138551121, 9781315147444

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Lived Experiences of Women in Academia

Lived Experiences of Women in Academia shares meaningful stories of women working in the academy, from numerous disciplines, backgrounds and countries, to unveil the complex and distinct dimensionalities they experience in their life and work. Chapters are written using a range of responsive, personal and aesthetic techniques, including metaphor, manifestos and memoir, with reflections inspired by textiles, online blogs and forums, theatre, creative writing, fiction and popular culture. They engage with themes and ideas including gender roles, family-making, work–life balance, motherhood, institutional violence and harassment and the self and identity, revealing how these uniquely manifest for women in academia. This collection takes account of the experiences of female academics from previous decades and the experiences of those to come, as well as those outside the academic system entirely. Lived Experiences of Women in Academia aims to liberate thinking around the life of a female academic through collaborative storytelling and discussion, to encourage new conversations and connections between women in academia across the globe. Alison L. Black is a narrative researcher and early childhood educator. Her arts-based research and scholarly work seeks to foster connectedness, community, wellbeing and meaning-making through the building of reflective and creative lives and identities. Ali is interested in storied and visual approaches for dismantling personal/professional binaries and representing lives. Her research and writing is concerned with the power and impact of collaborative and relational knowledge construction. Susanne Garvis is Professor of Child and Youth Studies in the Department of Education, Communication and Learning, University of Gothenburg. Her focus is the field of early childhood education. Susanne has been involved in Australian, European and international research projects and is the current organizer of the Nordic Early Childhood Systems Approach Research Group.

Lived Experiences of Women in Academia Metaphors, Manifestos and Memoir Edited by Alison L. Black and Susanne Garvis

First published 2018 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN and by Routledge 711 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10017 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2018 selection and editorial matter, Alison L. Black and Susanne Garvis; individual chapters, the contributors The right of Alison L. Black and Susanne Garvis to be identified as the authors of the editorial material, and of the authors for their individual chapters, has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data A catalog record for this book has been requested ISBN: 978-1-138-55112-1 (hbk) ISBN: 978-1-315-14744-4 (ebk) Typeset in Times New Roman by Apex CoVantage, LLC

Contents

ContentsContents

List of figuresviii List of contributorsix Prefacexiv   1 Uncreatively writing women’s lives in academia

1

EVE MAYES

  2 Mothers, scholars and feminists: inside and outside the Australian academic system

13

PETRA BUESKENS AND KIM TOFFOLETTI

  3 The lecturer’s new clothes: an academic life, in textiles

23

FRANCES KELLY

  4 You’re doctor what? Challenges for creative arts research in a culture of binaries

32

CORINNA DI NIRO AND AMELIA WALKER

  5 “Going to see”: an academic woman researching her own kind

45

BARBARA GRANT

  6 ‘If these walls could talk’: looking in, walking out, and reimagining a broken system

55

RACHAEL DWYER AND LIBBY FLYNN

  7 Motherhood and academia: a story of bodily fluids and going with the flow AGNES BOSANQUET

65

vi  Contents   8 Taking a trip through and with the sisterhood of the Global South: storying our experiences as female academics in Indonesia and Australia

76

SITI MUFLICHAH, DEWI ANDRIANI, AND ELIZABETH MACKINLAY

  9 In the spirit of shared solidarity: women in academia and transformation

87

JENNIFER MAYS

10 Playing in the corridors of academia

98

EVA NISLEV AND MELISSA CAIN

11 An academic career: looking back and looking forward

109

JO ANN WALTON

12 Identity and inclusion in academia: voices of migrant women

119

EMSIE ARNOLDI AND RACHELLE BOSUA

13 Trauma in the academy

130

ANONYMOUS

14 A woman in academia: . . . and what about the children?

140

LIVIA HOLDEN

15 Not a matter of will: a narrative and cross-cultural exploration of maternal ambivalence

152

MELISSA BURCHARD AND KEYA MAITRA

16 Being a mother, becoming a university teacher: traversing the terrain to knowing oneself

161

ROSIE BRUCE

17 Metaphors for women’s experiences of early career academia: Buffy, Alice, and Frankenstein’s creature DEBORAH M. NETOLICKY, NAOMI BARNES, AND AMANDA HEFFERNAN

171

Contents vii 18 The double life of a casual academic

181

GAIL CRIMMINS

Afterword190 Index193

Figures

List of figuresList of figures

1 4.1 Gold Coast (ink drawing by Lian Neha Holden)  14.2 Lahore (ink drawing by Lian Neha Holden) 14.3 Gilgit Baltistan (ink drawing by Lian Neha Holden)

142 146 147

Contributors

ContributorsContributors

Dewi Andriani started to pursue further studies as a mature age student in a Master of Educational Studies program. She is now a PhD student in the School of Education, University of Queensland. Her research project focuses on international students, women students and postcolonial feminism. Dewi is also an Indonesian teacher in a school in Brisbane. Anonymous is a tenured social scientist who teaches and conducts research at a public university in the United States. This is the author’s first effort at writing about a very difficult chapter in her career and life, and her inaugural attempt to write in the genre of memoir and personal narrative. Her telling of this story is raw, chaotic and unfinished because she hasn’t been allowed to come out of the chaos yet. Characters are given pseudonyms, and the chapter is being published anonymously, as threats and harassment from her perpetrator continue. Emsie Arnoldi teaches research in the School of Media and Communication at RMIT University and is committed to a practice that deeply engages with communities, to strengthen adaptive, resilient capacity for the new world of work and livability in Australia and elsewhere, and to contribute towards efforts that support communities to creatively and collaboratively tackle complex problems. In addition to her lecturing and research, Emsie undertakes various leadership roles at RMIT University, nationally and internationally. Naomi Barnes is an education cultures social media researcher. She has investigated methods for understanding how conversations about education shape both the medium and the user. Naomi has situated her research in Facebook and academic and news media blogging platforms. Alison L. Black is a narrative researcher and early childhood educator. Her artsbased research and scholarly work seeks to foster connectedness, community, wellbeing and meaning-making through the building of reflective and creative lives and identities. Ali is interested in storied and visual approaches for dismantling personal/professional binaries and representing lives. Her research and writing is concerned with the power and impact of collaborative and relational knowledge construction.

x  Contributors Agnes Bosanquet is Senior Teaching Fellow in the Faculty of Human Sciences at Macquarie University, Australia. Her PhD performed an autoethnographic response to Luce Irigaray’s philosophy of sexual difference, transcendence and the mother/daughter relation. Agnes uses critical theory and creative methodologies in her current research on changing academic roles and identities. Rachelle Bosua is a Senior Lecturer in the School of Computing and Information Systems at the University of Melbourne. Her research focuses on the development and use of IT artefacts that enable and support communication and networking, knowledge codification and sharing between individuals, teams, communities and small- and medium-size businesses. Rosie Bruce has worked for 14 years as a mental health occupational therapist in clinical, workforce and policy areas. This work has enabled her to support those living with mental illness, supervise clinicians and contribute to positive policy and legislation changes. She has done university teaching, mostly parttime, for the past three years between clinical work and being a mother of two young children. Petra Bueskens is an honorary fellow at the University of Melbourne, a psychotherapist in private practice and a columnist at New Matilda. Her research focuses on motherhood, feminism, social and political theory. Her book Modern Mothers’ Dual Identities: Rewriting the Sexual Contract will be published by Routledge in 2018. Melissa Burchard is Associate Professor of Philosophy at UNC Asheville, USA. She is a white, middle-class, middle-aged cis-gendered queer woman who teaches ethics, feminist theory and critical race theory, among other things. Currently her research interests are focused in issues of identity, sex and sexual abuse/violence, and contemporary trauma theory. Melissa Cain is a Lecturer in Teacher Education and Professional Practice. Melissa’s research examines the influence of policy and curriculum on teacher practice in culturally diverse educational contexts. Melissa is an ethnomusicologist and has documented exemplars of culturally diverse music programs in Singapore and Brisbane. Melissa also teaches professional studies courses and is a university liaison. She has managed several large Australian Office for Learning and Teaching projects which focus on work integrated learning and assessment. She has recently co-designed and produced a MOOC on Deep Learning with Queensland University and Edx. Gail Crimmins initially trained as an actor and worked as an actor, director and casting director in theatre, television and film in the UK. She currently resides in Australia where she works as a Lecturer of Communication, coordinates and teaches to several large first-year courses and undertakes arts-informed narrative research. Corinna Di Niro completed her PhD in Commedia dell’Arte through the University of South Australia in 2016. She published on education and performance

Contributors xi practices in the European Journal of Humour Research (2015) and continues to devise and perform in Commedia dell’Arte theatre shows. Corinna is currently teaching at the University of South Australia. Rachael Dwyer is a Lecturer in Curriculum and Pedagogy in the School of Education at the University of the Sunshine Coast. Prior to entering academia, Rachael was a music specialist teacher in primary and secondary schools, and is a strong advocate for music and the arts as part of the educational entitlement of all children. Rachael’s research interests include teacher education, music and arts education, critical pedagogy and narrative inquiry. Libby Flynn is a music therapist, researcher and musician who completed both her masters training and her PhD research through the University of Queensland. Libby’s primary field of therapy work has been based within adult mental health, and she has published her research covering substance abuse, dissociative identity disorder and cognitive behavioural therapy. Libby is currently National Chair of Ethics for the Australian Music Therapy Association. Susanne Garvis is a Professor of Child and Youth Studies in the Department of Education, Communication and Learning, University of Gothenburg. Her focus is the field of early childhood education. Susanne has been involved in Australian, European and international research projects and is the current organizer of the Nordic Early Childhood Systems Approach Research Group. Barbara Grant is an Associate Professor in the School of Critical Studies in Education at the University of Auckland (Aotearoa New Zealand). She researches and writes post-critical accounts of higher education with a particular focus on graduate supervision and academic identities and work. With great pleasure, she has run writing retreats for academic women in New Zealand and elsewhere for the past 20 years. Amanda Heffernan is a researcher and Lecturer in Education. She researches in the areas of educational leadership, education policy and school reform. Amanda is also interested in connections between popular culture and education. Livia Holden is Senior Research Fellow at the University of Oxford and Full Professor at the University of Padua. She is the Principal Investigator of the European Council funded project: Cultural Expertise in Europe: What is it Useful For? Among her publications: Hindu Divorce, Cultural Expertise and Litigation, and Legal Pluralism and Governance in South Asia and Diasporas. Frances Kelly is a Senior Lecturer in Critical Studies in Education at the University of Auckland. Frances has a particular interest in higher education as it is lived and imagined, as explored in recent publications The Idea of the PhD (2017) and ‘A day in the life (and death) of a public university’ (2015). Elizabeth Mackinlay is an Associate Professor in the School of Education at the University of Queensland, where she teaches Indigenous education, arts education and gender studies. Liz is currently involved in research projects which

xii  Contributors include the politics and pedagogies of Indigenous Australian studies in primary and tertiary education contexts, critical auto-ethnography and decoloniality, and feminism in higher education. Liz is currently co-editor of the Australian Journal of Indigenous Education. Keya Maitra is a Professor of Philosophy at UNC Asheville, USA. Her articles have been published in Hypatia, Asian Philosophy, Philosophy in the Contemporary World,  Southwest Philosophy Review and International Journal of Philosophical Studies and many anthologies. Her The Philosophy of the Bhagavad Gita: A Contemporary Introduction is forthcoming from Bloomsbury. She is presently co-editing a volume on feminist philosophy of mind. Eve Mayes is a Lecturer in Pedagogy and Curriculum at Deakin University. Her PhD, The Lines of the Voice: An Ethnography of the Ambivalent Affects of Student Voice, was completed at the University of Sydney. Her publications and research interests include linguistic and non-linguistic forms of ‘voice’, pedagogical and academic subjectivities, and collaborative writing. Jennifer Mays is Course Coordinator (Human Services) in the School of Public Health and Social Work, Faculty of Health, Queensland University of Technology, Brisbane, Australia. She has extensive academic and professional experience working in the university, government and community sectors. Jenni has been committed to teaching and researching critical theory and practice in areas of poverty, social policy, social justice, disability (women with disability) and social citizenship. She recently co-published the edited textbook: Mays, J., Marston, G., & Tomlinson, J. (Eds.). (2016). Basic income in Australia and New Zealand: Perspectives from neo-liberal frontiers. Basic Income Series. New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Siti Muflichah is a Senior Lecturer in the state Islamic university UIN Antasari Banjarmasin, South Kalimantan, Indonesia. She was the chair of the Centre for Gender Studies and the chair of the Language Centre in STAIN Kudus before moving to Kalimantan. She is currently a doctoral student at the University of Queensland, Australia. Her research focuses on female academics, career development and storytelling. Muflichah has presented her work at the PGRC conference at University of Queensland, KWDI forum in Seoul, AWGSA conference in Brisbane and AARE conference in Melbourne. Deborah M. Netolicky is an educator and researcher whose research uses narrative and qualitative methods to explore identities, professional learning, coaching in educational contexts, and individual and organizational change in school contexts. Eva Nislev is a teacher educator and consultant working in Queensland and Chinese universities. Developing and delivering courses for trainee teachers across two diverse cultures challenges her to engage with a broad range of expectations and environments. Her research interests revolve around the teaching

Contributors xiii and learning environment and how a range of pedagogical philosophies and practices support all types of learners. Eva is particularly interested in arts education and the Montessori philosophy. Narrative research in its many forms enables her to unveil lived experience and make connections. Kim Toffoletti is a Senior Lecturer in Sociology at Deakin University. Her research explores gender identities and relations in institutional contexts, drawing on transnational and critical postfeminist perspectives. She has published widely on the sport–gender nexus and, more recently, on work–life balance for women academics. Amelia Walker completed her PhD in creative writing through the University of South Australia in 2016. She has published six books – three poetry collections and three educational resource books – and is currently employed as a Lecturer of Children’s Literature and Creative Writing at the University of South Australia. Jo Ann Walton is Professor of Nursing at the Graduate School of Nursing, Midwifery and Health at Victoria University of Wellington in New Zealand. She teaches in the areas of leadership, change and innovation, and currently researches in areas related to patient safety and the culture and work of nursing.

Preface

PrefacePreface

This collection of stories engages research that is focused on making meaning through self-study and privileges the stories of women academics from across the globe and across disciplines. The texts are diverse and honest, and include creative, poetic, metaphorical, literary, conceptual, narrative, autoethnographic and aesthetic writing. These forms of writing support women’s storytelling and highlight women’s efforts to listen and converse in the meaningful, to resist self-audit and diminished identities, and to speak to and about their lives in the academy. A special feature of this book is the use of responsive, personal and aesthetic ways for communicating stories of experience – including metaphor, manifesto and memoir. It is important to shed light on women’s academic experiences – to make public the stories about what it has felt like, and feels like, to be a female academic – so that collective conversations about academic culture and the current social, political and intellectual life in the academy can take place. A companion to Women Activating Agency in Academia, this book provides authentic windows into women’s lives, longings, failures, successes, experiences, emotions and passion in academia. With the presentation of these stories, women are creating assemblages of life as they unearth their individual and collective voices, and unveil their private and embodied stories about ‘being a woman in academia’. This book offers a place from which to listen and bear witness to the experiences of female academics and how they are experiencing their work. In making space for reflection about the complexity and uncertainty of academic work, particularly in these contemporary times where academics are feeling pressured to lead and live ‘affectively thin and relentlessly diagnostic lives’ due to the ‘steady poisoning and paralysing effects of managerialism’ (Collini, 2012, n.p.), this book supports understanding and recognition of what it feels like and is like to be a female academic. We can see four key threads weaving throughout the stories in this book, highlighting messages about women’s experience of academia: • •

Complex dimensions of life and work Voices and identities

Preface xv • •

Mothering and motherhood Experiences of ‘Career’

The first thread permeating accounts is women’s navigation of ‘complex dimensions of life and work’ in order to engage in academia and ‘be’ in academia. The pervasive influence of neoliberalism is real and deeply felt. Yet, women are seeking to engage in the academy in ways that are deliberate, meaningful and authentic. For some, the academy is not the safe and productive workplace we imagine it to be. The interconnected second thread, ‘voices and identities’, is embedded across women’s daily lives, as they engage in research, teaching and service, and seek out experiences of sisterhood, community and inclusion. The third thread, ‘mothering and motherhood’, highlights women’s attempts to balance the expectations of the university with the needs of their families, and their ongoing efforts to connect with values and nourishment as women, mothers and academics. The final thread, ‘experiences of “Career” ’, examines perceptions about women’s careers and career stages, as well as how position and employment type influence women’s ways of working. Women talk about their doctoral studies, early career and midcareer phases of work, senior roles of leadership and management, the casualization of their work, and leaving the academy. Across this collection, metaphor, manifesto and memoir are used to represent these unique dimensionalities of life and work, offering a guide to authentic ways of seeing and being in the world, and acting as conduits for understanding women, workplaces, cultures and identities. In the first chapter, Eve Mayes draws on collaborative and interventionist methods to write women’s lives uncreatively (her word). Eve assembles accounts of the complexities of women’s lives in academia. Online sources of information about navigating academia as a woman become elements for experimentation and a poetic, patterned, re-arrangement. In Chapter 2 Petra Bueskens and Kim Toffoletti share their stories as two feminist academics, one an ‘insider’ and one an ‘outsider’. They explore the different tensions and strains that have produced their identities. Their collaboration is based on a sustained friendship and ongoing dialogue over ten years, about the struggles and silence around mothering in the neoliberal university. Together they suggest alternative ways of conceptualising academia and feminist scholarship. Accounts of intellectual life that acknowledge clothing are relatively rare. Frances Kelly in Chapter 3 explores an academic life in textiles, and draws on the field notes of an academic woman to reflect on the complexities of an academic life and identity through the medium of clothing. To convey something of both the constitutive and associative dimensions of clothing, Frances uses four vignettes. Chapter 4 provides a duoethnography through the form of a play script. Corinna Di Niro and Amelia Walker write as two recent PhD graduates and early career researchers whose research areas concern theatre and creative writing respectively. They reflect on factors that have impacted them and on implications for other creative academics. These factors include changing processes of research evaluation, arts funding cuts and gender-based social norms.

xvi  Preface Chapter 5, by Barbara Grant, explores being an academic woman researching others like her. She draws on ideas from Michel Serres as well as fieldnotes, photographs and memories to examine the dynamics of her fieldwork. Through this exploration, Barbara has come to understand more deeply how the stories of other academic women and her own are always/already entangled. Responding to the broad issues that have shaped higher education and changed the nature of academic work, Rachael Dwyer and Libby Flynn present four narrative vignettes in Chapter 6. They illustrate the impact of these influences through the fictionalized story of an ‘ideal worker/ideal mother’ and her attempts to balance the expectations of the university and the needs of her family. Their chapter unpacks issues of felt accountability, burnout, work–life balance and gender equity. Agnes Bosanquet in Chapter 7 engages with metaphors of mucus and bodily fluids to explore the shared space and loss of boundaries of academic motherhood. Agnes uses these metaphors to perform a feminist writing of her lived experience of motherhood and academia. To illustrate the worlds of maternity and the academy, italicized autoethnographic ‘sticky moments’ interrupt scholarly writing, highlighting how motherhood and academia leak into each other in messy ways. Siti Muflichah, Dewi Andriani and Elizabeth Mackinlay in Chapter 8 share their experiences as mothers, academics and research students in the Global South. Mufli draws upon her experiences of juggling motherhood and academic career in an Islamic higher education institution in Indonesia. Dewi presents her experiences as a woman from mainstream Minangkabau matrilineal culture in Indonesia. And Liz draws upon her intercultural work as a white settler colonial woman in relation with Indigenous Australian women. In the ninth chapter, Jennifer Mays offers a resistance narrative, as she reflects on her lived experiences in academia and looks beyond the confines of the immediate neoliberal landscape. For Jenni, the academic endeavour is a passion upheld by a deep conviction towards critical thinking and transformative action that supports working in solidarity. Chapter 10 by Eva Nislev and Melissa Cain describes the balancing act that is the play between academia and personal lives. It focuses on their lived experience as two sessional academics working across the corridors of multiple institutions. Using emails to communicate, Eva and Melissa explore a new narrative possibility for critical dialogue Jo Ann Walton in Chapter 11 contemplates her impending retirement, reflecting on her own path into and through the university world. Jo remembers the experiences and people that shaped her values, and considers the largely unplanned way her academic career has unfolded. Recognizing what her career has meant, she offers some suggestions to those who are starting out in the academy. Emsie Arnoldi and Rachelle Bosua share their voices as migrant women in Chapter  12. They reflect on their experiences of the social, political and intellectual realities of academic life, presenting themselves as objects of research and analysing their stories in an iterative process of recorded conversations made over six months. Emsie and Rachelle reconceptualize past experiences and engage in processes of self-discovery which assist self-care, motivation and hope.

Preface xvii An anonymous author pens the thirteenth chapter. This is her first effort at writing about a very difficult chapter in her career and life, a time of being physically threatened by a colleague in her academic workplace. This author’s telling of her story is raw, chaotic and unfinished because she hasn’t come out of the chaos yet. Her story invites us to consider how we can ensure the academy is the safe and productive workplace we imagine it to be. In Chapter 14, Livia Holden shares her experiences of academia in three continents and throughout six countries. She ponders on a reoccurring question: “. . . and what about the children?” Livia responds for the first time through a polyphonic narrative, which includes drawings, a poem and personal accounts by her children and partner, to share her family’s experience about the combination of motherhood and career. Melissa Burchard and Keya Maitra in Chapter 15 challenge the characterization of ambivalence in philosophy as a problem of will or insufficient coherence of identity, contrasting these ideas against their own personal narratives. Melissa and Keya reflect on conversations about maternal issues to offer insights into the experience of mothering in academia. In Chapter 16 the experiences of becoming a university teacher are shared by Rosie Bruce. Rosie explores her transition into the academy, identifying unifying themes from experiences with education, being a non-English speaking immigrant, living with a parent who had severe mental illness, and her childhood and motherhood experiences. Chapter 17, by early career researchers Deborah Netolicky, Naomi Barnes and Amanda Heffernan, highlights the power of metaphor as a frame for defining reality, structuring experience and understanding intangibles like feelings and experiences. Deborah, Naomi and Amanda present their metaphors for their lived experiences of the academe: Lewis Carroll’s Alice, Victor Frankenstein’s monstrous creature and television’s Buffy the Vampire Slayer. The final chapter, Chapter 18, by Gail Crimmins is an autoethnographic narrative of her life as a casual female academic seeking ongoing academic appointment. Gail writes so that stories of academia are not solely authored by the victors. She writes to expose the myth that academia operates a meritocracy. And, she writes so that other women will not feel ashamed of their academic (non)careers. This book has been a pleasure to develop alongside very talented and giving women. The use of different approaches to share experiences provides new ways to see and understand women working in academia. It also provides stories of hope for other women who may be sharing similar experiences within neo-liberal agendas across many countries. In particular, we would like to thank the reviewers who were involved with supporting chapter authors. Without your assistance and generosity, the review of chapters would not be possible. Reviewers were: • • • •

Sarah Loch Gail Crimmins Deborah Netolicky Tseen Khoo

xviii  Preface • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

Linda Henderson Janice Jones Georgina Barton Alison Mountz Alison Bartlett Louise Phillips Katarina Tuinamuana Naomi Barnes Susan Ryan Petra Bueskens Agnes Bosanquet Amanda Heffernan Corinna Di Niro Celeste Lawson Melissa Cain Adele Nye Rachael Dwyer Debra Talbot Keya Maitra Liz Mackinlay Marguerite Jones Sharn Donnison Frances Kelly Gillian Busch Livia Holden Jo Ann Walton Rachelle Bosua Linda Knight Nova Ahmed Rosie Bruce Amelia Walker Bobby Harreveld Kathryn Hummel Lucinda McKnight Ali Black Sunero Thobani Emsie Arnoldi

Reference Collini, S. (2012). What are universities for? London: Penguin.

1 Uncreatively writing women’s lives in academia Eve MayesUncreatively writing women’s lives

Eve Mayes

Women’s ‘experience’ in academia? That the turn to corporate managerialist practices and an emphasis on individualised academic achievement in the university sector has unevenly impacted on differentially positioned bodies and psyches is well-documented (e.g. Acker & Webber, 2017; Ahmed, 2012; David, 2014; Hart, 2016; Jackson, 2017; Osei-Kofi, 2014; Swan, 2010). An economic rationality that claims to be ‘neutral’ on gender, race and sexuality belies masculinist, white, heteronormative logics that privilege autonomy and competition and that individualise responsibility for success or failure (Ahmed, 2012; Blackmore, 2014; Davies & Bansel, 2010). Metrics proliferate (Strathern, 1997). The entrepreneurial academic subject is encouraged to take up this rationality in practices of concomitant self-promotion and self-surveillance (Hey & Bradford, 2004). To think and write about the experiences of women in academia is to risk flattening the singularities of these differential experiences (Lorde, 1984/2007). The word ‘woman’ is used in its most expansive sense – “[t]he policing of the boundaries of women has never not been disastrous for feminism” (Ahmed, 2017, p. 270, footnote 7). Experiences of gendered subjectivities are traversed by intersecting racialised, classed and sexual identifications, further differentiated by employment conditions (casual, permanent/ tenured), age, (dis)abilities, chronic illness and caring responsibilities. Discourses of ‘diversity’, ‘gender equity’ and ‘equal opportunity’ promise to redress representational imbalances, but simultaneously maintain the gender binary and “render gender inequality invisible” (Lipton, 2017, pp. 490, 487). Counting the number of particular types of bodies in institutional spaces and roles is fetishised as engendering greater diversity (Ahmed & Swan, 2006). Sara Ahmed (2012) has argued that such counting practices and diversity and equity policies substitute action for vague commitment; difference is co-opted and muted in potential political force. Liz Morrish and Kathleen O’Mara (2011) have analysed diversity statements of UK and US research universities, noting the “veiling” of queer subjects: “some categories of diversity are more front stage than others” in universities’ marketing of their ‘diversity’ (p. 976). Briony Lipton (2017) has questioned whether “our optimistic attachment to gender equity and diversity policies as tools for

2  Eve Mayes improving the representation of women may be detrimental to achieving gender equality in academia” (p. 487). After Lauren Berlant (2011), gender equality rhetoric may be an example of “cruel optimism” – when an object or goal (such as gender equality) “that ignites a sense of possibility actually makes it impossible to attain the expansive transformation for which a person [. . .] risks striving” (p. 2). Responding to the call for proposed chapters for this book, I wondered about the complexities of writing, assembling and publishing women’s experiences in an edited collection, in relation to feminism’s fraught history with voice and experience. Earlier feminist formulations of women’s voice that argued for women’s authentic knowledge were critiqued for essentialising women and erasing differences between and within groups of women. Feminists of colour in the United States critiqued women’s voice in liberal feminist emancipatory research for appropriating the voice of the Other and remaking Other women into their own image (e.g. Bhavnani, 1990; Collins, 2000; hooks, 1990; Trinh, 1989). Alcoff (1991) warned that the intellectual who claims to describe and represent the situation of others may be “speaking in place of them, that is, speaking for them”, representing “the other’s needs, goals, situation, and in fact, who they are” (p. 9). Yet, too, for the white feminist to speak of her own situation only (rather than speak for others) also risks “monopolis[ing] and capitali[sing] on victimhood” (Chow, 2002, p. 179). Furthermore, poststructural critiques of the subject have dismantled assumptions that there is a singular, stable core self who possesses knowledge about her experiences that may be transparently known and expressed through language. Spivak (1993), in Can the Subaltern Speak?, questioned how an oppressed group can speak for themselves and know their conditions when they are inscribed within a colonial system and language that determines their knowledge and speech. Feminist poststructuralists foregrounded the internal contradictions of knowledge: knowledge as situated, split, emerging, “tenuous” (Pillow, 2003) and “stitched together imperfectly” (Haraway, 1991, p. 193); “life continues to unfold in the accounting for it”, so that “account making is [. . .] always a new event, a new experience” (Davies & Davies, 2007, p. 1141). Letting ‘raw’ voices ‘speak for themselves’ has been critiqued for obscuring the role of the researcher/ author in organising and representing individuals (Mazzei & Jackson, 2012). Representational accounts of voices are argued not to reflect a ‘reality’ of a person or group’s words, experiences and meanings, but rather to produce realities, experiences and meanings (Lather, 1991; Spivak, 1988). To write women’s experiences, too, risks decontextualising, disembodying and marginalising more-than-linguistic and aesthetic modes of communication. Indeed, embodied experiences in academia may escape “easy classification” or “easy sense” (Mazzei & Jackson, 2009, p. 4).

Writing women’s lives differently? This fraught history raises questions about whether it is possible, or even desirable, to write women’s lives at all. And yet, to abandon the attempt to write women’s lives also capitulates to the logics that there is no alternative to present relations

Uncreatively writing women’s lives 3 and circumstances. Feminist scholars historically and more recently have taken up a range of collective and arts-based methodologies in seeking to write, speak and dramatise lived experiences, in modes that do not claim to ‘represent’, ‘reflect’ or ‘unify’ women’s lives in academia. Particularly, feminist collective biographical practices, and arts-based feminist methodologies, have worked to unthread contemporary conditions of academic life. Collective biography, as a poststructural method of writing, aims to “bring theory into collision with everyday life and thus to rethink, collectively [. . .] the discursive contexts within which our lives make sense” (Davies & Gannon, 2006, p. 4). Deliberately writing collectively about a shared experience or theme, working consciously with fragmented and unreliable memories, those working with collective biographical practices meet together, write, share writing and juxtapose pooled narratives in a jointly-authored publication. Recent collective biographies have interrogated academic subjectivities and institutional conditions – for example: Susanne Gannon, Giedre Kligyte, Jan McLean, Maud Perrier, Elaine Swan, Ilaria Vanni and Honni van Rijswijk’s collective biography of the uneven relationalities and affects of neoliberal universities (2015); Catherine Hartung, Nicoli Barnes, Rosie Welch, Gabrielle O’Flynn, Jonnell Uptin and Samantha McMahon’s collective biography of early career researchers’ experience of embodied precarity (2017); and Jennifer Charteris, Susanne Gannon, Eve Mayes, Adele Nye and Lauren Stephenson’s collective biography of the formation of academic subjectivities, their associated affective intensities and spatial configurations (2016). Most collective biographies use fictional names and the third person to foreground their artifice, rather than claiming to represent individuals’ experiences naturalistically, to enable theoretical interrogation of the discursive constitution of lived experience (Davies & Gannon, 2006, p. 3). Writing, listening to embodied detail and collectively re-writing enable experience to be “reimagined” (Davies & Davies, 2007, p. 1153). The multiple authorship of collective biographies disrupts the privatised individualisation of research outputs (Charteris et al., 2016, p. 33); such collaborative writing seeks to “generate a new imaginary of academia” (Gannon et al., 2015, p. 191). Recent feminist arts activisms similarly work to interrogate the contemporary conditions that women in academia work within, in modes that may be described as “creative feminist affirmative counteraction[s]” (Hook & Wolfe, 2017, p. 1). For example, Feminist Educators Against Sexism (#FEAS), “a feminist collective” initiated by Mindy Blaise, Linda Knight and later Emily Gray in Australia, has staged “interventions into sexism in the academy and other educational spaces”, using “a mix of humour, irreverence, guerrilla methodology and collective action” (Feminist Educators Against Sexism [#FEAS], 2017). #FEAS t-shirts, worn by academic women at conferences and beyond institutional spaces, have amplified the statistics that quantify gender (in)equality. Statistics about the proportion of women at the wearer’s employment level (Lecturer, Senior Lecturer, Associate Professor, Professor) are emblazoned across the chest – perhaps as a corporeal re-signification of an embodied site of sexual harassment. In another intervention, Linda Knight, with Emily Gray, has staged stand-up comedy performances

4  Eve Mayes at academic conferences (e.g. the 2016 Australian Association for Research in Education conference, and the 2017 Gender and Education conference), reading aloud student evaluation feedback comments written about women academics, accompanied by an audio recording of canned laughter. These interventions have worked “to interrupt and disarm both everyday and institutional sexism within Higher Education and other spaces” (Feminist Educators Against Sexism [#FEAS], 2017). This chapter draws on these collaborative and interventionist methods to write women’s lives uncreatively. In assembling other people’s words (written in relation to each author’s singular experiences and circumstances) into one text, the text that is assembled is not my ‘original’ creation, and is not claimed to be an ‘expression’ of my ‘authentic’ experience. Rather, the text is deliberately unoriginal (not created from a vacuum) and inauthentic (not the unified words of any one voice); the text is a pastiche of fragments from digitised texts arranged together. Uncreative writing is to be distinguished from creative non-fiction – since it still employs words written by others about their personal experiences, rather than the author creating a narrative from historical sources. Goldsmith (2011), a multimedia artist, has described “uncreative writing” as “a way of weaving together various shards of other people’s words” from digital media sources “into a tonally cohesive whole” (p. 3). As an example, Goldsmith cites the work of Ara Shirinyan: Your Country is Great, constructed by taking “the names of every country in the world, organi[sing] them A to Z, Googl[ing] the phrase “[country name] is great”, and re-assembling comments from user-reviewed travel sites (2011, pp. 86–87). Goldsmith describes the resulting text as “ugly and gorgeous, helpful and harmful, truthful and misleading”, enabling the reader to “process the opinions expressed” in a form different to ubiquitous “passionate identity-based discussions” (p. 87). For Goldsmith, this experimentation with digitised fragmentations (and/ or proliferations) of subjectivities forms a “postidentitarian literature”; “any sense of unified authenticity and coherence” is shelved in deliberately working with fragmented words (2011, p. 85). However, the politics of the “patchwriting” (p. 3) in his “uncreative writing” may remain submerged, malleable or ambivalent; who it serves to pick up and rework texts in this way is unclear. Appropriating Goldsmith’s term, “uncreative writing”, I prefer to align the text below with the explicitly feminist politics of collective biography and arts-based feminist methodologies that seek to “mak[e] feminism a life question” (Ahmed, 2017, p. 2). As Sara Ahmed (2017) has recently written: To build feminist dwellings, we need to dismantle what has already been assembled; we need to ask what it is we are against, what it is we are for, knowing full well that this we is not a foundation but what we are working towards. (p. 2, Ahmed’s italics) To dis-assemble and to re-assemble texts written by women scholars is to extend questions of how (and whether it is possible) to dismantle the master’s house with

Uncreatively writing women’s lives 5 the master’s tools, and to keep open the question of the “creative function of difference in our lives” that are “interdependen[t]” (Lorde, 1983, p. 99).

Assembling women’s writing uncreatively Like collective biography, the text below includes multiple ‘voices’ from women, written on blog posts and other online periodicals. This assembling of texts is not exhaustive, nor representative of all experiences – I have not found and read every example of an online text relating to women’s lives in academia (as if that were possible). Indeed, there are notable gaps in this assembled text based on the texts that I found and that others pointed me towards – particularly relating to gender diversity in academia. I do not quote individuals’ social media posts (since these may not be intended for a broader public beyond the individual’s social media friends or followers), but rather work with texts that have been published online as blogs or online articles, or in response to invitations to ‘share your stories’ (e.g. as a casual academic, on https://actualcasuals.wordpress.com/actual-casuals/). The process of gathering these ‘voices’ was intended to be collaborative, to generate dialogue and to connect to and affirm concurrent feminist interventions. I initially worked with texts from the #FEAS Facebook page – following a hyperlinked trail through weblinks to articles and blog posts posted and shared by and with #FEAS members. I also searched for relevant articles on online newspapers including The Guardian’s Academics Anonymous and The Chronicle of Higher Education. I later sent an email to fellow early career women academic colleagues, deliberately not asking them to share personal experiences, but asking instead if they recommended particular blogs or online articles relating to women’s lives in academia. A number of colleagues generously responded by sharing recommendations of blogs including Tenure She wrote, SASSY (Sharing Academic Sexism Stories with You), The Precariat and the Professor, and of course, Sara Ahmed’s widely-followed feministkilljoys, as well as their own recent work writing and re-assembling texts for political purposes (e.g. McKnight, 2017). Some said that they could not think, off the top of their heads, of particular sites or articles, but expressed their interest in and support of the project. These colleagues who generously responded and shared links are acknowledged below. (It is important to acknowledge that other colleagues who did not respond to my email may have not responded for a range of reasons – overwork and consequent triaging of emails, hesitancy and/ or disagreement with the project.) Moving towards a final draft of this chapter, I emailed the authors of the blog posts and webpages (where identifiable), as a courtesy, requesting their permission to cite their online post. The texts assembled below are generally written in the first person, even as they are lifted and moved from the digital context where I first read them, or may be reported speech (words previously spoken or written to the online text’s author). To assemble sentences and fragments from these links shared by colleagues with me is to purposefully work with circulating affects – feelings written by women scholars on blog posts and online articles that affected other women in academia (my colleagues), who then responded to a call from another woman in academia (me) to

6  Eve Mayes share links to blogs/ articles that had moved them affectively. Assembling these sentences is not to form a unified ‘woman’s voice’ or account of ‘women’s experience’ – as if that were possible, nor desirable – but rather is to juxtapose, at times, diverging intensities, identifications and experiences, to form (perhaps) a “different sense” (St. Pierre, 2008, p. 330). Indeed, even within the same blog or article, apparently contradictory feelings sit side-by-side. Like St Pierre, I refuse the “primacy of voice” and attempt to think “simultaneously with everyone’s ideas” (2008, p. 330), working with fluxes, contingencies and contradictions. The sentences assembled do not necessarily all resonate with my own ‘personal’ experiences, and may not resonate with you (and resonance may not always be desirable nor productive). In addition, via the editors of this book, Ali Black and Susanne Garvis, contributing authors of this book were also invited to share links to official accounts from their university webpages relating to equity, diversity and flexible working arrangements. Contributors from this book from a range of institutions located across the world responded and generously emailed links to me. Like Linda Knight and Emily Gray’s #FEAS stand-up comedy intervention that reassembles student evaluation feedback and juxtaposes it with canned laughter and dramatised affect (exaggerated smiling, nervous laughter, ambivalent gesticulation), the text below positions online quotations from women in academia alongside official university web accounts of valuing equity, diversity and flexible working arrangements (indicated with italics below). Sorting, manipulating, moving and managing words from online accounts from women scholars into juxtaposition with official university web accounts parodies the sorting, manipulations, movements and management strategies of the corporate university. I deliberately do not contextualise these quotations, but encourage the reader to make their own connections between assembled words, and to follow up phrases that intrigue, trouble, amuse and incite them via the weblinks. These creative combinations of information become “moving information” – language is “push[ed]” around while, simultaneously, the author/ reader is “emotionally moved by that process” (Goldsmith, 2011, p. 1). This process is reminiscent of Sara Ahmed’s description of feminism as a “movement” – that we are “moved to become feminists”, with solidarities creating “and created by movement” (Ahmed, 2017, p. 3). These movements of text into (perhaps) moving assemblages may not always make (rational) sense, but may arrest certain affective forces, gesture towards other intensities, and make a “different sense” (St. Pierre, 2008, p. 330). In these re-arrangements, the reader (and writer) may become disoriented, amused, and/ or impelled to re-think habitual modes of reading, writing and living our interdependent lives. I deliberately do not interpret these words and their combination, but conclude this chapter with some commentary on the ambiguities of this uncreative writing methodology.

Writing women’s lives uncreatively Equity [ . . . ] enables talented people to achieve their potential and the University to achieve its strategic objectives. (University of Auckland, n.d.)

Uncreatively writing women’s lives 7 ‘What do you do?’ ‘Oh, I’m a contracted university student experience improver’. (Karina, on Casual, Adjunct, Sessional Staff and their Allies in Australian Higher Education [CASA], 2017) ‘We are good at race equality’ he said pointing to the letter. It was a feelgood moment, but those of us who wrote the document did not feel so good. (Ahmed, 2016a) [N]o one else can ever do the daily, relentless work of keeping myself alive. (Witteman, 2017) Our employees have a right to work in an environment that is safe, respectful, rewarding and free from inappropriate behavior. (Worklogic Pty Ltd [on behalf of the University of Melbourne], 2017) During a meeting with all male colleagues, I was referred to by a senior professor as ‘a clever girl’. (Doc Brown, on Sharing Academic Sexism Stories with You [SASSY], 2014) Nobody within engineering knew I was gay [ . . . ] secure in their stereotyping of me as an Asian woman and hence obviously straight and mildly homophobic. (Anonymous academic, 2015a) [T]he glamour of teaching at university has definitely worn off over the last year, especially after doing approximately 200 hours extra unpaid work last year. (Lisa, on CASA, 2014a) [W]e’re committed to creating a happy and healthy workplace that values inclusivity and work-life balance. We want to support you in maximising your physical and mental wellbeing while ensuring a work environment that allows you to achieve your full potential. (Macquarie University, n.d.) ‘How do you find the time?’ is pernicious.  [ . . . ] [T]hey’re really just shaming you for not being at work all the time. (Acclimatrix, 2016) Just like many workers, I aim to beat the system. I carefully note exactly how many minutes I am being paid per student assignment and only spend that time or less on each. (Maggie, on CASA, 2014b)

8  Eve Mayes [B]reakthroughs most often come when I am not actively working, but helping my daughter to do a puzzle, or throw stones into a lake. (Anonymous academic, 2015b) [A] persistent low-grade anxiety [ . . . ] lingers around my heart. (Anonymous academic, 2016). But I can’t really complain.

(Anonymous academic, 2016)

[A] problem can be reproduced by the appearance of having solved it. (Ahmed, 2016a) The requirement to assess impact means that the University must consider how a policy will impact on the needs of the general equality duty. (University of Stirling, n.d.) We are focused on how we attract, retain and promote women within the University as part of creating a more inclusive workplace for all our staff. (University of Sydney, 2017) I am not as visible a scholar as I should be. (Anonymous academic, 2017) ‘Well, if you don’t like it, leave and find another job at another university’. (Anonymous academic, 2014) I am a team player. I am dedicated to the job. When at work, I mostly pretend my daughter doesn’t exist. (Rivers-Moore, 2016) Violence affects everyone: the person who commits it, the person who is abused, and children, whānau, friends, colleagues and communities as a whole. (University of Auckland, n.d.) ‘I was just about to write I’m sorry, but I’m done with that gendered bullshit too’. (DRBRUTUSPOWERS, 2017) [W]hat stops movement moves.

(Ahmed, 2016b)

I took a day off work and tried a floatation tank for the first time. (Bosanquet, 2017)

Uncreatively writing women’s lives 9

In(con)clusion The risk of such an (re)assembling of words is that parallels between authors, words and feelings may be overstressed, and that certain affective intensities may compress the force of others. Simultaneously, such (re)assembling potentially overemphasises differences, reinforcing a view of women academics’ experiences as a fragmented “mosaic” or “kaleidoscope” (Whitchurch, 2008, p. 88) that weakens collective action and solidarity. Cautiously compiling fragmented words attempts to suggest the instabilities, contingencies and contradictions of women’s lived experiences of academia, where possibility may co-mingle with precarity, and such possibility may quickly evaporate. (Re)assembling accounts of harm, frustration, disappointment, complicity, acceptance, resistance and repudiation may form something new – perhaps indignation, despondency, pleasure, further invention, or not. Ahmed warns, “There is no guarantee that in struggling for justice we ourselves will be just. We have to hesitate, to temper the strength of our tendencies with doubt” (2017, pp. 6–7). These (re)arranged words could lay down “desire lines” – Ahmed’s use of the landscape architectural term “for the paths on the ground created when enough people do not take the official route” (Ahmed, 2017, p. 270, footnote 9). Lines formed may be reiterated by others, to indent new patterns. After Berlant’s diagnosis of the “cruel optimism” we live amidst, she suggests that differing “optimistic projections” of alternative futures might be created: desire lines of “a world that is worth our attachment” (Berlant, 2011, p. 263). (Re)assembling words uncreatively may enable an unthreading of the past and present, accompanied by a (re)threading of alternative relationalities for the present and the future.

Acknowledgements Thanks to the following colleagues and contributors to this edited book who generously responded to an invitation to share links to online articles, blogs and institutional webpages (in alphabetical order): Rosie Joy Barron, Robin Bellingham, Agnes Bosanquet, Jennifer Charteris, Sandra Engstrom, Jessica Gerrard, Barbara Grant, Lucinda McKnight and Amelia Walker. Thank you also to Ali Black for emailing contributors to this book to invite them to share weblinks from their institutions, and to Emily Gray, Mindy Blaise and Linda Knight (for #FEAS) for verifying details about #FEAS.

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12  Eve Mayes Lorde, A. (1984/ 2007). Sister/ outsider: Essays and speeches. Berkeley, CA: Crossing Press. Macquarie University. (n.d.). Wellbeing and support. Retrieved from https://staff.mq.edu. au/work/wellbeing Mazzei, L. A., & Jackson, A. Y. (2009). Introduction: The limit of voice. In A. Y. Jackson & L. A. Mazzei (Eds.), Voice in qualitative inquiry: Challenging conventional, interpretive and critical conceptions in qualitative research (pp. 1–13). London: Routledge. Mazzei, L. A., & Jackson,A. Y. (2012). Complicating voice in a refusal to ‘let participants speak for themselves’. Qualitative Inquiry, 18(9), 745–751. doi:10.1177/1077800412453017 McKnight, L. (2017). Naughtiest girls, go girls, and glitterbombs: Exploding schoolgirl fictions. Girlhood Studies, 10(3), 1–37. Morrish, L., & O’Mara, K. (2011). Queering the discourse of diversity. Journal of Homosexuality, 58(6–7), 974–991. doi:10.1080/00918369.2011.581966 Osei-Kofi, N. (2014). Junior faculty of color in the corporate university. In S. A. Fryberg & E. J. Martínez (Eds.), The truly diverse faculty: New dialogues in American higher education (pp. 69–96). New York: Palgrave Macmillan US. Pillow, W. S. (2003). Confession, catharsis, or cure? Rethinking the uses of reflexivity as methodological power in qualitative research. Qualitative Studies in Education, 16(2), 175–196. doi:10.1080/0951839032000060635 Rivers-Moore, M. (2016, August 30). Guest post: On being productive and reproductive at the same time. Retrieved from https://tenureshewrote.wordpress.com/2016/08/30/ guest-post-on-being-productive-and-reproductive-at-the-same-time/#more-4196 Sharing Academic Sexism Stories with You [SASSY]. (2014, November 18). Casual sexism at Oxbridge. Retrieved from http://academicsexismstories.gendersquare. org/?page_id=15&paged=2 Spivak, G. C. (1988). In other worlds: Essays in cultural politics. New York: Routledge. Spivak, G. C. (1993). Outside the teaching machine. New York: Routledge. St. Pierre, E. A. (2008). Decentering voice in qualitative inquiry. International Review of Qualitative Research, 1(3), 319–336. doi:10.1525/irqr.2008.1.3.319 Strathern, M. (1997). The audit society: Rituals of verification. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Swan, E. (2010). States of white ignorance, and audit masculinity in English higher education. Social Politics: International Studies in Gender, State and Society, 4, 477. Trinh, M.-H. (1989). Women, native, other: Writing postcoloniality and feminism. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. University of Auckland. (n.d.). I want to stop using violence. Retrieved from www.auckland.ac.nz/en/about-us/about-the-university/equity-at-the-university/family-violenceits-not-ok/i-want-to-stop-using-violence.html University of Stirling. (n.d.). Equality impact assessments. Retrieved from www.stir.ac.uk/ equalityanddiversity/equalityimpactassessments/ University of Auckland. (n.d.). A safe, inclusive and equitable University. Retrieved from www.auckland.ac.nz/en/about-us/about-the-university/equity-at-the-university/safeinclusive-equitable-university.html University of Sydney. (2017). Women at Sydney symposium. Retrieved from https:// intranet.sydney.edu.au/women-sydney.html Whitchurch, C. (2008). Beyond administration and management: Reconstructing the identities of professional staff in UK higher education. Journal of Higher Education Policy and Management, 30(4), 375–386. Witteman, H. (2017, June  12). Reflections on being awarded tenure as a woman with kids and a disability/ chronic illness. Retrieved from http://holly.witteman.ca/index. php/2017/06/12/tenure/ Worklogic Pty Ltd [on behalf of The University of Melbourne]. (2017). Inappropriate workplace behaviour line. Retrieved from http://mustaffcontactline.com.au

2 Mothers, scholars and feminists Petra Bueskens and Kim ToffolettiMothers, scholars and feminists

Inside and outside the Australian academic system Petra Bueskens and Kim Toffoletti Introduction This chapter takes the form of two feminist academics’ stories – an ‘insider’ and an ‘outsider’ – exploring the different tensions and strains that have produced their identities. This collaboration is based on a sustained friendship and ongoing dialogue over 10 years, about the struggles and silence around mothering within and beyond the neo-liberal university. While policy initiatives and cultural rhetoric champion work–life balance and acknowledge ‘career interruption’ in Australian universities, our own experiences demonstrate the profound limitations of a market-centred higher education model based on accountability, flexibility and mobility for mothers in academia. We have both come unstuck, albeit in different ways, under a system that proffers ‘flexibility’ but mandates the prioritisation of institutional goals at the expense of mothering. Our writing offers insights into the relationship between our own anxieties with regard to succeeding academia and the structural inequalities that frame the kinds of ‘choices’ that we have made as mothers who are differently located in terms of social circumstances and institutional investments. Despite our different situations, it is through our shared feminist critique and practice that we put forth alternative ways of conceptualising academia and feminist scholarship – using our conversation as a way of voicing, hence making visible, the connection between personal experiences and wider relations of power shaping women’s encounters with academic life.

Kim: an insider story In some ways, I come across as a poster-girl for the neo-liberalised university and its mantras of flexible labour and work–life balance; proof that female academics can have children and a fulfilling career. I manage to find a way to write and publish between teaching and meeting the needs of three youngsters. As someone who is visible institutionally as scholar and mother, I am acutely aware of the benefits that come with being a tenured academic, who mobilises flexible arrangements to work regularly from home and has some say in negotiating teaching schedules. Friends working in industries outside academia see it as an ideal scenario – a rewarding and relatively well-paid job with good conditions and family flexibility. In many ways, they are right. These sentiments are echoed

14  Petra Bueskens and Kim Toffoletti in the official discourses of the majority of Australian higher education providers, whose policies promote progressive working conditions, including leave entitlements after childbirth and the option to negotiate work hours. And yet the day-today reality of being an academic mother – in Australia, as elsewhere – is fraught with difficulties and conundrums that remain unresolved by widespread changes to university work policies and cultures, despite a number of these policies being explicitly directed towards the needs of those with care responsibilities. As I have observed in my own research on female academics in Australia, in a sector that promotes work–life balance most mothers do not feel supported in trying to meet the dual demands of career success and good mothering. Paradoxically, schemes to foster work–life balance generate the opposite effect for many women. Female academics with dependents speak of feeling overwhelmed, struggling to survive and failing (Toffoletti & Starr, 2016). It is through ongoing conversations with Petra about feminism, mothering and being an academic, from our different locations within and beyond the university, that I feel emboldened to offer my reflections. This project of sharing our experiences has created an opportunity to critically contemplate how I work within the higher education system and the consequences of doing so. It is from a position of relative privilege that I begin to theorise my institutional investments and their impact on the subsequent ‘choices’ I have made regarding my career. Currently employed as a sociology academic at an Australian university, my position encompasses research, service and teaching. I have been employed continuously at the same university for over 10 years. I became a mother after five years of full-time employment and since having children have worked a combination of full and part-time hours. Periods of maternity leave have been punctured by sabbaticals for writing and research. I mother as part of a heterosexual partnership with a shared care arrangement supported by extended family and paid occasional care. There is no doubt in my mind that having a domestic relationship that challenges normative gender roles has enabled me to achieve what I have so far. From this location, I wish to de-naturalise my own career story as one that is indicative of success. Speaking out, remaining silent Perhaps it is because I don’t shy away from my mother status at work that I feel compelled to prove that it should be possible to fit academia around mothering. More accurately, it is fitting mothering around the requirements of the job that is expected, and this subtle re-orientation has profound impacts on how one locates oneself institutionally and its affects. Trying to reconcile my mothering and academic identities involves a difficult combination of speaking out and remaining silent. I talk openly with colleagues, students and senior management about my family life and mothering role. Often this feels like a radical act. Both my words and actions are reminders that the maternal body in academia is a body out-of-place. I am paid to engage in processes of higher-order thinking that should leave behind the messy corporeality of mothering – snot, tears, blood, urine, the

Mothers, scholars and feminists 15 persistence of tiny bodies wanting to be held. But this leaving behind is never fully achievable amidst the desire and need to be present as a mother – emotions fuelled by ideologies of intensive mothering that I am aware of yet reluctant in many respects to ‘overcome’ through arrangements that ‘free’ me from the maternal role so I can work more. In our conversations, Petra has referred to me as a ‘radical insider’ – a term that speaks to my embodied awareness of the expected academic norms and my concomitant refusal to push mothering to the periphery. The myth of the autonomous academic worker is disrupted each time I miss a meeting or say no to a committee appointment, sending a message my priorities lie elsewhere. My mothering is contained by the feeling that if I can squeeze work into and around it, I can find a way to hang on – to my job and my sanity. At the same time, it is apparent that the academic mothering script is being altered to account for children, albeit in limited ways, as Petra’s criticism below of the language of ‘career interruption’ implies. The institutional uptake of work– life discourse has made it permissible to evoke a family life that sits comfortably within the status quo of a heterosexual union and middle-class sensibilities. The tensions and frustrations that I relay come across as palatable and familiar – ‘my daughter forgot her tennis racquet and I raced back to school to deliver it! Our youngest stuck his hands in the toilet to find out what poo feels like! My in-laws are with the kids’. These kinds of anecdotes are met with grim smiles by women who understand that the amusing tenor I give these events doesn’t fully capture the struggles brought about by the constant interruptions indicative of mothering. I find myself avoiding talking about feelings of anxiety, exhaustion and despair that accompany my efforts to make it all work. I can’t help feeling that too much of the mummy thing risks one’s credibility as a competent, capable and serious academic. For many in academia, these avoidance tactics are profoundly connected to being on the inside. The price of maintaining a place within the university system is effectively a silencing of the unease; replaced with a façade of busy fulfilment, a positive outlook and good humour. What is in some ways a resistive act to contest the divide between public and private, mind and body, paid and unpaid work that characterises the experience of many mother scholars, in many respects has been absorbed (hence I suggest has been rendered benign) within an institutional context that fosters recognition of personal life only to the extent that it is contained to the realm of personal choice and self-management. Neo-liberal flexibility Flexible workplace provisions offered by the university imply they are making things easier for me, therefore it should feel easier. But it does not. Although work–life provisions aim at tackling the model of the ideal (male) academic worker who is unencumbered by family responsibilities, I suggest they create new challenges for academic mothers. This includes demonstrating one’s capacity to mobilise the institutional resources on offer to successfully integrate these two domains, and pursuing personal happiness as a measure of success over transforming institutional ways of being in academia. ‘Feeling’ is something that

16  Petra Bueskens and Kim Toffoletti keeps coming up in my attempts to make sense of the mother scholar life. An acknowledgement of ‘feeling’ seems to warrant further attention in discussions of academic mothering, where the focus is on rationalist approaches to reconciling mothering with the university, which commonly takes the form of sharing strategies for survival. With experiential and intellectual knowledge as a feminist mother I can, at a cognitive level, oppose the processes that configure work–life balance as a desirable state that women can achieve through self-management and careful planning – of career, family and others’ schedules. With this knowledge I question narratives of academic success embedded within university cultures that reward certain forms of intellectual labour and their products – books, articles, conferences. Further to this, it is at the level of feeling – my embodied sense of self as I engage in the process of mothering around academia – that the incongruity between these domains is most acutely realised, despite organisational discourses that insist otherwise. The concept that best describes this feeling for me is ‘affective dissonance’. Lakemper (2017, p. 2) explains this as ‘the experienced discrepancy between expectations raised by dominant ideological formations and individual affective responses to such formations’. That is, how one feels does not match up with how they are expected to act and subsequently feel as a result of those actions. Prevailing narratives of flexibility and balance suggest that I should feel empowered by a university employer who grants me provisions (leave, work from home arrangements) to work in a way that suits my ‘lifestyle’. I should feel grateful for institutional support that permits me to juggle multiple responsibilities. I should feel lucky that I have a husband who shares care of our children and for sustained periods has forgone paid employment to undertake this role. In short, it should feel easy, or at the very least easier. That it should feel like a better option than giving up paid work to prioritise family, or vice-versa, is not sufficient to reconcile my sense of misalignment from trying to do both these things. Despite being able to sustain a career with small children, things are not seamless. Leaving for home early or marking essays on the weekend are sources of constant stress. In acknowledging feelings of discord, I am not advocating for a way out of these tensions, or attempting to offer advice on how academic mothers might resolve them. Rather, I want to consider the possibilities affective dissonance might open up for ongoing systemic critique amidst institutional discourses that recast responsibility for women’s career success through a lens of empowerment and choice. That these ways of being in the world (mother/scholar) are constituted under neo-liberalism as choices to be made freely, subsequently frame the career consequences of ‘choosing’ both (slower progress to senior positions, foregoing travel opportunities) as matters of personal preference. It is the attribution of freely chosen subjecthood, over a recognition of gendered work/care arrangements that are deeply embedded in socio-cultural ideals of good mothering and being a good academic (both labour and time intensive), which means there is little validation for alternative ways of being that do not meet these ideals. These alternatives – one which is illustrated through Petra’s account – pose very real problems for building an academic career. In registering an unwillingness to prioritise career

Mothers, scholars and feminists 17 over family (something I have done at various points) dissent becomes interpreted as a marker of personal failure or as a mask for one’s incapacity meet the requirements of the job (we give you flexibility to make it work, and any complaints indicate your failure to manage this successfully. Your difficulties suggest you have little chance of surviving in this job) or misdirected (we recognise and have acted on the problem – we are not the problem). We can see this in part-time scholars (women being the majority) who fail to ‘get ahead’ at work due to lack of time to pursue research on top of teaching and service commitments. It is the ‘fear’ of being perceived institutionally as having failed at academia, despite the supports on offer, accompanied by the very real possibility of losing one’s job or institutional retribution for not meeting performance targets (increased teaching loads, for instance), that compels me to work within institutional frameworks, despite my misgivings. Because I’m a feminist scholar who also researches work–life balance, you’d think that my intimate understanding of the systemic forces, cultural imperatives and economic burdens that structure women’s everyday realities would grant me a platform from which to effectively resist institutional demands that are incompatible with mothering. While my writing offers space for questioning, I find myself struggling to respond on a day-to-day level to expectations of the academic career mother as imagined through a market-centred model of mother–worker in the higher education workplace. It is a model of academic motherhood that is adaptable and self-directed – a model that is configured as more desirable and achievable that striving to emulate a male-defined standard (the academic unencumbered by family responsibilities). Rather, the imagined ideal becomes the mother scholar who is empowered to make her own success. The interruptions and unpredictability that characterise mothering are recast within the neo-liberal university as ‘flexible choice’, hence enabling, for women. Put another way, the precarity that accompanies new labour market conditions is reimagined in work–life balance discourses as a kind of freedom from the strictures of the 9 to 5 workday, hence better suited to the needs of diverse individuals (namely women with dependents). I use the word precarity here because even for mothers like myself who hold secure jobs in the university (we know that increasing numbers do not), the onus has shifted onto individuals to make their own successes, with a consequent obfuscation of the enormous cultural and systemic pressures on academic mothers at home and in employment.

Petra: an outsider story The academic career – certainly in its venerable incarnation of ‘the scholar’ – is almost always a vocation in Weber’s spiritualised sense of a ‘calling’. It brings meaning to one’s life and, ideally, a contribution to the world. However, it is possible to have more than one calling or central life pursuit and, arguably, once children arrive, there isn’t really a choice around them being central. Like Kim, I experience these two vocations as interwoven and yet I have always found the institutional policies and language around motherhood alienating. How does the

18  Petra Bueskens and Kim Toffoletti language of ‘career interruption’ impact upon mothers within academia (and elsewhere)? In this section, I offer critical analysis and memoir to engage with this question using the example of the Australia Research Council (ARC) policy on ‘career interruption’. This functions as a paradigmatic example for a broader ideological framework that marginalises motherhood and imposes the (not always achievable) norm of a linear biography. According to the ARC, the governing body of academic research funding, a ‘career interruption’ includes being the primary carer of a dependent child. The language of interruption garners the applicant more time between one’s terminal degree and the potential granting of a post-doctoral award. In the precise language of the ARC, ‘[a] period of time commensurate with the interruption will be considered as long as the total interruption would be commensurate with a PhD awarded within five years’ (2016, np). The allocated extra time for the ‘interruption’ of children is two years, inclusive of maternity leave, although more time can be added for illness, unemployment, non-academic employment and the like. Despite the gender-neutral language, it is largely women who need family friendly policies and women who have ‘career interruptions’; that is, children (Ward & Wolf-Wendel, 2012). Such policy initiatives are a significant improvement on assuming mothers’ caring responsibilities have no impact on their careers (code for women can absorb structural conflict), but they also betray a host of assumptions: first, that mothering is an ‘interruption’ in a career implicitly defined as more important; second, that our biographies are linear and concord with the time frames constructed and normalised under neo-liberalism and; third, that careers are always primary, all-consuming and singular. This ‘career centrism’ fails to conceptualise how ‘work–life’ is done by (most) women, namely that there isn’t a slash or a dash between the two, all of it is ‘life’. We know how it goes: on every job, grant or promotion application there is a ‘career interruption’ box, sometimes euphemistically called ‘constraints relative to opportunities’. In 200 words or less, women have to package their experiences of pregnancy, childbirth and/or mothering into a neo-liberal discourse that both drastically minimises the labour involved in caring for children, and – truly absurdly – asks women to account for their ‘lack of productivity’! Mothering as ‘interruption’ In adapting ourselves to the language of ‘career interruption’, and its attendant cultural and ideological frames, mothers in academia routinely press their experiences into boxes defined in advance through the prioritisation of paid work. Mothering is both devalued and falsely represented as split off. So, mothering becomes something one does while on ‘mat leave’ or ‘out of hours’. Note here the metaphor of interruption persist in the form of a temporal marginalisation that is deemed proper for motherhood. It is at the edges of the day, the hours defined as ‘before’, ‘after’, ‘outside’, ‘interim’ or ‘absent’ that mothering is pushed, quite literally. In this way, it is parked in the vacant lot of neo-liberalism. Should it enter the centre, as in the period of maternity leave, then it is defined as a bona fide ‘interruption’

Mothers, scholars and feminists 19 and a year ‘off’ is permitted. For some of us it’s just not like that: mothering is not compartmentalised to the social and temporal periphery; rather, it is at the centre of our lives intermingling with, and indeed reciprocally influencing, our vocationally driven (paid) work. My own view is that this language of interruption needs to be taken seriously. Feminist social theorist Lisa Baraitser defines mothers as ‘subjects of interruption’ (2009, p. 3) given the intrusions upon autonomy, work, leisure, conversation and (best laid) plans having children brings. She also elucidates the transformations in subjectivity that come with a mother’s orientation to the new (in the form of her child) and the now (the elongated hours and seemingly interminable present of mothering). It is through this encounter with interruption, slowness, newness and the visceral co-mingling and passionate attachment with her child(ren) that maternal subjectivity arises (Baraitser, 2009; Bueskens, 2018). My own sense is that we are indeed ‘subjects of interruption’ but the deeper more radical possibility is that we are also subjects who interrupt extant social structures and their associated spatio-temporal frames that stipulate mothering be pushed to the periphery, contained within liminal or marginalised time-spaces, and rendered economically, socially and psychologically valueless. Sequestering our mothering, our children and our maternal bodies to the temporal book-ends of life is about defining something else – let’s call it ‘work’ – as the centre. What we never talk about is motherhood as a, if not the, central and valuable life pursuit for a working woman; indeed, for a scholar! That it might creatively influence our minds, our careers, the university, the social order itself. As it stands, mothering is consigned to the inert periphery, reduced to an interruption on the main game. In reality the ‘working mother’ is a transformative force in the body politic pushing us closer to a more integrated way of being, which is to say where public and private, reason and emotion, autonomy and care, cerebral and visceral connect. She is a new hybrid subjectivity connecting the hemispheres of social life and, in turn, finishing the unfinished business of feminism. Linear biographies I was never able to package the constraint of becoming a single mother at 22; it bled into every corner of my life. It defined my adulthood, my personhood, my identity. This is the time when my peers travelled, worked, partied and, if they got pregnant, had terminations. Instead, at the end of my Arts degree, I embarked on the journey of keeping an ‘accidental pregnancy’. I embraced this pregnancy and so it doesn’t feel like an accident any more than meeting a soul-mate by chance at a dinner party. How does one put this into ‘the box’ when it happened long before ‘the box’ was seen or factored into one’s rational decision making? The box presupposes linear lives with normative, orderly biographies. For an academic this means doing an undergraduate degree, then a PhD, then securing a job or post-doc, then getting married and then having a couple of kids. My order is all jumbled. I got my acceptance into an honours program and a positive pregnancy test on that same late summer’s day.

20  Petra Bueskens and Kim Toffoletti I wrestled with being a young single mother and a doctoral candidate. This manifested in taking over a decade to do my PhD. Mind you, I was working parttime as a lecturer – and for three years, full-time, I stopped and started training as a psychotherapist and, of course, was primary carer to my daughter – but still it wasn’t linear, which means those forms with their ‘career interruption’ boxes always brought me unstuck (as they still do!). I was always in the crazy-making position of doing too much and not enough; not enough because only ‘work’ (for that organisation) not ‘life’ is part of the form. I wasn’t fast enough (with my PhD), nor prolific enough. I embraced, by nature not intent, ‘slow scholarship’. I ‘gave up’ and began training as a psychotherapist, only to return again. The issue was that my life was full in a variety of ways that were not considered relevant from the perspective of neo-liberal organisational culture. There was, as there still is, too much of too many things. It’s an overfull biography all in the ‘wrong’ order and bursting at the seams. But it’s authentic and meaningful. Career centrism It is for these reasons that I’ve never stayed on the inside of an academic career. When I had a ‘second family’ – that is I partnered and had two more children in my late 30s – this too oozed outside the limitations. This time the issue was my multifaceted career – I like doing a complex, cross-pollinating variety of things – mothering, psychotherapy, research and scholarship, op-ed writing, homemaking, gardening and animal husbandry (for home-scale food production). I like working from home and having my family close by. All of these interdisciplinary, disparate threads make up my ‘worklife’. In all organisational systems, there are insiders and outsiders. Insiders, in this context, are those most able to emulate the conventional (male) model of career as a separated, singular, central pursuit undertaken away from home. This means redefining mothering as an ‘interruption’; any variation from this script renders one an outsider. However, the curious thing about my discipline (sociology) is that it fetishises the ‘outsider’! Ever since Marx flipped Hegel ‘on his head’ and Simmel identified the flâneur sauntering about town we’ve been interested in the hermeneutic advantage of ‘the stranger’; s/he who flips the script and becomes an uncomfortable subject of interruption. Brandishing Marx on his motorbike C. Wright Mills, father of the ‘sociological imagination’, similarly told us we shouldn’t be comfortable insiders or we’d miss half (or more) of what was sociologically interesting. Power is opaque to itself and you won’t see its finer workings if you’re part of the gang. So, being an outsider as a sociologist is always an advantage, epistemically at least. Here’s the thing I see about the ‘career interruptions’ box as someone who can’t squeeze their 22 years of mothering into it: it keeps motherhood within specific limits; not too early, not too many, not too much. Motherhood cannot ‘intrude’ on work but work can trample on motherhood. This explains why there’s such a leak (of women) from the professorial pipe. Women all leak out around the same point: when they are having a family and (not) balancing work and family

Mothers, scholars and feminists 21 (Mason, Wolfinger, & Goulden, 2013; Ward & Wolf-Wendel, 2012). But for those of us who can’t squeeze into the box or pipe in the first place or who are unwilling or unable to meet institutional demands what then? Some women leave or try another field (Glibert, 2016). Others go from one insecure contract to another. I tried something else: hanging on and becoming an academic outside the institution. I work as a psychotherapist and free-lance writer and I keep my scholarship on slow boil through publication and the development of new research projects. Under neo-liberalism, there is a normalisation of excessive hours, radical sleep deprivation and artificial definitions of ‘productivity’. In one article an academic mother who claims she can ‘do it all’ says she manages by working until midnight in hotels (Terras, 2012); another outlines a 24-hour schedule in which she sleeps only three hours (Lombrozo, 2017); another speaks of the expectation to write grant applications on summer holidays and attend conferences on weekends (Gibert, 2016). In short, we are offered a ‘success’ – or, more accurately, a ‘survive’ – package involving a combination of extreme hours, long stretches away from children and the ‘luck’ of highly supportive partners and parents (Terras, 2012). What happens, one wonders, to those mothers who cannot contain their mothering to the pigeon-hole boundaries allotted for care? What about those who are unable or unwilling to work 18-hour days, or who have little or no co-parent or grandparent support? I would like to propose in becoming an outsider to the official institution of academia, we flip the idea of motherhood squeezed into a bureaucratic box called ‘career interruption’ and instead take seriously the coexistence of vocations – scholarship and a ‘life track’ that includes the centrality of care as a deep and abiding commitment. For me, combining these vocations has been deeply important, one cross-fertilising the other. I hang on to officialdom (library access and an email address) through an honorary position, which makes me an insider/outsider I guess; an academic mother perched on the threshold. I am certainly outside receiving an academic salary for my work; but I am freed of pushing my life to the margins so I can prioritise emails and audit culture. I work as a psychotherapist, a free-lance writer and rent out my studio on Airbnb. Together they have made up my academic salary and make it possible to continue my writing and research in the context of a plurality of interests and activities. Surely however the challenge for society is not to force women to make ‘hard choices’ but rather to foster their ability to integrate both spheres of their lives?

Conclusion In theorising our own experiences of academic mothering within and beyond the university, this chapter illuminates various dilemmas mother scholars encounter. We observe that mothering as an academic is permissible, indeed frequently venerated, but not in a form that allows for ‘interruptions’ to one’s career in any radical way. The messiness of family life can be acknowledged and accommodated to the extent that it does not change the system; where it does, mothers are either excluded from tenure and/or promotion or exclude themselves through leaving

22  Petra Bueskens and Kim Toffoletti academia. Under a ‘choice’ model of academic motherhood, the effects of flexibility – on families, partnerships, health and well-being – are effectively silenced. They are unspeakable when one’s circumstances are imagined through a lens of personal responsibility and self-making. We conclude that what enables women to survive in academia are the supports outside it – in Kim’s case a gender-progressive domestic arrangement and systemic privileges making it possible to meet both mothering and career demands – a cleaner, babysitter and the work of two sets of highly-engaged grandparents. For Petra this has meant working outside the system while being supported through a secondary career, a supportive co-parent and her commitment to the restructuring of ‘worklife’ around creativity and care. The larger point here is that what often remains unconsidered in choice-based accounts of academic mothering are the conditions enabling choice for certain academic mothers and not others. What makes these injustices particularly insidious are that they are being understood through the lens of personal choice, rather than structural mechanisms that prioritise paid forms of labour over mothering in the lives of many mother scholars. Through our shared reflections we advocate for the mother scholar as a transformative force within and outside the neo-liberal university who embodies a more integrated way of being.

References Australia Research Council. (2016). ARC policy statement: Eligibility and career interruptions. Retrieved from www.arc.gov.au/arc-policy-statement-eligibility-and-careerinterruptions Baraister, L. (2009). Maternal encounters: The ethics of interruption. London: Routledge. Bueskens, P. (2018). Maternal subjectivity: From containing to creating. In R. Robertson & C. Nelson (Eds). The book of dangerous ideas about mothers. Perth, WA: UWA Publishing. Gibert, M. (2016, February 26). Academia and motherhood: The impossible combination of parenthood and womanhood [Blog post]. Retrieved from https://psawomenpolitics. com/2016/02/26 Lakämper, J. (2017). Affective dissonance, neoliberal postfeminism and the foreclosure of solidarity. Feminist Theory, 18(2), 119–135. Lombrozo, T. (2017, March 27). A day in the life of an academic mom. 13.7: Cosmos and culture. Retrieved from www.npr.org/sections/13.7/2017/03/27/52162074 1/a-day-in-the-life-of-an-academic-mom Mason, M., Wolfinger, N., & Goulden, M. (2013). Do babies matter? Gender and family in the ivory tower. New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press. Terras, M. (2012, August 18). The superwoman fallacy: What it really takes to be an academic and parent. The guardian. Retrieved from www.theguardian.com/ higher-education-network/blog/2012/aug/17/academic-careers-work-life-balance Toffoletti, K., & Starr, K. (2016). Women academics and work-life balance: Gendered discourses of work and care. Gender, Work and Organization, 23(5), 489–504. Ward, K., & Wolf-Wendel, L. (2012). Academic motherhood: How faculty manage work and family. New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press.

3 The lecturer’s new clothes

Frances KellyThe lecturer’s new clothes

An academic life, in textiles Frances Kelly

Introduction Accounts of intellectual life that acknowledge clothing are relatively rare. While the topic of academic dress is popular with women bloggers, including Floral Manifesto (2015), Thesis Whisperer (2012) and Tenure, She Wrote (2013), research in higher education seldom acknowledges clothing, as if in admitting our state of dress we risk our status as intellectuals in the university. Literature on clothing in academia that there is tends to focus on issues of status, power and authority (Green, 2001; Kaiser, Chandler & Hammidi, 2001), sexuality or identity (Franklin, 2014) in relation to dress. Yet clothes are integral to the experience of being in academia. Trying to understand individual experiences of, and choices about, clothes helps us get at philosophical questions and assumptions about what it is to be human (Miller, 2010). It also troubles a central tenet of western philosophy on which one historically derived idea of the university rests: the separation of bodies and minds. In this chapter, I examine moments in the lived experience of an academic life through clothing, drawing on phenomenological philosophy and method. While some have drawn attention to the limitations of phenomenology for feminists,1 others point to elements which indicate its suitability to a study of this kind. Sara Ahmed (2012) argues for phenomenological enquiry in the university because it highlights how something becomes ‘given’ when it is not the object of direct enquiry. So, although phenomenology can be associated with the discarnate, as philosophy often is, seeming removed from the everyday world, it can be utilised to bring attention to the ordinary ‘things’ (Arendt, 1958) of life that go unnoticed yet which form part of our existence. According to Merleau-Ponty (1962) phenomenology endows the everyday world with philosophical status and fosters reflection on the ordinary ‘stuff’ (Miller, 2010) of life as it relates to being. Clothes are a category of humble objects in the university which academic women (and everyone else!) don daily to undertake everyday activities, yet which largely go unnoticed. This chapter aims to test the possibilities that clothing might present to examine the complexities of the lived-and-imagined experiences of women in academia. (It is accompanied by a plea: I want to read and hear more of these stories.) One

24  Frances Kelly complexity is to do with identity, and how our choices about clothes relate to a sense of self. In the few accounts of women’s clothing choices in the university that do exist, I have noticed a grappling with authenticity even as the very idea of an authentic self, or academic identity, is questioned (Grumet, 1995; Franklin, 2014). A similar warp occurs in this chapter, reflecting my own desire for clothes to convey and foster something I think of as me – an inner self made outer. Women professors’ accounts of being uncomfortable wearing clothes in the university that are too ‘corporate’ or ‘professional’ show how clothing choices can jar with an idea of (academic) self (Green, 2001). I have heard other women describe a similar sense of being out of joint. One woman PhD student recently expressed a regret that the university now is not a place for “nonconformists” or wearers of second-hand clothing, and that we need to be “sharper and better dressed and a bit more ambitious” in the neoliberal academy (Kelly, 2017, p. 64). Certain clothing ‘looks’ demonstrate status, membership of a group (Bourdieu, 1993), but we may not always be comfortable with the look, or status or group to which these clothing choices assign us. Being conscious of an expectation to look a certain way demonstrates an awareness of what others think of us. This self-consciousness is what Franklin (2014), drawing on Heidegger (2011) to analyse her own attitudes to clothing, describes as the influence of the ‘they’: a Being learns accepted ways of carrying themselves through encountering others – the ‘they’. While most of us have a degree of awareness of the ‘they’, for some an overly developed consciousness of what others think can be painful. “It makes a kind of ring around my mind, what I’m to wear”, wrote Virginia Woolf about choosing clothes for a party. Woolf, an intellectual highly aware of the sensory, was very conscious of the ‘world’s view’ of her, and the double capacity of clothing to express something about ‘her’ as well as her social standing and status, writes Zoob (2017, p. 32). Clothes demand greater scholarly attention precisely because they are personally meaningful and of such significance in the social and public world; they exist on the borders of inner and outer dimensions of experience in a way that few other material things come close to (Miller, 2010). Expressing oneself, or transmitting through clothing an authentic academic self, is not simply an ‘inner’ impulse, rather it is an ongoing response to being in the social and material world of the university. Clothes may also (to shift to thinking with French feminist philosophy) tell us something about how we make ourselves, daily, to enter the Symbolic order: we present our clean, proper and orderly selves through clothing, thus ensuring our status as speaking subjects in the university (Grosz, 1989). Here I am: Dr Kelly. The four vignettes below are drawn from my journals – adapted ‘field notes’ of an academic life. Each vignette represents a transitional moment, from my heady entry into academia as a PhD student and tutor; to becoming a mother and balancing that with academic work; to finding an academic home and reconnecting with my love for teaching and ideas; to present-day-everyday life as a senior lecturer who feels a degree of precarity. Each garment represents an idea, or set of ideas, about being an academic. The journals, from which these vignettes are adapted, illustrate that clothes matter to me. I don’t love malls or high streets (in keeping with my social group) but I do love the weave of textiles, the histories and cultural

The lecturer’s new clothes 25 traditions of clothes, the wonders of dye, weaving and knitting, and the way our clothes change according to the seasons. I relish how clothes are thought about, felt in bodily ways as warmth or comfort, entwined with associations and ideas, remembered and imagined, or occasionally dreamed of. Clothes are so interwoven with meanings and yet so integral to life it is no wonder that getting dressed each day for work in the university can pose a challenge, make a ring around my mind.

A neo-Victorian skirt At the turn of the century I did my PhD in English literature, with a focus on neoVictorian fiction. My object of study was Possession: A Romance by A. S. Byatt (1990). I tutored and lectured on nineteenth-century literature on a series of shortterm contracts. I would walk from my shared flat to my office every day, past the cats and along concrete paths that ran beside the motorway before arching up to join bridges that connected to the city. My favourite garment from this time was a long skirt made by a local designer, bought in a sale. It was brown cotton, A-line, with a white underskirt stitched in with a full-on ruffle. When I washed the skirt it would hang, inside out, on the washing line, a gleaming unabashed Victorian petticoat visible to the neighbours. As I walked in my laced-up, short black boots, the ruffle of the under-skirt frothed an improbably stark white under the brown skirt and over the shiny surface of the boots. My preference was to wear this combination with a fitted black t-shirt. I was thin, angular, with very short cropped hair. I liked the contradictions of soft and hard, of past and present ideas about proper clothing, of femininity and androgyny, troubling ‘tidy binaries’ (Lather, 2006). As I walked, sections of text from Byatt’s novels, Victorian poetry and Shakespeare that had lodged in my brain surfaced with the rhythm of the walk, the boot’s heavy tread, the flick of my skirt, to match the meter. Mine eyes dazzle. I was blown through. With every leaf and wind. I was blown through. The sky was so blue; the oxygen made my head spin. My head was full of words. My boots weighed me down. I felt as light as air, as insubstantial as paper.

Still life in brown Toward the end of the time that I was writing my PhD thesis I began the relationship which I am still in, sixteen years later. Soon after I graduated with my doctorate I was pregnant with our son and when he was born I took a year’s maternity leave from my new role as a lecturer. I grew out my hair, partly because frequent haircuts are expensive, and partly because my old pixie look didn’t look so great on a sleep-deprived thirty-two-year-old. Few of my clothes fit me, and weren’t suitable for breastfeeding anyway, and I struggled to feel good, or like myself, in what I wore. I experienced anxiety, a feeling of being out of depth as a new parent, and a desire to have greater order in my chaotic life. Once back at work, balancing being a mother with working as an academic felt hard, like I was compromising both. I felt unkempt and I feared some sartorial faux-pas might undermine my tenuous hold on keeping it together – that I would belatedly notice a stain, or forget to fasten the clip on my maternity bra (it happened once).

26  Frances Kelly There was a hill not far from our first home, called Monkey Hill, which I would walk up, with my sweetly sleeping son in a stroller, to get to a cluster of shops that included one selling Japanese ceramics and textiles. Here I bought an apron in a soft cotton, dyed brown, with a pattern in white. It has a crossover back rather than ties, so one slips into it. Once on, it looks almost like a simple dress, a duster or coverall from an earlier era. It has two large pockets at the front, into which I slipped garden scissors, sprigs of thyme or rosemary, post-its or a pencil. I would wear it to bake in, feed my son his pureed peas, tidy up. It protected my clothes from spills. For a few years, I wore it a lot. I have loved several garments in brown – including the brown corduroy trousers I wrote this chapter in, fully mindful of the cliché about academics (usually male) and brown (Miller, 2010). It is not associated with purity, like white, nor with danger or sexuality, like red; rather it tends to be associated with dirt, or, perhaps worse, with being boring. I google ‘meaning of brown’. A website tells me that to buy a brown car means you are down to earth, stable and orderly. In Women in Clothes Adrienne Butikofer tells of a period in her life when she was depressed, and wore nothing but brown. A therapist told her that black was usually associated with depression, but it was brown that really depressed people wore (Butikofer, cited in Heti et al., 2014). The website agrees with the therapist: brown is potentially depressing. Yet it also offers these pearls: brown is comfort and home, companionship, simplicity and wholesomeness. Brown is the colour of a Vermeer still life in which a woman forever pours from a creamy jug in a dimly lit interior. The apron represented an idea about life/work, a demarcating and bridging of spaces and activities, hints of a somehow connected way of being.

What shall I wear to teach philosophy? One day, I followed the advice of a clothes blogger advocating a minimalist approach to clothing, and undertook an inventory of my wardrobe. The premise of the exercise is that such a thoughtful approach lessens the likelihood of rash purchases, which is good both for one’s finances and the planet. While the exercise provoked what I think of as a Kondo (2014) moment (this may be a good strategy but it is also earnest and I feel preached to), it was also illuminating in the way such things are. Revelation! My ratio of leisure to work clothing is not commensurate with the time allocated to leisure (two days) and work (five days) in an average week. It is harder to find clothes that I really like to wear to work at the university. Writing days at home are not such a struggle (there’s always the brown corduroy trouser) although these days are not unthought either; as Grumet’s (1995) account of marking in her robe demonstrates, ‘at home’ clothes also fit with ideas about ourselves and our academic work. In a way, I  knew this: getting dressed each morning to go to work has, over my life, been a recurring moment of stress for me. Sometimes I have been so anxious about choosing the wrong thing (à la Woolf) that I’ve cried, shut the door, wished I didn’t have to go out. Why is it sometimes so hard to find the right clothes to wear in the university? The quotidian ritual of getting dressed is fraught for other women too, as many of the entries in Women in Clothes reveal (Heti et al., 2014). Caitlin Moran (2017)

The lecturer’s new clothes 27 writes about the moment of staring at a wardrobe and trying to choose what to wear in relation to two questions: what do I have for who I need to be today? And will I be able to run away in those shoes? A concern with safety, the daily consideration of the possibility that one might need to run for one’s life, is, she suggests, a fundamental difference between the way men and women experience the world. For me it is a fear of the possibility that I might draw unwanted attention to myself or be somehow inappropriate, as Virginia Woolf fears she will be in chiffon (Zoob, 2017), or like Laurel Richardson, who cannot wear jeans in downtown Chicago where her father once practised law (Richardson, 1997). Experiences over a lifetime (and some television shows) have contributed to the development of an instinct about what is appropriate to wear, a version of ‘will I be able to run in these shoes?’ that is for me ‘will this dress attract undue attention to any part of my body?’ Modesty sits well with me. At the same time, I see that dressing modestly is also conforming to an idea about what is appropriate in the university (Stavrakopoulou, 2014). The decision about what to wear each day is fraught not only because clothes are (obviously) to do with gender, sexuality, identity, as well as safety, but also as they are to do with banal matters of temperature inside and out, whether the day will be spent sitting or walking or standing, whether there is rain or sun or wind, or all of the above. On days that I teach I need shoes I can, not run, but stand in for three hours at a time, clothes that won’t be too crumpled for that late class or meeting, that don’t make me hot and sweaty. I choose clothing based on my level of confidence in the subject (the less confident I feel the more the clothes matter), a need to look like a lecturer, Grumet’s (1995) scholae personae, and seem credible. If I choose right then I am less self-conscious. I think through all the possibilities of how I may be in my clothes so that once I am in front of the students in a lecture I can forget about those same things; to dress the body so that I am not preoccupied with the body. There is also my rediscovered love for teaching and research, and a desire to transmit something of this love-of-knowledge to students in the way I present myself. What do I wear to convey a love of history or ideas? Woolf (1929/1989) terms the “first duty” of a lecturer to hand to students a “nugget of pure truth” (p. 5). What does one wear to facilitate the giving and receiving of a truth? This is my garment of choice to lecture in: a long dress with sleeves, a full skirt and a fitted waist, breathable cotton fabric, in blue or black, with ankle boots. I am in the front of the lecture theatre, I am calm, I am proper, I am me. I begin. ‘Let me tell you about the reforms to education in the social democratic decades. . .’

Blue is the colour of my academic life A colleague came to visit not long after I’d moved house, so I showed her around our new place. In the bedroom, she paused and looked at the wardrobe, which is open. All our hanging clothes are visible, with a rack for long garments, and two racks for shorter garments. (I share it with my husband: he has about one-sixth.) When we first moved in I was a bit anxious about the fact that the wardrobe had no doors, and considered setting up a curtain. My concern was that if the clothes

28  Frances Kelly became disorderly, I would see it, and not be able to sleep. The opposite proved to be true: the wardrobe is always tidy, and so a source of pleasure. When my colleague looked at the wardrobe, she made a comment something like “Everything is the same!” Naturally, I took umbrage, although I have since conceded some truth in her remark. Nothing is bright, colourful, shiny or lacy. The textiles are cotton, linen or wool; brown, black, blue or dark green; plain, striped or checked. Definitely no florals. They hang so that the varying lengths appear fairly uniform and types of garments are arranged alongside each other. Overall, there is a lot of blue. Calm blue, crisp blue, deep blue, cold blue, sea-and-sky-andlake toned blue. Lately, I realise I have developed a kind of uniform. After some trial and error, I think I’ve found that blue is the colour of my academic life. It is not the only colour I wear but it is most myself. Like Patti Smith’s (2015) black Comme de Garçon coat, or Michelle Oka Doner’s variation on one dress, it is a simple and clear expression of my identity, a ‘go-to’ look in which I am so comfortable I do not have to think too much about it. Sometimes clothes give us this freedom (Heti et al., 2014). One garment epitomises this look: a woven shirt in blue with threads of black and white, and metallic silver lining barely visible on the surface of the weave. It was bought in Williamsburg two years ago, when I was in the States with my husband and son, on a mix of leave and research. (One interview was at the Parson’s School of Design on Fifth Avenue, for which I had dressed very thoughtfully, imagining the woman I was meeting would be dauntingly sartorial; I was slightly disappointed yet also relieved that she wore jeans and a puffer jacket.) It was spring in New York, and tulips were flowering in the East Village. On the day we decided to catch a taxi to Williamsburg it was hot and sunny. We wandered about half-looking for a flea-market, when we came across a shop on the corner of an old block. The windows were hung with patchwork quilts, and inside were tables with leather bags and ceramics. The interior was dim and cool after the bright sun. I turned to my partner – I suspect my eyes gleaming like a cat’s – and said something along the lines of ‘this is my kind of shop’. At the back were racks of clothes. I tried on several garments but the interest in the others was a sham: from the moment I saw its sleeve poking out of the rack I knew this top was mine. Its style, cut and fabric is a perfect blend of Japanese-style clean lines and the gentlest of nods to seventies folk in its textured indigo weave. It was me. There are moments when ‘within’ and ‘without’ are in harmony, when there seems no distinction – no ‘inside’ and ‘outside’, no mind above matter but rather in the “weave of the surface itself”, writes Ingold (2009, p. 90). This shirt seemed to have been woven with my memories of growing up in Asia, of wearing muslin, calico and cotton in the 1970s, of all the times I’d worn blue. It is made by New York company Ace and Jig, and is reflective of the current zeitgeist for something crafted, the provenance of which is known, which is a response to malaise with mass production, and a disconnection with real things furthered by the advent of the internet. Online, Ace and Jig post short articles about the factory in India where the clothes are made, so that their customers can see the working conditions

The lecturer’s new clothes 29 there, the looms on which the cloth is made, the hands that hold the dyed threads. The brand exists and I can buy it, and read online about its ethical production practices, because of what technology, late-capitalism and the internet enables. These are the contradictions of our times. It wasn’t all beer and sunshine that day in New York. My silver lining held a cloud: a little nodule, the San Francisco doctor called it, on my lung. No need to do anything urgently; just get it looked at when you get back home. I still see his face, his kind dark eyes. Two years on, I am recovered, the shirt still hangs in my closet. It nestles against other blue shirts, other woven cloth, other Ace and Jig. I wear it often enough to connect to my memories of sunny Williamsburg, to feel the pleasure of being, in my sky-and-sea-blue habitus. Blue is a good colour to work in, in the university: it is associated with truth and knowledge, with heaven. It is also blue-collar, denim overalls, an idea to do with how through the “work of our hands” what we each contribute to “our common world” is valued (Arendt, 1954, p. 8). I was raised by two teachers at the end of the social-democratic decades in Aotearoa; I want to be connected to my academic work, my teaching, research, the committees vital to academic citizenship and the democratic university. Arendt also writes that “labour is the activity which corresponds to the biological process of the human body” (1958, p. 7). Blue collar? Labour? What do I know, I’m a middle-class Pakeha academic with the tastes of my social group (Bourdieu, 1993) and a senior lecturer’s salary (Franklin, 2014). That’s the thing about clothing: it wraps philosophy around the body, dresses us in associations. I keep returning to the philosophical idea of ‘transcendence down’ (Standish, 2012) and so my writing about clothes, here, has warped toward the earth – or is it toward the sky? Either way, it says something about my concern that the university, like other worlds of work, is changing so much that our labour is less and less like something a mortal human body (as I am) might do on the earth and under the sky.

Concluding remarks Why examine clothing? Academic work, writes Miller (2010), is best done with “feet on the ground” (p. 78). To consider the humble topic of a lecturer’s clothes is to recognise that minds are bodies, that selves are constructed (and reconstructed) in social and material contexts, that these things matter. Although clothes are material objects they are also representative and associative. They are not unconnected entities, a ‘heap of unrelated articles’, but are understood in relation to other things: they are part of a system. The system of things is constitutive, it makes “us the people that we are”, Miller writes (2010, p. 53): we are shaped by and within systems of material culture. To convey something of both the constitutive and associative dimensions of clothing the four vignettes in this chapter loosely correspond (though not in order) to Heidegger’s (2011) idea of the fourfold: earth and sky, divinities and mortals. If I have a sense of an authenticity of being, is not to do with rising above language, materiality, clothes – rather it is to do with being in relation to these things.

30  Frances Kelly Even so I am bothered by hints, in my account of academic life and clothes here, of a desire for something authentic that I feel I should be suspicious of and yet which keeps recurring – the warp I wrote of earlier. Other troublesome elements at work in this chapter include a simultaneous dislike of and delight in the material comforts which late capitalism and globalisation enable – occasionally I buy clothes from New York online and I live in Auckland! These, along with other aspects of clothing and academic life, seem worth examining further. After all, we consider ways in which to trouble ideological conventions in research and teaching (Lather, 2006) – what scholarly attention do we pay to our own clothing? This is my plea to other women, other academics: please, write about your textiles, in all their complexity! I want to think and learn more about clothes in the university, the ways they feel and the ideas, associations, values and ethics that adhere in them.

Note 1 Fisher (2000) highlights incompatibilities between phenomenology and feminism, including a tendency to assume a male norm, and reminds of the achievement of decades of feminist scholarship to distance ‘woman’ from narrow biological or essentialist constraints. Others have pointed to certain phenomenological ideas seeming ‘discarnate and cerebral’ (Franklin, 2014) and removed from everyday reality.

References Ahmed, S. (2012). On being included: Racism and diversity in institutional life. Durham and London: Duke University Press. Arendt, H. (1954). The crisis in education. Retrieved from www.thecriticalreader.com Arendt, H. (1958). The human condition. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Bourdieu, P. (1993). The field of cultural production. New York: Columbia University Press. Fisher, L. (2000). Phenomenology and feminism: Perspectives on their relation. In L. Fisher & L. Embree (Eds.), Feminist phenomenology (pp. 17–38). Dordrecht: Kluwer Academic Publishers. Franklin, A. (2014). Phenomenal dress! A personal phenomenology of clothing. Clothing Cultures, 1(1), 83–91. Green, E. (2001). Suiting ourselves: Women professors using clothes to signal authority, belonging and personal style. In A. Guy, E. Green & M. Banim (Eds.), Through the wardrobe: Women’s relationships with their clothes (pp. 97–116). Oxford: Berg. Grosz, E. (1989). Sexual subversions: Three French feminists. Sydney: Allen and Unwin. Grumet, M. (1995). Scholae personae: Masks for meaning. In J. Gallop (Ed.), Pedagogy: The question of impersonation (pp. 36–45). Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press. Heidegger, M. (2011). Basic writings. London and New York: Routledge. Heti, S., Julavits, H., Shapton, L. (and 639 others). (2014). Women in clothes. London and New York: Particular Books/Penguin Books. Ingold, T. (2009). On weaving a basket. In F. Candlin and R. Guins (Eds.), The object reader (pp. 80–91). Abingdon: Oxford.

The lecturer’s new clothes 31 Kaiser, S., Chandler, J., & Hammidi, T. (2001). Minding appearances in female academic culture. In A. Guy, E. Green, & M. Banim (Eds.), Through the wardrobe: Women’s relationships with their clothes (pp. 117–136). Oxford: Berg. Kelly, F. (2017). The idea of the PhD: The doctorate in the 21st century imagination. Abingdon: Routledge. Kondo, M. (2014). The life-changing magic of tidying up: The Japanese art of decluttering and organizing. Berkeley: Ten Speed Press. Lather, P. (2006). Paradigm proliferation as a good thing to think with: Teaching research in education as a wild profusion. International Journal of Qualitative Studies in Education, 19(1), 35–57. Merleau-Ponty, M. (1962). The phenomenology of perception. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul. Miller, D. (2010). Stuff. Cambridge: Polity Press. Richardson, L. (1997). Fields of play: Constructing an academic life. New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press. Smith, P. (2015). M Train. London: Bloomsbury. Standish, P. (2012). Pure experience and transcendence down. In P. Standish & N. Saito (Eds.), Education and the Kyoto school of philosophy. Contemporary philosophies and theories in education 1 (pp. 19–26). Dordrecht: Springer. Woolf, V. (1929/1989). A room of one’s own. London: Penguin. Zoob, C. (2017). Dress down: Virginia Woolf’s life in clothes. Selvedge, 76, 32–34.

Blogs and online sources Floral manifesto. (2015). How to dress in academia and not feel like you’re dead inside. Retrieved from https://floralmanifesto.com/ Moran, C. (2017). 12 things about being a woman that women won’t tell you. Retrieved from https://www.esquire.com/uk/culture/advice/a9641/things-men-dont-know-aboutwomen-caitlin-moran/ Stavrakopoulou, F. (2014). Female academics: Don’t power dress, forget heels – and no flowing hair! [Blog post]. Retrieved from www.theguardian.com/higher-education-network/blog/2014/oct/26/-sp-female-academics-dont-power-dress-forget-heels-and-noflowing-hair-allowed Tenure, she wrote. (2013). Dressing for academia. Retrieved from https://tenureshewrote. wordpress.com/ The thesis whisperer. (2012). What not to wear: The edition. Retrieved from https://thesiswhisperer.com/2012/04/16/what-not-to-wear-the-academic-edition/

4 You’re doctor what?

Corinna Di Niro and Amelia WalkerYou’re doctor what?

Challenges for creative arts research in a culture of binaries Corinna Di Niro and Amelia Walker

Act one Scene 1 Party scene: Noise, drinks, chatter, laughter. A group of people are standing in a loose circle, talking and having fun. MR OBVIOUSLYHAS-STABLE-EMPLOYMENT stands centre-circle, highly visible. DR NO-IDEA stands on the outer, her posture uneasy. MR OBVIOUSLY: So, what’s your PhD in? DR NO-IDEA: Er. . .?

Introduction The above scene reflects tensions and uncertainties that we, as researchers in the fields of theatre (Di Niro) and creative writing (Walker), encountered throughout our PhD candidature and beyond. As Hecq (2015) observes, creative fields occupy a ‘perceived inferior status in the academy’ (p. 2). According to Paltridge, Starfield, Ravelli and Nicholson (2012), arts academics feel they are floundering in ‘uncharted waters’ in which ‘[t]he terminology used to define this field is much debated and definitions sometimes overlap one another, or are contested’ (Paltridge et al., 2012, pp. 989–991). Given funding cuts across multiple global contexts (Craven, 2017; Collini, 2017; Curran, 2017; Kuper, 2017), challenges for artists in universities seem likely to persist. This chapter plumbs the personal, political and cultural factors punctuating current circumstances. We proceed via duoethnography – a ‘collaborative research methodology in which two or more researchers of difference juxtapose their life histories’ (Norris & Sawyer, 2012, p. 9). Duoethnography focuses on the creation and transformation of meaning through ‘writing in the form of a play script’ (Given, 2012, p. 8). In this chapter, we take a creative approach: in addition to our own dialogue, we present a fictionalised encounter between Dr  No-Idea, who represents ourselves, and Mr Obviously-Has-Stable-Employment (henceforth Mr. Obviously), who represents the challenges we as arts researchers have faced. Through rewrites

You’re doctor what? 33 of this encounter, we explore different elements of Dr No-Idea’s situation, and possible modes of response. This play feeds our main dialogue about personal, political and cultural struggles in academia.

Zeroing in: the personal Walker: Our opening scene is labelled ‘Act One Scene One’. But it’s not the beginning. Previous experiences have lead Dr No Idea to anticipate sceptical reactions. Di Niro: Initially, if I’d been Dr No Idea . . . Well, I wouldn’t have been Dr No Idea. More like Dr Lots of BIG Ideas. My story would have gone something like:

MR OBVIOUSLY: What’s your PhD in? DR BIG-IDEAS: Saving Commedia dell’Arte! MR OBVIOUSLY: Huh? Is that a type of coffee? DR BIG-DEAS: It’s 16th-century Italian theatre. In 2004, I travelled to Italy and trained under a world expert – Antonio Fava. I had no idea that Commedia was part of the school curriculum in Australia and that you could do a BA Education specialising in Drama without having any training in Commedia . . . yet then be expected to teach it at the secondary school level! Commedia is dying in Australia. Rarely is it taught with any integrity at the university level (if taught at all – my university scrapped it despite its position in the school curriculum). So, I’m on a quest to save Commedia! I’m creating a performance and a teaching resource that will see a shift in the way Commedia is taught to both pre-service teachers doing their BA and secondary school students in Australia.

Walker: I had big ideas too!

MR OBVIOUSLY: What’s your PhD in? DR BIG-IDEAS: Changing the world! MR OBVIOUSLY: Huh? DR BIG-IDEAS: Through poetry. For ten years, I’ve been working in schools, helping students write, perform and publish on topics they think matter. It’s a powerful medium for teenagers who feel voiceless or misunderstood. But many teenagers are apprehensive about poetry – and some teachers too. My research will enhance its accessibility – and thus its benefits.

34  Corinna Di Niro and Amelia Walker Di Niro: Isn’t it interesting how our experiences have changed? I don’t ever recall feeling insecure about doing a PhD at the beginning. Initially it was a big deal for my family because I was the first one to undertake a PhD. I was going to do this amazing Commedia dell’Arte project (henceforth Commedia). Everyone thought it was a great idea. Walker: I remember the news story! (McGarry, 2011). Di Niro: That’s right. My teacher from overseas was invited by the university to spend a week with me and the cast. It was an exciting time. My Honours supervisor encouraged me to do a PhD. I remember him telling me that ‘I could do it in anything I wanted.’ Walker: When did things change? Di Niro: After all the hype of my Commedia teacher performing with me here at the end of 2011, and my final season being performed in 2012, things just sort of died off. In 2013, I struggled to get any tutoring work, there was a dramatic shift in the over-casualisation of staff, and there was an energy of ‘everyone is scrambling.’ Some staff were trying to save their jobs, others were accepting packages and leaving. In the midst of it all, my principal supervisor was hanging up her hat and retiring. I didn’t get the support I had anticipated from the theatre department and my ideas of researching arts education were getting squashed. For a while there, I didn’t know what I was doing or why, which was scary. What about you? Walker: It was 2013 for me too. I also lost my supervisor. That moment was so bittersweet. I received the news via SMS while at the closing drinks of a conference. What a party dampener! But it was actually good, finding out that way. I was with people who could empathise. Others had been through similar things. I learned that shake ups were happening at universities all over Australia, and overseas too. My PhD topic underwent a major shift: MR OBVIOUSLY: What was your PhD in again? DR SHAKEN: It was in poetry. Now it’s about why it’s so hard to do a PhD in poetry. MR OBVIOUSLY: Sounds like a whinge. DR SHAKEN: No. It’s an examination of the history and struggles of creative writing as an academic field of research, and an argument for how and why creative writing is a valid, valuable research process. Di Niro: I wasn’t that aware of those factors. Everyone I bumped into loved my idea! I think the whole ‘first practice-led performing arts PhD’ thing was just waaaaaay too exciting for everyone and no one really questioned what I was doing, or why! Or at least that’s how it felt. Early on in my candidature, I received lots of media attention. The then head of school said in an interview:

You’re doctor what? 35 We are especially excited that he (Antonio Fava) will be working with Corinna, who is the university’s first PhD student in the performing arts and who, we believe, will blaze a trail for others to follow. (Green, in McGarry, 2011) I mean, when the Head of School goes on record to say that you’re basically pioneering a new direction for the uni, you think you must be on a winner! Although, there was this sense that things were changing around me, I remember thinking that I was going to be fine. Then we got to examination. That was quite the debacle. I discovered that my uni had no criteria for practice-led research in the performing arts: it was written after my PhD went off to the examiners. My PhD fell through the cracks. Walker: And that criteria is pretty darn intricate. In an ideal world, it would have been there before you even started, so that you could work to it – which reminds me, something else I find flummoxing is that you were told you could do your PhD in anything you wanted. That to me is a massive reflection of one of the major myths about creative PhDs – a myth that circulates both in academic cultures and beyond. The myth is that because we develop our own topics, rather than choosing from pre-approved ones, as candidates in other disciplines commonly do, we have all this wild freedom. Di Niro: There’s this unique perception from non-artists that we, as artists, somehow manage to dodge bullets when it comes to meeting criteria and assessments. Like we don’t have to worry about the academic stuff. Walker: But actually, we still have strict criteria to meet – for instance, here in Australia, the highly political ERA (Excellence for Research Australia). Di Niro: We were talking about the personal. Isn’t it interesting that it always comes back to the political? Walker: Interesting indeed. In our next section, let’s look at the political in focus, beginning with ERA assessment and how it relates to overseas models.

Zooming out: the political Di Niro: You and I were and are children of what’s been dubbed the ‘ERA era’ (Krauth, Webb & Brien, 2010). The ERA research evaluation model is roughly equivalent to the UK’s REF (Research Evaluation Framework) and New Zealand’s PBRF (Performance Based Research Fund), among others elsewhere. It began with trials in 2009, and came into proper swing from 2010 onwards, with revisions made over subsequent years. As my PhD progressed, I felt myself being ‘gently pushed’ to fall in line with new standards. Walker: That’s an important point. The ERA, which was introduced as a Rudd (Labour) government initiative, replacing the Research Quality

36  Corinna Di Niro and Amelia Walker

Di Niro: Walker:

Di Niro: Walker:

Di Niro: Walker:

Di Niro:

Walker:

Framework (RQF) of the previous Howard (Liberal) government, was met with much division from academics in the arts. While some welcomed the new system, others were dead against it. Let’s consider the argument for, then against. The argument for was that it included measures for assessing creative works (novels, theatre productions, poetry collections and so on) as research, and it was the first Australian model to formally do this (Krauth, Webb & Brien, 2010, p. 1). Which would have been great – if not for that damn research statement! That was the big against. The 250-word research statement was among the main measures the ERA introduced for assessing creative works as research. The statement is a ‘justifying rationale’ addressing the research background (field, context and research question), contribution (innovation and new knowledge) and significance (evidence of excellence) (Krauth, Webb & Brien, 2010, p. 1). Many academics opposed it, insisting ‘that the research element in a creative work should be self-evident and should not have to be repeated in academic discourse’ (Krauth, Webb & Brien, 2010, p. 2), and declaring the arts is ‘always its own research’ (Brooks, 2010, p. 5). The criteria for the statement were – and are – quite limiting, too. . . Agreed. Another big concern raised by creative academics in 2010 was that the ‘performance controls’ of ERA and the research statements would wind up ‘dictating terms’ to artists (Krauth & Brien, 2012, p. 2) or even become a mode of ‘censorship’ that would compel arts academics to ‘produce the kind of writing [and art] that the State (ARC) wants’ (Krauth & Brien, 2012, p. 3). The research statement criteria began to steer the evaluation of creative arts PhD theses, too. I was being put into a box that clearly did not fit. Although I always knew that I was doing an exegesis and creative artefact, I didn’t expect that my PhD was to be examined under the criteria for a creative writing thesis. How ridiculous – lumping theatre with creative writing, as though we’re the same. Ridiculous, and yet typical, because from a bureaucratic viewpoint, we are the same in that we’re different from the established disciplines. We’re other(s): defined by what we’re not, in ways that miss the diversities of what we do – which ranges greatly, even within the one field. For instance:

MR. OBVIOUSLY: So, if you’re in the field of Creative Writing, you must be doing an artefact-exegesis. . . DR ODDITY: Actually, no. My thesis is fictocritical. MR. OBVIOUSLY: Ficto . . . whah? DR ODDITY: It’s creative and critical. The two blur.

You’re doctor what? 37 MR. OBVIOUSLY: That sounds risky. DR ODDITY: Well, yes . . . I guess it is. . . MR. OBVIOUSLY: What if the examiner doesn’t get what you’re doing? DR  ODDITY: Hmmm  .  .  . Okay, so I’ll make this first draft my artefact . . . and I’ll write an exegesis about it. . . MR. OBVIOUSLY: But now your exegesis says everything the creative part was meant to. Why do you even need an artefact? DR ODDITY: Oh. . .

Walker: Di Niro:

Walker:

That’s how I wound up submitting a purely critical dissertation without any actual creative writing. I can absolutely sympathise with you here. My PhD was practice-led research, with the point being that I would ‘dive into any endeavour with strength, fortitude and intention, but at the same time be willing to adjust’ (Bogart & Landau, 2005, p. 162) because ‘if the work is too controlled, it will feel constricted and lifeless’ (Bogart, 2007, p. 49). I recall stepping into the first rehearsal saying, ‘Ok, let’s create a brand new Commedia show about a wedding!’ The wedding was what Bogart and Landau (2005, p. 155) refer to as the ‘central driving force,’ but I had no idea of how this wedding would be performed, the structure, the form or what characters I wanted to include. Everything and anything was possible and open to change . . . and it did! We just ‘played on the stage’ together creating dialogue and situations. For the most part, confusion about characters, language, entrances and exits made the situations funnier and these ‘errors’ guided the devising process. Poetry is similar: so much of it occurs through failure – for instance, making a typo, then discovering it works better. Or sometimes the realisation that things that aren’t working forces a creative response. According to Webb, creative practitioners ‘must fail’ because ‘failure triggers or tricks the brain into coming up with creative solutions’ (2015, p. 157, original emphasis). Kroll (2015) similarly asserts:

Failure can lead practitioners in new directions, close pathways, solve specific problems that turn out to be more significant than the project as a whole, and suggest more fruitful questions to pose. (p. 143) Interestingly, though, part of Webb’s argument is that ‘innovation emerges from failure’ in the sciences too (2015, p. 157). However, in the sciences there are established traditions for (re)presenting failure as success: I didn’t prove my hypothesis,

38  Corinna Di Niro and Amelia Walker but disproving it was useful. The creative disciplines need to incorporate more of this into research evaluation, especially thesis examination. Di Niro:

Originally, I thought my PhD would be examined similar to visual arts PhDs, in that the creative component would be examined as is – a live theatre show, not a recorded version of it. However, I ended up submitting an 80,000+ word exegesis and a video recording of my performance because there were no funds allocated to have the examiners attend one of the actual shows. This was a real failure because Commedia has this fascinating way of tricking the audience into believing that the show is fully improvised, right there and then, just for them, when in actual fact, it is rehearsed and organised prior. Audiences don’t tend to think of how much work goes into the rehearsals so that the show still appears like it’s improvised. Keeping this illusion alive is actually a difficult, but essential skill, and something I wanted the examiners to witness live. Schmitt (2010) explains why perfectly:

To make evident the work that went into improvisation, including extensive practice, rehearsal, and the effort of memorisation, would have diminished the sense of the performer’s immediacy, of it being a work that was performed only for the audience at hand. (p. 234) Walker: Having seen your Adelaide Fringe performance, I completely get this. You worked in fantastic jokes based on local current events, and the actors bounced off the audience so beautifully. There was such reciprocity, such a sense of everybody being involved. Film can’t capture that. Di Niro: The audience was always involved. Even to the point that some were invited to join us on stage. Knowing that the examiners were never going to be part of this important experience really devalued my research. Walker: Why couldn’t the examiners see a live show? Di Niro: There was no funding allocated to me for costs associated with staging a performance, like venue hire, let alone for an overseas examiner to come see the show. My conversation became:

MR OBVIOUSLY: So what’s your PhD in? DR BROKE: I’m trying to research how Commedia can be performed in a contemporary Australian context, but I can’t afford to stage the show!

You’re doctor what? 39 Walker: That’s weird. Visual Arts students of the same era could claim for gallery hire and exhibition costs. Why was a performance different? Di Niro: Visual Arts was already established as a research field at our university, whereas Performing Arts was very new. Perhaps nobody anticipated the financial aspect of doing a PhD in theatre. Walker: Plus Performing Arts happened to be new in the midst of the global financial crisis, which entailed serious funding cuts for universities. Di Niro: And ‘[w]hen budget cuts come, the arts are an easy target because they are not viewed as essential’ (Archer, 2013, p. 2). Yet as Robyn Archer (2013) reflected in her Hawke Centre Lecture, ‘Try A Day Without The Arts,’ [i]t would be extremely challenging to go even one day without the products of arts and design: in effect you would have to deprive yourself of the basic conditions of life as we recognise it today. (p. 2) Walker: I love that speech. Later, she discusses arts program improvements that had been promised at the South Australian TAFE, which, it had just been revealed, would ‘not be possible within this restructure’ (Archer, 2013, p. 11, emphasis in original). This reveals how the issues we faced as PhD candidates affected other students and sectors of society. Di Niro: Arts grant funding was impacted, as were community arts organisations – and this is ongoing (McDonald, 2016). Walker: It bears lengthy histories, too: devaluation of the arts in relation to the sciences is long-entrenched in our culture (Snow, 1959). Di Niro: Speaking of looking back, something we haven’t touched on is that, certain changes aside, the ERA still retained – and retains – much from the RQF model that preceded it. Walker: You’re right. The ERA retains the RQF’s emphases: excellence, significance and innovation (Commonwealth of Australia, 2005; ARC, 2015). Di Niro: There’s a parallel there to what happened in the UK when they switched from the RAE (Research Assessment Exercises) to the REF (Research Evaluation Framework) – both of which emphasise(d) ‘originality, significance and rigor’ (Bridges, 2017, p. 420). Walker: This is more than a parallel. Australia’s RQF drew strong influence from the UK, as did New Zealand’s equivalent research evaluation model, the PBRF. Di Niro: Colonisation still bears a heavy cultural force! Walker: Yes. And so does Margaret Thatcher. It was under her reign that the RAE was established. So decades later, in another country, you and I – and countless other arts academics – find ourselves scrambling to justify our art in terms that would satisfy the Iron Lady!

40  Corinna Di Niro and Amelia Walker Di Niro: True. However, an American model probably wouldn’t be much better. As performance scholar McKenzie (2006) points out, the USA has since the early 2000s gone in fairly similar directions, employing research evaluation criteria that strongly privilege ‘Big Science’ and ‘Big Business’ (p. 35). Walker: We’re back at the issue of how our culture devalues the arts in comparison to the sciences.

Changing cultures of academia and beyond Di Niro: Devaluation of the arts is a binary like the ones Cixous (1977) describes in La Jeune Nee. Walker: You’re right – like activity/passivity, sun/moon, day/night, mind/feeling, logos/pathos . . . and male/female. Cixous (1977) writes that western ‘[t]hought has always worked by opposition’ in ways that make ‘subordination of the feminine to the masculine order’ the apparent ‘condition necessary for the functioning of the [social] machine’ (pp. 64–65). Di Niro: And it’s that social machine that leads Mr Obviously to say:

MR OBVIOUSLY: You’re responsible for your own career. DR SINGLE MOTHER: Yes, I am. And I am content with that. However, in a contract-to-contract work environment, it is a struggle. Did you know that there are no crèches’ at the university where I work, so I rely on childcare centres? I work minimal hours over 2–3 days per week on a casual basis. The days shift every semester – often, I don’t know which days I’ll be working until the week before teaching starts. Therefore, I sometimes end up paying for extra childcare just in order to secure all the possible workdays. Someone with stable employment would not face this challenge. MR OBVIOUSLY: Why don’t you go and get stable employment then? DR SINGLE MOTHER: I’m trying to. Believe me! But I’m a liability! My child is very young and 100% dependent on me. Companies know this, and society does too. So, while it’s not outwardly said, I do feel that I don’t receive many teaching hours because of the fact I am a mother. I’m not as ‘available’ as those who don’t have dependents to worry about are. Walker:

I feel a little guilty, since I’m one of the childless tutors who benefits from this situation. It’s not quite male privilege, but I recognise the perks of my no-kids status. That said, the privilege comes at cost. Sometimes I fret that students think of me as a barren bitch whose childlessness makes her evil and inhuman.

You’re doctor what? 41 Di Niro: I’m laughing here because childless women are often seen this way. The devil wears Prada! As women we’re screwed if we do have kids and screwed if we don’t. I doubt this ever crosses the minds of male tutors, at least not the cis-male ones. . . Walker: Maybe the students don’t even think that way. But the cultural notion of the benevolent mother versus the mad witch whore is so entrenched (Federico, 2009, p. 18). It even drives my behaviour: I’m so scared of being seen as the witch, I overcompensate by trying to be there for my students twenty-four-seven. I feel guilty about taking time for me – including other academic work, like reading theory, or working on my own writing. The nagging thoughts invariably rear up: there must be an email I should be answering, some assignment crisis I ought to guide someone through in a firm-but-gentle fashion . . . Di Niro: That’s mother’s guilt! This feeling that you have to totally give yourself over to those who depend on you. That you can’t be seen doing something for yourself, because that’s selfish  .  .  . and women aren’t allowed to be selfish. Walker: Perhaps I am transferring maternal energy to my students! Yeesh. That’s disturbing. It demonstrates the strength of cultural pressures towards maternality – childlessness doesn’t equal immunity! This could be another factor that hinders some women from achieving academic success, or at least recognition: contemporary academic cultures recognise and value research publications much more highly than teaching outcomes, especially the intangible outcomes of pastoral care. Di Niro: Couldn’t agree more. I tend to think that I need to take a leaf out of a ‘man’s’ world when I am at work: be tough, be confident and don’t take things personally. Can women be all these things without thinking they need to ‘man-up’? Walker: Hmmm . . . I’m not sure . . . My question is, do we always and only want to be ‘tough’? If a culture encourages only one way of being, the benefits of other ways are lost. In this case, we lose vulnerability  – which ‘is the birthplace of many of the fulfilling experiences we long for – love, belonging, joy, creativity, and trust, to name a few’ (Brown, 2015, p. xviii). Di Niro: Maybe this connects somehow to my original thought of a mother being a ‘liability.’ Walker: Yes! It’s about risk – the liabilities in risking difference. This goes beyond male/female issues: it’s pertinent for people who are differently abled, queer, transgender, intersex, racially non-white and/or culturally non-western, or otherwise counter to the hegemonically privileged cismasculine ideal – including able-bodied white heterosexual cis-men who reject the hegemonic alpha-male thing (Connell, 1995). Di Niro: Cixous (1977) is again pertinent: for her, the gender binary entailed a hierarchical opposition of activity/passivity – or perceived

42  Corinna Di Niro and Amelia Walker passivity. Because maybe passivity is just a different kind of activity, one our culture under-recognises. Creative research is similarly underrecognised: from a binary perspective that privileges the sciences as active and purposeful, the meandering processes of creatives appear passive (though you and I know they aren’t). For the bean counters who want investments to reap returns, arts research poses a liability – it’s too raw and touchy, too prone to fail.

Conclusion Walker: This conversation has helped me see that for arts research to thrive, academic culture needs to change. If I were to write a manifesto, a key point would be to overcome the cultural binaries we discussed in the previous section, for these obscure recognition of how creative research operates. Di Niro: Yes, and as another key point, we need a more widespread recognition of how arts research practices allow knowledges to emerge in ways we as practitioners don’t necessarily make happen, but enable by being receptive. Walker: Absolutely. This receptivity can, from the outside, appear passive – mere waiting around. But it’s actually a finely-tuned state of openness, a readiness to respond when possibilities arise. Di Niro: Dr No Idea should celebrate her uncertainty. The scene could go like this: MR OBVIOUSLY: So what’s your PhD in? DR NO IDEA: No idea . . . and that’s the point.

References ARC (Australian Research Council). (2015). ERA 2015 peer reviewer handbook. Retrieved from archive.arc.gov.au/archive_files/ERA/ . . . /ERA_2015_Peer_Review_Handbook. pdf, p. 25 Archer, R. (2013). Try one day without the arts. Live speech. Monday 18 March 2013, Adelaide Festival Centre, Banquet Room. Retrieved from http://w3.unisa.edu.au/hawkecentre/events/2013events/AusDayCouncilSA_RobynArcher.asp Bogart, A. (2007). And then, you act: Making art in an unpredictable world. New York: Routledge. Bogart, A., & Landau, T. (2005). The viewpoints book: A practical guide to viewpoints and composition. New York: Theatre Communications Group. Bridges, D. (2017). Philosophy in educational research: Epistemology, ethics, politics and quality. Cham, Switzerland: Springer. Brooks, D. (2010). Plentitude. TEXT special issue: The ERA era: Creative writing as research, Oct. 2010. Retrieved from www.textjournal.com.au/speciss/issue7/Brooks.pdf

You’re doctor what? 43 Brown, B. (2015). Rising strong. New York: Spiegel & Grau. Cixous, H. (1977). La jeune nee: An excerpt (M. Bortin, Trans.). Diacritics, 7(2), 64–69. doi:10.2307/465022 Collini, S. (2017, June  6). Voters should be enraged by higher education profiteering. The Guardian. Retrieved from www.theguardian.com/education/2017/jun/06/ higher-education-profiteering-tuition-fees-universities Commonwealth of Australia. (2005). Research quality framework: Assessing the quality and impact of research in Australia, issues paper, March 2005. Retrieved from www. google.com.au/url?sa=t&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&source=web&cd=2&cad=rja&uact=8&v ed=0ahUKEwjMtNub8KDUAhVMHJQKHb9gAaoQFgg3MAE&url=http%3A%2F %2Fwww.csu.edu.au%2F__data%2Fassets%2Fpdf_file%2F0019%2F51472%2Frqf_ issuespaper.pdf&usg=AFQjCNEicgmKLibbzdfIqKenRn03qJ53xg&sig2=Iz1Eq0Q7rC SDnHodDpwBZQ Connell, R. W. (1995). Masculinities. Cambridge: Polity. Craven, G. (2017, May 31). Funding cuts spell doom for the university sector as we know it. The Australian. Retrieved from www.theaustralian.com.au/higher-education/funding-cuts-spell-doom-for-the-university-sector-as-we-know-it/news-story/ af566ac70d6ac55f832abb7803a1053d Curan, M. (2017, May 29). Govt under-funding of universities a concern. Education HQ NZ. Retrieved from http://nz.educationhq.com/news/39691/govt-under-fun ding-of-universities-a-concern/# Federico, A. (2009). Introduction: “Bursting all the doors”: The madwoman in the attic after thirty years. In A. R. Federico (Ed.), Gilbert and Gubar’s the madwoman in the attic after thirty years (pp. 1–26). Missouri: The Curators of the University of Missouri. Given, L. (2012). Foreword. In J. Norris, R. D. Sawyer, & D. Lund (Eds.), Duoethnography: Dialogic methods for social, health, and educational research (pp. 7–8). Walnut Creek: Left Coast Press. Hecq, D. (2015). Towards a poetics of creative writing. Bristol: Multilingual Matters. Krauth, N., & Brien, D. L. (2012). Creative writing under the ERA: Writing under duress, but relatively happy. TEXT Special Issue: Creative Writing as Research II. Retrieved from www.textjournal.com.au/speciss/issue15/Krauth&Brien.pdf Krauth, N., Webb, J., & Brien, D. L. (2010). Creative writing in the ERA era: A new research exercise. TEXT Special Issue: The ERA Era: Creative Writing as Research. Retrieved from www.textjournal.com.au/speciss/issue7/KrauthWebb&Brien.pdf Kroll, J. (2015). The creative writing doctorate as survival story: Minding the gap between success and failure. In T. Conroy & G. Pittaway (Eds.), Minding the gap: Writing across thresholds and fault lines (pp. 135–154). Newcastle Upon Tyne: Cambridge Scholars Publishing. Kuper, S. (2017, June 9). US senator Bernie Sanders on socialism and Donald Trump. Financial times. Retrieved from www.ft.com/content/4db3cdb2-4b81-11e7-a3f4-c742b9791d43 McDonald, P. (2016). Arts companies to close in wake of federal and state funding cuts. The advertiser. 19 April 2016. Retrieved from www.adelaidenow.com.au/entertainment/ arts/arts-companies-to-close-in-wake-of-federal-and-state-funding-cuts/news-story/184 e9fbc724e3a3a82e9eb6fa55d958d McGarry, A. (2011) Commedia dell’Arte maestro brings mask exhibition to UniSA. University of South Australia news and events. Retrieved from http://w3.unisa.edu.au/ news/2011/081111.asp

44  Corinna Di Niro and Amelia Walker McKenzie, J. (2006). Performance and Globalization. In D. S. Madison & J. Hamera (Eds.), The SAGE Handbook of Performance Studies (pp. 33–45). Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage Publications Inc. Norris, J., & Sawyer, R. D. (2012). Toward a dialogic methodology. In J. Norris, R. D. Sawyer, & D. Lund (Eds.), Duoethnography: Dialogic methods for social, health, and educational research (pp. 9–40). Walnut Creek: Left Coast Press. Paltridge, B., Starfield, S., Ravelli, L.,  & Nicholson, S. (2012). Doctoral writing in the visual and performing arts: Two ends of a continuum. Studies in higher education, 37(8), 989–1003. Schmitt, N. (2010). Improvisation in the Commedia dell’Arte in its golden age: why, what, how. Renaissance Drama, 38, 225–249. Snow, C. P. (1959 [1998]). The two cultures. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Webb, J. (2015). Ovid’s artists and mythic failure. In T. Conroy & G. Pittaway (Eds.), Minding the gap: Writing across thresholds and fault lines (pp. 155–168). Newcastle Upon Tyne: Cambridge Scholars Publishing.

5 “Going to see”

Barbara Grant“Going to see”

An academic woman researching her own kind Barbara Grant

Stalled muteness lured into speech Method crosses the desert easily but is hindered by the countryside, every place is an obstacle. A walk through the countryside is called a ramble. (Serres, 2008/1985, p. 259)

This chapter grows from a feeling of stalled muteness. Deep into the process of ethnographic-style research, I am overwhelmed. So much richness, complexity, anarchy – circumstantialness – in these proliferating bodies of data. Surfacing here and there are delicate details, half-glimpsed data of bodies, bodies that live and feel as well as think and teach and write, bodies that have full lives. Academic women’s lives. My overflowing life. My researcher–writer mind falls towards confusion, trailing a fan of panicky feelings into an abyss of not-writing. And so I read in order to lure myself into writing. My method here is one of diffraction. I  push my often difficult-to-articulate experiences as an academic woman researching other academic women – women I care about – into contact with the haunting language and thought of ‘Visit’, a long essay from Michel Serres’ book, The five senses: A  philosophy of mingled bodies (2008/1985). I chose to read the essay because the single-word title caught my imagination, offering a new way to think about my research practice: not as ‘fieldwork’, nor ‘shadowing’, but ‘visiting’. Whereas fieldwork has never belonged to me – I’m not trained as an ethnographer – and shadowing has too much of the corporate career about it to be a word I can embrace, visiting carries a raft of intriguing resonances for me, as I explore below through a series of memories. Before I begin, what is the research that is causing me such angst? For almost five years, I have been engaging in a variety of ways with a group of academic women from several universities in my own country, Aotearoa New Zealand. My desire is to explore doctoral supervision in the arts, humanities and post-positivist social sciences as a form of academic work. I want to understand something of that work as it takes place within the wider flow of academic lives in the early 21st century. It’s a project that might be the last major one of my academic life

46  Barbara Grant and, as such, I have designed it to enfold many enjoyable and bracing dimensions, including that I might learn some new ways of acting and thinking as a researcher. My project participant-co-researchers are friends and colleagues, all of whom have attended some of the writing retreats I’ve run for academic women over the past 20 years. This connection is partly accidental. When I was recruiting for a scoping study for the project, I first invited members of that ‘community’ of 100 or so women to participate. I only had funding for 12 people and, unexpectedly, enough women applied to fill the group. At the end of the scoping study, after describing to all those who had participated how I was going to shape up the research proper, I asked who would like to continue. I thought, if I was lucky, maybe two or three. But all wanted to, and so (excepting one from Australia) we have gone on together, joined by a couple of new women. Over time, though, the group has shrunk as women have decided to leave difficult experiences of academic work and life for more congenial climes. The structure of this chapter is a ramble: with its suggestion of the random, rambling is Serres’ preferred mode of visiting over the straight path of method. As I go, I roam between Serres’ ideas, my experiences and memories, and the ideas of others. The sequence matters but not fatally. By the final section, I have arrived somewhere new, a place I did not imagine when I set out.

A human sensorium There is a tradition in the visual representation of the senses which shows the body as a circular city, with the five senses represented as five gates piercing the city wall, which provide five separate avenues of approach to the head or citadel placed in the centre. For Serres, by contrast, the senses are nothing but the mixing of the body, the principal means whereby the body mingles with the world and with itself, overflows its borders. (Connor’s introduction, Serres, 2008/1985, p. 3)

A novice ethnographer casting around for ways to think about, imagine, shape, aestheticise, sensualise, my newly imagined fieldwork practice, I stumbled across the (old) idea of the human sensorium in the work of Michel Serres, in which the senses are thought to be part of a whole. For Serres, the human sensorium is a kind of knot of the sensible holding all the senses in its tangle. My interest in the senses had already been piqued by Jane Bennett’s idea of vibrant matter: the ‘active, earthy, not-quite-human capaciousness of matter’ (2009, p. 3), which marks an independence – from human subjectivity – ‘possessed by things’ (ibid). In her view, matter has ‘thingpower’,1 or agency, that can be noticed if we are so inclined. Bennett’s evocative work has sparked my curiosity about the interplay between selves and things – about the play of thingpower – in academic work. To find matter vibrant, it seemed to me, I would have to be unusually alert – not only to what I saw, but to what I heard, smelled, tasted, felt.

“Going to see” 47 Seeking to learn the (for me, difficult) art of sensory attentiveness, I read Sara Delamont’s ‘Senses and multi-sensory matters: Indescribable noises, sights, feeling’ (2014). In the traditional style that Connor describes above, Delamont works her way through each of the senses giving examples from various ethnographic studies, concluding with the advice: One of the lessons that can be drawn . . . is the importance of using all the senses in the field, and ensuring that the fieldnotes record all the sensory data. My advice is to keep good notes of what you are wearing, and how you smell, as well as what the actors are wearing and how they smell. (2014, p. 162) Forgetting what had gripped me about the idea of the sensorium – the wholeness of the sensory experience – I took this advice to heart (well almost), as I will show. The fieldwork was a series of excursions to my participant-co-researchers’ workplaces, during which I followed them around as they proceeded through a working academic day, often with some supervision meetings along the way. Almost immediately my fieldnotes register difficulties. In the very first visit (with Hannah), I mostly record things I see along with fragments of verbatim speech, punctuated by a scattering of observations attuned to a different sense or the same sense on a different scale: Soundscape: laughter, voices, hum of something electronic, wind (muted). . . . 11.50, hear voices outside and footsteps on stairs, steady hum of lights. Smell, neutral building smell. (Field journal, 17 Nov 2015) Across the day, Hannah and I talked a lot – it felt natural, there she was in her office, there I was too, I had questions to ask and she had things to tell me, some in response to my questions and some of her own volition. But all that talking made it difficult to observe. Around the middle of the day, I noted: On being a sensorium: I’m wondering if I’m doing too much talking to/‘interviewing’ of H, not enough just noticing. (Field journal, 17 Nov 2015) Curiously, now, when I look back at my notes or when I think of myself as a human sensorium, a picture of Star Wars’ R2D2 snaps into my mind’s eye: shiny silver, reflecting all that comes close to me, I whir silently down those often interminable, interchangeable, linoleum-lined or carpet-clad corridors and into offices and classrooms and meeting rooms where I observe. All the while, I cycle methodically, analytically through my senses, trying to notice, making notes, wrestling to enword sensations and sensibilities that elude words. At the same time, I’m trying to keep faith with a long-standing tendency towards a critical standpoint, a tendency that has been further trained into methodical habits of analysis by my work

48  Barbara Grant as an academic. A tendency that I treasure, that I identify with even, as a ‘critical university studies’ scholar. In the fieldnotes, I can see my diligence as I strain towards sensory attentiveness, how I’ve made my observation into a machinic process. My human body hunched diligently over my notebook, I am training myself to experience my research sites in a way that is unfamiliar, not at all second-nature. In another extract from my field journal, I find evidence of efforts to train my attention during my first visit with Virginia: Sounds: a grinding machine makes a continuous noise (this building is yet another construction site), something is ticking, the breeze rattles the venetian blind cords until V closes the window. V coughing (she has had a lot of colds recently). Voices in the distance. Smells: nothing I can detect. Her office smells good to me, in a clear neutral way. Not musty, even though she’s not in here much at the moment because she’s on research leave. Feeling: texture of chairs is a woven fabric similar to what I had in my old office, on similar not so comfortable slim black metal-framed chairs. Ubiquitous uni stuff. Rubbish bin too. (Now I’m looking instead of feeling!) Looking: I notice books I recognise on her shelves, but not so many! There’s a TEU door-sign on her noticeboard and the photo of an academic from my uni who died not so long ago. He was her friend (I didn’t know) . . . Again a feeling of familiarity that’s very strong for me. Makes it hard to ‘see’. (Field journal, 08 Dec 2015) Why did I imagine myself as R2D2 when the idea of ‘mingled bodies’ (the subtitle of Serres’ book) is so much more obviously relevant to an academic woman researching other academic women? (And indeed, what might researching with mingled bodies – my body, her body, our bodies interweaving, interlacing, meshing, fusing – look and feel like? I’ll come back to this.) Taking account of such familiarities and minglings speaks to me of the difficulties I have had with being anything like that ever-vigilant noticing, sensing, critical research machine of my fantasies. Instead I have struggled with feelings of sleep-walking: the sounds, the smells, the colours, the shapes of rooms, the layout of departments, the taste of coffee and scrambled eggs – they echo and imitate and ghost each other.

Blinded, lacking imagination [T]he constant level of the water condemns the sailor to rely on abstract thought or the stars, in order to see. He proceeds horizontally. (Serres, 2008/1985, p. 238)

“Going to see” 49 Like Serres’ sailor, who can only see the horizon and therefore must turn elsewhere to make sense of the waters around him, I struggled to be sensorily attentive because of the levelling effect of the familiar of institutions, offices, academic working days. Ron Pelias, writing an autoethnography on being the academic tourist, says: [A]cademics function as ethnographic tourists in that they, like tourists, like ethnographers, never get beyond the surface of things, even when they spend a lifetime at their sites, in part, because lifetime habits of participantobservation are perhaps more blinding than initial participant-observation, in part because the work academics should do is just too hard to do given that most only live into their seventies or eighties. (2003, p. 371) I have to stop to figure out what he means, why these thoughts give me pause. The essay is written in an unusual style – his sentences run for whole paragraphs. I think he’s trying to convey the relentlessness of academic life – I certainly feel overwhelmed as I read. His narrative describes an academic life that strikes lots of chords with mine and those of the women I have visited in my fieldwork. The litany of demands, the sense of never doing enough – of a day, a week, a lifetime not being long enough. This particular fragment speaks to my predicament: being immersed in a lifetime of work as an academic is blinding to the landscape of that life. Not only blinding, it’s more broadly desensitising, numbing even. And what dangers might such desensitisation pose for our academic work and lives beyond the little problem of how to make sense of my research? How does this desensitisation numb us against the struggles of others to live well in the university, against the gradual degradations of our working lives, against the depredation of the very mission of our universities? Pelias doesn’t stop at being blinded by familiarity, he goes on to attribute blindedness to the lack of enough time – we only live until our seventies or eighties! As a woman in her early sixties, thinking now about how few years I may have left as a working academic woman, I’m struck by this: yes, some of my predicament is sheer panic about what data I have collected but also there is all the data that I should have collected but did not, and now there is so little time left. Mats Alvesson, writing in the same year as Pelias but in an altogether different voice (he’s a management theory man), says of studying universities as an insider that ‘[t]oo much . . . is often too familiar. For academics studying other academics this is an especially strong problem’ (2003, p. 172). He attributes the problem to a ‘lack of imagination making it impossible to accomplish studies not caught up in the taken-for-granted assumptions and ideas that are broadly shared between the researcher and the researched’ (p. 172, my italics). I recognise the danger of the ideas that are ‘broadly shared’. My participantco-researchers and I are women of a kind: white women with PhDs, our age range is 20 years at most, we have all participated in the writing retreats I run for academic women, evidence that we think it’s ok to hang out with women only (not all women do!). More, we enjoy the intimacies and freedoms those experiences

50  Barbara Grant afford and are not shy about saying so. Our conversations hum along on a baseplate of shared experiences and proclivities and I – this is my Achilles heel and my talent – have a strong desire to maintain that conversational hum, not to throw a spanner in its works by asking difficult or intrusive or critical questions. So as a visitor, I’m a polite one, maybe too much so (as I will explore below). But I feel sad at Alvesson’s charge of a ‘lack of imagination’ – maybe it was that all along? If only my imagination had been more fertile, I’d have conceived of a very different set of methods or even an entirely different project?

Serres on visiting The term visit and the French verb visiter, to visit or inspect, mean first of all sight and seeing; added to this is the idea of a distance travelled; if you visit, you go and see, and with some active emphasis, you examine and scrutinize, show benevolence or authority. (Serres, 2008/1985, p. 304) Watch closely, anticipate. Philosophy sometimes requires syntheses. Go visiting. Suddenly, at the same time, you see both miniature and panorama. (Serres, 2008/1985, p. 239)

In Serres’ book, the chapter called ‘Visit’ follows three others: Veils, Boxes, Tables. Respectively, each explores skin and touch, hearing, taste and smell. So, we might expect this fourth chapter to focus on vision. But no, not really, or only tangentially – as if vision is always aslant. Reading ‘Visit’ is extraordinary. I’m enraptured by it, even while not really understanding what I’m reading. It’s the rhythms, the images, the associations, the digressions, the tones. I read it for days in amongst a week-long fieldwork trip (it’s 65 pages long and there are lots of words that I don’t know, so I have to look them up, and my reading is slow while I make many tiny notes with my sharp pencils). Yet making sense of the chapter’s arc remains difficult (I suspect there is no arc). I note Steven Connor, one of Serres’ English-language interlocutors and translators, himself leans (too) heavily on Serres’ words when glossing the chapter. While to my struggling mind, much of Connor’s interpretation just adds another layer of complexity, in amongst the quotation and gloss, I note this: ‘Visiting is, so to speak, vectorial vision, itinerant or excursive vision, vision on the move’ (Connor, 2005, pp. 163–164). I take from Serres and Connor that visits involve movement – they are ‘vectorial’, we are on the move in order to see. But visits also, intriguingly, involve displacements, in which for the purpose of seeing the body goes ‘beyond its site’ (Serres, 2008/1985, p. 306). Displacement names some of the discomfort that I associate with visiting as I will soon describe. In my reading, Serres’ chapter itself embodies the disorienting displacements of visiting by oscillating throughout between a series of vantage points existing in tension: between landscape and panorama, the circumstantial and the universal, the local and the global, rambling and method, the multiple and the massive, the empirical and the abstract.2

“Going to see” 51 By stealth the idea of ‘visit’ fills my imagination: what, I think to myself, if I  rethink this fieldwork that I  have struggled to name through the metaphor of visiting? Will that help me to think again about the experiences I’m having, especially my struggles to sense the worlds my participant-co-researchers inhabit and to imagine how I might write about those worlds? Yet, in rereading the chapter (and in writing about it here), my struggle to nail down Serres’ meaning endures. His ‘Visit’ reminds me of my data: too much, too much (although his words are greatly more composed and vital). But certain resonant words rise recurringly to the surface and begin to populate my understanding of visiting and speak to me of my experience of drowning in this research: variety, displacement, journeying, wandering, inhabiting, mixture, hybridisation, mingling. These words are the stuff of movement and multiplicity, of self beside self (not self-contained), of being out of place, of myriad circumstances and fluctuations. (Now I’m writing like Serres, piling up words in lists!)

Memories of visiting Visits explore and detail all the senses of the sensible implicated or gripped in its [the sensible’s] knot. How could we see the compact capacity of the senses if we separated them? (Serres, 2008/1985, p. 305)

As a child, very occasionally my family piled into our Kombi van and went visiting. I remember a farm in the rolling south Auckland countryside on one occasion, a gracious house in leafy affluent Remuera on another. It would always be a Sunday, after church – no sports on that day – and probably after lunch, for we were a large family (nine all told) and would surely not impose ourselves on others to be fed. As a visitor, I was readily charmed. The rambling wooden farmhouse with its wide curving staircase was a thing of fairy-tales. So too the pile of silky dress-ups: taken home from the Remuera home as a gift, they transformed me into a medieval damsel for our school fair’s dress-up parade. And often there would be a handsome older lad, who never noticed me. But visiting was also about displacement, about entering the strange, the unfamiliar, the unsettling, even frightening: disordered (or over-ordered) houses, unhomely-smelling rooms, fractious relationships, corralled children told to be nice to the visitors, exotic furniture and awkward afternoon teas, a terrified sheep being bloodily turned into mutton out by the barn. The adult me carries rags of those childhood memories of visiting. Visiting still means being out of my comfort zone, in someone else’s place, acutely selfconscious, trying not to disturb, striving to fit in and not ‘put out’ my host. The pleasures of journeying are mixed with a sense of helplessly and critically noticing details about furniture, colour, objects, arrangements (interior design, my first love, still lives under my skin). Visiting means seeking connection through, for example, scanning book or compact disc spines for familiar titles or names. It

52  Barbara Grant means a tricky state of mingledness in which I pay close attention to my host, trying to read her signs, to avoid encroaching on her unduly. Visiting also means reciprocity: bearing gifts, giving labour, giving attention, finding a right balance of ‘mixture’ between her desires and mine, and worrying over that right balance. And visiting means over-riding a strange reclusiveness such that, when I see people I know on the street, I may well slip down a side-road to avoid the displacement of myself out of my own (un)quiet skin into the demands of the social. (My father had this too – delighted to see people in his own space but reluctant to go into theirs.) All in all, it’s arduous and unsettling, even as it is also deeply pleasurable and consoling to be with women who are akin to me. The earliest time I went visiting as an academic was in 1996, the year of my first sabbatical. I was warming up to start a PhD. I had no idea what one did on a sabbatical so I decided to make a list of the famous people I had been reading – and teaching – as a graduate student and junior academic. Roger Simon, Sandra Acker, Mimi Orner, Michael Apple, Magda Lewis, Deborah Britzman, Elizabeth Ellsworth, Gaby Weiner. I emailed all these feminist and critical theorists of education, asking if I could visit, and many graciously replied. I travelled from London to Scotland to Toronto to Kingston Ontario and finally to Madison Wisconsin via a dodgy rooming house in Chicago. Those visits were a mixture of exciting, awkward, excruciating: people were welcoming (one even hosted me overnight in her own home). The illustriousness of my hosts struck me dumb – who was I, barely an academic in my own right, someone trying to find her place in the academy. The longest visit was several weeks at a famous graduate school of education in Toronto where I lived in a back-packers’ flat in a suburb far away from the university. There I was dazzled by the first snows of winter and enchanted by the friendly nut-loving squirrels, but I was lonely and displaced. Until, one day, Sandra Acker came looking for me in my dusty visiting scholars’ office on the tenth floor and asked me if I’d like to have lunch with her. We lunched twice and she invited me to attend her graduate course. Such kindness, such relief, and in time a friendship formed.

Getting lost in the mingling of bodies Serres teaches me that visiting is both mingling and displacement. Something of what happens when I go visiting is this: an acute attentiveness to my host’s experience laced by old traits of self and critical consciousness together obstruct an embracing sensory engagement with the visit. Instead of reaching out into the uncertain space of mingling, I withdraw into a place of containment, almost seclusion, while I deal with the noise in my head. My busy mind numbs my senses down, except when I methodically cycle through them in a ‘training-myself-tobe-attentive’ mode. In that fraught place, I’m peculiarly vulnerable to being overwhelmed by the familiar of my visits and becoming frighteningly lost in the data. Given the remembered complexities of visiting for me, my decision to visit for a new research project seems curious. But then I remember what I wrote above: that, in this research, I wanted to learn ‘some new ways of acting and thinking

“Going to see” 53 as a researcher’. I think I’ve forgotten the pain of such learning, but it surfaced intensely one afternoon as I wrote this chapter (up against the deadline) when, disastrously, the freeze in my mind3 was mirrored in repetitive loops of freezing in my laptop. And yet, when I read my fieldnotes and search my memories, the minglings of thought and feeling, of observation and analysis, of ‘me’ and ‘her’, of place and objects, form fertile ground for cameos of the local, the circumstantial, the inhabited. Alongside the monotonies of mass consumer culture that dull my mind – the familiar carpet, chairs, tables, desks, piles of folders and papers, colour palettes du jour, glass walls – I have treasured the personal details that each woman imposes onto her locality. For Serres, and for me, ‘the intellect [larger than just reason] is in its element when detecting variety. Let us cultivate the varied so that the intellect remains alive and active’ (2008/1985, p. 254). And so, in closing, I turn to one such cameo of the local, the circumstantial, the inhabited, in all its vibrant variety.

Yellow pencils: visiting Simone4 The first time I visited Simone, I noticed a jar with a bunch of brilliant yellow pencils on her desk. It was a thing of beauty, a Bennettian moment of vibrant matter, that reached out and grabbed my attention – there were many such things in her office, but I’m a sucker for a good pencil, so I took a photograph. The next time I visit is after a particularly difficult period for Simone. We meet in an echoing atrium that reminds me of everywhere and nowhere. I have found a dark-blue couch – a comfortable seat – where I gather my wits after an earlymorning walk through unknown neighbourhoods between my downtown hotel and her institution. Over coffee in a café not far from her office, she catches me up on the past few months. She has suffered a chronic injury that impairs her ability to work and the first attempt at reparative surgery did not work. She went back for another. This time, the surgery was successful but the period of recuperation has been long and painful. She has been quite disabled as well, depending on others for basic daily functions. On top of that, she has felt unsupported by the Head of School during this unexpectedly long period of sick leave, when she has also tried to continue some teaching and supervision. On this day, she has only been back at work for a week or two. Her injury is still hampering her. She talks of sad, frustrated and angry feelings about her work-place. As she talks to me, and I notice the way she holds her injured body, I’m flooded with waves of piercing and complex feelings – grief, anger, disbelief and a desire not to hear about these things. I know some of my feelings are a response to her circumstances, her feelings; at the same time, in a mingled way, I know I’m being reminded of other stories from my research and my own story. My body aches with the effort of holding it all. Later we go up to her office. It feels different from last time – unsettlingly, during her absence, some of her furniture has been exchanged and the new desk suggests a future office-mate. A bunch of her work materials is in disarray, plonked down in a heap by the movers. Her yet-to-be fully healed injury means she can

54  Barbara Grant do little to fix things. I resist the urge to ask her if she’d like me to help. (Why, I wonder now.) The jar of yellow pencils is still there. And this time she tells me something she hadn’t told me before, that it was inspired by a Billy Collins’ poem, Advice to writers. Here’s the beginning of the final stanza: ‘From a small vase, sparkling blue, lift/a yellow pencil, the sharpest of the bouquet’.5 On this note I come to my ramble’s end: a little story of visiting an academic woman living with the painful and prolonged consequences of a work-dependent injury amid an absence of institutional care. But also a story about a moment of sensual beauty in the things of her office – a kind of person-thing resistance to that ‘non-beauty’ of her wider institutional environment. And a poem she gifts me, which elegantly embodies the kind of focused yet embracing sensory attention I have so struggled to find in my own practice as a researcher.

Notes 1 Bennett defines thingpower as ‘the curious ability of inanimate things to animate, to act, to produce effects dramatic and subtle’ (2009, p. 6). 2 Serres suggests we are moving into an era that will bring these vantage points out of an oppositional duality into another place, where for instance the very idea of intellect will somehow hold both reason and sensibility in its sphere. 3 One of my doctoral students, Nhyira Edward Okai, has written of what he calls brain freeze, a state that I now understand as traumatic for mind and body – see Grant and colleagues (2016). 4 Simone (not her real name) has read this chapter and given consent for the use of the story about her. 5 www.brainpickings.org/2017/05/25/billy-collins-advice-to-writers/ Accessed 23 June 2017.

References Alvesson, M. (2003). Methodology for close-up studies: Struggling with closeness and closure. Higher Education, 46(2), 167–193. Bennett, J. (2009). Vibrant matter: A political ecology of things. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Connor, S. (2005). Michel Serres’ Les Cinq Sens. In N. Abbas (Ed.), Mapping Michel Serres (pp. 153–169). Ann Arbor: The University of Michigan Press. Delamont, S. (2014). Key themes in the ethnography of education. London: Sage Publications. Grant, B. M., Mitchell, C., Okai, E., Burford, J., Xu, L., Ingram, T., & Cameron-Lewis, V. (2016). Doctoral supervisor and student identities: Fugitive moments from the field. In J. Smith, J. Rattray, T. Peseta, & D. Loads (Eds.), Identity work in the contemporary university: Exploring an uneasy profession (pp. 129–142). Dordrecht: Sense Publishers. Pelias, R. (2003). The academic tourist: An autoethnography. Qualitative Inquiry, 9(3), 369–373. Serres, M. (2008/1985). The five senses: A philosophy of mingled bodies (M. Sankey, & P. Cowley, Trans.). London: Continuum.

6 ‘If these walls could talk’

Rachael Dwyer and Libby Flynn‘If these walls could talk’

Looking in, walking out, and reimagining a broken system Rachael Dwyer and Libby Flynn

If these walls could talk. . . Welcome to Ivory Tower University. As you can read about on our website, Ivory Tower University is a place of unlimited opportunity. Our researchers collaborate with governments, institutions, and industry to produce innovative solutions to real-world problems. We’ve also improved in international rankings for the third consecutive year, rising another six places. The work that goes on here has changed much in the past decades. Once upon a time, it was a place for thinking, where the academic staff were primarily concerned with ideas that were new or novel. Time was spent pondering, reflecting, talking about theories. It seems that there is less of that nowadays. More measuring, more ‘counting research’ than ‘doing research’. Less time for thinking and more time spent on things that matter to those doing the counting. There is always too much work to be done for the time available, and the requirements for administrative paper trails increase every year. It is boring, busy work, and not why academics wanted to do this job (Levenson, 2017). It makes for a low level of job satisfaction – nearly everyone is unhappy (Elmes, 2016). Everyone, staff and students alike, is busy. Stretched to the limit of what they can fit into their day, their week, their year. Like many others, there is now an option to complete three full study periods in a year. ‘Fast track your degree’. The pace and the intensity is exhausting for all (Hartman & Darab, 2012). Health and wellbeing suffers (Hartman & Darab, 2012), which seems peculiar when there is a whole department dedicated to ‘employee health and wellbeing’. Discounted gym memberships, yoga sessions at lunch time, generous parental leave entitlements – you would think that those who work here are encouraged to find a healthy balance between work, family, and leisure time. But the workload is so great that it seems to bleed into all hours of the day and night (Walker, 2009). This fluidity of time is sold as ‘flexibility’ – being able to take an hour here or there for a doctor’s appointment or similar is surely desirable. More often, what happens is that the lack of separation between work and non-work time means that work contaminates all other time, if not in physical actions, through the occupation of

56  Rachael Dwyer and Libby Flynn thoughts (Walker, 2009). A cynical person might even say that positive wellbeing initiatives are a ploy to distract employees from the fact that there is little to no action being taken to address the actual problem of workload intensification (Kirkegaard & Brinkmann, 2016). Every year or so there is a new government priority, a new policy with new metrics to see who is measuring up. The result of all this measuring is that everyone ends up looking pretty much the same as each other. Everyone trying to do the same things well. Everyone is striving (O’Meara, 2007) to make their way up the academic hierarchy. It’s built into the employment conditions of new staff: as they work towards tenure, the only viable pathway is to progress up the ladder towards professorship. It seems like everyone ends up getting caught in the ‘web of accountabilities’, driving the system further forward (Hall, Frink, & Buckley, p. 210). This is what you need to do to be an ‘ideal worker’: one who dedicates herself to her scholarly pursuits above all else (Ward & Wolf-Wendel, 2012). Of course, those ‘ideal workers’ who are women with children should also be trying to be an ‘ideal mother’, one who dedicates herself to her children above all else (Wilton & Ross, 2017).1 Life is lived at a dizzying pace, all because of a belief in the ‘career mystique’ (Moen & Roehling, 2005): ‘the myth that hard work, long hours, and continuous employment pay off’ (p. 8). What that pay-off is, and why it is worth striving for, no one can remember.

The ideal worker/ideal mother It’s 2:30am. The alarm sounds; she silences it quickly. The baby in his cot beside her stirs but quickly settles back to sleep. Thank god, she thinks. She quietly gets out of bed and walks down the hallway. What I wouldn’t give for a coffee . . . But coffee isn’t an option – the noise of the machine would wake the rest of the household. In the quiet and the darkness of the pre-dawn morning, she opens her laptop. She resists the urge to open her emails, knowing that there will be so many waiting to be read. She didn’t get up at this time to check emails. This is a time for writing, the only time when no one else has any demands of her. She opens the document from yesterday and begins to read it over. The thoughts are there, they just need to come out. She needs time. The words flow, stilted at first, but soon gathering momentum. Surely I can finish this draft today, she thinks. It needs to be sent off. This paper has been hanging around for too long. And so she continues: the only light, the screen of her laptop; the only sound, the tap of her fingers on the keys. At 5:30, it’s like an imaginary alarm has sounded. As if on cue, the house begins to stir. She hits save and closes the laptop as Miss 4 pads out of her room. Her writing time is up. ‘I need my milk, Mummy’. As soon as the words break the silence of the morning, the baby stirs. ‘Let me just get him’, she says to her daughter, ‘then we can all have a cuddle on the couch’. As they settle on the couch, she stifles a yawn. Once this paper is finished, and this grant application is submitted, then things will be easier. Things will ease off soon, she thinks. But they never seem to. There are always so many plates spinning, so many things competing for

‘If these walls could talk’ 57 her attention. She gives just enough time and attention to each plate to keep it in motion. After their 20 minutes snuggled together, both children having had their morning milk, the day begins. They all have places to be. Hubby rises shortly after. It’s ‘all hands on deck’ to get everyone out the door on time. It’s a flurry of nappy changes, cooking toast, rummaging through baskets of laundry looking for clothes to wear, cleaning teeth, packing lunch boxes, finding missing hats and shoes, loading the car and out the door. ‘Come on, sweetheart, we need to hurry’. ‘We don’t have time for that’. These are the words that most often come out of her mouth on these mornings. Finally, everyone is ready and they’re in the car. Only 10 minutes late today – not too bad. If the traffic is ok, she shouldn’t be too late. The drop-off at daycare is quick. Thankfully, there are no tears today. She gets back in the car to drive to work. Please let there be a park . . . Miraculously, she finds a parking space without repeated circling of the campus. By the time she gets to her desk, via the coffee shop where the barista knows her by name, she has 30 minutes for emails. 212 unread messages. Not all of these are new, but a good portion are. Not all of them require a response, but a good portion do. She scans the list for the most important. One from her Head of School: Hi. . . I’ve nominated you to participate in the Faculty’s Research Development program. It would be a good opportunity for you to get some face-time with the Faculty and University leadership. The sessions are 4–6:30pm on Wednesday evenings for the rest of the Semester. You’ll receive an invitation from the Faculty office shortly. I do hope you’ll be able to participate. Best, Z Hmmm . . . 4–6:30pm. How can I possibly make that work? Pick ups, dinner time, bath time. Would I make it home before bed time? Probably not. She sends a quick message to Hubby. He replies immediately. Her: Hubby:

Hey, I’ve been asked to attend a research development program. It’s on Wednesday nights 4–6:30 for the next couple of months. Could you do those pick ups? Sure whatever you need. Sounds like a good opportunity. I’ve got late meetings every Tuesday but Wednesdays are fine. Just put the dates in the calendar?

She returns to the list of emails that sit unread. There are a couple from students that she can answer quickly.

58  Rachael Dwyer and Libby Flynn The answer to this is in the course profile. Best, . . . Sorry to hear you’ve been unwell. Thanks for letting me know. See you next week. Best, . . . Right. Time to go. The rest will have to wait. She gathers her things and locks her office, walking quickly out of the building and towards the lecture theatre. There are only a handful of students who arrive before her. One is tucked away, high in the back corner of the room, as if trying not to be noticed. She has a newborn strapped to her in a sling, quietly feeding, hoping not to disturb anyone. They regard each other with a smile. She has mentioned her kids enough during the classes that this student knows they are of the same ilk. The lecture proceeds as expected: she is confident with the material, she is an entertaining presenter, she makes them laugh, they stay engaged – for the most part. There are the few who spend the time scrolling away on their phones. Why do they bother? she thinks, surely they have better things to do. She packs quickly and moves back to her office. Now that the day has started, the emails come thick and fast. Two requests to review for good journals – yes, should definitely accept those. Add them to the to-do list. Another one that she’s been waiting for – a decision on a manuscript. Minor revisions. Woo hoo! I’ll take that as a win. She quickly forwards the decision email to her co-author with nothing but a smiley face in the text. *** At 1pm her pedometer buzzes. ‘Time to stand’ it reminds her. She rises out of her chair, picks up her empty water bottle and walks towards the staff kitchen to fill it. As she walks up the hallway, she passes office after office with the door closed but a small crack of fluorescent light sneaking under. Those lights have been on for hours: the offices belong to the mostly young, academically ambitious, childless ones. Here early, here late, every day. Doing just good enough at their teaching that no-one will raise an eyebrow at the course evaluation scores. Making sure they don’t come across as too welcoming to the students – wouldn’t want to be too approachable, or the students might knock on the door and disturb the work. She, on the other hand, has students at her door constantly. She doesn’t mind her conversations with the students, and sees it as a necessary part of doing this work well. But there is no line on the workload spreadsheet for student consultation. It is uncounted, invisible labour than sucks the hours from her day. *** 5:10pm – argh! Late again. Her kids will be among the last to be picked up, they’ll be screaming for dinner by the time they get home, and by the time they’re bathed,

‘If these walls could talk’ 59 teeth are brushed, and stories are read, it’ll be long past ‘bedtime’. It makes her feel better to convince herself that 7pm is their bedtime, even though they’re never ever ready for bed by then. By 8pm, Hubby has arrived home with dinner for the two of them. They pour a glass of wine and each asks about the other’s day. But there is one question that is on both of their minds but not their lips: How long can we keep this up?

Libby’s response I launched into my spiel. It was well-rehearsed by now; sometimes slightly amended depending on who I was talking to, usually met with the same look. People in academia always wanted to know what you were ‘up to’. The conversation normally went like this: Fellow academic: So which School are you based in? Me: Oh I’m across a few different schools just doing RA work

Me: Yeah I’m working on a few different projects at the moment

Fellow academic: Oh great, are you here much? Me: Just doing a day a week at the moment but will be increasing that to two days soon. I smile and gently stroke my baby’s head while she sleeps soundly in her carrier attached to me

Fellow academic: Sounds like a nice balance. Are you thinking of going for postdoc? Me: No, not at this stage. I’m not sure I want to be in academia like that. I really enjoy researching and find being an RA the right balance. I get to do the research and all the fun stuff without having to get involved in all the politics of academia. I do my job and that’s that.

Fellow academic: Sounds wonderful, it’s great that you can find that work–life balance, that’s the dream.

Is it? I ask myself. For who? One might say ‘for me’, seeing I’m living it, but I’m not sure I would categorise my life as a dream. I understand from the outlook to others that my ‘working week’ looks great on paper. I have made choices in order for it to look like this, but not all of the choices have been easy.

***

60  Rachael Dwyer and Libby Flynn A good ten years ago I had graduated from my Masters and landed my dream job working in a private psychiatric hospital as a music therapist. I was driven, curious, waiting to take my profession by storm. At this point I was already straddling multiple worlds as a clinician a few days a week and the rest of the week beginning my PhD. I took every opportunity that came my way and championed large-scale projects that inevitably tripled my workload. I didn’t mind. I remember sitting in a team meeting at the hospital one day and my manager who was leaving was reflecting on each team member. She got to me and she said ‘Libby, I’m sure you will be a Doctor soon and I will see you on TV and read about all the work that you do’. I was pleased, and also quietly disquieted. Every so often I kept asking myself a nagging little question: There is more to me than just my work isn’t there? The years went by. We moved overseas and back again. We bought a house and a dog, I completed my PhD whilst we started our family, a boy and then a girl. At each major life event, the strings that tied me to academia and the historically championed route to progress through the academic world loosened. At each turn, my old manager’s prediction seemed less inevitable. What had happened, why had my trajectory changed so much? I had listened to the stories over the years of the daily lived experiences of my academic friends and colleagues. I admired them greatly. The work they did was making a difference; it was contributing to our knowledge base as a society; it almost seemed selfless. As I entered into the world of motherhood I kept viewing this incredible output but started adding on another sentence: But at what cost? I felt like I kept hearing the same story. Long work days, sleepless nights, sickness, stress, guilt, oh the parental guilt . . . I felt selfish for not joining the rat race while having the audacity to recognise the crucial value of all they do. *** I watch the person’s eyes drift as they take a moment to imagine what their life would look and feel like if we swapped. I know they are dreaming about all they could achieve with their research with all those dedicated hours, what it would feel like to not work at night or on the weekend, to sleep well. I also know that they aren’t thinking about the uncertainty of employment once the contract is up; they aren’t thinking about the way the work still manages to bleed over into home and family time; they haven’t considered that parental guilt is still there, still existing, gnawing away; they don’t consider the encounters with high-ranking academics who glaze over once they find out you do RA work and realise you don’t have anything to offer them or their career advancement; and they don’t hear the voice in their head which every so often prods ‘maybe it’s because you aren’t good enough?’ I finish my spiel. I feel distracted as I run through my brain the pros and cons for the latest offer for work. So much work I could fill the week, but then I may as well take a ticket and join the academic trajectory queue, the ‘real one’. I decide that I need to turn it down. Better to walk the walk and at the moment all I’m after is some semblance of balance. My ears prick up as I hear the fellow academic state ‘Sounds wonderful, it’s great that you can find that work life balance, that’s

‘If these walls could talk’ 61 the dream’. I nod in agreement; it’s easier that way. As I walk away, I think about how deflated they seemed. I wish I had found a way to say: ‘The problem is the system, it’s not you.’

Rachael’s response The life of a casual academic held little appeal for me. I found the uncertainty to be a constant source of anxiety – would the work for next semester come? More importantly, would good work come, or would I be forced to take contracts I didn’t really want? I found the negotiations over pay and conditions for teaching work immensely stressful. Sometimes it was easy – the initial request included a course outline, an indication that the lectures and tutorials from the previous year would be made available, and an assurance that a reasonable quota of marking hours would be included in the contract. After a few years, I began saying no to work that I felt didn’t represent fair compensation for the effort required, in the hope that they would start to realise what they were missing out on and it would lead to better conditions. In every case, another casual academic took the work – someone who wanted the opportunity to get a start in academic teaching, or simply couldn’t afford not to take the work when it was offered. That said, I didn’t have too much difficulty finding work – it always seemed to keep rolling in. I found myself in a fortunate position to be able to pick and choose which courses I took, which research I wanted to assist with, and who I wanted to work for. But it was the working for that made it unsatisfying. I was pursuing someone else’s research agenda, doing their work, making them look good. I’m a ‘helper’ by nature, so when I was thanked, praised, and rewarded for my efforts, I found that my needs were met. But there were too many times when that didn’t happen – working on a paper or grant application that would be submitted without my name on it, my ideas being disregarded or belittled because I was ‘just the RA’. Worst of all, I felt that I needed to pursue my own research in my own (unpaid) time – projects that were described by more than one supervisor as ‘a distraction’ from the work I was doing for them. That type of academia was killing me, and I knew I had to get out. After four years completing my PhD and four years post, dozens of job applications, two substantial contracts, and a whole lot of casual teaching and RA work, the call came. A few months earlier I’d interviewed for an academic position (and didn’t get it). Another position in the same department was now available, and because I’d been deemed ‘appointable’ through a competitive process, I could be offered it without another interview. I was ecstatic. This would mean relocating an hour away, but we would be closer to my family. My sister and I could have the village for raising our kids that we’d always wanted. We could move in time for my daughter to start school, and she could go to the same school as her cousins. My husband could start his own business, and my income would be enough to sustain us. I could feel my anxiety dissipating immediately. This was meant to happen.

62  Rachael Dwyer and Libby Flynn The job was at a ‘young university’, not well known for its research performance, and I knew what people were thinking when I told them where I was going: ‘So you’ll be doing a lot of teaching then?’ Some even warned me that it would be difficult to get grants: ‘Research environment score: minus 10!’ one laughed. A few years ago, I probably would have agreed, and viewed the position as a stepping-stone, continuing to look for a position in a better university. But that couldn’t be further from my mind now. I’m eager to do my job well, but climbing the ladder holds little appeal. I take the time to find out about the university’s strategic priorities – how to play the game – but seem to find myself working on things that are interesting to me rather than strategic, and working with people I like rather than those who will most benefit my track record. I’m playing the game, but on my own terms. The pace of full-time work while mothering is hectic, and the pressure to perform is intense. But there’s a limit to how much of my family time and selfcare that I’m willing to sacrifice. There is so much about the ‘ideal worker’ that I refuse to buy into. I enjoy research and writing, but there’s no way I’m getting up at 2:30am to write for hours before my kids get up – I’d be a basket case with that little sleep! There’s only so much of myself that I’m willing to give the institution. But I know that leaves me potentially vulnerable. Hopefully, it will be enough.

The need for change Across all of the stories presented here, there is a common undertone of personal accountability for any and all short-comings of work performance, and/or emotional and physical health. Accountability in the workplace and society at large is necessary to ensure order. However, research suggests that when employees perceive too much felt accountability, the consequences can become deleterious (Hall, Frink & Buckley, 2017). Our protagonists highlight this; from our ideal worker who sacrifices self-care (sleep) to stay on top of her workload, to Rachael who lives with uncertainty about whether her output will be enough to keep her job, and finally Libby who continues to feel some level of accountability to a system that she has purposefully chosen not to fully enter. It could be postured that it is this very mind-set that continues to drive an acceptance of an organisational system which rationally can be viewed as broken. As Levenson points out, in order to effect change across an entire organisation, it is required that all employees lower their output. With stakes ever increasing in terms of research output, this is a scenario which is implausible within the ivory tower. In fact, in a study on intent to leave academia back in 1998, authors Barnes, Agago, and Coombs cautioned, ‘if higher education desires to attract and employ competent scholars and to maintain the vitality of the professorate, attention must be paid to faculty motivation and job factors related to faculty stress’ (p. 467). Two decades later, it is concerning to see the results of this study continuing to be ever-present. Workplace fatigue and burnout are very real issues facing academic communities, as job design often involves too great a workload for the amount of time

‘If these walls could talk’ 63 allotted and an increasing presence of administrative paper trails which may be seen as uninteresting (Levenson, 2017). Further highlighting this final point, a recent study in the UK found that up to 90% of academics were extremely unhappy with the administration and bureaucracy involved in their daily work lives, thus impacting job satisfaction (Elmes, 2016). In response to the current work structure and expectations in place, what we might see is less and less women assuming tenured academic research careers. Expanding on a point by Wilton & Ross (2017), in order to effectively and successfully balance the juggernaut of mothering while having a career, structures need to be present in the workplace that ‘recognise the importance [of mothering] and fully support women’ (p. 67). The current workload and lack of work–life balance for academics is outwardly visible and widely recognised (Baptist, 2017). Research in recent years is suggesting that women are turning their backs on potential academic careers due to the difficulty of being able to effectively balance their career and future plans for a family. It is essential to note that in studies such as Canetto, Trott, Winterrowd, Haruyama, and Johnson’s (2017), which interviewed doctoral students, despite these female researchers being passionate about their work, they were already turning their back on academia before even entering into the profession purely due to the role-modelling of current work organisational structures and expectations. If this becomes a widespread trend, it would appear that academia has little hope of correcting the gender imbalance that sees men occupying 80% of professor titles in over half of Australia’s Universities (Gregory, 2016). This raises some serious questions for us about the state of the higher education system, comprised of institutions that, without exception, tout themselves as ‘equal opportunity employers’. Have we reached the stage yet when employees and employers in higher education refuse to accept the status quo in terms of workload expectations and balance, recognising the impact this has on women in particular? How much longer can the Universities keep their head in the sand until our female champions and role-models are either run-down or have given in to the system that relentlessly asks for more and more? On one hand, it is hopeful to see that the research is suggesting that the younger generation is speaking up and saying ‘not for me’. However, that leaves us with our final two narratives; which, although providing potential for fulfilling and balanced lives for the individuals, fail to both change the system from within by building a more gender-equal professoriate and challenge the system in any significant way. We agree that the system is broken. We agree that the sanctioned academic journey was not for us. We’ve done our own patch jobs to find workable solutions, but we fear that the time has passed for tinkering around the edges. What is needed is a complete reimagining of academic career pathways: diverse, flexible, and individually responsive to the health and family needs of academic workers. ** During the conceptualisation and writing of this paper, regular phone and sms meetings were held while both authors breast-fed newborns, changed nappies, expressed milk, comforted tears, and played peek-a-boo. We chose to wear both hats simultaneously.

64  Rachael Dwyer and Libby Flynn

Note 1 While we acknowledge the caring work undertaken by childless women and men, and parenting work undertaken by fathers, the focus of this chapter is on the authors’ experiences as mothers in academia.

References Baptist, J. (2017). Introduction to ‘Women in academia’. Journal of Feminist Family Therapy, 29 (1–2), 1–3. doi:10.1080/08952833.2017.1272337 Canetto, S. S., Trott, C. D., Winterrowd, E. M., Haruyama, D., & Johnson, A. (2017). Challenges to the choice discourse: Women’s views of their family and academic-Science career options and constraints. Journal of Feminist Family Therapy, 29(1–2), 4–27. doi :10.1080/08952833.2016.1273174 Elmes, J. (2016). Stress in academy ‘could cost universities’. Retrieved from www. timeshighereducation.com/news/stress-academy-could-cost-universities Gregory, K. (2016). Women remain underrepresented in academia; new funding model will exacerbate problem experts say. Retrieved from www.abc.net.au/news/2016-10-08/ women-remain-underrepresented-in-academia-research-finds/7915130 Hall, A. T., Frink, D. D., & Buckley, M. R. (2017). An accountability account: A review and synthesis of the theoretical and empirical research on felt accountability. Journal of Organizational Behaviour, 38(2), 204–224. doi:10.1002/job.2052 Hartman, Y., & Darab, S. (2012). A call for slow scholarship: A case study on the intensification of academic life and its implications for pedagogy. Review of Education, Pedagogy, and Cultural Studies, 34(1–2), 49–60. Kirkegaard, T., & Brinkmann, S. (2016). ‘Which coping strategies does the working environment offer you?’ A field study of the distributed nature of stress and coping. Nordic Psychology, 68(1), 12–29. doi:10.1080/19012276.2015.1045543 Levenson, A. (2017). Workplace fatigue is a systems problem. Consulting Psychology Journal: Practice and Research, 69(2), 130–142. doi:10.1037/cpb0000091 Moen, P., & Roehling, P. (2005). The career mystique: Cracks in the American dream. Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield. O’Meara, K. (2007). Striving for what? Exploring the pursuit of prestige. In J. C. Smart (Ed.), Higher education: Handbook of theory and research, Volume XXII (pp. 121–179). Netherlands: Springer. Walker, J. (2009). Time as the fourth dimension in the globalization of higher education. The Journal of Higher Education, 80(5), 483–509. Ward, K., & Wolf-Wendel, L. (2012). Academic motherhood: How faculty manage work and family. New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press. Wilton, S.,  & Ross, L. (2017). Flexibility, sacrifice and insecurity: A  Canadian study assessing the challenges of balancing work and family in academia. Journal of Feminist Family Therapy, 29(1–2), 66–87. doi:10.1080/08952833.2016.1272663

7 Motherhood and academia

Agnes BosanquetMotherhood and academia

A story of bodily fluids and going with the flow Agnes Bosanquet

Contemporary French feminist philosopher Luce Irigaray asks us to celebrate mucus for “its abundance  .  .  . its availability, its joyfulness, its flesh” (1993a, pp. 110–111). A word association: mucus, slippery, overflowing, sticky, dripping, secretions, fluid, leaking, excess, slimy, viscous, moist. Mucus, the substance, is a mixture of water, mucins, cells and salts that is secreted by the mucous membranes of the body. You have more, and more varied, mucus than you realise: in the nose, mouth, eyes, ears, trachea, stomach, intestines, anus and genitals. Mucus protects the cavities of living bodies that open to the outside and to other bodies. Mucus lubricates the difference between one and other, and enables safe passage between the inside and outside of the body. Grammatically speaking, mucus is interesting. Mucus is the noun, mucous is the adjective; hence the definition refers to (the noun) mucus secreted by (the adjective) mucous membranes. Mucus is also metaphorically interesting. Irigaray imagines mucus as enabling the ideal relationship: a fluid exchange between subjectivity and intersubjectivity, loving, expansive, maintaining the difference between bodies while enabling their union. She writes of the “sympathetic deciphering of bodies, skins, membranes, mucuses” (1993c, p. 36), describing such exchanges: [Love is the] shared outpouring . . . the loss of boundaries which takes place for both lovers when they cross the boundary of the skin into the mucous membranes of the body, leaving the circle which encloses my solitude to meet in a shared space, a shared breath, abandoning the relatively dry and precise outlines of each body’s solid exterior to enter a fluid universe where the perception of being two persons . . . becomes indistinct. (Irigaray, 1991, p. 180) In this chapter, I explore the shared space and loss of boundaries of academic motherhood through autoethnography. Ellis, Adams and Bochner (2011) describe this autobiographical method as focusing on “epiphanies” or “remembered moments perceived to have significantly impacted the trajectory of a person’s life . . . times of existential crisis . . . and events after which life does not seem quite the same” (n.p.). This chapter uses Irigaray’s metaphor of mucus, and its

66  Agnes Bosanquet connections with her concepts of sexual difference and women’s two sets of lips, to perform a feminist writing of the lived experience of motherhood and academia. To illustrate the worlds of maternity and the academy, italicised autoethnographic ‘sticky moments’ interrupt scholarly writing. Mucus offers a metonymy for this practice of writing. Both academic work and motherhood are excessive, as scholarship on the topic attests. Titles include: “I’ve worked very hard and slept very little” (Fothergill & Feltey, 2003), “Sleepless in academia” (Acker & Armenti, 2004) and “I just couldn’t fit it in” (Probert, 2005). Intensifiers for academic women and mothers include maintaining research trajectories during career interruptions; proportionally higher teaching workloads; concentration at lower levels, in casual and contract positions; and gender imbalance in senior roles (Probert, 2005; Grant, 2006; Klocker & Drozdzewski, 2012). Women also contribute disproportionately to university service, academic and domestic ‘housekeeping’, emotional labour and care within and beyond the academy in ways that are framed as detrimental to careers (Williams, 2005; Toffoletti & Starr, 2016; Amsler & Motta, 2017). Academics are assumed to be unencumbered by caring responsibilities, and the ideal (masculine) subject succeeds as an individual within a managerialist-audit system of performance measures, research outputs, impact metrics and funding targets (Hey & Bradford, 2004; Thornton, 2013; Sallee, Ward & Wolf-Wendel, 2016). Disrupting this, here you are – a mother and an academic – leaking all over the place and making things messy.

Sticky moment 1 When my daughter was six years old, I was invited to give a talk about motherhood and academia for Bluestocking Week, an annual celebration of women’s participation in higher education. I spoke about the impacts and pressures of academic work on women, the invisibility of infertility and pregnancy loss, and the challenges of caring for a child with health problems as a sessional (casual, adjunct) staff member and PhD candidate. The autobiographical sections of my talk covered my daughter’s difficult birth due to placental abruption, her consequent epilepsy and multiple hospitalisations as a baby and toddler. I also talked about four years of secondary infertility, the ectopic pregnancy I experienced the previous year, complications during surgery to remove my right fallopian tube, and having a neurostimulator implanted to manage the resulting chronic nerve pain. What I didn’t say was – at that very moment – I was newly pregnant, and this precious state felt precarious. (I bled for the first three months of pregnancy with my son. I continued to work for its imperatives and its distractions. Weekly ultrasounds showed he was still there, his galloping heartbeat reassuring and persistent. To keep him that way, I was on bed rest twice during my pregnancy. The idea of enforced time in bed is more attractive than the reality.) After my Bluestocking talk, colleagues shared their experiences, telling me about the unfriendliness of

Motherhood and academia 67 academia for mothers. One gave a lecture while miscarrying. One taught with severe morning sickness (it involved lots of plastic bags and students working in pairs and groups). Another lost her baby at 19 weeks, and was consoled that at least her research wouldn’t be interrupted. I wanted to bear witness to those stories, to the silences and invisibilities these women had kept for too long, so I performed the care of listening. I listened to stories about bodies and babies and losses that had not been previously spoken in an academic context. Why only one text at a time? Irigaray writes: “It’s our good fortune that your language isn’t formed of a single thread, a single strand or pattern . . . Why only one song, one speech, one text at a time?” (1985b, p. 209). So, an interruption: in An Ethics of Sexual Difference, Irigaray asks a peculiar question: Mucus . . . is experienced from within. In the prenatal and loving night known by both sexes. But it is far more important in setting up the intimacy of bodily perception and its threshold for women. Does the mucus perhaps take the place of the soul for women? But of a soul that is never spoken? Alien to everything yet said of the soul as such? (1993a, p. 109) She continues: “Any thinking of or about the female has to think through the mucus . . . No thinking about sexual difference that would not be traditionally hierarchical is possible without thinking through the mucus” (1993a, p. 110). Making sense of this question about whether mucus takes the place of a soul involves two aspects of Irigaray’s philosophy: sexual difference and women’s subjectivity. Irigaray’s writing on sexual difference has been criticised for its heteronormativity and exclusion of performative modes of gender. While there is weight to these criticisms, it is worth noting that Irigaray conceives of sexual difference in two distinct ways. First, it refers to the construction, and sublimation, of women in relation to men. Second, Irigaray imagines sexual difference as a possibility which offers “our salvation” and heralds “a new age of thought, art, poetry, and language: the creation of a new poetics” (1993a, p. 5). These two understandings meet when Irigaray writes: “Women’s exploitation is based upon sexual difference; its solution will come only through sexual difference” (1993b, p. 12). For Irigaray, part of the solution is recognising women’s subjectivity. She writes: “We have to rethink the model of subjectivity which has served for centuries . . . so that we can abandon a model of a single and singular subject altogether” (2000, p. 4). This single and singular subject represents the ideal academic. By contrast, Irigaray defines subjectivity as at least two, in her well-known image of women’s two sets of lips: Woman ‘touches herself’ all the time . . . for her genitals are formed of two pairs of lips in continuous contact. . . . A woman . . . finds pleasure almost anywhere. . . . The geography of her pleasure is far more diversified, more

68  Agnes Bosanquet multiple in its differences, more complex, more subtle, than is commonly imagined. (1985b, pp. 24–28) In Elemental Passions, she connects this imagery with mucus: Your skin and mine, yes. But mine goes on touching itself indefinitely, from the inside. Secreting a flow which brings the sides together. From which side does that liquid come? One or the other? Both? So which is one and which is the other in that production? Neither? Yet it exists. Where does it come from? From both. It flows between. (1992, p. 15) This multiple subjectivity is also evident when Irigaray writes about motherhood in Sexes and Genealogies: “A woman’s subjectivity must accommodate the dimensions of mother and lover as well as the union between the two” (1993a, pp. 60–63). For Irigaray, motherhood is the aspect of women’s subjectivity that has been most compromised and discredited by patriarchal systems. She describes the mother/daughter relationship as “an extremely explosive core in our societies. To think it, to change it, leads to shaking up the patriarchal order” (1993b, p. 86). Hold these thoughts: the multiple subjectivities of motherhood, how patriarchal systems discredit mothers, and the explosive core shaking up the patriarchal (academic) order. Alongside her writing on sexual difference and subjectivity, Irigaray is concerned with the soul. Her philosophy locates women’s pleasure – mucus is one manifestation of this – with the divine. She asks: “Why do we assume that God must always remain an inaccessible transcendence rather than a realisation – here and now – through the body?” (1993a, p. 148). In earlier work, she is more forthright: “why and how long ago did God withdraw from carnal love?” (1991, p. 16). Irigaray wants to imagine women’s relationship with God differently: not a male God who is ‘yet to come’; instead, God represents a divinity “with whom one might be welcoming, festive” (1993a, p. 110). She continues: “the mucus would summon the god to return or to come in a new incarnation” (1993a, p. 110). Mucus is the representation of a divinity for women, an image for women’s fluid subjectivity and a model for a new relational culture between men and women. In An Ethics of Sexual Difference Irigaray writes in passing: “The mucus should no doubt be pictured as related to the angel” (1993a, p. 17). The figure of the angel represents one of the most intriguing and complex aspects of Irigaray’s philosophy. Angels, like mucus, communicate at the thresholds of the body – skin, membranes, orifices, hymen, placenta – and in exchanges between bodies (sex, pregnancy, birth, breastfeeding). Irigaray writes that the angel is “not unrelated to sex”; it is “as if the angel were a representation of a sexuality that has never been incarnated” (1993a, pp. 15–16). Irigaray describes the angel as “like an inscription written in invisible ink on a fragment of the body, skin, membrane, veil, colorless and unreadable until it interacts with the right substance, the matching

Motherhood and academia 69 body” (Irigaray, 1993c, pp. 35–36). A matching body, the right substance – we return to mucus. If you are an academic mother, you sometimes need something like an angel – or mucus – between you and the university. The mucus becomes a metaphor for things which enable academia and motherhood to exist together in a loving, joyful, expansive relationship; which maintain the difference between the two, while enabling their union; things which are good for the academic mother’s soul.

Sticky moment 2 Breastfeeding my two children was one of the most intimate times of my life. I couldn’t easily become pregnant, stay pregnant or give birth, but I was an abundant breastfeeder. I imagine, should the need arise – if I travel back in time, say – that I would make an excellent wet nurse. I listened to a BBC podcast about preterm babies in the early 20th century being kept in incubators at Coney Island. This offered the best available care and chance for survival at the time. Their not-yet-ready bodies were displayed as carnival grotesques. Photos show the funfair entranceway to the ‘Baby Incubators’ – ‘All the world loves a baby’ the sign proclaims. Inside, a wall of steel and glass incubators, surrounded by hot water pipes and chimneys. Wet nurses in attendance had their diets carefully monitored, forbidden to eat amusement park food on pain of termination of their employment. These images are half familiar to me, a blend of amusement park and hospital. My first job when finishing school was at Sydney’s Luna Park, operating rides, organising (and sometimes wearing) costumes; wet nursing at Coney Island would only have been a sideways promotion. When my daughter was four months old, I returned to work unexpectedly for eight hours of lecturing and tutoring in one day. I expressed milk for her morning and afternoon tea, and my mother brought her to me for a lunchtime breastfeed. As I lectured, I was aware (and preoccupied with keeping my students unaware) of my breasts becoming higher and heavier and starting to leak. I was given an unused glass-walled office for breastfeeding. People walking past craned their necks to see. My mother brought my lunch, an orange juice popper and a sandwich wrapped in clingwrap. I dropped crumbs on my daughter’s head and tried to stop her biting. I breastfed her for a year until she self-weaned. Later, I breastfed my son for over two years, and struggled to convince him that was enough. Although double the size of the Coney Island babies, he was small when born at full term – five and a half pounds or two and a half kilograms. He doubled his weight after six weeks of (continual, timeless) breastfeeding. His hunger was so relentless, I recorded videos for teaching while he fed below the camera’s view of my talking head. Writing on breastfeeding, Alison Bartlett (2005) uses the words “sexual . . . erotic, sensual, pleasure, passion and desire” to demonstrate the limitations of available language for such an expansive experience (p 86). She asks: “what is at stake in

70  Agnes Bosanquet denying that breastfeeding can be a sexual experience?” (2005, p. 108). For Irigaray, at stake is the subjectivity of the mother as a woman. Irigaray (1985a) discusses breastfeeding briefly in Speculum of the Other Woman, when she responds to Freud’s comment that breastfeeding is an activity of the mother towards the child: “It is difficult to see how the verb ‘to breastfeed’ can be simply reduced to an activity by the mother. . . . Any consideration of pleasure in breastfeeding seems here to be excluded, misunderstood, under silent ban” (p 16). In feminist philosophy, writing, breastfeeding and pleasure intersect. In “Stabat Mater” (1986), Julia Kristeva represents the pleasure and altered subjectivity of motherhood textually, with two columns alongside one another, one scholarly and the other poetic in which she births and breastfeeds her son. Similarly, Hélène Cixous writes of the joyful physical, intellectual and emotional overflow of writing and breastfeeding: “A longing for text! Confusion! What’s come over her? A child! Paper! Intoxications! I’m brimming over! My breasts are overflowing! Milk. Ink. Nursing time. And me? I’m hungry, too. The milky taste of ink!” (1991, p. 31). Trying to find an account of the changing subjectivity of motherhood in Irigaray’s work, I reread “And the One Doesn’t Stir Without the Other” (1981). This essay adopts the voice of the daughter whose struggle for subjectivity is expressed as hostility towards the body of the mother. The mother is assimilated with food and milk, so that the relationship between mother and daughter is cannibalistic: You’ve prepared something to eat. You bring it to me. You feed me/yourself. But you feed me/yourself too much, as if you wanted to fill me up completely with your offering. You put yourself in my mouth and I suffocate. (1981, p. 61) The mother has no voice, no identity separate from the womb or breast. There is no woman, no other, no sensuousness or eroticism in the relationship – there is only mother. In “Gesture in Psychoanalysis” Irigaray writes: The mother always remains too familiar and too close. In a way the daughter has her mother under her skin, secreted in the deep, damp intimacy of the body, in the mystery of her relationship to gestation, to birth, and to her sexual identity. (1993c, p. 98) There is no separation between mother and daughter, no relationship of difference. Reading Irigaray’s work, I  find the inequality of the relationship  – the uneven weight that Irigaray gives to the daughter’s voice – problematic. Annie Smart asks: “Does Irigaray speak of or for mothers?” (2000, p. 391, emphasis in original) and wonders whether this might be symptomatic of “an unsettled attitude towards maternity” in Irigaray’s writing: Mothers are both visible and invisible . . . A particular maternal body – subject to pregnancy and childbirth – and a maternal experience are not greatly

Motherhood and academia 71 represented. . . . Nor does Irigaray explore the idea that motherhood might produce its own particular values, subjectivity, and way of thinking. (2000, p. 391) In my experience, motherhood interrupts stable and singular selfhood, not only through pregnancy and birth, but through the physical, emotional and mental upheaval it generates. For instance, when Kristeva writes of childhood memories in “Tales of Love”, she recalls honey, softness, roundness, warmth as well as “the echo of quarrels: her exasperation, her being fed up, her hatred” (2002, p. 325). Irigaray almost acknowledges these aspects of motherhood. In “Body against Body: In Relation to the Mother”, she writes: “Our task is to give life back to that mother. . . . We must give her the right to pleasure, to sexual experience, to passion, give her back the right to speak, or even to shriek and rage aloud” (1993c, p. 18). Most mothers I know, however, need no permission to shriek and rage aloud, at least within the confines of the home and to their own children. As the daughter in “And the One Doesn’t Stir Without the Other”, Irigaray resists the mother – “with your milk, Mother, I swallowed ice” (1981, p. 60). Similarly, the daughter in Kristeva’s Powers of Horror refuses the cup of milk proffered by the mother and father as the “sign of their desire” (1982, p. 3), but she recognises that she is rejecting herself, her own desire: “I expel myself, I spit myself out, I abject myself within the same motion through which ‘I’ claim to establish myself” (1982, p. 3, emphasis in original). In “And the One Doesn’t Stir Without the Other”, the daughter refuses to accept the woman who is her mother (and her future self). The mother relates to a daughter who is angry, screaming of being cloistered and imprisoned, lying in bed all day, refusing to eat (Irigaray, 1981, pp. 60–61). The daughter not only refuses the food offerings of the mother – the icy milk, the honey bread (Irigaray, 1981, p. 62) – she fails to nourish herself. She is unable to see that she is refusing her own desire, her own carnality, herself as a woman, and the possibility of herself as a mother nourishing another. In Woman, Natalie Angier writes of the foetal cells that circulate in the mother’s body long after the birth of a child: “A mother . . . is forever a cellular chimera, a blend of the body she was born with and of the bodies she has borne” (1999, p. 319). It is not only the daughter who has the mother under her skin. There is no singular subjectivity possible for mothers, but motherhood creates a new model of subjectivity. I am comforted that this change is recognised at a cellular level.

Sticky moment 3 I first participated in the academic procession in September 2012, and watched from the stage as my students graduated. The view is nice but we are also on display, livestreamed on YouTube and up close on a large screen in the central courtyard. I enjoy the pomp of graduation: winged gowns, textures of velvet and silk, the ceremonial mace, graduands’ inappropriate shoes for cobblestones, the

72  Agnes Bosanquet operatic intermission, celebrity speakers, fairy lights in the trees, and champagne and canapes at the end. Each time I attend, I recapture something of the nervousness and pride of graduating with my PhD when my daughter was three years old. The day after that September graduation, I am scheduled for surgery to implant a neurostimulator. (This to manage chronic nerve pain resulting from surgery for an ectopic pregnancy in my right fallopian tube. During that operation, the surgeon perforated my uterus which required immediate repair. In the meantime, tools for removing the fallopian tube damaged my ilioinguinal nerve). Across the other side of campus, in the University’s new hospital, I don a hospital gown. If the academic gown is designed for gravitas, the hospital gown is surely its opposite: open at the back, it renders the body easily accessible. There is no dignity in shuffling along a hospital corridor, one arm holding a drip on wheels, the other grasping the gown closed across my backside. The surgery itself is a life-returning success. I wake from the anaesthetic calling for my mother. Subjectivity is a curious thing: it enables the transition from academic gown to hospital gown to feel seamless. But how can I represent this textually? What lubricates the transition from a sticky moment to scholarly text? Even while I experience motherhood and academia as leaky, I try to contain its manifestations in my academic writing. I attempt to separate theory from italicised sticky, messy, contaminating moments. How can I respond to the reviewer’s request to ensure my writing flows (mucus-like)? I am editing this chapter with my daughter on a beanbag next to me. Her epilepsy, up to now well controlled, has escalated. She spent last week in hospital having seizures lasting up to seven minutes every 15 minutes. Out of hospital, she continues to have 30 seizures a day. She is bone tired but otherwise in good spirits. My colleagues have picked up my slack but I had things to do, and, let’s be honest, work is a good distraction. And a university offers a wealth of food venues and curiosities for a hungry 11-year-old. Perhaps my current location and temporality leave a trace in my academic writing, even if I haven’t thought this through. Irigaray is interested in what is unthought and untheorised in philosophy – in particular, the feminine – but which leaves a trace. Mucus offers a metaphor for this. In her writing on visceral philosophy, Tamsin Lorraine writes that mucus is “Irigaray’s term for the unthought moving toward representation – those strangely uncanny aspects of experience that defy already established self/other and body/mind divisions” (1999, p. 37). Exploring the qualities of mucus, Lorraine writes: “The body is inert without its relation to mucus. Mucus is its point of contact; by virtue of its ambiguous role vis-à-vis the clear-cut boundaries of intact bodies, it presents a living material that brings one closer to the infinite beyond which exceeds all boundaries” (1999, p. 40). It may be a stretch: mucus as the trace of the divine, the soul. A slippery idea. I’ll tell you something else that is slippery: the flow of writing and trying to hold a line of argument when I am thinking about my daughter next to me, and how

Motherhood and academia 73 soon we need to pick up her brother. He vomited in the car this morning (I couldn’t make this up). He’s always had a weak stomach, prone to motion sickness, and is anxious about his sister’s unrelenting seizures. The car will stink after being in the sun all day. Like Lorraine, Hilary Robinson sees mucus – “the site of mediation” – breaking down binary oppositions. For Robinson, thinking through the mucus (realising its “morpho-logic”) is crucial for woman–woman relationships (including mother and daughter), woman–man relationships and for woman herself. Curiously, Robinson is the only writer I have encountered who recognises the grammatical slippages in Irigaray’s writing on mucus. These might occur because, as Robinson reads her work, “what Irigaray is doing – practising – in her work. . . [is] speaking in the morpho-logic of the ‘lips’ and the mucus” (2006, p. 108, emphasis in original). To put it another way, and relishing the grammar, Irigaray’s mucous writings invite an encounter with the logic of mucus. She offers a way of writing differently. Cixous coined the phrase écriture feminine (women’s writing): “Woman must write herself: must write about women and bring women to writing . . . Woman must put herself into the text” (1981, p. 246). Irigaray uses the term parler-femme (speaking as woman): “I am a woman. I write with who I am” (Irigaray, 1993a, p. 53). For most women writing in academia, there is a gap between the exhortations of feminists to write the self and the rigid criteria and norms of research contexts. Feminist writers, and writing together as women, offer pleasure in abundance (Grant, 2006). The writing woman described by Cixous finds herself overflowing: “Time and again I, too, have felt so full of luminous torrents that I could burst” (1981, p. 246). bell hooks similarly writes of the rapture, sacredness, grace and ecstasy of words: “I write to live” (1999, p. 45). This is juxtaposed against the challenges of academia: “I was constantly walking a tightrope, trying to fulfil the requirements that would lead to tenure while searching for the space to write” (hooks, 1999, p. 133). A lack of space (for writing, for mothering, for care) means leakage, rupture, overflow. Don’t speak of containment and control; instead, let this explosive core shake up the academic order. Here is mucus for academic mothers. Nourished together, motherhood and academia open up different and creative ways of thinking about and being within the contemporary university. My line of argument is thus: Motherhood and academia leak into each other in messy ways. Separating and containing the subjectivities of academia and mother is impossible. Maintaining the competing priorities of plural subjectivities requires nourishment as women, mothers and academics. We speak and write of our experiences, share and create spaces and challenge the confines of our universities. In my office, I am writing and mothering simultaneously. Outside the window, the sun is setting red and hazy from hazard reduction burns in the national park to the north. I rouse my daughter from a doze and set towards home. I don’t yet know it, but she is about to have a 12-minute seizure. And I will be thinking of angels, and trying to test the weight and meaning of feminist philosophy under harsh

74  Agnes Bosanquet fluorescent hospital lights. I’d love to respond to the reviewer’s request to conclude with my key learnings from exploring the metaphor of mucus in academic motherhood, with what my sticky moments reveal about intersubjectivity and the soul, but I am found wanting. There are no neat endings here.

References Acker, S., & Armenti, C. (2004). Sleepless in academia. Gender and Education, 16(1), 3–24. Amsler, S., & Motta, S. (2017). The marketised university and the politics of motherhood. Gender and Education, doi:10.1080/09540253.2017.1296116 Angier, N. (1999). Woman: An intimate geography. Boston: Houghton Mifflin. Bartlett, A. (2005). Breastwork: Rethinking breastfeeding. Sydney: UNSW Press. Cixous, H. (1981). The laugh of the Medusa (K. Cohen & P. Cohen, Trans.). In E. Marks & I. de Courtivron (Eds.), New French feminisms: An anthology (pp. 245–264). New York: Pantheon Books. Cixous, H. (1991). Coming to writing and other essays. In D. Jenson (Ed.), S. Cornell, D. Jenson, A. Liddle & S. Sellers (Trans.). Cambridge: Harvard University Press. Ellis, C., Adams, T. E., & Bochner, A. P. (2011). Autoethnography: An overview. Forum: Qualitative Social Research 12(1). Fothergill, A., & Feltey, K. (2003). “I’ve worked very hard and slept very little”: Mothers on the tenure track in academia. Journal of the Association for Research on Mothering, 5(2), 7–19. Grant, B. M. (2006). Writing in the company of other women: Exceeding the boundaries. Studies in Higher Education, 31(4), 483–495. Hey, V., & Bradford, S. (2004). The return of the repressed? The gender politics of emergent forms of professionalism in education. Journal of Education Policy, 19(6), 691–713. hooks, b. (1999). Remembered rapture: The writer at work. New York: Henry Holt & Co. Irigaray, L. (1981). And the one does not stir without the other. H. Wenzel (Trans.). Signs, 7(1), 60–67. Irigaray, L. (1985a). Speculum of the other woman. G. C. Gill (Trans.). Ithaca: Cornell University Press. Irigaray, L. (1985b). This sex which is not one. C. Martin (Trans.). Ithaca: Cornell University Press. Irigaray, L. (1991). The irigaray reader. M. Whitford (Ed.). Oxford: Blackwell. Irigaray, L. (1992). Elemental passions. J. Collie and J. Still (Trans.). London: Athlone Press. Irigaray, L. (1993a). An ethics of sexual difference. C. Burke and G. C. Gill (Trans.). Ithaca: Cornell University Press. Irigaray, L. (1993b). Je, Tu, Nous: Toward a culture of difference. A. Martin (Trans.). New York: Routledge. Irigaray, L. (1993c). Sexes and genealogies. G. C. Gill (Trans.). New York: Columbia University Press. Lorraine, T. (1999). Irigaray and deleuze: Experiments in visceral philosophy. Ithaca: Cornell University Press. Klocker, N., & Drozdzewski, D. (2012). Career progress relative to opportunity: How many papers is a baby ‘worth’? Environment and Planning A, 44, 1271–1277.

Motherhood and academia 75 Kristeva, J. (1982). Powers of horror: An essay in abjection. New York: Columbia University Press. Kristeva, J. (1986). Stabat mater. In T. Moi (Ed.), The Kristeva reader (pp. 160–186). New York: Columbia University Press. Kristeva, J. (2002). Tales of love. In K. Oliver (Ed.), The portable Kristeva. New York: Columbia University Press. Irigaray, L. (2000). Democracy begins between two. K. Anderson (Trans.). London: Athlone Press. Probert, B. (2005). ‘I just couldn’t fit it in’: Gender and unequal outcomes in academic careers. Gender, Work & Organization, 12(1), 50–72. Robinson, H. (2006). Reading art, reading irigaray: The politics of art by women. London: I. B. Tauris. Sallee, M., Ward, K., & Wolf-Wendel, L. (2016). Can anyone have it all? Gendered views on parenting and academic careers. Innovative Higher Education, 41, 187–202. Thornton, M. (2013). The mirage of merit: Reconstituting the ‘ideal academic’. Australian Feminist Studies, 28(76), 127–143. Toffoletti, K., & Starr, K. (2016). Women academics and work – life balance: Gendered discourses of work and care. Gender, Work and Organization, 23(5), 489–504. Williams, J. C. (2005). The glass ceiling and the maternal wall in academia. New Directions for Higher Education, 130, 91–105.

8 Taking a trip through and with the sisterhood of the Global South Siti Muflichah et al.Taking a trip

Storying our experiences as female academics in Indonesia and Australia Siti Muflichah, Dewi Andriani, and Elizabeth Mackinlay Introduction Mufli An Indonesian academic From dry land Taking (no map And GPS) trip To South Borneo, Rippled lakes island Every riverbend offers Sage skies with No more heavy Teaching workload where I juggle motherhood A PhD excursion To Down Under Feeding hunger feeling Watering thirsty tongue Enlightening dark hush

Dewi From matrilineal land Taking a trip Through academic jungle My journey started Persuaded by mother Under the influence New Order policy “Take that carriage” Teacher Training Institute Good for women We had arguments I looked back Mother was right That undesirable carriage Helped me here Australian academic jungle The unknown jungle I dreamed of

Liz A naïve researcher Covered in coloniality Clothed in feminism Ethnomusicologist and ethnographer Recordings, notepads, cameras. Fires, dust, melodies Teach, watch, wait Travelling on country Words are written Worlds in collision Strangers become friends Friends become family. Newly born woman Time passes by A sisterhood beyond. And mermaids sing Forever a reminder

Trip. A four-letter word, which holds many different meanings as it moves us to places at once near and far. Each of us as female academics has a unique journey, often experienced as a trip into an unknown world where all manner of surprises and struggles await. In this chapter, we use the metaphor of a “trip” to bring together our same but different experiences as mothers, academics and students. We explore the ways in which we encounter, work within and challenge the complexities of being and becoming feminist in the context of neoliberal universities

Taking a trip 77 in the Global South. This writing trip is important – to us, to those we call sisters in the academy, to those who yearn for a being and becoming elsewhere than the present “imperialist, white, supremacist, capitalist, patriarchy” (hooks, 2013) in which we find ourselves neatly packaged up and stuck. We write as a provocation to think about what it means to “hold onto feminism” and to “fight under its name” (Ahmed, 2010, p. 1) in the Global South and the kinds of powers and privileges we hold as particular kinds of female bodies in the academy. Dewi presents her experiences as a woman from mainstream Minangkabau matrilineal culture in Indonesia, and specifically the ways in which her positioning as a university student has been influenced by the New Order policy on women’s roles, power relations between lecturers and students and her recent “trip” into academic research. Mufli draws upon her experiences of juggling motherhood, the demands of an academic career in an Islamic higher education institution in Indonesia and shares the ways in which the “sticky floor” of academic promotion for women has “tripped” her up along the way. Drawing upon her intercultural work as a white settler colonial woman in relation with Indigenous Australian women, Liz speaks to the way in which her academic trip has been experienced through a strong and vocal feminist subjectivity. Together we share the dangers and necessity of speaking through and with a sisterhood of the Global South in Indonesian and Australian higher education today. As we embark on this writing trip, we are tempted to name our writing as collaborative autoethnography (e.g., Hernandez, Ngunjiri & Chang, 2015), as collective biography (e.g., Davies & Gannon, 2006, 2013) or perhaps as the kind of “post-academic” writing Livholts speaks of (2012, p. 7) because it doesn’t “quite fit” at home anywhere. For now, we want to resist such naming and present our writing as “heart/storylines” (Mackinlay, 2015, p. 1438) where the creative and analytic come together to become and remain fully “wide awake” (Greene, 1994, p. 122) to the entanglements of our feminist and academic lives. Each one of us has spent time alone recollecting and representing in notes, jottings and paragraphs our experiences as female academic which we feel represent the complexities of our trip through a sisterhood of the Global South in higher education. In this chapter, these appear as individual stories and three-word poems taking our lead from Laurel Richardson’s technique of “transcript poetry” or “data poetry” (Richardson, 1985). We have pieced together the poetic readings of ourselves at conferences, over coffee and in Liz’s office – feeling our way, facing our fears, finding out more, fixing and freeing our emotions and experiences into shared words – “After all”, Richardson insists, “that is what close women friends do – talk about their lives” (1985, p. 83). We recognise we are not the first academic women and feminists to put pen to paper about our subjectivities and the ways in which we experience our life-worlds in the academy (e.g., Honan, Henderson & Loch, 2015; Lipton & Mackinlay, 2017; Stanley, 1997). The writing trip we have embarked upon reaches to rejuvenate and reclaim our sense of sisterhood in higher education and yet, in and of itself, this feminist “yearning” (after hooks, 1994) is complicated and messy because our feminisms are not the same. Our racialised, social and cultural experiences as women, and the kinds of statuses

78  Siti Muflichah et al. we occupy, in relation to the kinds of power and privilege enacted as knowledgemaking practices and forms of academic authority are not the same. We find then, as hooks reminds us, that being able to come up with a “neat” and “comfortable” understanding is “difficult to reach with all our resources, actual and confessional, so we are just there, collectively grasping, feeling the limitations of knowledge, longing together, yearning for a way to reach [it]. Even this yearning is a way to know” (hooks, 1994, p. 92).

Sisterhood, the Global South and academic work Mufli Dewi Liz White-settler-colonial We are women Understanding global Always already implicated From Global South difference Power-full, care-full, ethicIn this space We converse in full We construct knowledge Feminist-supervisory forum Response-ability mine A collective project I speak “F” Same but different Feminist academic work In Liz’s classes After I have Mohanty makes possible Two plus one Feminist feelings connect Writing in solidarity Been stilled academically We attend conferences Against mainstream science Us as friends I present papers Against dominant knowledge Yet we stand Irigaray’s symbolic order We need acknowledgement Alone, apart, alongside An academic erasure Hear our voices Mohanty’s Postcolonial Advisor to one We write this feminism Reviewer to another From our positionality We read in Uneasy happiness holds Shaping our world Medusa’s reading group Our lives together Some are different Sharing our experience One two three Some are similar In jungle journey Stories are woven Collaborating book chapter Global South sisterhood

The uneasy yet full of promise kind of sisterhood we are trying to un/entangle here has an undeniably and un-apologetic “southern” sentiment and we find ourselves tripping through southern theory as a way to make sense of our locations as women in the academy. When we use the term “southern”, we are referring broadly to Connell’s (2007) term “southern theory” which draws attention to global dynamics and geo-politics of knowledge in social science and the kinds of “periphery-centre” relations of knowledge and power which re/produce similarly certain kinds of social thought. From a geo-political standpoint, by and large, the Global North produces theory writes Connell (p. ix), and excludes those on the periphery at the “ends of the earth” (p. ix), in the Global South. Indonesia is readily associated with the Global South in this geo-political framework however Australia’s positioning is always already complicated – and we might say comprised – as located in either the Global North or South. Australia sits geographically in the Global South outside the metropole of the Global North and yet as a country of colonisers holds other kinds of power linked tightly to Global North dominance. If we add gender into Global North and Global South relationalities

Taking a trip 79 of power, then we could argue that our female bodies are undeniably “southern”. But this in and of itself is not a neat conceptual package. While all three of us share particular kinds of similarities as women – we are mothers, we are women who describe ourselves as academics and we hold strong feminist subjectivities – our southern female bodies are not the same and take on different kinds of “southernness”. Liz is Australian born while both Dewi and Mufli were born in Indonesia. Liz is an Associate Professor while both Dewi and Mufli are PhD students. Mufli is working with Liz as her advisor and Liz sits on Dewis’ candidature panel. Academic English flows readily and easily from Liz’s tongue and pen tip, while Mufli and Dewi find themselves always in the process of translation between English and Bahasa Indonesia. When Liz sees herself in relation to Dewi and Mufli, she at once recognises herself as the kind of “whitestream” feminist that Grande (2003) speaks of, that is, one who is at risk of conveniently side-stepping, mis-aligning and refusing a dialogue around the performance of a coloniality of being in her work. All three of us recognise the complex set of power relationships which sit in-between the southern and particular kinds of raced, classed, religious, political and social bodies we inhabit, and it is these particular kinds of performativities which accompany our feminist friendship in our trip through academia, that we hope to share.

Our stories Mufli’s story I am a senior academic woman in a university where few women occupy senior positions. Once I gained a senior position, I found myself surrendering to a male dominated academic world. As the Head of the Language Centre, I chased colleagues for meetings between my classes. I would sneak lunch before student thesis supervision. I took a ten-minute laydown before checking on the progress of my staff’s work. I was busy. Then, I refused to teach a research practicum that my male supervisor insisted I take on because after all, I was qualified – “You did graduate from an Australian university”, he warned me. As a woman dedicated to carrying out feminist ways of working, I found his attitude, and those of many others, highly problematic. When I was the Head of the Centre for Gender Studies at my university, I spoke about the feminist way regularly in seminars, specifically about Gender and Islam, which were broadcast on local radio and TV, and I wrote articles for the local newspaper on gender issues. Once, the Head of one department ordered me to teach a “special class”, for high-performing students in the English and Arabic programs. The class was launched by the Ministry of Religious Affairs to accelerate the capability of students who had graduated from Islamic boarding school (pesantren) to enable them to adjust to university life. I felt that people had big expectations of me due to me completing my Masters study in Australia. I found my working life becoming increasingly busy and yet I did not want to stop taking on roles I enjoyed, particularly when supporting students or my female colleagues. I could not avoid the pastoral care tasks when some students asked me

80  Siti Muflichah et al. to be the students’ club supervisor, a judge of students’ competition, and academic and non-academic advisor. In hindsight, I sense that my workload had a negative impact when it came to academic promotion. I applied for promotion to Associate Professor to the Ministry of National Education in Jakarta but I had limited time to prepare my application, and it did not look good. My application was unsuccessful. However, I continued to do the work that mattered to me as a senior academic woman, including mentoring my female colleagues. My university experienced expansion as a direct consequence of a neoliberal push to increase student numbers and create new departments to bring in more revenue. Academics were asked to teach classes at night and many of my female colleagues objected. I was able to use my seniority to negotiate an exemption for them from teaching at nights; we stood in unity together. Alongside my heavy workload, I took care of my two sons alone. My husband went back to Borneo after accompanying me to study in Australia. He visited us in Java every two months. I understood “I love to you” (after Irigaray, 1996), and using hook’s (2002, p. 37) terminology. I chose to love a man from Borneo who agreed that I will pursue my dreams (career and overseas study), rather than to fall in love with a man who would not give me such personal support. As a full-time civil servant academic and single mother, I did not have time to have fun. I clearly remember how one day some female colleagues and I slipped away to have a “fancy” lunch in the middle of a job deadline. When night fell I fell asleep immediately. My sons were accustomed with this habit of sleeping early, knowing full well that otherwise my schedule the next day would not work properly. On the weekends, I spent my time taking care of my sons while catching up on work. One Sunday I was on campus working with my sons by my side when one of my colleagues spotted me; I was embarrassed. Reflecting on my subjectivities in higher education and my academic mothering life, I connect to heroine Kartini (Sadli, 2002) from Central Java (Sears, 1996), who inspired Indonesian women’s emancipation by challenging white Dutch colonial supremacist patriarchy. When discussing postcolonial feminism, reference is often made to Mohanty, Spivak and perhaps Anzaldua or Collins. I want people mentioning Raden Adjeng Kartini as being among these well-known and respected thinkers in global feminism (Roberts & Connell, 2016, p. 137). Kartini’s story helps me to understand different women’s experiences. In the context of higher education, I want my Indonesian female colleagues’ aspirations to be heard, especially where they juggle academic work with motherhood. Mostly, stories about academic mothers are told from the Western female academic’s perspective. For this reason, my academic thinking and writing takes a postcolonial feminist stance. I agree with Mohanty (2003) that postcolonial feminism helps me to theorise and understand Indonesian female academics experiences. Postcolonial feminist frameworks can be used to analyse experiences of career success and failure in Indonesian university settings. As a doctoral researcher, I still find myself facing challenges as an academic mother. I am “Down-Under” to work under the doctoral supervision of a white, middle-class woman who strongly resists white patriarchy – also one of my

Taking a trip 81 co-authors here, Liz. With Liz, I face a distinct language and cultural barrier. The differences between us however are folded tightly within our similar ways of “maternal thinking” (Ruddick, 1980, p. 343), thinking which has enabled us to take this academic trip together. We have shared how guilty we feel as academic mothers – for me the guilt rests with my decision to leave my sons in my home country. We have shared the daily humdrum and horrors of being single academic mothers and we agree that academic life now is even more frightening for us under the new managerialism and neoliberalism principles. The challenges and similarities which flow in and around our student–supervisor relationship, to borrow a phrase from Bloom (1998, p. 48), lock us in an “uneasy sisterhood”. Our relationship has shifted to become more than two – Dewi has now become enfolded within our academic, mothering and feminist friendship as Liz is the chair of Dewi’s candidature panel. We participate regularly in a feminist reading group called “The Laughing Medusas” where we discuss prominent women like Cady Stanton, de Pizan, Irigaray, hooks, Ang and Cixous. The “Medusas” gave me confidence to present a paper at the Australian Women and Gender Studies Association “De/storying” conference in 2016. Liz provides feedback to both Dewi and I on our stories as we rehearsed our presentations and now here we are – the three of us writing together as our feminist friendship takes another trip. Dewi’s story I started my academic journey by following my mother’s footsteps and undertaking a degree at “The Teacher Training Institute” in my country. My mother thought being a teacher was a good career because I could also take care of my family. My mother’s views were influenced by the doctrine of ibuism, the propaganda by the New Order government to universalise Indonesian women. My mother advised that I should choose English language education if I wanted to experience some more exciting adventures after university. “English will take you anywhere in the world”, my mother argued. I was pushed along the path my mother suggested, and that road took me to the academic world in Indonesia which at that time was heavily influenced by the power of the New Order regime. Students were controlled to not criticise the ideological state. Foreign concepts such as Marxism and feminism were considered taboo and were not allowed to be read, accessed and discussed. I was not exposed to these ideas and I had no access to the materials that were disapproved of by the New Order government. I had a limited and boring intellectual spectrum. The power relationships between students and lecturers were also influenced by this political situation in Indonesia. I observed that the lecturers – particularly male lecturers – positioned themselves as those with power and the students were the subordinates. The voices of the students, including female students, were largely silenced. That path surprisingly took me to the world that my mother assured I would go and I arrived in the jungle of Australian academia. My experiences of entering a different academic world in a new country have been both daunting yet exciting.

82  Siti Muflichah et al. The influences of the New Order ideology and matrilineal culture are bound up in my subjectivity as a postgraduate student and follow me closely through my explorations in the Australian academic world. The New Order promoted homogeneity of thinking and as an Indonesian woman, I am not used to asking questions of those in power. I have been influenced by New Order propaganda to accept everything that those in power say and offer as truth. In the New Order academic world, it was claimed that those in power produce universal knowledge that is and must then be adhered to by the mainstream academic society. However, I am now learning that it is acceptable not to use the mainstream epistemology that emphasises objectivity and generalisation. I can give my voice to the research and I can construct knowledge as an academic coming from a postcolonial background. I met Liz – our co-author on this chapter – when she became chair of my candidature panel. She showed me a broader range of epistemology to explore and I learned from Liz that there is a way to perform research against the mainstream. At first I doubted her, but Liz assured me I could do this. She showed me more lenses to see alternative perspectives on knowing, being and doing research. I carry those lenses with me today, even if at times I am too scared to follow. Until now, I have felt I had little power and confidence. My researcher subjectivity is always moving, shifting, transforming and evolving as I experience the world around me inside and outside the academic world. Such fluidity brings conflict, uncertainty and complexity, and many questions. What are my privileges as an academic woman? Do I have a privilege to explore? What are the theoretical, personal and epistemological roles and responsibilities of my privilege? Do women of colour have a right to construct knowledge using lenses from different perspectives? The theoretical framework that I have used to create and analyse my story here is based on the work of Mohanty (2003) who argued that women from third-world countries cannot simply be defined through oppression. There are historical complexities. I can see such complexities in my mother’s position, where she became a “hybrid” of two cultural identities (Bhabha, 2011); the dogma of ibuism and the teaching of matrilineal system. I have inherited this hybridity in many ways, and as a “third-world” woman, these positions leave me feeling unsettled in this academic world. First, like my mother, I was born and raised as a descendant of the Minangkabau ethnic group that upholds a matrilineal system located in West Sumatra, Indonesia. Second, I lived in the repressive era of the New Order under President Suharto’s government. My roles and identities were shaped and influenced by the ideological indoctrination of the New Order government throughout my education in Indonesia. At the same time, I was taught my position as a matrilineal ethnic woman to whom the family name and heritage are passed down is important and quite powerful in my clan. However, this value is weakened by the New Order’s dogma of Indonesian women in terms of their kodrat or biological predestination function where women are regarded as the companion of their husband with their primary roles being that of wives and mothers (Ford & Parker, 2008).

Taking a trip 83 Coming to Australia, and having the opportunity to study in an educational system which is different from Indonesia brings another layer of complexity to my position as a third-world female academic. My position shifted from being a part of the mainstream culture in Minangkabau multicultural society to becoming a minority in terms of ethnicity, culture, language and religion in Australia. The one sense of belonging that grounds me in my academic world in Australia is my existence as a beginning and becoming feminist, indeed as Mohanty (2003) states, there is a feminist solidarity between myself, Mufli and Liz which emphasises the connections between the local and universal and between sameness and difference. Liz’s story I am never quite sure where my story as an “openly” feminist academic begins and or how to retell it here. I carry with me in my personal-is-political-is-pedagogical subjectivities the embodied experiences of many generations of strong women in my family. Was it when I picked up a copy of Naomi Wolf’s (1990) The beauty myth to try to understand why the flesh of my body turned and returns to anorexic bones? Maybe it was the moment I saw myself as a white researcher in an Aboriginal community and was horrified at the ways in which I was perpetuating a type of coloniality in collusion with patriarchy? Perhaps it was when I was a young and pregnant lecturer who was told that I had nothing worthwhile to say at a Faculty meeting because now I had “baby brain syndrome”? Was it when I was shouted down in a seminar by a male professor who suggested that the way I was sitting, the clothes I wore and the words which came from my mouth were too aggressive and I should be quiet? Or maybe – just maybe – it was when I realised the depth of generosity, compassion and knowledge my Aboriginal family at Burrulula had shared with me, despite and because of my positioning as a whitesettler-colonial woman married to a Yanyuwa man and mother to our two sons. Senior Yanyuwa, Garrwa, Marra and Gudanji Law women taught me a different way of thinking about sisterhood, one that was embedded deeply in relationships with one another as women, with country, with Dreamings, with ceremony and with song (see Mackinlay, 2000). Gender, power and politics and power ebb and flow through such a relational way of being, doing and knowing in a world where both women and men are considered equals under Yijan (Yanyuwa Law) but always already the same but different. Despite the ravages of coloniality, the sisterhood amongst my family at Burrulula remains strong and unbreakable. In the early 1990s, when I first began working at Burrulula, I thought that my academic work would somehow translate into “something better” for the women, men and children whom I call family. Better homes, a fair education, an end to racism, and the reinstatement of Indigenous Australians as a sovereign people. My PhD and the journal papers I subsequently wrote about the social and musical lives of Aboriginal women did not change anything, despite how well I wrote

84  Siti Muflichah et al. them and the prestige of the publications in which they appeared. I realised that while people might be hearing the words I spoke at conferences and reading those that appeared in my writing, they were not listening – not with their hearts. Neither were the words I wrote those which my Aboriginal family wanted to listen to – they didn’t tell a good story. At the same time, I became painfully aware of my positioning as a non-Indigenous woman in relation-to and in relation-with Indigenous peoples, knowledges and cultures, and the enormous white power and privilege I held. As a white-settler-colonial-woman I knew that there was more, and indeed that I had to do more, to engage the thinking hearts of my colleagues, students and friends if I was serious about working towards a more socially just future for Indigenous Australians – for my children and my family. It is the “doing more” that sits beside me uncomfortably in my feminist academic work – it is the kind of stuck place which Patti Lather speaks of whereby a praxis of constant movement, of never finishing closing, or defining and of not being so sure, “situates the experience of impossibility as an enabling site” (Lather, 1998, p. 488) for working through doubt and uncertainty. I can see clearly that being positioned across, in-between, through and around different kinds of “sisterhoods” as a feminist academic is a dangerous practice of the Cixousian kind (1994) and drawing upon her work I am always wondering and searching for a response to the question “who are I in the academy?” In Cixousian terms, the kinds of sisterhoods I find myself performing in the Global South then can be read as a moment to not forget, to recall, to rejoin, to reflect and relate to, through and with difference – and imagine a sisterhood where things might be otherwise.

Conclusion We came together to write this piece in our sameness as mothers, as academics and as women who feel a belonging as feminists to each other and to a sisterhood of the Global South; and yet we were always quite sure the trip might take our sense of feminist friendship into the uneasy folds of difference. We wanted to share our sameness as women who are not afraid to say and write the “f” word in academia and yet the very act of speaking-as-writing a global sisterhood has meant we necessarily needed to place ourselves at the “in-between” of our differences and name them at the very same time we are in a process of being and becoming them. How do our feminist voices sound together when the words we speak are heard in another language? How do the individual words we write tell a good enough academic story when the ways we might assemble them exist in the pull back towards traditional patriarchal writing and the push against it? How do we negotiate the discomforts we experience when we hear the ways our voices articulate the unequal positions of power in academia we hold as colonialpostcolonial women in relation to one another? How might we use the messiness of our collaborative work to engage in an academic sisterhood of writing which has the power to strengthen the folds of feminism in the Global South (after hooks, 2000, p. 44) while at the same time disrupting the walls of oppression that sit hidden quietly inside? These are the questions that, for now, have decided to

Taking a trip 85 accompany us on this stage of our trip through academia as feminist women, and as we bring this chapter to a close – or perhaps, as Ahmed (2010, p. 1) suggests, “this feminist story is just a beginning”.

References Ahmed, S. (2010). Feminist killjoys (and other willful subjects). The Scholar and Feminist Online, 8(3), 1–10. Bhabha, H. K. (2011). Culture’s in-between. In S. Hall & P. Du Gay (Eds.), Questions of cultural identity (pp. 53–61). London: SAGE Publications Ltd. Bloom, L. R. (1998). Under the sign of hope: Feminist methodology and narrative interpretation. Albany, NY: SUNY Press. Cixous, H. (1994). The Hélène Cixous reader. London, New York: Routledge. Connell, R. (2007). Southern theory: The global dynamics of knowledge in social science. Sydney, NSW: Allen & Unwin. Davies, B., & Gannon, S. (Eds.). (2006). Doing collective biography: Investigating the production of subjectivity. London: McGraw-Hill Education. Davies, B., & Gannon, S. (2013). Collective biography and the entangled enlivening of being. International Review of Qualitative Research, 5(4), 357–376. Ford, M., & Parker, L. (2008). Women and work in Indonesia. New York: Routledge. Grande, S. (2003). Whitestream feminism and the colonialist project. Educational Theory, 53(3), 329–346. Greene, M. (1994). Postmodernism and the crisis of representation. English Education, 26(4), 206–219. Hernandez, K. C, Ngunjiri, F. W., & Chang, H. (2015). Exploiting the margins in higher education: A collaborative autoethnography of three foreign-born female faculty of colour. International journal of Qualitative Studies in Education, 28(5), 533–551. Honan, E., Henderson, L., & Loch, S. (2015). Producing moments of pleasure within the confines of the quantified academic self. Creative Approaches to Research, 8(3), 44–62. hooks, b. (1994). Teaching to transgress: Education as the practice of freedom. Boston, MA: Southend Press. hooks, b. (2000). Feminist theory: From margin to center. London: Pluto Press. hooks, b. (2002). Communion: The female search for love. New York: William Morrow. hooks, b. (2013). Writing beyond race: Living theory and practice. New York: Routledge. Irigaray, L. (1996). I love to you: Sketch for a Felicity within history. New York: Routledge. Lather, P. (1998). Critical pedagogy and its complicities: A praxis of stuck places. Education Theory, 48(4), 487–497. Lipton, B., & Mackinlay, E. (2017). We Only Talk Feminist Here Feminist Academics, Voice and Agency in the Neoliberal University. Cham: Springer International Publishing Imprint Palgrave Macmillan. Livholts, M. (Ed.). (2012). Emergent writing methodologies in feminist studies. New York: Routledge. Mackinlay, E. (2000). Blurring boundaries between restricted and unrestricted performance: A case study of the mermaid song of Yanyuwa women in Borroloola. Perfect Beat, 4(4), 73–84. Mackinlay, E. (2015). In danger of writing: Performing the poetics and politics of autoethnography with Hélène Cixous and Virginia Woolf. Qualitative Research Journal, 15(2), 189–201.

86  Siti Muflichah et al. Mohanty, C. T. (2003). Feminism without borders: decolonizing theory, practicing solidarity. Durham: Duke University Press. Richardson, L. (1985). The new other woman. New York: A Division of Macmillan, Inc. Roberts, C., & Connell, R. (2016). Feminist theory and the global South. Feminist Theory, 17(2), 135–140. Ruddick, S. (1980). Maternal thinking. Feminist Studies, 6(2), 342–367. Sadli, S. (2002). Feminism in Indonesia in an International Context. In K. Robinson & S. Bessell (Eds.), Women in Indonesia: Gender, equity and development. Singapore: ISEAS. Sears, L. J. (1996). Fantasizing the feminine in Indonesia. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Stanley, L. (1997). Knowing feminisms: On academic borders, territories and tribes. London: Sage. Wolf, N. (1990). The beauty myth. London: Chatto & Windus.

9 In the spirit of shared solidarity Jennifer MaysIn the spirit of shared solidarity

Women in academia and transformation Jennifer Mays Introduction Unexpectedly, the individualism began to shift. This came about due to numerous changes in the culture, staffing and senior leadership. New leaders brought ideas of collective responses, social justice and critical analysis. The image of women working together to overcome obstacles began to take shape using new metaphors of resisting neoliberalism, while adopting collective strength and solidarity. Where once the system was fractured, the new approach is bringing together diverse ideas and shared understandings. (Personal Reflection, Mays) This narrative depicts the moment in time in which the toxic academic culture that I was immersed in, started to transform. New actions of resistance and metaphors helped reclaim, not reimagine, a different reality (Fook, 2002). While reimagining provides a space for exploring an alternative reality, it is in the actions of resisting and reclaiming power that allows for countering the noxious effects of neoliberalism and individualised discourses. As such, my lived experience and work in academia forms part of the resistance narrative. In reframing through collegial and cultural change, solidarity becomes the counter measure to inequalities and oppression in the academic space. Resistance narratives and collective action are necessary preconditions in the neoliberal era, whereby public spaces require safeguarding from the extremes of neoliberalism (Giroux, 2015). The blanket application of neoliberal principles across all aspects of academia ignores the complex nature of university spaces and myriad of competing interests. Under the surface, academia is a melting pot of tension, controversies and complexity. This chapter considers the political nature of being a woman in academia. It argues for persistence and reflexivity in the struggle for exercising personal and political agency together with critical thought to create a space for shared power. From this space, more radical ideas and activities can emerge. Such an approach reflects more than challenging rhetoric and offering new discursive constructions. For change to be more than a ‘symbolic gesture’, new radicalised discourses are required to transform critical ideas and meanings into democratic solidarity (Foss, 2009; Giroux, 2015).

88  Jennifer Mays In this chapter, a critical feminist gaze and reflexivity is applied to the reflective accounts for generating deeper insights into the effects of neoliberalism and associated metaphors during the course of working in academia (Davies & Petersen, 2005; Woods, 2012). Reflexivity is used alongside critical feminist theory, to examine my own presuppositions from a critical standpoint. These presuppositions are positioned relative to neoliberal structures and formations for making sense of critical events and discourses. From there, reframing oppressive subjectivities helps to transform the academic space and reveal actions for liberating change (Eveline & Bacchi, 2010; Mackenzie & Bacchi, 2010; Morley, 2016). This chapter scrutinises the metaphors of wilderness and the cheetah evoked through the neoliberal mechanisms of leveraging leadership, agility, individualism and self-promotion to reveal the hidden meanings attached to the discursive formation (Jensen, 2006). In doing so, the critical analysis can reveal the way different meanings function to shape and entrench particular dominant viewpoints that are at odds with democratic notions of academia. Metaphors evoke in the reader a powerful imagery about the nature and complexity of events (Jensen, 2006; Lakoff & Johnson, 1980). The identification of neoliberal metaphors helps uncover deeper-level implications associated with this imagery (Reardon & Snauwaert, 2011). Uncovering hidden assumptions provides a way to unsettle practice and challenge deeply held beliefs and open a transformative space for new liberating metaphors. It is in the process of disruption and exposing myths that new metaphors can be formed, for inspiring alternative visions to the current reality (Lucal, 2015). Resistance through metaphor is necessary in instances whereby neoliberal empowerment narratives are devoid of any emancipatory and critical gendered political content (Feldt & Fraser, 2004; Litosseliti, 2006). Transformation grounded in liberatory action reframes the agenda to advance women’s rights and empowerment (Feldt & Fraser, 2004; Morley, 2016). Change can be effected through political actions used alongside new conceptualisations that resist dominant neoliberal discourses entrenched in the university space, to evoke a strengthened commitment to social justice, rights and solidarity (Batterson, 2015; Morley, 2016). In the spirit of solidarity, women academics are at the forefront of reclaiming collective endeavours. The approach adopted in this chapter reflects a culmination of my critical academic and activist framework that best fits new empowering metaphors designed to shift neoliberalism in academic spaces (Giroux, 2015; Kress & Lake, 2013).

Backdrop: neoliberalism and women in academia The dominant prevailing neoliberal structures and rhetoric have attempted to impact on discourses of resistance for academic women. The culture produced from decades of neoliberal influence on university spaces is intense competition between academic actors, which is in turn played out across and within academic institutions (Giroux, 2015).

In the spirit of shared solidarity 89 Neoliberalism functions to uphold individual agency and freedom through profit-making, rational thought, competition and a pseudo-Darwinist ‘survival of the fittest’ ethos (Giroux, 2015). Although the concept of neoliberalism is highly contentious, in this modern era it is difficult to ignore the way academia has also been appropriated into the neoliberal project. Neoliberalism has its origins in neoclassic economics and laissez-faire economic liberalism (Cantillon & Van Lancker, 2013; Harvey, 2007). The neoliberal project refers to the ordering of democracy in terms of the pre-eminence of the market, rationalisation and free, rational-thinking individuals (Giroux, 2015). Neoliberalism embraces the deregulation of finance and labour, and privatisation of the public sector (Mays, 2016). From the neoliberal perspective, knowledge is reconceptualised in line with the logic of corporate business management model, which reconstitutes education as a commodity and educational product for the market (Preston & Aslett, 2014). The corporatisation of the academic space emphasises efficiency gains over social collaboration, through the intensification of productivity, performance and outputs (Clawson & Page, 2011; Olssen & Peters, 2005). For Giroux (2015) and this author, neoliberalism is an all-encompassing ideology, a market-oriented vision of society, mode of governance and form of public pedagogy, which denounces the social contract, critical dialogue and democratic public spheres. As such, neoliberalism is the antithesis of academic efforts toward democratic freedom, solidarity, equality and critical thinking. Giroux (2015) contends that neoliberalism “saps the democratic foundation of solidarity, degrades collaboration, and tears up all forms of social obligation” (p. 102). This is a significant point given that academic institutions and academics have not been immune to ideological effects of the neoliberal economic project and new mode of governance (Giroux, 2015).

Out of the barren wilderness and into the creative space During my eleven-year academic career, there have been instances of being consigned to the barren wilderness. If I spoke up critically or presented a radical idea in public meetings, I was immediately shut down by male senior managers. They said I was to be ‘the good corporate citizen’. And because I did not follow in their steps, my teaching post was reassigned. My teaching passion for social policy was strategically reassigned to male colleagues, which left a gap in the logical alignment of my teaching, research and writing; even where I requested teaching into the unit. The barren wilderness reflected my own sense of frustration, isolation and marginalisation. (Personal Reflection, Mays) Here, the wilderness represented an alienated space, where any attempt to critique neoliberal governance in the academic institution resulted in relegation to the confines of a desolate wasteland, that is, a place which was bleak, inhospitable and

90  Jennifer Mays separate from the norm of the dominant group. The notion of the barren wilderness in the above illustration demonstrates the way metaphors in conjunction with ideologies and normative practices become instruments of power in marginalising any perceived oppositional voices to the dominant group (Fairclough, 2009; Reisigl & Wodak, 2009). Davies and Petersen (2005) reported similar experiences of alienation when academics espoused critical thought in public forums. They pointed to the feelings of inadequacy and disempowerment that emerged when countering neoliberal discourses and further suggested “this sense of foolishness that we express seems in part connected to the feeling that our own and others’ critiques of neo-liberalism are inconsequential and not in need of such impassioned critique” (p. 93). This is the hegemony of metaphors and institutional practices, whereby certain ideas become constructed as natural or ‘common sense’ and in turn are upheld in the domain of ideas, knowledge and practices as the dominant approach (Fairclough, 2009). In contrast, dominant metaphors can be reconstituted to prevent the sense of inevitability and futility perpetuated by the neoliberal project (Davies & Petersen, 2005). Disrupting the barren wilderness metaphor provided a means to reframe the metaphor for emancipatory purposes. Consider the following re-envisioned account: During my eleven-year academic career, while there have been instances of being consigned to the barren wilderness if I presented radical ideas in public meetings, I have found these points of transformation. New ways of seeing and doing became the practice whereby the barren norm translated into a productive and fruitful wilderness. My passion for social justice and egalitarianism was transmuted into my teaching, research and writing. New leaders supported my commitment to teaching in policy from a critical standpoint. The idea of wilderness, transformed and became a haven for inspiration and creativity, rather than a desolate space. (Personal Reflection, Mays) Not accepting naturalised ‘truths’ attached to metaphors helped to reveal hidden meanings and myths. Reframing the wilderness metaphor, as demonstrated in the above example, and taking alternative action assisted in reconstituting the more oppressive aspects of the academic environment. In the above extract, language and symbols, in conjunction with deep analytical reflexivity, were central to reconstructing social reality (Acker & Dillabough, 2007; Caplan & Caplan, 1994). New leadership also contributed to a reframed metaphorical understanding in which different actions produced radical practices (Anderson, 2006). Davies and Petersen (2005) suggested that new leadership, and encouraging colleagues to engage critically, forms part of the radical transformation agenda. Although, the strategy could be perceived to be a means of ‘forestalling resistance’, in effect the opposite occurred (Davies & Petersen, 2005). Creating a space for a new metaphor allowed for what Giroux (2015) termed the re-envisioning of new educational paradigms and programs contra to neoliberalism.

In the spirit of shared solidarity 91

Disrupting the leveraging leadership and agility mechanisms Neoliberalism legitimates commodified education and the knowledge product through the discourses of accountability and performance measures that align with the new governance model. The commodification of education and its impact on women academics reflects a new form of authoritarianism and paternalism grounded in ideals of social control over performance (Ollilainan & Calasanti, 2007; Preston & Aslett, 2014). There remains an inherent contradiction between these discourses of individualism and collective solidarity (Davies & Petersen, 2005). Neoliberalism, by imposing performance measure mechanisms, promotes and privileges individual personal agency through self-interest and selfpromotion above and beyond the collective. Neoliberal hegemony promotes myths such as ‘playing the game’ which has led to politics of envy, and neoliberal ‘game’ of leveraging leadership and being agile. Neoliberal forms of governance have employed the wilderness metaphor to shape the leveraging leadership and agility discourses (Cornwall, Gideon & Wilson, 2008; Lucal, 2015). In neoliberal corporate governance, the term ‘agility’ is often accompanied by images of a cheetah. Within the university space, the leveraging leadership and agility discourses are set alongside images of the cheetah and attached to new governance. The metaphor invoked is synonymous with being flexible and responsive in using new ways of doing business to gain a competitive advantage (Giroux, 2015). Consider further the imagery associated with a cheetah running across the savannah in full flight assuming to be chasing its prey. The image is expected to mirror the academic workspace and evoke connotations of elegance and speed in producing creative solutions with efficiency. The challenge of such imagery is that it ignores additional connotations attached to the animal, such as fierceness, ferocious individualism and proficiency in bringing down prey. As with the cheetah, the neoliberal project affords value to individuals gaining the competitive edge over presumed competitors (Giroux, 2015). In the agility metaphor, individualism is pursued by strictly controlling one’s own personal agency to present an image that ascribes to the desirable qualities and norms upheld by the corporatised organisation (Montashery, 2013). The power of neoliberalism is found in the way the project is heavily grounded in metaphors of strength, competition and survival of the fittest. The profound power of the leveraging leadership (force, control and influence) and agility (responsive, dexterity, and quick-thinking) mechanisms in action: The search for a new target (prey) had begun. Side conversations, whispered ideas and stacked meetings. Hovering up and down the hall, he was ghostlike and responsive in his search for prey, waiting for the snippet of an idea or gem of a project. Hovering around me when I speak with colleagues; pretending to be talking with others, but listening intently to my conversations; anything that he could use for individual self-gain. Being agile in listening in to phone calls as they wander past my open door; monitoring who I am talking with. I am constantly under surveillance. Using any piece of information

92  Jennifer Mays to get ahead. Using agility and speed to gain an advantage. The game play has been set! (Personal Reflection, Mays) The new discourses of leveraging leadership and agility reflects complex game plans, whereby leveraging leadership and agile practices are used to undermine perceived adversaries to gain a competitive edge (Acker & Dillabough, 2007). As a nuanced gameplay, work is geared toward individual self-promotion and self-interest, rather than a collaborative endeavour; and is thus divisive and subversive. The practice shapes and influences the university space by functioning to naturalise new hegemonic modes of governance (Giroux, 2015). The impact of self-interested individualism and self-promotion is often at the expense of collective empowerment and women’s solidarity (Davies & Petersen, 2005). Persistent imitation of ideas aligns with the hegemony of leveraging leadership and agility as a form of self-promotion designed to further individualism. The following account details a moment in time in which imitation played out in relation to the metaphor of the cheetah: The meeting started off like any other. It did not take long for the idea to be put out in the public forum. The speaker used my narrative, word for word. Within this context, the speaker was proclaiming to be innovative and agile; the speaker was brazen in the belief that I would just sit there and take it! Here it was, leveraging leadership in action. In looking around, no one appeared to notice that only a month earlier, I had spoken about the project and the idea in a similar public forum. Yet, here it was, claimed by another and given the tacit approval that it was theirs and theirs alone. The challenge to my integrity was too much; and oh so blatant. Academics passing off ideas as their own and by stealth is certainly not new. But there is something sinister about the experience in academia. My outburst silenced the room. The backlash against me was imminent. (Personal Reflection, Mays) Here, the agility concept combined with the cheetah metaphor (demonstrated in terms such as stealth) represents a powerful reminder of the insidious nature of co-opting the work of another colleague, in the interest of self-preservation and self-promotion (Phelan, Moss-Racusin & Rudman, 2008; Smith, Caputi & Crittenden, 2012). In promoting the personal achievements and ideas to colleagues and senior academics, the individual seeks to safeguard their position in the hierarchy and guarantee their own promotion of accomplishments and career advancement at the expense of the constructed ‘other’ (Phelan et al., 2008). The ideation of personal power through self-promotion belies a sense of personal doubt of own agency. Validation is thereby sought through modelling the style, narrative and success of their targeted academic woman colleague (Phelan et al., 2008). Akin to the notion of the tall poppy syndrome any resistance to leveraging leadership, agile discourses and negating and rejecting such representations, presents a new risk of being relegated to the margins and wilderness or being viewed as

In the spirit of shared solidarity 93 combative. In effect, academic women who resist through critical approaches tend to be afforded a subordinate position (Smith et al., 2012). By not subscribing to the new dominant discourses of agility and leveraging leadership, academic women risk encountering backlash effects (Smith et al., 2012). This backlash effect is a phenomenon experienced by women academics who aspire to be leaders, yet do not play the game. Consequently, women academics encounter censure and socio-political and cultural sanctions from colleagues and management because of not engaging in the game play (Smith et al., 2012). The intense workplace struggles played out, produce workplace cultures that are not conducive to equality, collaboration or intellectual endeavours. The normative power of neoliberal discourses embedded in academia are expected to produce compliance and competition. The discourses are designed to enforce compliance if an academic does not subscribe to the neoliberal project, nor adopt the cheetah narrative (Acker & Dillabough, 2007). In contrast, modern interpretations of the university space can be transformed. Rather than see the agile cheetah as the dominant metaphor attached to leveraging leadership and agility, my view shifted to a wilderness that was a creative, rich environment. A reconstitution of the cheetah metaphor opened the potential for an alternative metaphor found in the giraffe: When I envision women in academic leadership, I see strong women who walk in solidarity with each other, who work collaboratively to inspire and impart knowledge, who support colleagues to transition. Looking high above the neoliberal terrain for a better vantage point has afforded a new way of seeing beyond the barrenness of false-truths and contradictions. For there is a newly inspired purpose, sense of self agency and dissent. (Personal Reflection, Mays) In the above account, the giraffe metaphor is designed to transcend the individualism associated with the cheetah imagery. The giraffe metaphor instils a different meaning from the cheetah, in which tallness reflects a capacity for greater wisdom and sense of security, given that height assists in gaining a wider perspective of the landscape. Being able to see beyond the confines of the immediate environment transforms the personal agency to gain a far-reaching vision beyond the neoliberal project. Giraffes are also notable for their support of each other. Such a perspective on its own does not sufficiently capture the broader significance of the giraffe metaphor, as it is in this space in which radical transformation can occur. For a giraffe, there is a need to reach high above the tree-tops to eat leaves and manoeuvre around thorns. Where the giraffe has evolved in response to an adverse environment, so too can the academic woman move beyond restrictive neoliberal metaphors and reframe meaning to that of a co-agent of critical consciousness, knowledge building and ethical responsibility to social change (Agarwala, 2015; Carli & Eagly, 2016; Giroux, 2015). Although at risk of being somewhat of a cliché, the new meaning subscribes to my inherent personal commitment to social justice, fairness and egalitarianism.

94  Jennifer Mays As such, a deeper level interrogation presents an opportunity to build a sense of security in my own radical political project, and counter the sense of inevitability that neoliberalism produces (Davies & Petersen, 2005). By providing an alternative analysis with a different vision and action through reframing and resisting the cheetah metaphor, the neoliberal project is disrupted and not taken for granted. Consequently, a new space is created for the prospect of new potentialities involving alternative visions and actions. This discursive opportunity refers to what Davies & Petersen (2005) call the “possibility of articulate and informed dissent; not just the disruptive dissent of the fool” (p. 95). They add that such a reconstitution provides a space for the “insertion of other discourses and practices to inform decision-making and practice” (p. 95). From this perspective, being able to look beyond the confines of the immediate neoliberal landscape is in itself empowering. Being a woman academic who values deeper intellectual thought and social action while positioned in the contemporary neoliberal era, uncertainty can disrupt critical thought. In considering the imagery evoked through the giraffe metaphor, new meaning is attached to collaborative endeavours: The image of women working together to overcome obstacles reflects strength, utility, agency and structural power. Collaborative actions can be undertaken solo or collectively in solidarity. The idea is to achieve the end goal, while knowing there may be thorns, meanderings and obstacles along the way. Yet, there is capacity to get there in the end. New interpretations of liberatory shared spaces and actions open up possibilities for a different reality and university space. (Personal Reflection, Mays) As such, reconstituted metaphors help to make visible the hidden assumptions and produce a new discursive space for identifying the neoliberal project. Ideas about being a good neoliberal subject or object of oppression are transformed into being ethically responsible agents who support the creation of critically engaged thinking, knowledge production and collaboration (Davies & Petersen, 2005). The critical point here is that taking back agency is necessary for opening up spaces, exchanging ideas, developing new discursive practices and new ways of working together to share the conceptual academic space.

Conclusion There may be attempts to replicate individual self-promotion, but these are now constructed as distractions. For now, the imperative is generating and reinforcing a wider vision incorporating new norms of critical thought, collaborative endeavours and academic women’s empowerment. I no longer reside in the barren wilds. (Personal Reflection, Mays)

In the spirit of shared solidarity 95 For women academics such as myself, the academic endeavour is a passion upheld by a deep conviction towards critical thinking and transformative action that supports working in solidarity. In the academic space, the influence of creeping neoliberalism has led to a form of metaphorical hegemony, seen in the way mechanisms of leveraging leadership, agility and individual self-promotion are used alongside metaphorical images of the wild and cheetahs. Neoliberalism uses these uniquely influential metaphorical devices to legitimise new governance structures and build its authority through truth claims of performance measures and accountability (Giroux, 2008, 2015). Disrupting the metaphorical associations of leveraging leadership and agility provides a way to transcend the power of the barren wilds metaphor that neoliberalism produces and entrenches. Applying a critical gaze and reconstituting the cheetah metaphor comprising neoliberal inferences of fierce competitiveness and individual selfpromotion, functioned to open up a space for the giraffe metaphor. The newly framed metaphor of the giraffe gave credence to seeing beyond the immediate neoliberal environment, to a new realm, whereby engagement with critical intellectual thought and radical transformation could occur. The accounts presented in this chapter represent one way forward in transforming metaphors to inform change and liberatory action. The idea of corporatised education, academic commodification and oppressive metaphors, under the neoliberal project, does not sit well with me. Transformed spaces and newly formed metaphors provide preconditions for a new vision of education and society which reclaims and values critical thought, democracy and social justice in the university space. Transforming spaces and creating collaborative connections inspires a new vision in the spirit of solidarity to transform myths and inequalities through ethical responsibility, social justice and social change. My commitment through disruption, reconstituted metaphors and social action is toward the radical transformation of academia into a noble place of free thought, social justice, critical thinking and leadership for all women.

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96  Jennifer Mays Carli, L., & Eagly, A. H. (2016). Women face a labyrinth: An examination of metaphors for women leaders. Gender in Management: An International Journal, 31(8), 514–527. Caplan, P. J., & Caplan, J. B. (1994). Thinking critically about research on sex and gender. New York: HarperCollins. Clawson, D., & Page, M. (2011). The future of higher education. New York: Routledge. Cornwall, A., Gideon, J., & Wilson, K. (2008). Introduction: Reclaiming feminism: Gender and neoliberalism. IDS Bulletin, 39(6), 1–9. Davies, B., & Petersen, E. B. (2005). Neo-liberal discourse in the academy: The forestalling of (collective) resistance. Learning and Teaching in the Social Sciences, 2(2), 77–98. Eveline, J., & Bacchi, C. (2010). Power, resistance and reflexive practice. In C. Bacchi & J. Eveline (Eds.), Mainstreaming politics: Gendering practices and feminist theory (pp. 139–161). Adelaide: University of South Australia Press. Fairclough, N. (2009). A dialectical-relational approach to critical discourse analysis in social research. In R. Wodak & M. Meyer (Eds.), Methods of critical discourse analysis (2nd ed., pp. 162–186). London: Sage. Feldt, G., & Fraser, L. (2004). The war on choice: The right-wing attack on women’s rights and how to fight back. New York, NY: Bantam Books. Fook, J. (2002). Social work: Critical theory and practice. London: Sage. Foss, S. (2009). Ideological criticism. In S. Foss (Ed.), Rhetorical criticism: Exploration and practice (4th ed., pp. 137–145). Long Grove, IL: Waveland Press. Giroux, H. (2008). Against the terror of neoliberalism: Politics in the age of greed. New York: Routledge: Taylor & Francis Group. Giroux, H. (2015). The final word: Democracy in Crisis, the specter of authoritarianism, and the future of higher education. Journal of Critical Scholarship on Higher Education and Student Affairs, 1(1), 101–113. Harvey, D. (2007). A brief history of neoliberalism. New York, NY: Oxford University Press. Jensen, D. (2006). Metaphors as a bridge to understanding educational and social contexts. International Journal of Qualitative Methods, 5(1), 36–54. Kress, T. M., & Lake, R. (2013). Introduction: Reigniting radical hope and social imagination in ‘dark times’. Rotterdam: Sense Publishers. In T. M. Kress & R. Lake (Eds.), We saved the best for you: Letters of hope, imagination and wisdom for 21st Century educators (pp. xi–xvi). Rotterdam: Sense Publications. Lakoff, G., & Johnson, M. (1980). Metaphors we live by. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Litosseliti, L. (2006). Gender and language: Theory and practice. London: Hodder Arnold. Lucal, B. (2015). Neoliberalism and higher education: How a misguided philosophy undermines teaching sociology. Teaching Sociology, 43(1), 3–14. Mackenzie, C., & Bacchi, C. (2010). University-public sector research collaboration: Mine the space, never mind the gap. In C. Bacchi and J. Eveline (Eds.), Mainstreaming politics: Gendering practices and feminist theory (pp. 263–281). Adelaide: University of South Australia Press. Mays, J. (2016). Countering disablism: An alternative universal income support system based on egalitarianism. Scandinavian Journal of Disability Research, 18(2), 106–117. doi:10.1080/15017419.2014.995218 Montashery, I. (2013). Figurative construction of gender through metaphor and metonymy. Advances in English Linguistics, 2(1), 2325–2197. Morley, C. (2016). Promoting activism through critical social work education: The impact of global capitalism and neoliberalism on social work and social work education. Critical & Radical Social Work, 4(1), 39–57.

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10 Playing in the corridors of academia Eva Nislev and Melissa CainPlaying in the corridors of academia

Eva Nislev and Melissa Cain

Introduction This chapter follows our storying – ten years of ebb and flow, of a shared balancing act that is the play between our academia and personal lives. It focuses on our lived experiences as two sessional academics working in academic institutions. Sharing snatched moments, frantic coffees between classes, and emotional ‘downloads’ via emails we reveal something of the complexities and uncertainties of negotiating the game played by many sessional academics. The games the ‘university’ plays are also highlighted as we discover that the value of teaching is superseded by the value of research and funding procured to maintain job security. Finding comfort in our creative selves, the blending of visual arts, music, and gardening give us voice, reason, some stability, and playtime to the daily chaos. The constant travelling, negotiating diverse management systems and personalities, and attempting to build a career without a continuing position, juxtaposes the narratives of single parenthood, doctoral studies, new loves, and the precious needs of ever patient children and partners. Upholding positive values, seeking autonomy, purpose, place, and creativity leave us questioning decisions made in the pursuit of academic fulfilment. The duality of this positioning raises the stakes, complicates the juggling, and intensifies the play.

The play This chapter utilises autoethnography in the form of emails (James, 2015). These emails enable us to explore a new narrative possibility for critical dialogue in schedules that allow little face-to-face time. This narrative form of expression offers us opportunities to make sense of past, present, and future events as they unfold (Polkinghorne, 1988; Connelly & Clandinin, 1990) drawing together our individual self-concepts as we expose feelings and experiences in shared conversations, thus enabling a deeper view (Clough, 2002). Emails in this case have served as the ‘repository’ of stories, (James, 2007) thoughts, and ideas, in addition to allowing a place for frank discussions, interpretations, and reflection. There have been a number of advantages to using emails as the basis for this quest. Notably the lack of temporal restrictions was

Playing in the corridors of academia 99 a surprising positive in the journey. Email has provided necessary reflection periods but also the possibility of immediacy – that is, opportunities to pose questions and offer answers without having to think about the composing, recomposing, and editing which would take place in a more formal forum. As researchers, we have worked together to co-construct understandings, becoming active participants in our own ‘meaning making’ (Crotty, 1998, p. 98). The reflective prose is written in different fonts as a design feature. Barone (2001, p. 70) uses this technique to “signal shifts across distinct perspectives of events and sources of information”. Our author voices mingle, echo, and become one as the journey is shared. Here, we explore the story as sessional academics through candid ‘chats’, interspersed by the voices of others as we seek to identify what has “personal significance” (Taylor, 1989, p. 52). We have created our own version of autoethnography through self-observation. Ellis, Adams, and Bochner (2011) describe autoethnography as both process and product. As a method, it combines aspects of autobiography (“gazing inward from the story of one’s self”) and ethnography (“looking outward at a world beyond one’s own”) (Schwandt, 2007, p. 17).

Prelude Hi, Have you got your contracts sorted for next semester? Typically, two of mine fall on the same day – do you think I can get from A-B in under an hour? And the parking is always an issue. . . Hi, Yes, trying to get that sorted. I have one course that I really like but they want me to do the late tute as well, 5pm-7pm. That means I need to work out some solution for school pickup so will get home late – probably pizza again. Bummer, it’s one of those ‘all-or-nothing’ deals.

Playing for pay – seeking value, being valued A Federal Government review of the university sector in 2008 highlighted the challenges that casual academic staff face. In particular, many sessional staff experience “income insecurity, workloads beyond their paid hours, and feelings of isolation from the university community” (Bradley et al., 2008, p. 23). Crimmins et al. (2016) recently related that casual academics in Australian universities report “a lack of professional development and increased feelings of marginalisation within the academy” (p. 427). Coates et al. (2009) similarly refer to Percy et al. (2008) whose research suggests that sessional teachers are considered “the hidden part of the massification that has taken place in higher education in Australia over the last 30 years” (p. 53), with at least 50 per cent of teaching in Australian higher education currently undertaken by sessional staff. With such a large proportion of university academics employed on casual contracts, it would be surprising to most that this majority are not afforded the work security, benefits,

100  Eva Nislev and Melissa Cain and sense of inclusion as those in continuing positions. How this plays out for individuals and the impact on their self-esteem and sense of efficacy is explored in the following section: Hi there, There are issues with how you slot into the profession . . . being a sessional. Every institution has a different system, different contracts, computer platforms, expectations, resources etc. It is a lot to negotiate. Like playing the “I would like to get paid” game. 75% of the time you have to send your contract back because they got it wrong. And then the game of actually getting paid – working out where to log in on a certain day every fortnight to say you were there doing your job to get paid. Think about it, time consuming, petty, really – actually – archaic! . . . and kind of disrespectful. I see what you mean. There’s not a hundred percent degree of trust involved with sessional staff. I really want to say “look I’ve got x many years in the classroom, done my PhD, and I’ve thought about stuff a lot, so can you just put me in a place where I can do well and trust me to be a professional?”   Yes, you want to feel valued as a professional. But we have to develop a bit of a thick skin, you know, not take things too personally. One thing I know now is that there are some people I just will not work for, it sounds awful but their contracts are just mean!

Places to play Morning. I was thinking about the facilities for sessional staff and wonder whether these reflect the value of sessional staff by institutions? Like the range of spaces I work in. They go from a crappy hole with no light, to a sort of ‘first in best dressed’, to a fabulous area with individual decent sized desks in a massive area with windows all around, small break out rooms, kitchen, lounge etc – a real sense of community. Good point! I work in one place where they are really grateful you have made the long drive to teach there – “here’s the food, coffee and the stationary cupboard – help yourself!” And the staff make an effort to know your name and say good morning. A couple of places offer compensation for your time spent driving or even a bus service. Such a difference to the expectation that you get to work on a course, and will travel further for no remuneration. Another university I work at gives sessional workers free parking if they are there two or more days a week. In one place I work it is hard to feel a sense of belonging. Everyone’s in their rooms with their doors shut – locked away and you don’t know where you fit and you don’t know if you’re bothering someone; you’re kind of looked at

Playing in the corridors of academia 101 with suspicion like you’re not supposed to be in their corridor! I say hi to people as I walk past. I’d be very lucky if anyone ever responds. Isn’t that weird? I do miss the relationships I had at my school – the sense of teamwork. I felt we had each other’s backs and I could count on them for anything. Good on you, just trying to be a bit jolly – the atmosphere in some places is pretty unhappy though. I don’t want to be one of those people who just teaches and leaves. Maybe that’s what the universities want, just turn up, do your job and go home. I am not sure about direction. Honestly, I think I make mine up as I go along. Where am I headed career-wise? I just don’t know.

Learning to keep playing with children and partners I think early on being sessional was just right for me because I’d moved around a bit, and I was just experimenting with making a life here. Leaving the security of my teaching position of 22 years and the respect I had earned was not easy. I had one child in day care, one in primary school, and one starting high school. Three different schools. Playing Mum and dabbling with piecing together a new career. It was a real juggle. Oh the juggling act! I remember that also. I employed a nanny two afternoons a week because I couldn’t make it work. She would get my youngest in the afternoon at three. And even now I felt like I should have made it work – you know the whole superwoman thing – but fortunately practicality won out! I think back and wonder why I felt guilty, like I wasn’t coping! We are playing . . . not just the academic corridor but also the mother corridor. It’s such a balancing act! I know, I chose to teach courses that fitted in with mothering. It felt like I just dropped the kids off at school, raced to work, worked through breaks, and raced back to pick them up again – like a crazy mouse on one of those wheels! And of course, I worked another research job at home later when all was quiet. It’s no better now, and that frustrates me. I’ll let you into a secret – those two days where the nanny helped out grew to be my favourite days because a) I felt that I’d done my job properly, b) I’d come home and my son’s homework and bath would be done. I always pre-prepared the meal . . . but she was so great, not only was dinner in the oven and the salad or vegetables prepared, but she would have the bottle of wine and the glass out ready. It was fabulous, it meant I had time for my daughter and her homework needs. I felt guilty for a little while and then I realised it’s only two afternoons a week. Good for you! The other problem I think is doing this on your own – single motherhood. That daily lack of emotional support not to mention physical support. This coupled with exhaustion and guilt became a real grind for me,

102  Eva Nislev and Melissa Cain and I questioned if I did the right thing – should I stick to a regular classroom gig where it is safer? The guilt – trying to be everything to everyone. The guilt between not doing the best professional job that I wanted to, and attending the sports and the parent evenings and the bits and pieces. “And yeah, I’m really sorry that your sports clothes aren’t washed, you’re just going to have to wear your shorts again”. But the upside is our kids are pretty resilient and capable. I look back now and wonder how on earth I managed, mostly singlehandedly to look after two kids, two dogs, a large house and garden, work. Oh . . . and do my PhD! I remember being seriously sleep deprived and getting home and realising that I could not remember any of the drive home! I remember being just plain lonely. And eating . . . if it wasn’t for the kids I don’t think I would have bothered; and then, well it wasn’t the greatest of fare. But no-one starved – LOL! Jokes aside, it actually made me physically sick at times. There was a lot of stress on a daily basis in the sessional game. Not knowing if I had work, or enough work. I couldn’t get a mortgage for ages as the banks won’t lend to casual workers, even with a number of years in the same institution. But I am glad I got into the game. I really enjoy working with the students for the most part. The range of ages and the diversity of life experiences they bring to their learning journeys keeps me buoyant. Dating was interesting – “how do you describe yourself”. Hi, I’m a sessional academic. . . . Oh! nice, what is that exactly? Will you get a fulltime job one day? GROAN!!! I don’t think many people apart from other sessional staff who do this type of ‘bits and pieces’ work understand what it is like, and that it is often not our first choice. I have friends who still ask after all these years – “are you still doing all your bits and pieces?” I am not sure if they feel sorry for me or just think I should get a real job. As in – one job in the same place! But, we have been lucky and we both found partners that have understood the choices we have made and accepted this is our journey. It is not every man that can put up with the crazy hours, the not-quite-knowing where and when you will be working next, or the phone call – “please can you pick up child x, walk the dog, forage for dinner etc . . . I am going to be late”.

Playing the terms Brown, Goodman, and Yasukawa (2010) place a spotlight on the factors that leave casual academics in a precarious financial position. Sessional staff face an enforced income break between November and March, and need to be available when teaching is distributed, usually on a take-it or leave-it basis at

Playing in the corridors of academia 103 the beginning of the academic year. They are neither paid on public holidays, nor are they entitled to paid leave. (p. 172) Despite the large numbers, casual academics are often described as invisible due to their low status and recognition and lack of voice and agency (Davis et al., 2009). Taking on the equivalent of twelve months’ work during the eight months while universities are in session enforces the need to work longer hours and under stressful conditions. We have often taught when sick for fear of losing an income opportunity. Working this way does not support any type of reasonable work–life balance and the impact radiates to family and wellbeing. Do you think it is better to have a contract? I took one for six months. The idea was I could go to staff meetings and feel part of the team, but the reality was that I was so busy and usually teaching so I couldn’t attend! And with the few I went to I didn’t feel comfortable speaking as there was still this sense of “but you are just on contract”. It seems to me we are given the courses that are problematic so we can ‘fix’ them. I am up for the challenge; I actually quite enjoy it, but somehow doing all the hard yards for someone else to get the accolades is crappy! You’re right. It’s been really stressful financially not knowing what my income’s going to be, taking on things that perhaps I shouldn’t have because I was terrified that the next semester I wouldn’t have anything or not enough. And so, this thing of ‘over-extending’ – well I’m really good at it! I sure get the ‘biting off more than you chew’ – I am famous for it, slow learner! For me it was just more to be able to see what it’s like to have some sort of continuity and see the bigger picture rather than be really isolated and just do your little piece. It’s such a risk though! You work for years establishing yourself in a certain area and gain real insight and expertise and now you put in on hold crossing fingers and toes the whole time knowing that the someone who ‘fills in’ for you while you’re on contract does a good job and suddenly you are forgotten and not back next year. One of the issues for sessional academics that makes a considerable impact, is that we can only work 6–8 months of the year, which means we take on extra teaching during these months to ‘keep the wolf from the door’. Then, we wait in anticipation for new contracts, often finalised days before we are due to begin teaching, madly getting our heads around the content in a very short timeframe. Even long service leave is difficult to attain, as a ‘break in service’ results in the accumulated years of teaching being rendered null and void.

104  Eva Nislev and Melissa Cain One thing I just haven’t cracked yet is this mysterious ‘work–life balance’. I’m either teaching or on the computer from the moment I wake up till the moment I go to bed. Every week day, every weekend. Sitting in the same chair marking for eight hours straight is no fun. There’s a million other things I’d rather be doing, but the work needs to be done. I can’t see the balance – how is it supposed to happen? So I guess that comes back to now learning the rules, like kids have to learn how to play school. We have to learn how to play university.

Playing just for me? I’ve got book club tonight. It took me a while to be kind to myself – have my playtime. There’s ten in the group and three of us go back 20 years. I used to read a book a week (for pleasure that is!) not any more but I try and book club helps me not feel guilty. We meet at a cheap restaurant every 6 weeks and chat about the book and catch up on what everyone is doing, kids, grandkids, holidays etc. I used to prepare dinner for the family but now – “I’m at book club tonight, sort out dinner on your own☺”. Great! It is important to do something for yourself. I play squash each week; when I get there. I’ll get home at six thirty or seven, have to find something to eat very quickly for the kids. All I want to do is have a lie down, but it is worth it. It’s about moving and not looking at the computer, talking to other people and laughing. We all need that. We should be doing that sort of thing a lot more. In theory it should be easier for me as my children have finished school, but you actually have to almost diarise it to make it happen. Note to self – put play in the diary. I also worry about my creativity; not just the keeping up with hobbies but actually ‘growing’ it. I forget I’m supposed to be an Arts teacher and musician. And, having the opportunity to use it in my work. You know, play in the classroom. I used to create every day in my classroom, it was part of my job – now, I have to dig deep to get that back into the classes. My saving grace is my garden. It is my greatest creative outlet. I crave time there, just watering and pulling out weeds – I think it keeps me balanced. I so understand. I was exhausted at the end of semester. It was a really rough end and I was emotionally shattered. I needed to take time out and just let go, I spent a whole day painting pots for my garden wall it was so cathartic – I really miss time with my art. At one institution they open their arts studio over the holidays for staff – a kind of drop-in centre – painting, printing, pottery, projects, whatever . . . just playing! I am quite jealous, I would love

Playing in the corridors of academia 105 that, seems like a better possibility to offer instead of a heap of seminars on wellness.

Just one of many players Baranay (2006) points out, many casual academics have worked in the same institution for years “but no one will find you on the staff register, no one can find your email address on your university’s website” (p. 41). Brown, Goodman, and Yasukawa (2010) add that sessional teaching staff are not paid to develop and maintain their knowledge-base, but “are expected to deploy it in the teaching process” (p. 172). Sessional workers are just as committed to improving their practice through professional development and engaging with other educators as those in continuing positions and are cognisant that securing such a job requires them to stay up-to-date with best practice. Brings you back to asking where do we fit into the system. I can only think of two cases in recent years where the course coordinator has said ‘come for a coffee so we can talk about the course’. That was like – wow! “Really; you care what I think?!” More often than not, unless there is a problem like low survey rates/complaints you never hear much beyond an email. The contrary is also interesting – when you get really good ratings, where is the uni saying “hey great job, thank you”? I have a colleague who often quips if all the sessional staff went on strike for a week, the uni’s would be on their knees. The irony is that we actually know the systems quite well, and in our case across multiple institutions. We have a lot to offer, but I am not sure faculties care – our voice is only heard if we have developed rapport with an interested staff member. Hmm . . . I doubt the world is so rosy on the other side. I am pretty sure that most the academics I know well are equally struggling to manage their workloads. I hear more and more about contracts not being renewed and those people not being replaced. Everyone seems worried about their job security. Sure, I think everyone is and I think you’ve hit the nail on the head because there aren’t that many jobs out there. And there are cuts being made, so what concessions do people make to keep those jobs? Work longer hours!

Playing to keep up Are you ever offered anything in the way of professional development? I see emails come through with different opportunities from all the unis, but they are generic and I am not always sure how applicable they are. However,

106  Eva Nislev and Melissa Cain I have taken a few out of interest, and while I could tick the box for having done some PD I am not sure it changes my employability prospects. Of course, we’re not paid to do it, and have to have a spare day. One place I work for actually offers funding annually towards a conference/professional development/books – I bought books which was great. This thing about doing more than you are paid for . . . I know everyone probably does, but does that make it right? There’s a great quote in Baranay (2006) “I am always swinging between guilt and martyrdom” (p. 42). We always get drawn into doing that bit extra to make sure we are asked back – it seems it is not enough to just do a good job. One of the things I really wish I could change is finding a way to incorporate research into my work life. I enjoy research and have some great ideas. As a sessional I can’t apply for academic research grants. Not being able to fund anything substantial and not being in a position to set aside a day or two a week to apply myself to research is a problem. I would like to grow as an academic and contribute.

Future play? Call me crazy but I’m actually at peace being a sessional now, and perhaps this is because I am across quite a number of institutions. There is an odd consistency, but I’ve also found that maybe I’ve just become a middle aged . . . I’m not sure. I have realised I get quite bored easily. I think the whole idea of getting stuck in the politics of one place scares the crap out of me. Being caught in a web really scares me. I’ve been there and done that. And I really like ‘playing’ with lots of different hats. It’s the juggling of the hats that’s hard. But I actually like the stimulation of being in different places. I meet so many different people. Staying in one place I hear you. But we have some sort of perspective on how different institutions do things differently that others don’t. Plus, we’re able to then pick and choose . . . like they do this really well here, and I’m going to bring it over there. Like cross-fertilization – everyone actually wins. That’s so true . . . my teaching has definitely improved along with my product base and my knowledge base. Just the things that I’ve learnt would not have happened had I stayed in one spot. I agree. I think we’re balancing our love of inspiring learners but also the frantic nature of sessional work, trying to work out where you fit within the system and the many games that are played, the many play systems. On the back cover of Jay Asher’s book “Thirteen Reasons Why” (2009) he

Playing in the corridors of academia 107 writes, “You can’t stop the future. You can’t rewind the past. The only way to learn the secret is to press play.” Email: Hi, ACCHH! Remind me why I love this job? Hi, One of those days? It’s because we love the face-to-face communication, how we can develop relationships and the sharing of our experiences. And don’t forget we like teaching students that there are all sorts of creative ways to be effective teachers. Hi, Thank you. I was feeling sorry for myself. But I just got an email from a student – “hey, thanks for all the stories and making the theory come alive!” I really do like teaching ‘to be’ teachers. I wonder if taking in Lego to play with tipped the scale☺

Coda Recent literature on the role and place of sessional academics in Australia focuses on a number of significant issues common to the majority of those working as casual educators: concerns about income insecurity, feelings of marginalisation, perceived low professional status, a lack of access to benefits such as sick leave and professional development, patching together work opportunities at several institutions, and few opportunities to move into continuing positions necessary to build an academic career. In acknowledging these issues, this narrative provides personal insights into the realities of balancing work, family, and personal wellbeing. Through autoethnographic accounts, we have detailed how these themes are encountered in day-to-day life, using the concept of play – learning to play the game of academia, playing for financial rewards, playing to be valued as a professional, playing at mothering and providing familial and financial stability, playing the relationship game, and playing in a variety of educational institutions that rely heavily on sessional academics, but rarely celebrate their achievements or formally include them. Yet despite the uncertainties, we are playing a game we love. Forming relationships, inspiring growth in our students, and working to provide a meaningful education for all we encounter; being an educator wins hands down. There are no solutions provided here, however, the observations made by us constitute a plea for a serious rethinking of the role and place of casual academics in the complicated system that is Higher Education. Surely inviting the majority into decision-making processes, providing ways for our/their voices to be heard, valuing our/their contributions, and ensuring career stability and a sense of community would benefit all in this game.

108  Eva Nislev and Melissa Cain

References Asher, J. (2009). Thirteen reasons why. Penguin Publishing Group ISBN: 9781595141880. Baranay, I. (2006). The academic underclass: The plight of casual teaching staff. Paper in: Getting smart: The battle for ideas in education. J. Schultz (Ed.). Griffith REVIEW, (11), 39–49. Barone, T. (2001). Touching eternity: The enduring outcomes of education. New York: Teachers College Press. Bradley, D., Noonan, P., Nugent, H., & Scales, B. (2008). Review of Australian higher education: Final report. Canberra: DEEWR. Brown, T., Goodman, J., & Yasukawa, K. (2010). Academic casualisation in Australia: Class divisions in the university. Journal of Industrial Relations, 52(2), 169–182. doi:10.1177/0022185609359443 Clough, P. (2002). Narratives and fictions in educational research. Buckingham: Open University Press. Coates, H., Dobson, I. R., Goedegebuure, L., & Meek, L. (2009). Australia’s casual approach to its academic teaching workforce. People and Place, 17(4), 47–54. Connelly, F. M., & Clandinin, D. J. (1990). Stories of experience and narrative inquiry. Educational Researcher, 19(5), 2–15. Crimmins, G. Nash, G., Oprescu, F., Alla, K. Brock, G., Hickson-Jamieson, B., & Noakes, C. (2016). Can a systematic assessment moderation process assure the quality and integrity of assessment practice while supporting the professional development of casual academics? Assessment and Evaluation in Higher Education, 41(3), 427–441. doi:10.1080 /02602938.2015.1017754 Crotty, M. (1998). The foundations of social research: Meaning and perspective in the research process. London: Sage. Davis, D., Connor, R., Perry, L., Perrott, B., & Topple, S. (2009). The work of the casual academic teacher: A case study. Employment Relations Record, 9(2), 37–54. Ellis, C., Adams, T. E., & Bochner, A. P. (2011). Autoethnography: An overview. Historical Social Research, 36(4), 273–290. James, N. (2007). The use of email interviewing as a qualitative method of inquiry in educational research. British Educational Research Journal, 33(6), 963–976. James, N. (2015). You’ve got mail. . . ! Using email interviews to gather academics’ narratives of their working lives. International Journal of Research & Method in Education, 40(1), 6–18. doi:10.1080/1743727X.2015.1056136 May, R., Peetz, D., & Strachan, G. (2013). The casual academic workforce and labour market segmentation in Australia. Labour & Industry, 23(3), 258–275. doi:10.1080/10 301763.2013.839085 Percy, A., Scoufis, M., Parry, S., Goody, A., Hicks, M., Macdonald, I., . . . Sheridan, L. (2008). The RED report: recognition, enhancement, development: The contribution of sessional teachers to higher education. Australia Learning and Teaching Council (ALTC), Canberra, 3. Polkinghorne, D. E. (1988). Narrative knowing and the human sciences. Albany: State University of New York Press. Schwandt, T. A. (2007). The SAGE dictionary of qualitative inquiry. Los Angeles: SAGE. Taylor, C. (1989). Sources of the self. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.

11 An academic career

Jo Ann WaltonAn academic career

Looking back and looking forward Jo Ann Walton

Looking back on my academic career This is the story of my academic career. More accurately, it is one version of that story, since we are free to rewrite ourselves often. In this account, I reflect on the personal and contextual influences that have shaped my working life in academia. I write on the eve of announcing my retirement from the university, and I share it in the hope of offering some insights for younger academic women, both into the changes that have shaped the university over the past few decades, and into the things that can bring satisfaction and joy in an academic career. I also hope that my story will encourage others to reflect on their own academic lives, and to make sense of their own situation, whatever the stage of their career. For me this is a confusing time: both exciting and frightening. Another big life transition is rapidly approaching. As I watch my children head into middle age, my grandchildren into adolescence and my elderly friends and family into old age (I don’t feel able to reconcile this description to myself yet) I am acutely aware of my own position in the ‘club sandwich generation’.1 I am at a fascinating time of life. Ahead of me, wise women and men have taught, influenced, and shaped me. Around me I see other women of my generation struggle to different extents with the pressures of academic life. And following on, I watch younger colleagues juggle their assigned responsibilities with their young families while they enjoy the excitement that comes with achievement and growing recognition. At this moment, I have never been more appreciated by my students nor more disillusioned by the larger picture of my work. In spite of all my success, I find myself lost, confused, angry, and unsuitable. The new university wants ‘horizontal and vertical alignment’ and my life has always been outside the lines. On the verge of retirement I wonder: has my desire to be a good academic citizen been delusional all along? In reflecting on my academic career and the changes I have seen, I am mindful that I do not wish to sound bitter, angry, resentful, or blaming, although I do feel a little of all those things. I am quieted in my anxiety by a reflection written by Henri Nouwen. His words suggest it is not just acceptable, but indeed important to look at our lives as honestly as we can. As we grow older and become more aware of the many sorrows of life – personal failures, family conflicts, disappointments in work and social life, and

110  Jo Ann Walton the many pains surrounding us on the national and international scene – everything within and around us conspires to make us ignore, avoid, suppress or simply deny these sorrows. “Look at the sunny side of life and make the best of it”, we say to ourselves and hear others say to us. But when we want to drink the cups of our lives, we need first to hold them, to fully acknowledge what we are living, trusting that by not avoiding but befriending our sorrows we will discover the true joy we are looking for right in the midst of our sorrows. (Nouwen, 1997, p. 150) Of course, I do not need a theologian to convince me: there is plenty in the academic literature to encourage reflection as a useful process that is not simply selfindulgent or nostalgic (Bailey, 1999; Bujold, 2004; Gill, 2009) but as a way of looking at one’s own life and deciding what meaning to make of it.

So how did I get here? I am the granddaughter of (or so we say) the first woman ever to go boating on the Yarra2 in bathing drawers. A bold woman, true to herself, she was a model of courage and often of nonconformity throughout my childhood. I have always wanted to be like her. Both my parents were teachers, though untrained for this work. Alongside his teaching, my father presented regular radio and television programmes in which he examined all kinds of science ideas in simple and engaging ways, using fantastic metaphors and props. You could not hide in our smallish city with a father as visible as this. My mother was a staunch believer in the ‘play way’ of education, and with it, the discipline of natural consequences. She helped us explore literature, languages, and the arts. The house in which we (I have one sister) grew up was a rather chaotic adventure playground, with animals loose or in jars in the house, and for a time in the bath (flatworms for our father’s Master’s thesis). There were scientific instruments, gadgets, and all kinds of projects piled up in corners. If we did not contribute to meal time conversations we suffered pocket money fines. Resourcefulness was prized, critical thinking was expected, and while achievement was valued it was seldom remarked upon, as it was just how things should be. Social justice was a frequent topic of conversation, and with it a more subtle socialisation into the expectation that we are responsible for the happiness and well-being of others. Perhaps less fortunately, as happens with family rules, we also absorbed the corollary: that if others were not happy we should do something about it or we had failed in some way. We learned feminist values as they were espoused at the time, but also watched the ways in which they were not always enacted in our own environment. I came to academia though nursing, an applied discipline whose skills and values I  hold dear. I  see myself as a nurse first, an academic second. I  recognise my own privilege as a white, middle-class woman, successful in many ways beyond my own expectations, and with cultural capital from my early years that

An academic career 111 has enabled me to get to this stage in my career and my life. That I hold the title of Professor is important in the context of my discussion here, not in itself, but because most of the literature about women’s struggles in academia concern the glass ceiling and the difficulty women have in reaching senior levels in the academy (Blackmore, 2014; Krais, 2002; Morley, 2013; Saunderson, 2002). As a scholarly discipline, nursing is relatively new. Professions such as nursing and teaching that have traditionally been considered women’s work still have a long way to go before they are truly recognised as legitimate fields of study alongside the STEM subjects (science, technology, engineering, and mathematics) or indeed humanities or the social sciences. We do not generate funds in the way business faculties do, or hold the prestige of the long established professions like law and medicine. In spite of this, nursing makes a central contribution to any nation’s health services, disaster relief, overseas aid, and well-being. No health system in the world, I venture to suggest no society, would function well without nurses. In my current role, I teach graduate nurses, midwives, and others about leadership, change, and innovation. I supervise individual projects on a wide range of projects at masters and at PhD level, and my own research focuses on organisational culture and practice including the preparation and work of nurses to provide safe, effective, and compassionate patient care. Ironically, much of the research I read and the material I subsequently teach is not matched by what I see in my own organisational setting. But I am getting ahead of myself.

Starting out in academia When I left the clinical world of health care to take up my first university position I was excited – exhilarated even. The academic world I had known, as a graduate student particularly, had let me glimpse what it could be to work alongside others who read widely, questioned critically, taught thoughtfully. I was not disappointed. While I struggled with the weight of class preparation, the performance of teaching, learning how to supervise students, and understanding what I was to do in terms of administrative responsibilities, I found the work rewarding and stimulating. I felt that I had found an environment in which I could learn, question, experiment, and grow. I enjoyed discussions about curriculum and theory. My students did well. It was a time of rapid change in our discipline as we explored the (then) new developments in qualitative research methods at length with our colleagues, in the university, nationally, and across the world. Email was just beginning to be used on a regular basis, and satellite technology made it possible to search international databases, albeit expensively and anxiously: the cost was so high that no search was ever carried out without a scrupulous search strategy constructed before we met with the librarian who operated the computer. I grew to love librarians. Technology changed rapidly and soon there was a computer on my own desk. In this environment I enrolled into and completed my PhD, was adopted by mentors

112  Jo Ann Walton from other disciplines, learned to present conference papers and journal articles, organise scholarly symposia, edit a book, join working groups, and take on some significant administrative responsibilities in the department. I also began to experience the more unpleasant side of academic life in the departmental politics my then professor had warned me about. Seeing my initial enthusiasm, she took me aside one day to tell me: “We do fight here, you know,” she said “but we do it with rapiers instead of bludgeons”. Those words have echoed in my ears over my whole academic career. How right, and how wise she was. In time I moved from this job to one overseas. It was now the late 1990s. As an Associate Professor I continued to teach and supervise graduate students. My colleagues and I developed new programmes, shared ideas with international academic colleagues and local clinical ones, wrote, spoke, and held conferences. We were confident that our work was making a difference both in the nursing discipline to which we were committed, and in the interdisciplinary research fields in which we were engaged. My desire to contribute to the wider university continued and I became involved in several university-wide initiatives. As a willing participant I took the part of token woman on scores of interview panels in disciplines that had few women staff. I enjoyed the experience, liked using my skills in relating to others, and felt I was making a contribution as a good academic citizen.

An unanticipated career turn I returned to New Zealand in the year 2000 to another promotion and then, unexpectedly, as the result of a significant Faculty restructure, to a senior leadership role managing four academic units. This was new work, but not unfamiliar: my previous experience in the broader university had prepared me well for most of the strategic and operational elements the work entailed. I found an external mentor too, a business leader who helped me learn how to understand the ‘boys’ club’: how men make deals and help each other, often behind closed doors. He helped me learn to negotiate, to stonewall when necessary, and to use the language of business to enhance my own credibility, in management and in governance. One day I was contemplating a particularly challenging situation regarding resourcing. When I explained that the budget I had to manage (and answer to) was set and controlled from the centre and so almost completely out of my control I saw a look of astonishment on my mentor’s face. At that moment I began to understand just what a puppet I had become. I was responsible, but could make almost no independent decisions. The university was a business like no other. As a middle manager I was accountable for results but had almost no way of influencing anything except through personal persuasion. I fell out of love for my job at about that time. I sought refuge in the small amount of teaching and supervision I could still fit into my days. I  was determined to see that we built up our technological teaching capacity across the programmes so championed an innovative new teaching suite with human patient simulation at its core. And I moved on, seeking an academic position rather than a management one.

An academic career 113

It happens again I was lucky. I was free to move, and secured another position in a different city. Once again I taught and supervised, and I began to work on developing my research programme: it had been pretty much impossible in my previous position because of such a different set of demands in the leadership role. Then our Head of School left. My contract identified me as the person who would act in the role until a replacement was found. No more funds were forthcoming and my responsibilities continued. It made sense for me to take on the role, formally, because I had previous experience of such work. And as I learned as a child, I am responsible for the happiness and wellbeing of others. And so for another six years that is what I did. Little teaching, some supervision, and a great deal of administration and management. I worked hard to make our discipline known across the university. I wanted us to be recognised as capable of more than the stereotypical views of nurses might suggest. We became much more visible, active in universitywide activities such as mentoring, committee work, interview panels, examination chairs. We revised our entire curriculum, moved our premises, and won a sizable external teaching contract that ensured our financial security for several years. The projects were energising. Our reputation was strong, our students satisfied and successful. There was unpleasantness, but I had come to expect that: the literature on incivility and bullying in academic nursing is extensive and shaming (Birks, Budden, Stewart & Chapman, 2014; Goldberg, Beitz, Wieland & Levine, 2013). But another undercurrent was also at work.

Managerialism takes hold With the neo-liberal turn, managerialism was making its way rapidly into the university sector, with its doctrine that in any kind of organisation performance can be maximised through the application of generic management practices (Doran, 2016). In the governmental effort to ensure standards across the tertiary education sector, the numerous quality and audit measures that had begun some decade or so before began to burgeon. All of us were faced with an increase in audit and compliance measures. Month by month (or so it seemed) and year by year more reporting was required. Activities were recorded, listed, and entered into forms for central services to scrutinise, collate, and send on to government funders. We reported on external engagements, research activities, and student feedback on courses and teaching. And while accountability is important, the effects of such systematic surveillance have been insidious and often counterproductive. In my own work as Head of School, for example, I became increasingly frustrated by the impossibility of recruitment. All applicants for new positions were required to meet a hypothetical standard in PBRF terms. PBRF (Performance Based Research Fund) is the mechanism by which all New Zealand academics are ranked on their research performance every six years. Scores are calculated according to research ‘outputs’, external research grant success, and research

114  Jo Ann Walton higher degree completions. The aggregated scores lead to competitive allocations of a percentage of funding to each tertiary institution that takes part in the PBRF round. The total fund is fixed (and so competitive advantage is critical) although the money involved is considerably less than that allocated on the basis of student numbers. Further, and more importantly, tertiary institutions have come to use their PBRF scores as proxy measures for reputation and success, advertising widely for international students and staff on the basis of PBRF rankings. Because of this, universities want to recruit only those academic staff whose scores will contribute highly in subsequent assessment rounds. A problem exists here for applied, professional disciplines. To attract students into courses that lead to professional advancement, schools of nursing (and other such disciplines) need staff with excellent clinical skills. These candidates come from practice fields, not from research backgrounds, and so are almost certainly not high-flying researchers at the start of their academic careers. Time and again I sought permission to advertise, then interviewed and selected highly suitable applicants, only to be told by the university that the only people we regarded as suitable candidates for a position were ‘un-appointable’. It did not matter how often I disputed and appealed: management knew best and we had simply to ‘make do’. I predict that this is a situation that will very shortly manifest its own natural consequences, as accrediting bodies audit staffing mix for clinical expertise and find it wanting, and students wishing to progress a clinical career come to their own conclusions about who can best deliver that education. In some disciplines, reputation rests on more than research quantification. But it is not only staffing, and therefore teaching, that is at risk in the current environment. As control systems become tighter and more rigid, so creative energies are drained. The requirement that multiple channels and layers of approval are used for even minor amendments to course outlines or assessment items, for example, can make it seem easier not to bother. A colleague recently told me she had asked for approval for a change of assessment through the requisite form to the appropriate committee, only to discover that her justification must be only one paragraph long, not three. She is uncertain whether she has the time or energy to proceed. A ruling that all students in a particular level of study should write 10,000 words for assessment (for uniformity and comparability) has me worried that I should be counting the words rather than reading what they say. Course outlines must comply with rigid consistency rules rather than appeal to students’ interests in exciting learning opportunities. When the compliance costs of quality monitoring stifle quality initiatives or academics feel they simply can’t be bothered, something is quite seriously wrong. Compliant subjects are easy to manage, yet such compliance often comes at significant personal cost. It has now become normal and expected that we should record and report all kinds of activities rather than question, critique, or attempt to transform the system (Davies & Petersen, 2005). Further, failure to achieve highly on externally imposed measurement scores becomes a matter of personal shame, inability, or lack of effort, while high scores are experienced as markers of personal success (Acker & Armenti, 2004).

An academic career 115 After nearly 13 years of leadership in two university positions I stepped down from the role of Head of School and once more became an academic rather than a manager. Almost immediately I found myself adrift and lost. In the current system no account is taken of the contributions made in developing and profiling the school, in keeping to a budget, in course and curriculum design, in student success and mentoring, in building external relations or assuming governance positions. I won my position as professor in a time when other things counted. I grew up in a university where creativity, ideas, and scholarship were prized, and where everyone expected to contribute in whatever ways they could do most ably. We helped each other, we shared the hard tasks and the menial ones and we mentored new staff members and students into the ways of this collective intellectual domain. It is not so any more. The academy I knew then had long since disappeared. I am deeply saddened by some of what I see as the current ways of living out academic accountability. In my own department and elsewhere, rather than a community of scholars, I see a collection of fractured, frazzled, and anxious individuals working extraordinarily long hours, weekends, and holidays in an attempt to achieve the outputs they believe will prove them successful. There is a risk that people settle for quick, achievable research outputs instead of deep, creative work, since the clock is always against them, and rejection can be deeply painful (Butler & Mulgan, 2013). Instead of working together, they work apart, sometimes coming to work in the office as seldom as is possible, since interruptions by colleagues impede their progress toward the required PBRF ‘A’ or ‘B’ score. We reason that we cannot work at work anymore, so we work at home, in times without frames that in no way match the supposed 37.5-hour week. Committee appointments or other service activities are rationed out, not on the basis of interest or skill, but in order to enhance research contribution elements in individual portfolios. New academics are infantilised and not trusted, for example to supervise students or examine theses. They must be oriented, mentored, coached, and certified into work that we could easily just help them learn, were we not so precious about our own superior abilities, and our internalised audit sensitivities. No matter how often cooperation, collaboration, and interdisciplinarity are espoused as ideal, in effect we are all competing with each other for an acceptable ‘score’. People measure up or they don’t. One ‘counts’ or doesn’t count. There is an idea generally held in the university that good researchers make good teachers: that the two are inextricably linked. This may not be true. Evidence has shown that research and teaching are somewhat at odds with each other, and that academics who are heavily invested in research place less importance on other aspects of academic life (Fox, 1992). Failing to carry one’s weight across the range of activities in any collective can lead to a sense of injustice amongst colleagues, with resulting damage to team cohesion, erosion of trust, and effects on work motivation (Kanfer, Frese & Johnson, 2017). We neglect collegiality, issues of trust, and congeniality at our peril. Perhaps channelling my grandmother, at this end of my university career I find myself in many ways defiant. I rebel, I critique, I jest. I go to my office to work,

116  Jo Ann Walton and I do the dishes, even if they aren’t in my job description. I see it as my responsibility to befriend and help new staff, to be available to students, to pass on my institutional knowledge where it is relevant. I care about the team dynamics and try where I can to keep people happy. I am energised by the students I meet and excited about the future they will lead.

Rethinking my legacy A study into the way physics professors wished to be remembered by their colleagues highlights the effect of age on the kind of legacy they desire to leave. “As age increases, desire to be remembered on principally professional terms declines; and the desire to be remembered on principally personal terms intensifies” (Hermanowicz, 2016, p. 378). These personal grounds include such things as being congenial, honest, and hard working. they underscore moral achievement in the realm of citizenship3 which can include the realm of science, but more typically refers to and encompasses loosely the workplace in general, the department, the classroom, the hallway, the university, the local community, and even the world writ large. (Hermanowicz, 2016, p. 375) Hermanowicz argues that this morality operates to help us rationalise expectation, to create an identity that is meaningful and defensible. I am with the ageing physicists. I may not measure up in the system’s terms, but by my own judgement I have done what I felt was necessary and possible. And given my early years, I would never find it easy to fit into compliant conformity, acting responsibly in relation to the market (Davies, Browne, Gannon, Honan & Somerville, 2005). I have been anxious and despondent at times thinking about how to write this story. It isn’t the only way it could be told. As Bujold (2004) explains “personal stories are constructions which do not necessarily correspond to factual truth . . . and it is indeed only when life transitions are retrospectively told in stories and given meaning that they really happen and transform the self” (p. 473). As I have worked through my memories, my ideas, and my fears, I began to see how telling this story might enable me to see things differently. Several people have come across my path on the way, as if with messages or signs on my quest to reframe my situation and to take heart. A graduate who helped with teaching some years ago met me unexpectedly outside the hospital, greeted me like a long-lost friend, hugged me and asked how I was. I am sure she saw how I have aged: I saw it in her. Her warmth was a reminder to me that I am a good teacher and a respected and helpful colleague. A colleague thanked me for my frankness and courage in a university review. A protégé commended me for ‘being on her side’, and a mentee for helping her get ahead. A student from years ago mentioned a specific class I had taught, reinforcing in my mind that it had been one of my best (worthy of my father’s daughter, actually). And an accidental meeting with

An academic career 117 my spiritual director reminded me that he had asked me years ago how I enact my values at work. In the end that is what really matters to me. I contributed in ways that were important at the time. I was a good academic citizen, as I wanted to be. I could not maintain the same kind of research career as someone who did not have my responsibilities, so of course I do not measure up on a scale that measures only one component of academic work.

Looking forward Effective organisations are made up of people with different capabilities, aptitudes, knowledge, and skills. No institution will survive for long without difference. Perhaps one day in the not too distant future we will come to our senses and recognise that multiplicity is both natural and important (Barcan, 2013). The managerial world will be with us for a long time, and with it the demand that we account for performance, outputs, and productivity. My advice to younger colleagues is this: act in accord with your heart, never forget to carry your weight in the team, and record everything – absolutely everything – you do. These data are insurance when the managers come calling for you to justify the university’s ‘investment’ in you. Lastly, and above all else, be new, be innovative, and be brave. Future generations will thank you for it.

Notes 1 I am grateful to Professor Judy McGregor (former Equal Opportunities Commissioner) for this idea. A club sandwich is one with several layers of bread and filling and therefore more complex than an ‘ordinary’ sandwich. In this context the sandwich is a metaphor for our situation with multiple responsibilities to both older and younger generations: e.g. parents, adult children, grandchildren, and perhaps more. 2 The river that flows through Melbourne, Australia. 3 Italics in original.

References Acker, S., & Armenti, C. (2004). Sleepless in academia. Gender and Education, 16(1), 3–24. Bailey, L. (1999). Refracted selves? A study of changes in self-identity in the transition to motherhood. Sociology, 33(2), 335–352. Barcan, R. (2013). Academic life and labour in the new university: Hope and other choices. Burlington, VT: Routledge. Birks, M., Budden, L. M., Stewart, L., & Chapman, Y. (2014). Turning the tables: The growth of upward bullying in nursing academia. Journal of Advanced Nursing, 70(8), 1685–1687. Blackmore, J. (2014). ‘Wasting talent’? Gender and the problematics of academic disenchantment and disengagement with leadership. Higher Education Research & Development, 33(1), 86–99.

118  Jo Ann Walton Bujold, C. (2004). Constructing career through narrative. Journal of Vocational Behavior, 64(3), 470–484. Butler, P., & Mulgan, R. (2013). Can academic freedom survive performance based research funding? Victoria University of Wellington Law Review, 44(3/4), 487–519. Davies, B., Browne, J., Gannon, S., Honan, E., & Somerville, M. (2005). Embodied women at work in neoliberal times and places. Gender, Work & Organization, 12(4), 343–362. Davies, B., & Petersen, E. B. (2005). Neo-liberal discourse in the academy: The forestalling of (collective) resistance. Learning & Teaching in the Social Sciences, 2(2), 77–98. Doran, C. (2016). Managerialism: An ideology and its evolution. International Journal of Management, 5(1), 81–97. Fox, M. F. (1992). Research, teaching, and publication productivity: Mutuality versus competition in academia. Sociology of Education, 65(4), 293–305. Gill, R. (2009). Breaking the silence: The hidden injuries of neo-liberal academia. In R. Flood & R. Gill (Eds.), Secrecy and silence in the research process: Feminist reflections. London: Routledge. Goldberg, E., Beitz, J., Wieland, D., & Levine, C. (2013). Social bullying in nursing academia. Nurse Educator, 38(5), 191–197. Hermanowicz, J. C. (2016). Honor in the academic profession: How professors want to be remembered by colleagues. The Journal of Higher Education, 87(3), 363–389. Kanfer, R., Frese, M., & Johnson, R. E. (2017). Motivation related to work: A century of progress. Journal of Applied Psychology, 102(3), 338–355. Krais, B. (2002). Academia as a profession and the hierarchy of the sexes: Paths out of research in German universities. Higher Education Quarterly, 56(4), 407–418. Morley, L. (2013). The rules of the game: Women and the leaderist turn in higher education. Gender and Education, 25(1), 116–131. Nouwen, H. J. M. (1997). Bread for the journey. New York: HarperCollins. Saunderson, W. (2002). Women, academia and identity: Constructions of equal opportunities in the ‘new managerialism’ – A case of ‘lipstick on the gorilla’? Higher Education Quarterly, 56(4), 376–406.

12 Identity and inclusion in academia Emsie Arnoldi and Rachelle BosuaIdentity and inclusion in academia

Voices of migrant women Emsie Arnoldi and Rachelle Bosua

Introduction Reality and lived experiences can be conceived in different ways. Employing a positivistic paradigm, this chapter engages with our realities and lived experiences as two migrant women academics living in Melbourne, Australia. Using a duo-ethnographic method, a reflective dialogue is presented to promote self-determination and empowerment that has the potential to be a transformative experience for us. Every attempt has been made to provide an honest representation of our experiences; however, it is worth noting that our duo-ethnographers’ stories will be filtered through our unavoidably emic perspectives (Breault, 2016; Lowe & Kiczkowiak, 2016).

Our use of duo-ethnography We started this reflective journey by reviewing the principles of duo-ethnography and pondered how we might embed openness, trust and equality during the process. We decided to start our dialogic storytelling on how we came to Melbourne, Australia. We agreed to meet once a month for six months, and make notes as well as record our conversations. Our insights emerged iteratively, starting with our first meeting conversing in our native language to better express our lived experiences of academic life in Australia. We are (inter)culturally competent (Cushner & Mahon, 2009) and aware, multi-skilled and as culture-crossers, used to navigating our way between national borders and identities, having worked, taught and conducted research in Europe, Africa, North-America, Asia and now Australia. We each speak four languages and are able to criss-cross between any of those with a greater or lesser degree of ease. Our meetings became warm slithers of time amidst the chaotic activity of research, program management, teaching, student meetings and never-ending administrative duties. We chuckled about having to ‘get into the zone’ at the start of our meetings: consciously having to tear ourselves, and our minds, away from the rush and pressures, entering the luxury of thinking, reflecting, reminiscing and talking about issues that concerned us, oscillating between the trivial and significant, both important in the experiences of our culturally layered identities.

120  Emsie Arnoldi and Rachelle Bosua Our storytelling becomes our way of making sense of our lived experiences and allows us to break out of our pillars of silence – affording us representation and voice. Our discussions and recordings, and later transcriptions of our discussions, document various experiences and epiphanies – sometimes uncomfortable but always illuminating and inspiring. Our different socialisations offer us a perspective on academia in Australia unavailable to the other and so we believe we can best make this available to each other (and, by extension, to our readers), through reflexive, dialogical and critical interaction. To this end, our discussions follow a duo-ethnographic approach and explores our experience.

What is duo-ethnography? Duo-ethnography has evolved from autoethnography as a form of qualitative research, and is premised on postmodern notions of identity that sets out to create a dialogic methodology, structured upon the concepts of storytelling and currere (Krammer & Mangiardi, 2012; Sawyer & Norris, 2013). Norris and Sawyer (2012, p. 35) describes duo-ethnography as a dialogic storytelling that reclaims agency, authority and authorship over one’s life by representing experience: duoethnographies regenerate and reconceptualise them. The concepts of a polyvocal storytelling or accounts view identity as culturally layered, contradictory and socio-culturally based. Through this lens, identity is in constant flux, connected yet evolving in different directions: resonating and connecting with (inter)national metanarratives, some embedded in subcultural, personal or submerged narratives. The accounts ‘simultaneously generate, interpret, and articulate data about a common phenomenon’, which in this case is the process of understanding migrant women’s experiences of academia, to celebrate differences within our larger shared experience (Garcia & Cifor, 2016). In duo-ethnography, as in most linear storytelling, change is manifest – recognition happens, insights and light bulb moments occur (whether sudden or gradual). The manifesto is offered as a lens to engage the reader in ways that the often-oppositional viewpoints can be understood and partially lived. Usually delivered in a dialogic form – our two ‘ethnographer’ voices are set apart and labelled as ‘insights’, following a format: ‘name’, colon and quotation marks as suggested by Breault (2016; Rinehart & Earl, 2016). Changes in both our stories occur throughout the research and become evident in the text.

The Dialogue Our polyvocal dialogue draws on intersectionality, an approach used to reconceptualise identities, deconstruct social categories and divisions, and for the purpose of this chapter, explores migrant and female marginalisation and points at which power relations meet (Crenshaw, 1991; Ahmed, 2012). We reflect on our social, political and intellectual realities of our lived experiences that are in

Identity and inclusion in academia 121 constant flux and that develop dynamically. We use prompts to facilitate the ebb and flow. Standard academic expression and narrative styles are used intentionally to dive deeper to expose underlying multilevel experiences. These experiences are expressed in a dialogue as suggested by Breault (2016) followed by an analysis of the data. Our discussions move through key threads labelled as four insights outlined below: Insight 1: the unfamiliar-familiar world of academia Voice 1:

Voice 2: Voice 1:

Voice 2:

Voice 1: Voice 2:

Voice 1: Voice 2:

I moved to Australia at very short notice and started looking for a position after I migrated. That turned out to be an unfortunate mistake, I  realized later. Sacrificing possible leverage, I  was in a vulnerable position and taken advantage of. I had to drop two levels in seniority, but my biggest frustration turned out to be the continued negative response to my requests for my international research and supervisor history to be recorded on the university website. I did not expect this to happen. How can one reasonably legitimise your existence as an academic when this happens? I felt completely disempowered. How did you react? As a migrant woman I felt alienated and this made my integration into the work community so much harder. I finally accepted that acknowledgement would never happen. I’ve resigned myself to ‘the way things are done here’. Yes, arriving as a new academic from abroad was difficult. I started in a new lecturing position two weeks after my arrival and I felt as if I was thrown into the deep end and offered no formal or informal induction as a new migrant employee. I believe an induction program would have made a difference. I got the impression that my colleagues had had no inkling about the challenges faced by migrants. I think it would have. I was both excited and scared and I soon found that although educational systems are considered universal there were a multitude of differences, such as managing students, standards, learning management systems used, administrative procedures and governance activities in place. Were you surprised about the administrative load or requirements expected from academic staff? I have to admit I was rather overwhelmed. . . That was rather disappointing! In order to survive, I decided to rally administrative staff for their advice. It is not strictly part of their roles but I couldn’t see any other way to understand my work environment. I have since mastered the university administrative procedures, but as a migrant academic, this is another new layer to an already unfamiliar environment. I feel I had to master three new jobs: researcher, teacher

122  Emsie Arnoldi and Rachelle Bosua

Voice 1:

and administrator – it’s really intense. I question whether we use our skills wisely in Australia. I believe we are not using it wisely since highly skilled people have to do basic, repetitive administrative work that is not optimising our expertise as expensive resources. So yes, there is a high wastage factor. Nobody has ever bothered to determine what my particular strengths are, the Australian university model appears to be a onesize-fits-all approach, not optimising individual strengths, academic resources, opportunities and work satisfaction, as was the case with my previous universities.

In this dialogue, we see how notions of the unfamiliar and new in academic life have become an interwoven field of uncertainty that upholds practices of ‘otherness’ for migrant women academics. Sharing our stories we identified the inordinate amount of time spent on rudimentary administrative tasks was an additional burden on top of new academic environment, and the lack of appropriate acknowledgement and use of our high-level academic expertise was discouraging. Dettmar (2017) laments the burden of administrative work as an academic, stating that administrative work is a category of academic work that is not recognised nor rewarded. Both of us held senior faculty positions prior to arriving in Australia. As migrants, we both had been knocked back and had to drop two academic level positions in Australia. Neither of us expected this. Wyatt-Nichol (2014) describes this discriminatory practice as exceedingly confrontational for migrants who were demoted whilst being required to compromise and make the best of their new circumstance. Insight 2: being an outsider is confronting Voice 1: There is a very strong insider/outsider phenomenon present . . . those on the outside find it impossible to break through into the insider [clique] should they wish to do so. On my first day in this role, a senior colleague warned me: ‘Avoid being marginalised, it is very hard to get back in’. This warning left me nonplussed but signalled that a more pervasive issue awaited me as a migrant woman academic. Voice 2: Well, for me it’s about collegiality, and collegiality seems to have a different meaning here. I have been made aware that I am not part of the connected network in my department – I am an ‘outsider’ . . . it is hard to tap into existing networks . . . and I have found it very difficult to be included in grant-writing networks. . . . I am an outsider – I need to work twice as hard to prove myself, or perhaps I am putting this pressure on myself? See – I’m second guessing myself! One of the things

Identity and inclusion in academia 123

Voice 1: Voice 2:

Voice 1:

Voice 2:

Voice 1:

Voice 2: Voice 1: Voice 2:

Voice 1:

that has been and is still difficult to overcome is to try and link with industry as an academic. In my experience unless you have a contact in industry, as a migrant woman you are doomed. Internationally, university-industry collaboration is taken for granted. I miss that. Yes, in my experience industry research activities haven’t linked with universities yet. I think it is a socio-cultural phenomenon. Unless you deal with somebody who has had some experience of your particular group or university, they are not open to collaborating. Fortunately, I have finally discovered a well-connected research group that gave me entrée to industry. I agree, as academics we are required to collaborative with industry. I changed my approach, though. I started drawing on my international associations and contacts to forge industry collaborations in Australia. In my experience, potential industry partners with international experience are more inclined to collaborate on this level . . . as a migrant woman it is easier for me to collaborate internationally, since I have extensive international industry and academic experience. This boosts your self-confidence. Indeed, I  lost confidence after I  migrated. My confidence levels dropped to zero and I had to remind myself of my own worth. It took me about twelve years to rebuild my courage and confidence again to where I was previously. Even now that I am established, it feels as if I am far behind compared to my colleagues in my country of origin. Oh, in terms of confidence, I found the students to be open minded and ready for ‘otherness’. Unfortunately, my manager at the time did not have any inkling on how to create a sense of inclusion, on the contrary, she was actually very critical to the point of continually, even during meetings, commenting on or ‘correcting’ my accent. Incidentally, a male colleague was still making derogatory remarks about my accent in a formal meeting last year, in the presence of my manager! That must have been extremely embarrassing for you! Yes, it was. I try to avoid those individuals, but it does negatively affect your confidence level and emphasises your ‘otherness’ as a migrant woman. I had a different experience. I did not have an issue having my research history recorded at my ‘new’ university. I had issues with my colleagues’ reaction to my contributions, plans and actions that I suggested. Their attitude is: How can you know, how do you know? And then you realize it is just better to keep a low profile. That is the result, you withdraw . . . however, in my case, I really enjoyed working with the diverse students I teach and supervise!

124  Emsie Arnoldi and Rachelle Bosua In this exchange, both of us can see how experiences of being treated as ‘different’ have affected our self-confidence. Vongalis-Macrow (2014) highlights the complex demands women in academia face in their mid-careers and the need for developing networks to prosper. Apart from new responsibilities as migrants in a new country, there is the additional stressor of not being part of the ‘in-group’, and our specific experiences highlight the need for quality mentoring programs. One of us has resolved to draw on existing international connections, whilst both of us agree that in terms of career progression we are now far behind our colleagues in our countries of origin. In addition, ‘otherness’ threatens the fostering and ability to leverage skills and capacity to prepare for academic promotion. The university, when you see it from the viewpoint of a stranger, is looking ‘at’ rather than ‘from’ its environment (Ahmed, 2012; Cursan et al., 2017). Insight 3: Australian women got to vote decades ago . . . impressive . . . but what has happened since? Progress towards gender equity and the success rates of women applicants for promotion is still a highly contested issue in Australian academia (Winchester et al., 2006). In this section, we reflect from our points of view as migrant women on the roles of women in academia in Australia. Voice 1: I was disappointed to note the lack of progress gender equality and diversity had made in Australia, and in particular, in academia. It seems that a lack of gender equality means that only a few are able to crack the glass ceiling and they are battling to stay on top. I have seen no evidence of senior women mentoring migrant women, as was the case at my previous universities. Voice 2: . . . But this is also very pronounced in formal academic structures . . . obvious in terms of salary differences and treatment of women. One day a male colleague remarked that ‘a woman’s place is in the kitchen’, which surprised me. I thought this type of comment belonged in the dark ages. In my school only 15% are women and there are few women in senior positions. This is the reverse of where I come from. Voice 1: Oh my! My experience is different. We used to be male dominated but more recently our school has gender-balance. However, this isn’t true for the rest of the University. In my school, we now have more formal structures for women to collaborate, stand together and actually help and mentor one another. Sadly, a formal structure doesn’t mean it has been adopted or integrated in the psyche of academia. Actually, I do not find that has been embraced much at all. For migrant women, this is a double blow. Voice 2: We don’t have that opportunity. I think since I have few women colleagues there is no real sense of a sisterhood. I have opted to go beyond the departmental boundaries to find other women to

Identity and inclusion in academia 125 collaborate with. I know a few universities are doing their best to get more women involved in our discipline but sadly it does not happen. That makes the lack of support for a migrant woman even more perplexing. This section highlights the impact of the gender divide. We both tend to view each other’s experiences not ‘as it is’, but also ‘as it should be’. We are feminists who have grown accustomed to gender equality at our previous universities. One of us has experienced more overt gender bias, having had to endure a male colleague’s openly discriminating remarks in the workplace. We can see again the importance of female mentorship and support emerging. Insight 4: so . . . what have we learned? In this section of the dialogue, we will critically reflect on what we’ve learned from our experiences as migrant women academics from two universities in Australia and show how these experiences have affected us in different ways. Voice 1: There is a pragmatism about understanding your own place and reflecting on these deeper layers of experience of academic life in Australia. Voice 2: What do you mean? Voice 1: I feel I’ve learned to compromise, to appreciate small things more and find ways to enjoy my own journey. And I’ve always regarded working with students as a particular privilege, which has strengthened my resolve to embrace my unique situation. Voice 2: Have these things changed you as a person? Voice 1: I’ve come to accept I do not have a history here, my accent, my English-as-second-language tag will always put me in the ‘other’ category, and that is good too – you can compromise, survive and get stronger without that and you have something unique to offer your students and colleagues. New migrant academics, men and women, appear to gravitate to me and I am happy to support them. Likewise, students are continually expressing their appreciation for my ‘global outlook and experience’. I’ve come to understand and embrace ‘how things are done here’ whilst holding on to my own value system of respect, reciprocity and mindfulness. What about you? Voice 2: I feel the environment has changed me and made me a much stronger person than I used to be. The multiple environmental challenges here and feeling excluded from the in-group have made me stronger, and definitely more assertive. I’m still known for my kindness, but I tend to say ‘no’ more easily now. Voice 1: Actually, I have a different experience. I have not become ‘stronger’ per se, but I have forged alternative ways of gaining work satisfaction

126  Emsie Arnoldi and Rachelle Bosua

Voice 2: Voice 1:

Voice 2:

Voice 1: Voice 2:

Voice 1: Voice 2:

Voice 1:

and reaching my goals. However, it requires me to be constantly more judicious. So, can you say that you have adapted to academia here? I would say ‘yes’ – now – but it has taken a few years. I am still not part of the in-group but that is OK, since collaborating in a group of my own creation is extremely rewarding, and strangely empowering. I now work in more interdisciplinary ways and I draw on an alternative network of women who have international work experience and who are familiar with working across disciplines. What about you? I would not say that I have fully adapted. I still consider myself unique and often say to others ‘based on my background I would do things differently’. And I think making colleagues and students aware of this is a way of personal empowerment. But I agree that one has to think differently in this environment, and this is the challenge – the challenge of an ‘adapt or die’ approach. And that is what I try to do. What was your approach to meeting the challenge? Realizing I am not part of the in-group initially resulted in loss of identity and confidence, but I have now moved beyond that and find myself in a new ‘place’. I do not worry about groups anymore as I have started my own group of collaborators, which works for me. This has actually forced me to strengthen my ties with collaborators from other local and overseas universities. Upon reflection, I can honestly say that being a member of the out-group has made me stronger. How has it made you stronger? I see myself as a unique person with a reconstructed social identity based on my integrity and varied life and work experience in different contexts. So in a way these add unique values to the environment I am working in. What about you? Well, I have unique strengths, such as high cultural competency levels that may be regarded as an asset in my current academic environment. I am starting to forget about my unpleasant experiences. But it has taken me some time to come to this realisation.

From this dialogue, we are recognising what we have learned from our experiences of being migrant women in academic in Australia. Our coping methods have not been the same, but we are adapting and can see what we bring to our work. We are developing adaptive skills, becoming more resilient and developing our own unique ‘voice’. We are becoming less critical about many things that could be considered obstacles beyond our control, adjusting our expectations, becoming more accepting and even embracing our new environments (Leung et al., 2014). This subtle process of interpellation has happened gradually. We can see ourselves as being what Collins (1998) termed as an ‘outsider within’ and we tend now to seek ‘others’ to join forces with. We are reconstructing our ethnic and social identity and consider that a strength.

Identity and inclusion in academia 127 For us, ‘collegiality’ has taken on a new dimension. It is not static, and we remind ourselves that in a rapidly changing world, it might actually be a major advantage to have a ‘reconstructed social identity’ following the years of ‘cultural conditioning’ as promoted in twentieth-century Australian migration assimilation policies.

Conclusion In this chapter, we followed a duo-ethnographic approach to add a layer of selfreflection to the conversation of women’s lived experiences, drawing on our own experiences as migrant women academics in Australia. As duo-ethnographers we ‘used ourselves to assist ourselves and others in better understanding the phenomenon under investigation’ (Norris & Sawyer, 2012, p. 13). Duo-ethnography is autobiographical in nature, but the focus is on how we, as researchers, experienced and gave meaning to a given phenomenon and how those meanings were transformed over time. Our interactions and dialogue stirred up strong feelings of vulnerability, loss and gain as we both examined our respective migration journeys moving between university systems that ultimately led us to Australia. Evident from our reflections, our discussions explored our respective experiences of the social, political and intellectual realities to better understand our own new identities, who we are as we adapted to and embraced our new environment. Four insights highlighted some of these complexities: the familiar–unfamiliar continuum of university culture in Australia; the confronting aspects of being an outsider in this context; feminism and the lack of progress for (migrant) women; and finally, we consider what we’ve learned from our journeys as migrant women academics. With this writing has come many realisations: insights about adjusting to our own expectations, about mentoring and levels of support, and about belonging and trust. So many of these take time. Our journeys of struggle have connected us to understanding and acceptance. This is for each of us a personal achievement. Whilst we feel our experiences have not been located in a ‘collegial environment’ (Crocker et al., 2017), we have persevered in our own way through an iterative approach of adapting, recovering and rebuilding our own new sense of survival and reality. We have valued this opportunity to reflect on our individual journeys. Ours are journeys that are different yet similar. We have both felt isolated. Not being part of a group has affected our individual coping skills first through avoidance mechanisms (Mulder et al., 2017) but then ultimately resulting in our adoption of different problem-solving strategies. We have developed new coping skills cultivated by our cultural competency levels, honed over many years of working in international academic contexts. Through the cathartic process of reflection, we have discovered new levels of acceptance and a deeper understanding of our experience. We can see how we have been engaged in creating and unleashing pockets of happiness in work and life, shaped intrinsically by our new environments. Our reconceptualisation of

128  Emsie Arnoldi and Rachelle Bosua our past experiences has brought awareness and self-discovery. These benefit our personal growth and assist our self-care. They also motivate us and makes us agile, a core requirement for survival in a rapidly changing global environment. Finally, our reflection underscores the unique human capability of an enhanced social and emotional intelligence as manifested in coping strategies, a phenomenon described by Jaspal and Cinnirella (2011) as the psychological coherence principle, which refers to the motivation to establish feelings of compatibility between our (interconnected) identities. We hope that our stories will precipitate other stories and ultimately, build a community of practice through which we can view the experiences of ‘the other’, that is, migrant women academics to share their experiences and offer evidence of hope, whilst establishing an invitation to engage with women academic insiders and outsiders.

References Ahmed, S. (2012). On being included: Racism and diversity in institutional life. London, UK: Duke University Press. Breault, R. A. (2016). Emerging issues in duo-ethnography. International Journal of Qualitative Studies in Education, 29(6), 777–794. Collins, P. H. (1998). Fighting words: Black women and search for justice. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Crenshaw, K. (1991). Mapping the margins: Intersectionality, identity politics, and violence against women of color. Stanford Law Review, 1241–1299. Crocker, J., Canevello, A., & Brown, A. A. (2017). Social motivation: Costs and benefits of selfishness and otherishness. Annual Review of Psychology, 68, 299–325. Cursan, A., Bernstein, M. J., Pascual, A., & Félonneau, M. (2017). Impact of gendered ingroup/out-group ostracism on women’s academic performances. The Journal of Social Psychology, 157(3), 338–351. Cushner, K., & Mahon, J. (2009). Developing the intercultural competence of educators and their students: Creating the blueprint. In D. K. Deardorff (Ed.), The SAGE handbook of intercultural competence (pp. 304–320). Thousand Oaks, CA: SAGE Publications, Inc. Detmar, K. J. H. (2017). Don’t cry for me, Academia! For some of us, administrative work is not just an obligation or a noble sacrifice – its a calling. The Chronicles of Higher Education, 63(18), 7. Garcia, P., & Cifor, M. (2016). Embodying data: Duo-ethnography as a feminist methodology for studying wearables. In Proceedings of a workshop on intersectional futures. Washington, Ann Abor, Michigan, United States of America, doi:http://depts.washington.edu/tatlab/intersectionalfutures/wp-content/uploads/2017/02/garcia-cscw17abstract.pdf Jaspal, R., & Cinnerella, M. (2011). The construction of ethnic identity: Insights from identity process theory. Ethnicities, 12(5), 503–530. Krammer, D., & Mangiardi, R. (2012). The hidden curriculum of schooling: A duoethnographic exploration of what schools. Duo-ethnography: Dialogic Methods for Social, Health, and Educational Research, 7, 41.

Identity and inclusion in academia 129 Leung, K., Ang, S., & Tan, M. L. (2014). Intercultural competence. Annual Review of Organizational Psychology and Organizational Behavior, 1, 489–519. doi:10.1146/ annurev-orgpsych-031413–091229 Lowe, R. J., & Kiczkowiak, M. (2016). Native-speakerism and the complexity of personal experience: A duo-ethnographic study. Cogent Education, 3(1), 264–171. http://dx.doi. org/10.1080/2331186X.2016.1264171 Mulder, R., Arjan E. R., Bos, M., & Dam, K. (2017). Workplace mobbing: How the victim’s coping behavior influences bystander responses. The Journal of Social Psychology, 157(1), 16–29, doi:10.1080/00224545.2016.1152213 Norris, J., & Sawyer, R. (2012). Toward a dialogic methodology. In J. Norris, R. Sawyer, & D. E. Lund (Eds.), Duo-ethnography: Dialogic methods for social, health, and educational research (pp. 9–40). Walnut Creek, CA: Left Coast Press. Rinehart, R. E., & Earl, K. (2016) Auto-, duo- and collaborative-ethnographies: “Caring” in an audit culture climate. Qualitative Research Journal, 16(3), 210–224, doi:10.1108/ QRJ-04–2016–0024 Sawyer, R. D., & Norris, J. (2013). Duo-ethnography. New York: Oxford University Press. Vongalis-Macrow, A. (2014). Avoiding mid-career stalling. In A. Vongalis-Macrow (Ed.), Career moves: Mentoring for women advancing their career and leadership in academia (pp. 71–82). Rotterdam, Netherlands: Sense Publishers. Waytt-Nichol, H. (2014). Strategies for maintaining sanity and success. In A. VongalisMacrow (Ed.), Career moves: Mentoring for women advancing their career and leadership in academia (pp. 9–16). Rotterdam, Netherlands: Sense Publishers. Winchester, H., Lorenzo S., Browning, L., & Chesterman, C. (2006). Academic women’s promotions in Australian universities. Employee Relations, 28(6), 505–522.

13 Trauma in the academy

AnonymousTrauma in the academy

Anonymous

Act one: the incident Scene two My first thought? He won’t hurt me. This is John, the former chair who hired me and advocated for me along my path to tenure, wrote me letters of support, a mentor with whom I have lunched for over a decade. He has an old curmudgeony bark, yes, and he’s clearly a campus bully, since long before my time here. His voice was raised, and he was definitely angry, but we see that all the time. I did a gut check and thought, he wouldn’t physically harm anyone. Especially not me, one of the few faculty with whom he has a very good and collegial relationship. But, then. I looked in those familiar, steely blue eyes and saw pure rage, all clearly and sharply aimed at me. I have never seen, or felt, so much anger in my life. My next thought: he could strangle me, right here, now, and no one could stop him. I might die today. He was glaring down at me, leaning in, forcing me to back down the hallway, physically posturing his intention as he spoke about trying to get me to change my behavior. He was aggressively using the excess height and weight he had over me to his full advantage, to intensify his threat. The sharply pointed finger coming dangerously close to my face as I was being backed into my office doorway. YOU. STAY. THE GODDAMN HELL. AWAY FROM ME. Me, stay away from him? He was the one making the threat! I was terrified. Stunned. Confused. My body was in full defense mode. Who is available to help me? Will they hear if I scream? Am I going to die today? Here, at work, at the hands of my colleague? He just threatened me. I’ve never been so scared in my life. Never been scared for my life. What do I do? Clearly in shock, I step across the hall and ask the administrative assistant if she would serve as a witness to what just happened, if necessary. My instinct is that this will be a contested reality. Before I retreat to my office, I want, need to know there will be someone who can verify the violent nature of the incident and how threatening it was, is.

Trauma in the academy 131 Will he still be there when I open my office door? How will I ever make it to class, much less through it? I’m shaking. Crying. Disoriented. Exhausted by this brief but terrifying interaction. What did I do to make him so mad? I was just trying to apologize. Herman (1992) writes: traumatic events are extraordinary, not because they occur rarely, but rather because they overwhelm the ordinary human adaptations to life. Unlike commonplace misfortunes, traumatic events generally involve threats to life or bodily integrity, or a close personal encounter with violence and death. They confront human beings with the extremities of helplessness and terror, and evoke the responses of catastrophe. (p. 33) Though painful, even in the recounting itself, I’ve had to revisit this scene literally hundreds of times in recent years. Many of these visits are functional in nature; the threats continue, though in different forms, and I still deal with the mess they leave in their wake. However, my work in this essay is along the lines of Gornick (2001) and Nash (2004): I use the narrative to process, to make sense of what happened, to help regain my self as I step my way from the immediate trauma of that day. Because the chaos is ongoing, my story is a chaos narrative. Like the wounded storyteller Frank (1995) describes, I am working to change the narrative from one of passivity (being a “victim of”) to activity, to transform “fate into experience” (xi). I offer the memoir as a touchstone that we can use, collectively, to think about academic violence and the trauma it inflicts. We cooperate in a fiction, that this type of violence doesn’t happen on campus. This fiction is enabled by the underground or secretive nature in which much trauma is held (Herman). We are encouraged in this fiction by campus leaders, who are typically both ill-prepared to handle aggression and violence and quick to confuse academic freedom with norms about protecting people, not to mention the institution-preservation instinct that requires a fear of litigation and negative media exposure. Exploring personal incidents in the light of day is difficult but necessary for academic culture to evolve; institutional betrayal, defined by Smith & Freyd (2014) as “institutional action and inaction that exacerbate the impact of traumatic experiences” (p. 577), can lead to its own traumas. Workplaces are inherently social in nature; harms caused by bullying (Keashly & Neuman, 2010) are also experienced by bystanders (Vartia, 2001). The impacts of academic violence and trauma are similar to bullying in that institutional culture, satisfaction, and productivity are necessarily affected when one of our tribe is suffering. We must both be safe from violence and safe to enact the full expressions of ourselves (Lewis, Sharp, Remnant & Redpath, 2015). Building institutional capacity to prevent aggression and violence is thus necessary and long overdue.

132  Anonymous Scene one Our department was discussing a colleague’s promotion file; John’s opinion was valued and incorporated into the chair’s letter of support. In our male-dominated discipline, it wasn’t surprising there were just two women in the room, a (full) Professor, and I, a tenured Associate Professor whose recent experience as chair of the tenure committee was being leveraged to polish language in the letter. My suggestion was that we consider using generic labels such as “senior colleague” to attribute comments rather than specific names. But I never got to fully articulate my thought. I started, “Since John won’t be voting. . .” My female colleague, thinking the same thought, simultaneously said, “You’re not voting!” directing her sharp gaze and comment at John. He angrily stood up, interrupting, “If that’s how it’s going to be. . .” and stormed out of the room, slamming the door. Everyone could see my surprise. I explained my thought; they agreed it was the best strategy, especially given John’s reputation on campus. They assured me I had done nothing wrong. “That’s just John,” they said, a “boys will be boys” message I heard throughout my 15 years on campus. His behavior was tolerated as part of his personality, his leadership style even. He felt entitled to act aggressively and abruptly and our campus culture enabled it. Scene three I notified my chair in writing about the incident indicating I felt threatened and would feel unsafe in John’s presence. The next days and weeks brought a flurry of activity. John composed lengthy emails justifying his position, claiming I had created a hostile workplace for him; he made specific suggestions for how to “settle” the “dispute” between us. The dean, a member of our department, attempted to find a “solution” that didn’t involve the Provost. Department members reassured me I had done nothing wrong, that John had “crossed a line this time . . . and knew it” so he was trying desperately to save face by turning the tables. John rallied several senior male faculty behind him; I was visited by the Chair of Faculty Senate who tried to encourage a “resolution.” I am in shock. Shock that my colleague of 15 years had explosively threatened me. Unnerved that it happened in my workplace. Shock that it had happened to me, someone who does not scare easily and who had a good relationship with John. I am terrified. Seeing him in the hallway, hearing his voice in his nearby office, hearing students utter his name all lead to a clench in my gut and a fight or flight response. Is this what fear and trauma feels like? I am angry. He threatened me. How does he get to claim to be victimized?! Why do I have to spend time and energy on this? I am distracted. How do I teach my classes? I can’t focus, I’m wasting energy. I’m clearly not myself. I am a new person, a cowering victim whose world has been destabilized. I am embarrassed. How could this happen? Before this, I was fairly confident in my position at the university, as confident as a first-generation college student

Trauma in the academy 133 turned female academic in a male-dominated discipline can be. I can’t bear to share my experience of terror and threat of further violence with anyone but my inner circle for fear of looking weak, of having my reputation as a rational, levelheaded campus citizen destroyed by this person whose inaccurate telling of the incident is so demeaning. I am nothing, worth nothing. I want to hide, to disappear, to quit my job so I don’t have to live through this. I am anxious. I can’t face my students without wondering what they know. What did John tell them? I learn there was a student taking an exam in the next office, door open to the hallway, who overheard everything. I wonder, what does he think? What has he said to other students? I am confused. How does one mediate – the university’s preferred solution – with their aggressor? That doesn’t sound right or fair to me; it also feels unsafe. I can’t possibly be in the same room with John; I am terribly afraid he will hurt me. I don’t know what to do or who to trust. Should I file a Grievance? Time is running out for me to do so, per campus policy. The pace of (in)action prolongs my debate. I’m not an adversarial person, the idea of filing doesn’t sit well with my sociocultural upbringing.An official Grievance will “out” the experience with my colleagues, which is scary; I don’t want anyone to know this happened to me. I feel like a deer in headlights. Will I get hit? When? How bad will the damage be? I am frustrated that it takes weeks before the Dean agrees to bring the Provost into the conversation. I am encouraged and relieved when, upon hearing my telling of the incident, she says directly to the Dean, “we have to do something.” She seems to “get” the safety concern, something I never felt from my (male) Chair or (male) Dean. I think there will be a resolution, finally, and feel a weight being lifted. I might be able to begin to let my guard down a bit. I am concerned about my scholarly activity. Not only am I distracted by the repeated trauma of having to regularly see and hear John in the physical space in which he threatened me, and much less productive than normal as both a teacher and a scholar, I know that John is spreading untruths about the incident and my actions. Others who have read the electronic missiles share my concern. John is on the board of an organization with whom I recently partnered. How will my relationship with them, and our externally-funded research, be affected? I am disappointed to learn that the immediate solution is to move John to another office, off our hallway. But it’s in the same building. He has access to our shared administrative assistant. His classes haven’t been moved. We’ll still see each other regularly. My guard stays up. I am re-traumatized with every encounter. I am grateful for the colleague who, for several weeks, walks with me to class on the days when my path will cross John’s. I feel safer with her there and her joyful demeanor brings smiles on days when I am cowering inside. I am angry when I learn, weeks later, of our campus Workplace Violence Policy. How did no one mention this? I read the policy, as does my inner circle. There is no doubt that the incident, and John’s actions since, are in clear violation.

134  Anonymous I am devastated when I learn that my aggressor, despite a decades-long history of bullying and aggression that violates our policy, including these latest incidents, will not be disciplined. Not even when he overtly defies the orders placed upon him. I am deeply saddened when I hear from a student that she was discouraged from applying for a research position on my team, one I encouraged her to seek, because of an interaction with John. How many other students are changing their behavior, or their perspectives, because of this? I am clearly not thinking straight. Despite several refusals to mediate with John out of fear for my personal safety and belief that it is not appropriate to force victims to mediate with their aggressors, I find myself coerced into mediation. I agree to do so under the condition that we will not be in the same room and that I have a support person with me. I am physically and emotionally exhausted. The mediation leads to an agreement that includes non-disparagement and non-interference clauses, among others. I am led to believe that existing protocols will be upheld and John will not return to his office on my hall. I finally feel there may be a path forward that doesn’t entail continual harassment. I am discouraged, intensely frustrated, disappointed, and scared when I learn that the university’s interpretation of the agreement is different from that of the individuals who were present at mediation. The mediation attorney and my support colleague both share my understanding: John will not return to our hall. He and his lawyer, who have recently filed a Grievance against the Dean and Provost, have a different interpretation. Was the mediation just a box that got checked for the administration to cover their asses, legally? I feel like a pawn. I am relieved when summer arrives; the chance of seeing John on campus is minimized. I dread the start of the semester because he will be there, working from his original office. I will have to hear his voice and see him in the very hallway in which he threatened me. Even the squeak of his shoes strikes fear in my gut and causes me to spontaneously review escape routes and safe spaces. I am disillusioned and embittered but not completely surprised when I learn that John will be paid a significant sum to vacate his contract. The Grievance he filed will be resolved with a payment. This is justice? No, this is unfair, and it burns. I’m pragmatic, though, so I see at least one benefit: he will not be on campus in future semesters. This will make me feel somewhat safer, despite his ongoing electronic harassment including an email in which he references bringing a gun to campus. These messages have me perpetually on edge. I am disappointed with myself and full of regret. I should have filed a Grievance. But why should I have to do more work? I have barely enough strength to get through the day; how could I possibly find energy for a Grievance? How did we end up here? The drama and wasted energy are draining my sense of purpose. How do bullies get away with bullying the system? My professional identity has been shattered. I am no longer the strong, independent faculty member that I once was. I’m now a cowering, scared, fragile

Trauma in the academy 135 woman who is dependent on others for her safety, needing constant reassurance. I feel broken, lost, disrupted, traumatized. Jittery. Unhappy. Disappointed. Still scared. Scarred. Uncertain. Embarrassed. A cliche. I wonder: can others tell that I’m broken? I’m clearly worth less to my students, department, institution, profession, myself. Will this lead to fewer opportunities to do productive work? Will I ever regain my confidence? My power of purpose?

Act two: forging ahead Though John is no longer teaching in my department, the ongoing fear and harassment does not stop. He teaches through another program and is regularly on campus; I change my moves around campus to avoid potential encounters. The obsessive, hateful, hurtful, and falsehood-filled emails persist and are distributed to many people on and off campus. These ongoing traumas and the occasional veiled threat lead others on campus to express concern for my safety. I have become newly familiar with the Chief of Campus Police, Chief Information Officer, and University Lawyer. How many hours have we collectively spent on this? The costs of dealing with this are overwhelming, not to mention disheartening. My personality has changed. I’m less cheery though my inner circle keeps me grounded and extremely well-supported; I wouldn’t be making it through without these amazing colleagues. Months and years after the initial incident I feel certain they, though always gracious and compassionate, are tired of hearing me report the latest electronic assaults or ramifications thereof, just as I  am exhausted to experience them. I work to keep the time I spend on this negative but necessary aspect of my professional activity, and interaction with others on this topic, to a minimum. I have a deepening angst about my professional identity and productivity, including the potential loss of opportunities or interactions with those who may see me differently now, as something less than I was, because the electronic missiles keep coming. I have no way of knowing how many people are receiving the missiles, now easily numbering well into the hundreds. People approach me to ask what’s up with John. Their comments reveal they aren’t sure what to make of the messages. Though it might be easier for me to tell my story at this point, I don’t. I’m still embarrassed, traumatized. I perhaps foolishly think it is appropriate to abide by the non-disparagement clause, in case I need to file my own lawsuit someday. I don’t want him to be able to say that I was disparaging; it feels important to gather evidence of his wrongdoing while maintaining composure in the line of fire. Though my confidence has been shattered, I soldier on. I teach and conduct research and am awarded a sizable grant that keeps me busy for years. I am recognized by my peers for both teaching and research, which shepherds my self-assurance along. Unfortunately, though, during what should have been one of my brightest and proudest moments as a faculty, I am still very, very scared. I wonder if I need to wear a bulletproof vest when I sit the dais to accept an award, and, a few months later, to deliver an address. My husband is rightfully

136  Anonymous proud but also vigilant, staying close and scanning the crowd for the tall figure we seek to avoid. Focus on my work triggers an escalation in John’s harassment and no one wants to deal with the aftermath, especially if he decides to act on his ongoing threats. Opportunities fall away once John gets involved or claims a space in the dialogue or physical space that makes proceeding too risky. I am disappointed but also relieved. I am amazed and saddened that years later, John was never defused and the threat carries on. The prolonged harassment and inability of the university to de-escalate the situation is mind-boggling. How does he continue to get away with this? I keep taking steps to ensure my own safety, impacting colleagues across campus. I choose professional invitations, community undertakings, and daily activities to avoid him. I begin to think this will end only when he is deceased; others echo the sentiment even before I voice it. Tallying the impacts, they are significant. I have lost trust in campus administration. I am exhausted from being on high-alert status most of the time. I and others have lost a tremendous amount of productivity since we spend time and energy taking notes, reading emails, attending meetings, debriefing and strategizing. My inability to focus also leads to productivity losses, as does my near-obsession with safety. I install an app on my phone to alert Campus Police if I feel unsafe, annoyed that I have joined the tribe that carries their device everywhere, including the classroom.

Act three: the fog lifting The shattered self is a metaphor commonly used in the trauma literature (Herman; Ulman & Brothers, 1988), and I now know why. I am picking up the pieces of my former self. I’m not the same person that I was before this persistent period of aggression was perpetuated against me. I’m moving toward becoming a whole new person, toward refashioning a sense of self that reflects this life- and careerimpacting trauma. Because John continues to threaten me and others, I do not have the luxury of being able to put this behind me. It is difficult to move on when my actions have an unpredictable cloud hanging over them. More than five years on, I’m still vigilant. I find myself checking for cameras, noting that I once was opposed to such surveillance and now find comfort from it. When I catch a glimpse of him in public, my gut clenches and I instinctively take stock of my surroundings, though the alert is less heightened than in the past, perhaps a code yellow (most days) or orange (some days), instead of red. I learned last year that John’s threats have birthed others as well so my caution has necessarily broadened. Despite all of this, I find myself grateful that my edginess has softened and my confidence is returning. I am still bitter, both at the person who victimized me and at my institution for not having taken sufficient action at the time of the incident, previous to it, and since. I’m concerned that bullying, aggression, and violence continue to occur at my institution. Retired faculty privileges have been diminished to lessen the

Trauma in the academy 137 potential for replication of John’s behaviors, and I’m saddened that this, rather than real policy or significant institutional change, is the legacy of this incident. As someone who previously identified as an optimist, I  am demoralized: I  am not hopeful about the potential for us to mitigate, much less eliminate, academic violence. I’m disappointed I haven’t found the strength or desire to advocate for violence prevention on my campus or elsewhere. Life must go on, and revisiting life- and career-impacting incidents is re-traumatizing. While I am much, much better at re-living the horror of that day or talking about faculty aggression, I do not wish to do so. I do not want to be a poster child for academic violence; I don’t want this to be my life’s work. I’m getting to know and reclaiming my pre-incident self and I don’t want to be derailed. We tend to imagine academia as a place where independence and autonomy rule but this incident reinforces the social nature of our abilities. Faculty are interdependent beings and it’s not possible for workplace aggression to occur without enormous spillover effects. Though we don’t speak of it, it’s clear that my department stores trauma from John’s behavior. We are sensitive to certain words and actions and carry with us a deeply embedded sense of loss. The loss of what we could have done with the time and energy we expend to mitigate damages; of trying to maintain composure in times of stress; of looking past our personal strain, and pain, to deliver the promised departmental mission. We’re privately each a bit resentful of what John has stolen from us; we hit pause, or abandon, many things while dealing with these issues. As a department, we are just now starting to feel liberated enough to move forward with the help of new faculty who do not carry with them this shared trauma.

System change We assume academia is violence-free, peaceful; unfortunately, this falsehood covers and perpetuates aggression. Part of the sting of institutional betrayal is that employees feel justified picturing their workplace as safe when, it turns out, it is not (Smith & Freyd). Fixing the system shouldn’t be the job of victims, nor is it possible for one person to change an institution. There are many things we should do as a community of concerned colleagues, friends, mentors and advocates, to prevent campus aggression. In my “fog of war” experience, I was lost. Things were blurry, confusing, irrational, disrupted, and morally problematic. How did we get to this place? Whom do I trust? What are the risks of reporting this or doing that? Lack of knowledge about what to do confounded and complicated my experience. A faculty ombudsperson can assist victims understand response options and mechanisms to ensure their protection. They are a confidential resource who offers policies, procedures, and implications of various paths forward, thus conserving victims’ desperately needed energy. My beloved inner-circle colleagues provide regular support, both material and emotional, and deep wisdom; everyone should be so lucky to have such a network

138  Anonymous of peer mentors, sideline cheerleaders, and compassionate friends. I am grateful that we took care to build this nest for ourselves, a side benefit of our working together in a writing group for over a decade. As colleagues, we can mentor and network, both formally and informally, to create a web of allies who will provide a safety net in times of crisis. Waiting until a crisis occurs to build this social capital is unwise; the support must be in place to draw upon in times of need since one does not typically have the resources – physical, emotional, or mental – to do so then. Since social support in work environments has been demonstrated to moderate the occurrence of bullying (Einarsen, Raknes & Matthiesen, 1994), and workplace bullying is itself an organizational process (Lewis & Orford, 2005), the cultivation of a community of compassion and care seems especially meaningful for institutional change. We must name and report violence and hostility when we see, hear or experience it in meetings, interpersonal interactions, or policy responses. Untenured or other less-privileged individuals may not feel comfortable doing so but they can share observations with trusted colleagues who possess the required power, position, and will. Institutions play an essential role in both preventing aggression and violence and in mitigating the effects of workplace trauma (Smith & Freyd). Encouraging incident reporting and disseminating knowledge of how to respond to reports is imperative. Establishing a record of violations from which administrators can work to enforce policies and enact consequences is indispensable. Without a record, the “out of sight” and secretive nature of aggression enables the continuation of the behavior, prevents victims from moving forward, and may discourage future victims from reporting incidents as can be the case with sexual violence and harassment (Smith & Freyd, 2013). Those who document and respond to incidents should seek out first-hand tellings to ensure they understand the issue’s urgency, severity, and complexity; much impact and nuance can be lost in translation or filtered through race, gender, power, and political dynamics. But victims should not be forced to tell. First Amendment rights do not include the right to harass and intimidate. Campus policies must ensure that aggressive behaviors can be legally stopped and disciplined. Policies should also make it clear that victims will not be required to mediate with their aggressors. Even if the correct policies are in place, they may not be enforced due to lack of clarity, political will, and other factors. Administrators must look beyond the fear of litigation and negative media exposure to do what’s right by victims. If they do not, institutional betrayal may both exacerbate the trauma and perpetuate the behavior. I am inherently pragmatic and don’t believe academia will be violence free any time soon. Instead, what I hope for is a change in the culture that allows abusive and violent conduct to persist, improved incident reporting, effective policy, and swift, sufficient enforcement such that students, faculty, and administrators are able to work and thrive in safety, a necessity for a creative and productive workplace.

Trauma in the academy 139

References Einarsen, S., Raknes, B. I., & Matthiesen, S. B. (1994). Bullying and harassment at work and their relationship to work environment quality: An exploratory study. European Work and Organisational Psychologist, 4, 381–401. Frank, A. (1995). The wounded storyteller: Body, illness, and ethics. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press. Gornick, V. (2001). The situation and the story: The art of personal narrative. New York: Farrar, Strauss, & Giroux. Herman, J. (1992). Trauma and recovery: The aftermath of violence – from domestic abuse to political terror. New York: Basic Books. Keashly, L., & Neuman, J. (2010). Faculty experiences with bullying in higher education. Administrative Theory & Praxis, 32(1), 48–70. Lewis, R., Sharp, E., Remnant, J., & Redpath, R. (2015). ‘Safe spaces’: Experiences of feminist women-only space. Sociological Research Online, 20(4). doi:10.5153/sro.3781 Lewis, S. E., & Orford, J. (2005). Women’s experiences of workplace bullying: Changes in social relationships. Journal of Community and Applied Social Psychology, 15, 29–47. Nash, R. J. (2004). Liberating scholarly writing: The power of personal narrative. New York: Teachers College Press. Smith, C. P., & Freyd, J. J. (2013). Dangerous safe havens: Institutional betrayal exacerbates sexual trauma. Journal of Traumatic Stress, 26(1), 119–124. Smith, C. P., & Freyd, J. J. (2014). Institutional betrayal. American Psychologist, 69(6), 575–587. Ulman, R. B., & Brothers, D. (1988). The shattered self: A psychoanalytic study of trauma. Hillsdale, NJ: The Analytic Press. Vartia, M. A-L. (2001). Consequences of workplace bullying with respect to the well-being of its targets and the observers of bullying. Scandinavian Journal of Work, Environment & Health, 27(1), 63–69.

14 A woman in academia: . . . and what about the children?

Livia HoldenA woman in academia

Livia Holden (with the collaboration of Marius, Ethan, Luna, and Taima Holden; drawings by Lian Holden)

Introduction1 I left Italy about thirty years ago after a scholarship abroad opened an intellectual horizon and professional opportunities that I longed for. When it happened, I did not fully realize the extent and the reasons of this change. It just felt natural to go where I could fulfill my dreams. I have been an anthropologist, teacher, and consultant in six countries throughout three different continents. I have carried out research for more than twenty years in India and in Pakistan. My most recent assignments before coming back to Italy have been in Australia and in Pakistan. I travelled with my partner at the beginning, and then with our four children. I have also extensively travelled on my own for conferences, and short assignments to places where I was not allowed to bring family. This was not as easy and straightforward as it might sound here but it is the part of my life I can talk about openly. Whilst parenthood has been, for my partner and I, one of the leading components during the unfolding of our life together, I have almost immediately learnt to conceal motherhood because of its impact on my career. I have also learnt to protect my family from the curiosity that it very often generates. During all this time, the reoccurring question has been: “. . . and what about the children?” People want to know what my children think of the life we lead. The expectation is that we have been longing to return “home” and settle in a more conventional routine after thirty years abroad. For the first time, I will respond with a polyphonic and autobiographic paper that includes drawings, a poem, and personal accounts by my children and partner. My aim is to provide the context of my choices revolving around career and motherhood, which I suggest, can be combined in various ways. The greatest obstacles for me have not come from motherhood but from the social expectations attached to it.

Motherhood and career My most significant professional assignments have coincided with my pregnancies and early parenthood. Whilst I was overjoyed by the anticipation of motherhood, I had to confront mainstream social conventions that were expecting me to

A woman in academia 141 put my career on the backburner. After I naively announced that I was expecting my first child, Ethan, my post-graduate supervisor in Paris stopped responding to my emails. Perhaps only because I did not tell anyone else that I was pregnant, I was offered my first significant teaching appointment in Paris a few months later, which I carried out until delivery without anyone noticing. However, I wished to continue with a PhD in law and society in South Asia. Since my post-graduate supervisor disappeared the way he did, Marius, my partner in life and in profession, who I see as the veritable orchestrator of my career, decided that I should go for a PhD in the United Kingdom. During my PhD in London I again shared the news with my supervisor that I was pregnant with my second child, Luna. Silence ensued once again, and when she was born, I was reminded not to let her distract me. At that time I was writing my thesis with Luna’s crib hanging from underneath my desk. I had learnt my lesson with my third child, Lian, who was born without anyone knowing in my professional circle. At that very same time, I was finishing my PhD and co-parenting Ethan and Luna, who were respectively five years and 18 months old. Almost as a materialization of the old saying “children come with bread on their arms” I was offered a research position in Berlin. Had I told my future employer in Berlin that I had just delivered, I was sure that I would have never gotten that position. In fact, bidding me farewell my supervisor in London, told me: “Good luck. You will soon be taken by your family-life and forget all this”. In Germany, the legislation allows parents to take parental leave. I only availed this right two years from the start of my new position because I felt I should not endanger the implementation of my director’s project. For once, I was responding to social expectations. I had also not asked for maternity leave – as I easily could have – shortly after taking up my position one year earlier. It was when I was pregnant with my fourth child, Taima, that things started to turn sour. This time I was simply too exhausted to go to work until the delivery day and I asked for maternity leave. The university syndicate alerted me that my employment was protected only for six months after delivery in spite of my good performance: I had just signed a contract for the publication of my first monograph which none of my co-teamers had secured yet. At six months from delivery my contract was not renewed and we left Europe. I accepted a visiting position in Australia where I could write, publish my book, and rear my children in the beautiful environment of the Gold Coast. After Australia, we chose Lahore over Paris and this is where most of our children’s memories were formed.

From Gold Coast to Pakistan Pakistan. It certainly isn’t a country with a shining reputation. At the Gold Coast school together with cheerful learning, the kids were also given some prejudices, which we were trying hard to fight against at home. In class, my eldest was read a fictional story about an Australian girl returning to Afghanistan to be forced into marriage. His imagination was enticed: “Isn’t Pakistan where the Talibans are and where girls are married off to old men? Will we have to carry guns and walk

142  Livia Holden around with bodyguards?” The kids were whipped up into a frenzy of questions, and they started madly dashing around the house. They felt the excitement of those special moments, when one realizes that life is about to do a complete flip and change into another unknown and unimaginable direction. I certainly knew we were in for a big change, but I could not foresee just how big. Our imaginations went wild and seeds of eagerness germinated into plants of excitement. I was already looking around me, silently contemplating what I would take and what I would leave behind. But how can you plan the moving to a place like Pakistan? And what did we have to say goodbye to! Our life in Australia was not a bed of roses, yet the natural surrounding was by then part of our everyday life. I would dearly miss the nocturnal fragrance of murraya, the Australian variety of jasmine, and the precipitated steps of the possums on the roof and their jumps and fights in the night. The early morning din of cockatoos and parrots, the blue tongue lizard looking at me from down in the foliage of “our” rainforest corner. I would certainly miss cycling on the seaside, gardening until dark after a long day spent writing, spotting stingrays in the Broadwater, bathing with the colorful fish the tide had swept into the lagoon, looking at my girls mindlessly going to school in black skirts and white socks, bush-walking in the late evening hand in hand with my two smaller kids, being scared by the flying foxes, the bats of Australia’s night sky, discovering with amazement yet another family of glow-worms, and pouring warm coffee in our cold steel cups while star watching in the night. How could I ever leave all this (see Figure 14.1)?

Figure 14.1  Gold Coast (ink drawing by Lian Neha Holden)

A woman in academia 143 I had given my availability for a position as assistant professor in tenure track in Pakistan. The offer said, very graciously, that it was the outcome of a unanimous decision. Basically you can either come for a visit or for a permanent position. It is your choice. . . . You can teach and do research on whatever you want. . . . I will not ask you many questions because my colleagues will ask you again and again the same questions anyway. . . . The salary is not competitive for western standards. You cannot pay a mortgage in Europe, but you will have enough to live here very comfortably with your family. The words of my future head of department started echoing in my mind while I still refused to realize where we were heading. Marius was already googling, frenetically collecting information, pictures of the campus, jokingly scrutinizing the CVs of my future colleagues (most of them holding degrees from prestigious universities), and contently submitting all the pieces of information to me with a slightly teasing expression on his face: “Look what you’ve done this time!” His greatest piece of evidence to bring his point home was an all men group photo of the faculty council sitting in a bare room around three tables put together and looking intently at the camera. But he had also found pictures of a rich library and the guesthouse. We were planning to study Urdu on those books with shining spines and trying to estimate the size of the rooms. The heavy furniture looked solid but a bit depressing and the dark curtains appeared to block any light from entering, immense double beds, and a large 1960s-style kitchen. Not that it was really of any importance. We had been told we would move to an unfurnished flat on campus after two weeks and I was already dreaming of furnishing it with the very nice pieces I had always admired during our fieldworks in South Asia but never could buy because we were always on the move. Indeed, after four years in Australia, we were meant to go back to Paris. I had been in touch with my former colleagues and friends in Paris almost daily in the last year and was writing an exciting project about law and governance in India. We had been finally awarded funds and I had been proposed a three-year full-time contract that was the most promising platform for a permanent job as a researcher in Paris: the dream of my life ten years earlier. But naturally a lot had happened in between: four children and much more. I was utterly dismayed at a salary offer that could barely support a single person in Paris. The inner rebellion that had always characterized my life was still there and Pakistan probably had not come without a reason: I was unconsciously searching for a way out. I desperately needed to believe that there was a way to both support my family and continue at the same time with field research. It is amusing how clearly I remember every piece of furniture we had in our Queensland house. The bamboo bed that we had been searching for years and by then recently acquired was one of my favourites but this had to stay. I decided that I would take the chest-drawer and the small desk that I had

144  Livia Holden bought for almost nothing on an eBay auction. Marius wanted to bring his piano and the children wanted their toys. Perhaps fearing that I may not take things seriously I was asked to sign a promise of contract. It was on the eve of the Sri Lankan cricket team bombing in Lahore. On 3 March 2009, twelve gunmen attacked a bus that carried the Sri Lankan cricket team to Lahore. Six policemen that were escorting them were killed and eight cricketers were injured. I woke Marius up to tell him that we had been crazy to even think about leaving Australia. I would never move anywhere else: not even to Paris, let alone to Pakistan. The news had not yet sunk in properly when I received an email from my future head: Dear Livia, I hope you are well. I am writing to allay concerns that you must have after yesterday’s suicide blast in Lahore. It has shaken all of us in Pakistan but let me reiterate that on a personal level I do not feel under threat. All the attacks that have happened so far have been targeted at the security forces. Nothing has been focused at foreigners or the general public. It is still worrying and from far away it looks worse than it is. But let me share with you that recently I too have – on occasion – wondered about security here. But when I have evaluated the situation carefully I have found that the threat of a suicide attack is far less than being run over by a car in any country. It is entirely normal for you to feel concerned and the decision must be yours. But as a colleague I will tell you that I don’t feel you are at risk here. I would be happy to speak to you in greater detail if you so desire. In the meantime, we are all greatly looking forward to your arrival here. Do let me know also what age your children are – my own daughter is 4 and goes to a good school nearby. If you need I can check for you on vacancies here as well. Soon thereafter, almost joking, I was again checking that the children and Marius were still content about moving to Pakistan. They were coming from a visit to a bigger house that we were dreaming of renting: in front of the ocean, with a garden, and a barbecue area. Wet and tanned by the Australian sun, their eyes were shining, bare foot, and looking at me with a questioning gaze: “This is another one of your ideas mum. . . . Don’t tell us you really want to go to Pakistan?” We went to prepare the dough for our homemade pizza. My two girls and I happily and vigorously kneaded the dough and put it aside to rise. I went outside in the backyard to hang the laundry. A huge toad was croaking in the corner and I was pleased in thinking that this was a good sign, indicating the health of our garden. The bats were flapping their wings in the upper foliage of the front yard pine that day. We always thought the pine would uproot the tiny old house that we were living in. I was thinking that I would better put on my boots if I wanted to stay outside because I heard of a neighbour who almost died just the day before. Snakes were always lurking around. But the telephone was ringing. I knew it was from Pakistan and I could already see ourselves there.

A woman in academia 145

From Marius’ diary Since that long-distance phone interview with Pakistan, a feeling of excitement and apprehension grew in me. I was aware that Livia was looking for a way to expand and develop our research while also responding to the needs of our family. We both wished to share our interest for the life and culture of South Asia with our children. And we had grown sceptical of the short stints of fieldwork to which much anthropology has been relying on. There were worries too: money, security, and our children’s education.

Lahore (by Luna Holden) Pakistan is a country in Southern Asia that sits snugly between Afghanistan and India. My mother, an anthropologist, and my father, a filmmaker, carried out their research in Pakistan. As a result, we, all six of us, lived there for six years. The earliest memory I have of going to Pakistan was while we were still living on the sunny coast of Australia. At the time, I hadn’t the slightest idea of what sort of country my mother was talking about. However, I do recall thinking that the place had a peculiar name. I had to tell my classmates and teachers of our new destination immediately. Contrary to my expectations, I received unenthusiastic responses such as “That’s nice Luna” and “Send me a post card when you get there”. We also got a class about the “free countries of the world” among which Pakistan was not listed and the teacher read a paper about living in Afghanistan, a war-torn country. When we did arrive, postcards were not exactly on my mind; whereas exploring the campus where my mother worked was. There was a park, with a playground, a pen of prepossessing peacocks, large ponds with ducks and upon further investigation, snakes and a couple of nocturnal huge lizards (Figure 14.2). What was not so appealing about the University was the “moat”, as we started to call it. The university, with its manicured green parks, charming animals, modern science centres and classrooms, was surrounded by a black ditch filled with sewer waste. We came to know later that what we called the moat had been already suggestively nicknamed “Chanel No.5”. Travelling in Pakistan was among the most memorable and interesting experiences I ever had. Multan, with its marble floored guesthouse and Peshawar, infamous for its black-market, was a highlight for my older brother, Ethan. Lian and Taima, instead, adored the buffets where we happily helped ourselves to the largest breakfasts we have ever had. Islamabad, the verdant capital city, Hyderabad, which was suffering from catastrophic floods, Chilas, a rocky town on the Karakorum Highway with its houses built with clay and stone, Shimshal, a valley that did not have any road until ten years ago, and the many smaller towns and villages that our father drove us to. We visited the majority of these places due to our mother’s work and my father’s filming which involved interviewing police, lady judges, and visiting universities

146  Livia Holden

Figure 14.2  Lahore (ink drawing by Lian Neha Holden)

to carry out lectures or attend meetings. If there were to be a “behind the scenes” of the Lady Judges of Pakistan documentary it would mainly consist of us four, drinking large glasses of cool Coca Cola and snacking on chips while my mother inquired about the issues that lady judges would face in their careers. During one of our visits in Peshawar, my mother was talking with one such judge. Since my siblings and I were all present, the subject of family turned up and she said, “You are lucky to be able to bring your family to work with you, we cannot do this”. Ethan will always remember the display of guns that he was offered to try during our visits in Peshawar. I remember the winter of 2011 when we were staying at the house of a lady judge in Balochistan. She had two young sons that we played cricket with. I have become good friends with her niece, with whom I used to swap jewelry and dresses. At the close of almost four years in Lahore a completely different area of Pakistan opened up. My mother was offered a position in a dry and mountainous northern area named Gligit Baltistan. Unlike the constant humidity of Lahore and Islamabad, Gilgit, with its thin atmosphere and chilling winds causes days to be hot and nights to be contrastingly cold: the Martian climate.

Gilgit Baltistan (by Taima Holden) We, the Holdens, were six on a Pajero spaceship approaching the planet Karakorum. There was a checkpoint just in front of us. We landed the spaceship. One of

A woman in academia 147 the guards had a big moustache and came to us in a space suit. He boarded and asked, “Can I see your passports?” Daddy agreed “Yes”. The guard looked at us content: “baby . . . baby . . . baby . . . no baby, no baby and no baby” counted the guard (“baby” is a common appellation used for children in Pakistan). “Hmm . . . I see that you are not citizens, we are told not to let foreigners pass”, stated the guard with a serious face. “What! We could pass last time!” replied mommy. “Well, now you can’t” the guard insisted. Mommy extracted her cubephone051 from her pocket but to our dismay there was no signal. The guard looked again at us and then looked at the endless space and stars in the sky and said “Hmm . . . there was a mistake, you can go” with a fake smile on his face. We started the engine and lifted off. We landed on a desolate landscape of barren mountains (Figure 14.3). It was too quiet. I thought: “Anyway, we came here just for picking up a parcel and we won’t stay long”. There were no shops and no people. We had pistols, so we could defend ourselves. There was a package on the floor and our parcel, which I picked it up. “We should leave soon”, I said, because we were vulnerable. When we were walking back to our spaceship, I accidentally stepped on a glass bottle and crushed it. The sound echoed and then I heard a screech. “Run!” my older

Figure 14.3  Gilgit Baltistan (ink drawing by Lian Neha Holden)

148  Livia Holden sister Lian, yelled. We ran but when I looked behind I saw. . . . millions of fungi running at us. They had no eyes but they had mouths with sharp teeth. We threw our reserve chips packets that would slow some of them down. “Now what do we eat when we leave!?” I exclaimed. “Don’t worry, I will send a distress signal for a fast delivery pizza” reassured daddy. He then pulled out a remote control and pressed the “open” button. The spaceship door slid, then there was a very loud thump and a crash. The sky was closing! I looked behind me and saw in the distance a huge fungus crashing buildings of the abandoned market place to get through. The mountains were lighted with the festival’s fires. We rushed into the spaceship. Daddy started the engine and we lifted off. “Phew!!!” I let out in relief but then I noticed a fluffy kind of hair as it landed on a flower, which we kept in the space ship as a memory that grew into a fierce cat. Three years were over since we landed for the first time in Gilgit. It felt like dashing through the stars – as in that story about ghosts, witches, foxes, and leopards sitting in the dark around the fire.

Out of Pakistan (by Luna Holden) Seven long years had passed and our suitcases were being inspected one by one at the Islamabad airport. A few months ago we had extracted every piece of furniture from our sandcastle-like house in Northern Pakistan; we brought most, sold others, and gifted several. The wardrobes and cabinets that we chose to bring were loaded into Pakistan’s colorfully decorated trucks, which bumbled along the Karakorum destined to be shipped off to Italy. We were determined to haul as much as possible, even though mother was warning us of the very possible risk that our valuables would be confiscated. My parents were worried about their documentary footage and our family films, still in tape form. I watched the guards proceed with their inspection. “What about this necklace?” – “Just a gift from my aunt”. I responded thinking about the lady judge from Balochistan. Answering with more personal details would reduce the danger of further questions. Strangely it was a plastic jar full of worthless coins that distracted most of the officers. The bags were zipped with effort due to the bulk they contained and we walked towards our gate with satisfaction.

After Pakistan (by Marius Holden) As of now, it is still difficult for me to draw a balanced outline of those seven years in Pakistan. Nevertheless, I will try to trace out some reflections about our experience in Pakistan as parents and academics. My long-term expectations at that time were to expand and develop what I had so far done in ethnographic filmmaking, improving my Hindi, learning Urdu and deepening the study of Hindustani music while travelling with my family throughout Pakistan. The colossal hubris of these goals was adjusted by the priority that I usually try to accord to Livia and our family’s needs. During our time in Pakistan the definition of our roles grew more pronounced and interestingly, our different perception of the social environment

A woman in academia 149 too. While Livia took financial and professional responsibilities upon herself, she became increasingly concerned, whilst I grew increasingly optimistic. My focus became the day-to-day achievements of our children’s education and the general enjoyment of family life in travels, food, and entertainment. Whether this was due to the embodiment of our social roles or to the ripening of our individual predisposition under the scorching sun of Punjab, this divergence determined the kind of complementarity of our ethnographic research. We could in most cases associate data collection with the pleasure of travel and discovery along with our children and as a family. However, at the stage of film and article production, Livia’s concerns were toward the audience. Whatever was ambiguous, side-looped, self-contradictory, and marginal even if visually captivating, was doomed to fall on the digital editorial floor. The outcome for Livia had to be profitable in terms of time and energy investment. I tended instead to believe that oddities and self-reflexive anecdotes would convey the unique experience that we were living in. I was worried that excessive efforts to bridge our experience for the understanding of our audience might denaturalize the sense of what we were doing. But with hindsight I see now that the privilege and advantage of being a man and a foreigner in a patriarchal post-colonial setting might have started to seep under my skin.

Europe (by Luna Holden) Arriving in Europe after many years was a peculiar sensation. Apart from our oldest brother, my siblings and I had very vague and little memories of Europe. As a result, the experience has been new and refreshing: hot water, uninterrupted electricity, and speedy Internet. One would assume that, although living in Pakistan was an exciting adventure returning to Italy would be more comforting: we would reunite with old friends, visit our previous school and greet everyone in the neighbourhood. However, neither of my siblings or myself had ever lived there before. In reality we never did return to Italy. In fact just as one who has lived their entire life in one place would find it difficult to imagine a life moving from country to country, I could never envision living my entire life in one town. Adaptation has always been a welcome friend and home is wherever we make it.

Conclusion This chapter is different from all the other papers I have written so far. As a polyphonic autobiography it cannot but be discontinuous: lives don’t have a clear trajectory that can be organized into a tight little story. It does not pretend to be representative of anything else than our experience. However, what happened during the writing of this article is significant. When I started to write at the end of 2016 we had just come back to Italy. I had been invited back to the country where I was born and offered full professorship with tenure. All came back with revenge: the academic patronage and the male oriented expectations that I had subconsciously run away from thirty years ago.2 The expectations were that coming

150  Livia Holden from Pakistan with a large family I could not but be grateful for the opportunity of stability. No matter my successful career abroad and the important research funds that I was carrying with me. My experience in Pakistan, albeit difficult on many points, had been uneventful for what concerns social expectations linked to motherhood. Whilst in Pakistan as a privileged European woman associated with the upper class, I could happily combine family life and career; in Europe, as a middle-class female academic, I was expected to conform to conservative gender roles for the supposed wellbeing of my children. Motherhood had been in my early career the argument that was brandished as a “natural” obstacle. Now motherhood again was used to undermine my position as research leader. “. . . And what about the children?” The same well-meaning question reoccurs again and again. This time I was almost convinced that for the wellbeing of my children I should give up. But, perhaps surprisingly for some, Marius and the children told me that I should not. From the time I started writing this article and now that I am closer to its publication, I have decided that I am not yet ready to give up. Yet by refusing to give up I am challenging patriarchal family-making practices that still expect women to choose between family and work.3 I see now how privileged I have been to combine professional and family life even though often it felt as to be waiting for a big storm. ‫میں ایک جگہ پر کھڑا ہوں‬ I am standing in one place (by Ethan Holden) ‫میں ایک جگہ پر کھڑا ہوں‬ I am standing in one place ‫دنیا میرے سامنے مجھےگھور رہی ہے‬ The world in front of me stares upon me ‫پیچھے نہیں جا سکتا ہوں‬ I can’t go back ‫ جہاں سڑکیں پھیلی ہوئی ہیں‬،‫صرف اگے‬ Only forward, where the roads are spread ‫میں آندھی یا بارش میں آگے جاوں گا‬ I will go forward through wind and rain ‫پہاڑوں پر اور غاروں کے زریے بھی آگے جاوں گا‬ On mountains and through caves, I’ll also go ‫میں انجام نہیں دیکھ سکتھا ہوں‬ I cannot see the end ‫صرف ایک بڑا طوفان‬ Only a vast (big) storm ‫جو شایر میرا انتظار کر رہا ہے‬ Which, maybe, is waiting for me ‫اس لیے میں پھولوں کو خوشی سے دیکھتا ہوں‬ That’s why I happily look at the flowers ‫اور چھوٹی ٹہنیاں توڑتا ہوں‬ And pick up small twigs

A woman in academia 151 ‫تاکہ جب رات ائے تو میں گرم آگ جال سکوں‬ So that, when night comes, I can light a warm fire

Notes 1 Heartfelt thanks to Susan F. Hirsch and Emma Varley for their comments and encouragement during the incertitude and concern that I experienced when writing this paper. Flaws are only mine. 2 There is rich a literature describing the patronage that affects Italian university. See among others Gardini (2009) and Shore (1989). 3 See among others Krauser (2005).

References Gardini, N. (2009). I Baroni. Come e perché sono fuggito dall’università italiana. Milano: Feltrinelli. Krauser, E. (2005). Encounters with the “peasant”: Memory work, masculinity, and low fertility in Italy. American Ethnologist, 32, 593–617. Shore, C. N. (1989). Patronage and bureaucracy in complex societies: Social rules and social relations in an Italian university, JASO, XX(1), 56–73.

15  Not a matter of will

Melissa Burchard and Keya MaitraNot a matter of will

A narrative and cross-cultural exploration of maternal ambivalence Melissa Burchard and Keya Maitra Section I: introducing ambivalence As philosopher–mothers we rely heavily on shared stories to make sense of our experiences of ambivalence especially with regards to difficulties that mothers experience in the academy. In relying on that experience we have been surprised by how our understanding contrasts with the way ambivalence is theorized in recent philosophical literature. This literature characterizes ambivalence either as involving mixed emotions (Kristjansson, 2010, Pugmire, 2005) or as involving conflicting desires (Frankfurt, 1988) in one’s will. It also relies on a style that emphasizes abstraction and undervalues the personal experience that is expressed in narrative. For example, Frankfurt (2004) writes, “Insofar as someone is ambivalent, he is moved by incompatible preferences or attitudes regarding his affects or desires or regarding other elements of his psychic life” (p. 91). Here ambivalence is characterized in terms of incompatible preferences − a division − that one experiences in relation to her will. An ambivalent person, in Frankfurt’s words, is “radically divided and incoherent” (1988, p. 164). The proposed solution of ambivalence is conceived in terms of wholeheartedness which represents the will overcoming its inner division and becoming an integrated whole (Frankfurt, 1998, p. 174; Feldman & Hazlett, 2012, p. 2). Frankfurt and others argue that ambivalence is a problem because it indicates a lack of unity somewhere in the self. For Frankfurt, this lack of unity is in the will or in the desires that cannot be made to function correctly because they are inconsistent. Pugmire argues, as Kristjansson reads him, that ambivalence cannot be sustained because a “divided heart” makes one “dysfunctional” (Kristjansson, 2010 p. 494). Gunnarsson (2014) moves away from the standard position by arguing that people sometimes need to be ambivalent in order to be true to themselves, and that this is neither wrong nor bad. Still, wholeheartedness is usually deemed preferable to ambivalence since internal unity and wholeness of will are taken as necessary for wellbeing (Feldman & Hazlett, 2012, p. 5). We see that a number of implications follow: first, in the general literature on ambivalence the above mentioned points are acknowledged as points of departure. Even when the preferability of wholeheartedness is contested, as in Feldman and Hazlett (2012), the basic structure of the theoretical impetus goes unchallenged.

Not a matter of will 153 However, our experience of ambivalence as mothers in academia seems directly to challenge this traditional understanding. Drawing from our experience, we argue that structuring the discussion in terms of divisions within one’s will and the resulting incoherence is problematic because, 1) the projected distinction between inherent conflict within a will and conflict due to circumstantial factors does not apply in our case because in mothering our dependence on others is primary; 2) it is the self and not just unity of one’s will that needs to be focused on in this discussion; and 3) the concept of wholeness implied in the preference for wholeheartedness is exaggerated since it misses the fact, as shown in mothering, that wholeness of self requires a fundamental sense of our interdependence. We use narrative theory to exhibit this interdependence concretely through our struggles involving mothering within the academia.

Section II: the difference that mothering makes Once we accept these three points as relevant in our theorizing, we come to realize that ambivalence can be a valuable, productive, and even necessary part of our lives. Acknowledging the reality of ambivalence in much of our everyday experience as agents and indeed accepting its value opens us to a kind of flexibility that needs to be made explicit. Maternal ambivalence is a particularly rich field for this theorizing for at least two reasons: one is that ambivalence is probably inherent in any deep relationship and mothering is a particularly clear example. The other is that the maternal experience continues to be ignored in many arenas of theorizing, including the theorizing of ambivalence, and consequently is relatively unexamined so far. One important exception to this tendency to ignore maternal ambivalence is Sarah LaChance Adams’ work (2014). Adams points out that in the traditional literature, “maternal ambivalence is first and foremost an atypical problem to be overcome” (p. 8, italics in original), when it should actually be seen as a source of crucial information about the nature of human relationship. Because maternal experience foregrounds the fact of dependency in human relationship (the dependency of the child on the mother, but also the dependency of the mother on her child/children in constructing her life and identity), it can put the ambivalence of dependency relationships into stark relief. Rather than an atypical problem, maternal ambivalence shows how ambivalence generally is a part of our depending on and being responsible for the others in our lives. Being an example of largely unequal dependence, maternal experience reveals “the coercive power that others’ needs and vulnerability exert over us” (p. 74), serving as a model for the examination of ambivalence. Our claim is that maternal ambivalence in particular is located in the activity of and commitment to caring. And caring is activity in which we don’t always have certain kinds of choices about what we will do, whom we will be with, why we will be with them, why we will do what we do, etc. The standard discussion of ambivalence presupposes all these choices, but in maternal work, we just aren’t likely to have many of them. If a child is sick in the middle of the night, the mother can’t put off caring for her until it’s convenient. The commitment to remaining in

154  Melissa Burchard and Keya Maitra relationship, to maintaining relationship, requires attending to persons even when we may not like them or want to engage with them or meet their needs/demands. Because it is caring work, because it emphasizes relationship and dependency, and because it is ordinary activity that shows how choice and will are not features of everyday life that can simply be taken for granted, mothering is a location that reveals certain flaws in standard theorizing about ambivalence.

Section III: conversations: narrating maternal ambivalence As academic mothers, we have had many conversations about maternal ambivalence. This ordinary-life approach to understanding our ambivalence about mothering has encouraged us to think about what there is to be gained by theorizing lived experience through narrative. Many current theorists (Carroll, 2007, MacIntyre, 1984, Nelson, 2001, Taylor, 1989) present claims about the importance of story both in constructing a self and in making that self intelligible. People tell stories about themselves and their actions/choices/intentions in order to understand themselves and make others understand them. What we want to do here is focus on how our narratives about being academic mothers allow us to think about maternal ambivalence in ways that better account for our actual experiences than the traditional literature can. Rather than characterizing ambivalence as a problem that must be resolved, our experiences in mothering seem to indicate that ambivalence is a productive, creative feature of living, one that reveals important knowledge about ourselves and our relations with others. Here we share a reconstructed conversation telling of our experiences of mothering as academics and touching on issues of ambivalence related to becoming a mother, living up to our different cultural requirements regarding mothering (one of us is a white middle-class American and the other is first generation immigrant to the U.S. from India), and our relationships as mothers within the academy. Melissa Part of my ambivalence about becoming a mother stemmed Burchard (MB): from work in feminist philosophy about the problems of reifying stereotypes of women as mothers, and of reproducing the culture of expectations we have for mothers. Reading Jeffner Allen’s “Motherhood: The Annihilation of Women” (1985) in graduate school, my response was “this is absolutely right! We are never going to significantly change women’s status if we don’t break the ties to reproductive work and identities that keep us from engaging fully in academic, political, public work.” I did not want to be a mother because I didn’t want to be limited by perceptions − my own and others’ − of what mothers are and what they can and can’t do. Keya How interesting! I got to a similar place in graduate school, even Maitra (KM): though I come from a cultural background where becoming a mother is the most obvious and expected role for a woman. For some unknown reason I had always found that role unappealing; possibly because as the third daughter of a family that would

Not a matter of will 155

MB:

KM:

MB:

KM:

MB:

have preferred a boy given the societal preference for a boy, I always nurtured a worried indifference to mothering. Unlike you, I hadn’t read any feminist work to help me articulate my thinking about motherhood. But I shared a similar ambivalence, although perhaps it was less urgent when I began my career. You know, I both wanted and didn’t want to do the mother thing. I wanted that relationship of mothering, the bond and trust and care that seems to make mothering such a special thing. So after I got tenure, it seemed like I had got to a place where I could really do both: have a mother-life and a life of professional, academic success. Actually, that ambivalence between the mothering and being an academic was harder for me than choosing to adopt. Because I have two adopted siblings, adopting seemed perfectly natural to me. W  ell, in my traditional cultural background there is much more pressure to become a mother, but being the youngest daughter meant that my parents weren’t under any pressure to get me married soon to make way for the marriage of a younger child. So, my project was my education; in the process of earning my two PhDs, I met my future husband, and while my thinking about marriage changed as a result, mothering still seemed not imminent. So the indifference or ambivalence that I felt was somewhat theoretical and distant. This changed quite dramatically when three weeks into my fresh tenure track position I learned that I was pregnant. The rush of ambivalence was palpable! Right! I will never forget how you came to my office to tell me about it − you were so upset! So worried! You said, “Is Gordon (our department chair) going to kill me? Will he hate me?” It’s funny that I had no ambivalence about your impending motherhood at all − and it made me sad, in fact, that you seemed unable to be happy about it. It raised so many issues for me! Would I be viewed as not serious about my commitment to my new position? Did I truly want to become a mother or had I just given in to my cultural and familial expectations? What if I were to have a miscarriage? What augmented all this is the loss of control over my body and mind I increasingly felt. How could I be a good academic if my body and mind were being hijacked by this pregnancy? And how much worse the “hijacking” would be when the baby actually came − or in my case, when the boys actually came to live with us! A four-year-old and a nine-year-old, and all the adjustments we had to make. Even in the best case scenario, that amount of change is daunting, but of course we didn’t get that scenario. Although we had promised them (and ourselves) that this would be the last time they would have to be moved from one home to another, that this would be their “forever family,” we began to see

156  Melissa Burchard and Keya Maitra

KM:

MB:

signs pretty early on that all was not well with them. Only a year and a half after they came to us we were advised that they could not stay together, for their own safety and wellbeing. The conflict in emotions that we experienced was enormous and overwhelming. Obviously we were devastated at the idea of splitting them up; but equally devastating was the possibility of keeping them together if that was going to contribute to the damage that had already been done to them. To keep our children safe and help them be well, in our case, was to remove them from each other, and remove one of them from our immediate care as well. And it wasn’t just our own feelings of guilt and failure that made this so hard, it was the sense that came from the wider culture that I must be a bad mother − that if I were a good mother, I would have seen the problems right from the beginning, no matter how good the boys were at hiding them. If I were a good mother, I would be able to solve these problems myself, without having to place either of them out in a therapeutic foster home or care facility. Even though I believed strongly that we did the right thing, the cultural expectations for “good mothering” made me feel wrong and bad. I saw you experience this ambivalence and what broke my heart is that you felt that this made you a bad mother. For me you were the best mother there can be! But I know what you mean. My fortunate chronological positioning within my family (being third daughter) meant that there was less pressure perhaps than usual from my parents to force me to get married and have children. But the pressure from the larger culture was still very strong, so that to be a “good daughter,” a “good daughter-in-law” really meant to have children, especially to have a son. That pressure created some of my ambivalence; I think I have something of a rebellious streak (otherwise I wouldn’t be a professional philosopher, which is atypical for an Indian woman from a traditional background), and being expected to have a child made me not want to do it! On top of that, I felt pressure from some colleagues in the academy to not have children. I felt a definite sense from some people that having children really does make you less serious, less “real” as a professional. So I had this ambivalence that from one perspective having children makes you better, and from another perspective, it makes you worse. I really struggled with that. It’s really frustrating how those outside pressures work to define us, even against our beliefs about who we are and want to be. I’ve felt a little of that pressure you describe from other academics, too. But I think the most difficult and painful ambivalence I’ve felt comes from my own conflicting feelings and impulses toward my children. I know from other people, and from the literature on mothering, that this is pretty common, but I think because we had to deal with the damage our kids suffered in their birth home, my “love ‘em and hate ‘em” response has sometimes

Not a matter of will 157

KM:

been really strong. Trying to respond with loving compassion to a child who is so filled with anger at how he’s been hurt that he becomes violent and abusive toward me . . . I have really had that experience of loving these boys so deeply, of wanting so much to make their lives better and easier, and at the same time wanting to just walk away from them and never come back. Or even to hurt them. Finding out that I was capable of wanting to hurt them was absolutely terrifying. If I hadn’t known to expect that, from reading about mothering and from training for adoption, I’m not sure I could have managed those emotions. Yes − raising my son, I felt similar tensions and experienced similar conflicts. I felt that mothering didn’t come to me naturally. For example, contrary to many mother’s experiences, breastfeeding didn’t produce a sense of closeness with my son. And the circumstances of being a mother were not what I expected; here in the U.S. I had no family besides my husband, and he was teaching in a different town, so I was doing much of the child care as a single parent. The feelings of exhaustion and being overwhelmed seemed to interfere with my ability to even think, let alone do philosophy! I thought my life as a philosopher had ended!

Section IV: why we need narrative In thinking about why it is that ambivalence is necessary and productive, we use narrative theories of identity, and argue that the concept of (narrative) intelligibility is more realistic and useful for talking about identity/self than the concept of unity, which is part of the standard literature on ambivalence. We choose narrative theory because it represents a notion of self that is more achievable and reflective of the complexity of both the external world and people’s inner lives. Two well-known narrative theorists are Alistair MacIntyre and Hilde Lindemann Nelson. In After Virtue, MacIntyre claims that it is “natural” for us to think of the self as a narrative: as an ongoing chain of linked causes and effects (1984, p. 206). What MacIntyre argues is that understanding self is necessarily a narrative project, a project of placing ourselves in an ongoing story which is itself embedded in other ongoing stories that are mutually co-constructing. Importantly, our stories are not complete by themselves, because we are social beings in social worlds, and thus both responsible to and constrained by the stories of our fellow humans, our communities and our traditions. Nelson offers her account of the importance of narrative in her book Damaged Identities, Narrative Repair (2001). She explains that identity-constituting stories have a particular set of features: they are depictive, being representations of human experience; they are selective in what they depict; they are interpretive, offering a particular way of construing the acts, events and personae that are represented; and they are connective, creating relationships among their own elements and to other stories. (p. 11–12)

158  Melissa Burchard and Keya Maitra These elements of narrative theory show us that identity is not a matter of pure choice, but of being co-constructed and interrelated. Like MacIntyre, Nelson is saying that our narratives of identity are co-constructed by us and by others; my identity is not just a matter of what I think I am or am doing, but what others think and say about it too. The theory shows that identity is not unitary in the ways the traditional literature assumes, but rather is a matter of being put together by the self and by those around her and dependent on her. If this is correct, then ambivalence will not be a matter of conflict in will, but a matter of the conflicts that are inherent in human identity and relationships, as agents struggle to define themselves both with and against those who are co-constructing their narrative identities. The stories we have told have implications for understanding ambivalence in ways different from the standard literature. For example, our stories indicate that in spite of expansions in women’s roles in the U.S. and in India, being a mother is still typically seen as a problem for, if not opposed to, success in “highachievement” careers. Both mothers and those around them may hold this belief. But this is not the result of any inherent features of either mothering or academia, nor does it seem to simply be a matter of any inherent conflict of will that academic mothers suffer. It seems entirely fair to argue that this is a result of the ways that both mothering and ambivalence are structured for us. That mothering is structured for us goes nearly without saying by now; there is plenty of evidence in various literatures on mothering that it is not simply a “natural” experience, but rather is structured in a variety of ways to serve (dominant) cultural and personal purposes (Ruddick, 1989, Beauvoir, 1989, Lintott & Sander-Staudt, 2012). With regard to ambivalence, the matter of structuring is less decided in the standard literature. Pugmire, for example asks “What structure could there be to what we regard as emotional conflict? And what does ambivalence do to emotion?” (p. 170). But in asking, he is making the assumption that there is in fact some (presumably natural) structure to the experience of ambivalence, that ambivalence works for every­one in one or a few particular ways because of its structures. Grounding a theory of ambivalence in mothering experience, however, shows what look like some quite different experiences of ambivalence. That makes us want to say that ambivalence is not structured “naturally”, but rather is structured by dominant experience, by the experiences of the dominant class. Taking a narrative approach to maternal ambivalence allows us to capture the dynamic engagement of ambivalent experience. A narrative account gives us access to the aspects of ambivalence that show it not only as ordinary and usual rather than a problem needing to be solved, but also the productive, creative, and flexible features that contribute to our complex sense of who we are and what our lives mean. Because we do not have a clear picture of these features at all times, we need an account that makes it possible to revise that sense of self in the face of dynamic complexity, and this is what narrative gives us. The assumption in the standard literature on ambivalence is that we will not be able to decide and act if our desires/will/emotions are not unified; that only by being “whole-hearted” will we be sufficiently capable of exercising agency. But our stories indicate that the circumstances of mothering tend to incorporate ambivalence at a deep and ongoing level; consequently, we find ourselves aligned with those who argue against the standard literature that ambivalence is not an

Not a matter of will 159 obvious sign of dysfunction (as Pugmire claims), and that in fact it is typical and even productive. Narrative theory seems appropriate and helpful, then, in that it recognizes the likelihood of a non-unified self which requires a narrative in order to be made intelligible. In fact, from this perspective, the “unified self theory” actually looks like another narrative attempt to make the experience of a certain kind of self, perhaps a dominant culture self taking its identity from its ability to control, intelligible, both to itself and to others. Narrative theory is also helpful in that it doesn’t function in terms of absolutes; rather than requiring a particular kind of experience (one that is unified in will/ desires/emotions) it assumes both a variety of experiences and that those various experiences can generally be made intelligible to those who live them as well as others. In other words, to tell a story of a self does not require that the self be fully consistent. As it is often the experience of mothers that we are ambivalent about mothering or about aspects of mothering, a narrative theory of self is helpful because it allows us to hold the various aspects of our selves in one identity without having to “resolve” any and all inconsistencies that might be present. Thus we preserve our sense of self without automatically being made to feel wrong or lesser. This sense of wrongness attached to ambivalence is perhaps stronger than usual in the academy, where (in philosophy at least) we seem to be expected to be able to pursue truth “whole-heartedly” and single-mindedly, and to arrive at truths which are similarly indivisible. However, we now have many strands of critical theory that make evident how important it is to “muddy the waters” with reminders of non-dominant perspectives and the complexity of the world we live, work, and act in. The fact of maternity itself still raises ambivalence in many locations of the academy, as those who are not mothers (male or female) still sometimes look down on those who are, and academic mothers often struggle with that external disapproval as well as their internalized sense that mothering is at odds with “serious” academic careers. When Pugmire asks whether “fully consolidated emotions of a pressing and serious nature are capable of sustained ambivalence” (2005, 182) (and answers “no”), and Kristjansson, following him, says that “an ambivalent emotion is likely to be less intense and profound than a non-ambivalent emotion” and that “the life of an emotionally ambivalent agent will be more susceptible to psychological dysfunction than that of a non-ambivalent one” (Kristjansson, 2010, 494), we find that they are speaking from a perspective that is unrecognizable to us. In the first place, they are telling us that our experience of conflicting emotions in mothering is shallow and necessarily short-lived simply because it is ambivalent. Given that we are neither unreflective nor incapable of understanding ourselves and our emotional experiences, it seems that the only reason they would make a claim that is so contrary to the evidence of our experience is that it doesn’t fit with their theories; that our experiences are not even on their radar. It would appear that they are theoretically predisposed to not see our experience. Using narrative theory gives us flexibility that they don’t have, allowing us to see their experience when they can’t see ours. In the second place, although we have learned to live with this ambivalence (because we have had no other choice), we have not resolved it. In MB’s case, she still feels it, profoundly and intensely, some 12 years later, even after having been able to successfully reunite the two brothers after a separation of about eight

160  Melissa Burchard and Keya Maitra years. For KM, while her son has grown into a thriving high schooler, one piece of the ongoing ambivalence is the problem of raising a child in a “wrong” culture, a culture that is not his “home.” According to Kristjansson, this ongoing ambivalence makes us likely to be dysfunctional. But again, in fact, we are relatively well-adjusted and extremely high-functioning individuals. No one who knows us would describe us as dysfunctional. So here we have to wonder: is this dysfunction they ascribe to us simply a matter of their theoretical commitments? If that is the case, which is what we believe, then they are not recognizing our experience and agency. As we experience it, our maternal ambivalence is far from dysfunctional, but is productive, flexible, and responsive to the realities we are living. Maternal agency is arguably fundamentally ambivalent, in that it is a constant negotiation between the needs of both child and mother for both closeness and separation or independence (Adams, 2014). Rather than seeing such ambivalence as negative or even dysfunctional, it makes sense to see it as a site of productive flexibility, as that negotiation allows mothers to adapt the level of intensity in their relationships according to the needs of their concrete circumstances. From a maternal perspective, the will-oriented language of understanding ambivalence denies us this insight. Maternal narratives indicate that our ambivalence is less a matter of will than one of appropriate recognition of the concrete requirements of profound human relationships, in which the desire/need to merge with the other is just as important as the desire/need to experience the self as free and separate. Using maternal stories to capture the dynamics involved in mothering and in being academic mothers, we are able to appreciate the productive power of ambivalence.

References Adams, S. L. (2014). Mad mothers, bad mothers, and what a ‘Good’ mother would do: The ethics of ambivalence. New York: Columbia University Press. Allen, J. (1985). Motherhood: The annihilation of women. In M. Pearsall (Ed.), Women and values: Readings in recent feminist philosophy (pp. 91–101). Belmont, CA: Wadsworth. Beauvoir, S. (1989). The second sex. New York: Vintage Books. Carroll, N. (2007). Narrative closure. Philosophical Studies, 135, 1–15. Feldman, S. D., & Hazlett, A. (2012). In defence of ambivalence. Manuscript Draft. Frankfurt, H. (1988). The importance of what we care about. New York: Cambridge University Press. Frankfurt, H. (1998). Necessity, volition and love. New York: Cambridge University Press. Frankfurt, H. (2004). The reasons of love. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Gunnarsson, L. (2014). In defense of ambivalence and alienation. Ethical Theory Moral Practice, 17, 13–26. Kristjansson, K. (2010). The trouble with ambivalent emotions. Philosophy, 85, 485–510. Lintott, S., & Sander-Staudt, M. (2012). Philosophical inquiries into pregnancy, childbirth and mothering: Maternal subjects. New York: Routledge. MacIntyre, A. (1984). After virtue (2nd ed.). Notre Dame: Notre Dame University Press. Nelson, H. L. (2001). Damaged identities, narrative repair. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press. Pugmire, D. (2005). Conflict: Mixed emotions and the indivisible heart. In Sound Sentiments: Integrity in the Emotions. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Ruddick, S. (1989). Maternal thinking: Towards a politics of peace. Boston, MA: Beacon Press. Taylor, C. (1989). Sources of the self: The making of the modern identity. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.

16 Being a mother, becoming a university teacher Rosie BruceBeing a mother, becoming a teacher

Traversing the terrain to knowing oneself Rosie Bruce Introduction This narrative takes the reader through my journey of experiences and evolving identity as a University teacher, as a woman, as a mother, and as an occupational therapist. Contemporary learning-teaching literature discusses the need for authenticity in teaching at University level with adult learners (Jenkins, 2011). This poses the questions: What is authenticity in teaching? How does one become authentic in their teaching? How does one do this and maintain professionalism in teaching? To do this requires critical reflection of the effectiveness of learning both in life and teaching; further to an openness to explore one’s own style of learning and teaching. In addition to this, the nature of adult learning and adult teaching requires concurrent thinking about development as a learner oneself, personal development, self-awareness as well as the content and technical skills of supporting learning and teaching. For me, a combination of internal, familial, and social experiences have influenced the desire to be involved in learning and teaching pursuits; both in and outside of workplace environments. An autoethnographical approach is used here to explore meaning through a phenomenological design of a single-case narrative to identify themes of influence, resulting from my experiences (Liamputtong, 2013). Curiosity From my first memories I noticed I seemed to be curious about the world around me, the workings of nature and why we live our lives the way we do. I remember as an eight-year-old cutting off corn kernels from the cob when helping prepare vegetables for dinner, drying them in the sun, planting and watering them with persistence until the shoots came through and then watching and tending to the corn plants. Growing up on acreage and not having bitumen roads or streetlights for many years, I spent a lot of time outdoors exploring with my younger brother and neighbourhood children. I decided that we needed a ‘Neighbourhood Newsletter’, informing all about the adventures we had in the bush, amongst abandoned old car wrecks deep in the woodlands and long bike rides dropping in to visit the parents here and there. In primary school, once I learned English, I would help

162  Rosie Bruce others with learning, driven by my own experience of struggling to absorb and learn English at the same time as attending school in Australia. One of my teachers had us in group tables in Year 5, we each got turns to be the table leader and encouraged chatter about learning activities. The table that finished tasks first got to play with sports equipment from the shed near our classroom before breaktime. When it was my turn to be leader, I was determined to make sure our group helped one another to get to play ball outside and we did manage many times over. It was fascinating to learn about my peers in this new way and admire the knowledge and skills they had as we all shared the learning process to get the learning activities completed in record time. This was where I learnt what I now know to be the social constructivism aspect of learning-teaching pedagogy (Stewart, 2012). I will never forget this teacher, it was not her personality I remembered, it was her skilful way of using teaching-learning process. This may have been the beginnings of interest in the relationship between teaching and learning. Being a non-English-speaking migrant I came to Australia in the 1970s by sea as a European migrant on the Australis ship. I learnt English at school. The first school I went to was pretty good and I went to the Special Education Unit as there was some debate amongst the teachers whether I had special learning needs. I had one teacher who advocated for me and identified that language was the barrier that needed to be addressed. I did enjoy the times at the Special Education Unit, the teachers there were kind and compassionate in the way they communicated with us. I had the opportunity to play with children who were different. It was interesting to experience the attitudes of Australian children towards those of us who were foreigners and did not grasp the language and nuances of Australian slang. They were tough times. I spent most of those middle childhood years hating myself and wanting to have a different identity that conformed and was palatable to the majority. Bus rides home sometimes were tough too. I was called all sorts of names because of the darker colour of my skin and the children decided for me that I must be a Wog (slang for Greek or Italian) or a Boong (slang for First Australian/Indigenous Australian). The population of children at the school was dominated by Caucasian Australians with only a handful of us either Indigenous Australian or European migrants. One thing I will never forget is how the First Australian children I sat with would hold themselves quietly, and with grace, during the unpleasant vitriol. It is only in recent years working as a health professional and University teacher, that I learned to view these experiences with gratitude. I also thought a lot about the different teachers I had and the different attitudes I experienced towards my non-English speaking background and especially my Dutch accent. It was decided by one of my teachers that, due to my accent, my English skills were below standard; my written work was above average. My parents were required to attend a meeting with the school principal and our family was told that we were to stop speaking Dutch at home. I remember that left us feeling disempowered and

Being a mother, becoming a teacher 163 inadequate, despite one of my parents having good English skills and completing another degree at an Australian University at the time. I was lucky that it triggered something in my stubborn mind – that I was going to prove that I was able to learn. From that point onwards, I topped my class in English, every year and was either top or next up into my high school years. I also started to pay a ridiculous amount of attention to my teachers, their personalities, teaching styles, and strategies. I wanted to be a top student. This life experience of being unacceptably different, taught me to value diversity and want to learn the stories of others who were also unacceptably different. Valuing diversity and narratives is important in the University teaching role, to appreciate the diversity of the contemporary student body within Australian Universities. Mental illness – suffering and caring During my primary school years one of my parents was diagnosed with a persistent mental illness, schizophrenia. I knew something was going on but never really understood what it was. The acute episodes and frequent hospital admissions made things difficult for us all. My other parent struggled with posttraumatic stress disorder (PTSD) due to experiences of being in a concentration camp as a teenager during World War II and childhood abuse. This was formally diagnosed during later years. Finally, I was able to understand the explosive rage, the dark depression and shaking episodes, and the long lectures that did not make any sense. I remember constantly striving to be a better daughter and most of the time not understanding what I was being punished for. I also remembered spending a lot of time with my maternal grandfather in his later years, a stoic, softly spoken and kind gentleman who had been very active in the Dutch Resistance Movement during World War II, drank a lot of Scotch, and never spoke much. Research exploring the effects of post-war trauma have identified that up to 50% of past members of the Dutch Resistance during World War II experienced delayed onset of PTSD by up to 20 years, whilst many who survived concentration camps and were identified in the 1960s, were diagnosed with ‘concentration camp syndrome’ (Aarts & Op den Velde, 1996; Oosterhuis, 2014; Yehuda, Joels & Morris, 2010). Through this confusion and the carer responsibilities, I thrived at school. Learning new things and being at school was my respite and refuge from confusion, violence, and emotional suffering – my own and my holding the suffering of both my parents. It was the only place where I was permitted to be a child, seen by others as competent, free to enjoy reading books without getting into trouble for not finishing some household chores. These experiences influenced how I understood interpersonal communication and relationships and pushed me to want to learn more about the existential experience of being human and surviving life. I had an insatiable need to read and learn more in the areas of psychology and sociology. In terms of psychological theories, Schema Theory really helped me to understand myself and my family in my young adulthood years (Young, Klosko & Weishaar, 2003). Learning and reading gave me energy and hope and I regularly asked to

164  Rosie Bruce go to the local library and enjoyed time reading in the school library with and without friends. The desire to deeply understand others and the joy of learning was established. Getting a university education I was fortunate enough to do well at high school and get entry to a University education. What a world opened up for me. I could not believe I was in an environment where creativity and diversity were celebrated and even studied! Being able to go to University was the best thing that ever happened to me. I wanted to study occupational therapy and this did not fit with family expectations that I study medicine. Thankfully I did not get accepted into medicine and entered science studies. Eventually I got over the fact that I had disappointed my father. There would be nothing that I could do to redeem myself. I thoroughly enjoyed my science studies and just enjoyed the learning with little attention to studying until the middle of the degree, when I discovered the joy of an undergraduate research project course. I completed a Science Research Honours Degree, after which I was fortunate enough to be awarded an Australian Postgraduate Studies Scholarship and I completed a doctor of philosophy research degree in science. During this time, further to other work, I did some University teaching for a Masters program, as well as for undergraduate science students. I really enjoyed this and the learning discussions with students. After this I decided I still wanted to become an occupational therapist and so returned to university and completed my studies. I get great joy from the clinical work, working with people in our communities to overcome health issues, connect with meaningful life roles and routines that fit for them and give them a sense of purpose. After some work in clinical, workforce, and policy areas, I had an opportunity to do University teaching in occupational therapy. The value of a University education and adult learning was established. Parenthood Not long before I started teaching in occupational therapy, I had my first child. During the time I was doing more University teaching I had my second child. Being a working mother was a difficult adjustment although being able to work and contribute to the community in this way is important to me. Balancing my life roles as a mother and as a worker was very difficult. For some years I felt guilty if my children needed me and I was absent for them and if my work needed me and I was absent due to the needs of my children. Teaching was a completely different way of working. When I left the clinic, my working day ended. For teaching, when I left the office, my teaching work continued. It has taken a lot of effort for me to find a new way of thinking about this. I recently learned about a different concept, work–life harmony. This principle asserts that contemporary life requires a person to be able to smoothly integrate work and other life roles, with a focus on values, authenticity, flexibility, and prioritising (Friedman, Christensen & deGroot, 1998;

Being a mother, becoming a teacher 165 Friedman, 2016). This mind shift has helped me to work with the ongoing nature of teaching work and the needs of young children. I have been fortunate in having a supportive husband, and despite his regular weekend and shift-work we seem to have become better at working our lives around teaching timetables and peak times of assessments and marking. Being a parent has also helped me to become a better teacher and appreciate and enquire about the experience of the learner. Developing as a teacher As I spent more time teaching, I realised that my life experiences had a greater effect on my style and identity as a teacher than I ever took the time to consider. Working with adult learners is so very different. Learning about the theories of learning and teaching has made me realise that there is a legitimate process of developing one’s identity and style as a University teacher. I started to see strengths in my difficult and complex childhood experiences. It makes me who I am and it is one of the reasons that sometimes I am better able to understand and work with the diverse and varied student experiences and ways of engaging with learning. It has also helped me to appreciate the importance of supporting students to access university student support services and the emotional health and wellbeing of others. I pay attention and seek to identify the needs and potential of students, as students of a health professional discipline and as adults finding their path. Becoming a University teacher also requires an ability to learn how to be authentic in teaching-learning with astute adult learners who are diverse; of a range of cultural backgrounds; and at different points of their adult lives, either secondary school leavers, mature-aged students, or international students. Contemporary literature has started exploring the concept of authenticity in teaching for University academics (Jenkins, 2011; Kreber & Klampfleitner, 2013; Orlov & Allen, 2014). Kreber and Klampfleitner (2013) suggest authenticity in University teaching involves a triad of perspectives: existential perspective of understanding one’s purpose and role in life; critical perspective of reflective critique of one’s teaching; and the communitarian perspective, that authenticity in teaching develops within a social context (related to the theory of social constructivism philosophy and paradigm). Much pedagogical literature has explored and documented processes of critically reflective teaching (ProDAIT, 2006) and it is beyond this chapter to discuss these in detail, only to emphasise the importance of using these structure processes of critical reflection to develop as a University teacher. To expand on this, being at my early stage of becoming a University teacher, I believe authenticity in teaching requires a structured approach of lifelong learning principles in both teaching and learning pedagogy and personal development. Furthermore, I believe it requires ongoing commitment to developing and maintaining the essential characteristics of Goleman’s Emotional Intelligence Theory: self-awareness, self-regulation, motivation, empathy, and social skills (Goleman, 1998). Teaching-learning processes that maximise transformational learning have been discussed in pedagogical literature. Barnett (2009) proposes knowledge and

166  Rosie Bruce knowing (the journey of knowing oneself and learning process to learned knowledge of a field) need to be guided by dispositions of willingness and preparedness to learn, engage, listen, explore new learning experiences, and move forward in learning – a way of being. These dispositions function alongside ten essential qualities: courage, resilience, carefulness, integrity, self-discipline, restraint, respect for others, openness, generosity, and authenticity (Barnett, 2009). These two theories complement one another and reflect how I think about becoming a University teacher and integrating my life experiences to be authentic and learnercentred in the ways I teach. The use of coaching and mentoring amongst University academics is an emerging field (e.g. in Australia through National Excellence in Education Leadership Institute, NEELI) and a concept that may be well worth considering for mothers working in academia either full-time or part-time, further to engaging in ongoing professional development as academics and University teachers. I have found the University sector is unique to other healthcare and corporate workplaces I have experienced. This may be a result of what has been described as the competitive academic culture, which can drive University teachers to working in isolation and stifle collegiality (Barcan, 2013). Transitioning – from clinician to academic It has been identified that universities are unique educational and research institutions, not without their own politics and unique workplace culture (Barcan, 2013). The effects of the competitive nature of academic working life supports some to thrive and forces others to adapt (Barcan, 2013). Health care workplaces with a clinical care focus rely heavily on teamwork and cooperation. As an established occupational therapy clinician, it took me some time to stop asking myself, ‘what is wrong with me?’ and start thinking ‘how can I adapt and adjust myself and my family routine?’. It has been noted that the transition for clinicians to an academic career can be challenging within the competitive academic culture and intensive workload (Murray, Stanley & Wright, 2014). The work of Seligman’s positive psychology theories (Seligman, 2011) and Acceptance Commitment Therapy (ACT) theory of Hayes and Harris (Hayes, 2005; Harris, 2009; Harris, 2012) were the most helpful in supporting me to do the work needed for adjustment through the transition to becoming a University teacher and developing an academic identity, whilst balancing motherhood. Making the commitment, knowing and staying true to one’s values, focussing on constant improvement, consistently taking action, accepting the peak times, being self-aware and true to oneself. A new way of working Acknowledging that the work of University-level teachers involves much energy and determination, so breaking down the myth that this needs to be denied, is important for working mothers hoping to enter or fully commit to this type

Being a mother, becoming a teacher 167 of work. Appearances indicate that the ‘professional persona . . . of the heroprofessor’ (Barcan, 2013, p. 214) is particularly important to University academics. I often find myself striving to these heights. Values I hold dearly: delivering better than good quality work, regardless of my position, constantly improving and striving to give better and more whenever needed or asked. The reality of being a University teacher and mother of young children, with a shift-worker partner and ageing parents, means that responsibilities need to be shared as situations arise and this has been acknowledged in the literature in relation to mothers who work in academia (Misra, Lundquist & Templar, 2012). There are times when the reality is certainly less than the ideal for both work and mothering roles. A lot of fortitude and energy is required to brush oneself off, look ahead and continue, in spite of the ups and downs of being a working mother. Concurrently being a mother and a University teacher requires more than a little commitment and creativity. The concept of occupational balance in occupational therapy focusses on a personal view of a satisfying and meaningful range of occupations, engaged in through one’s daily or regular patterns or routines (Matuska & Barrett, 2014). This concept works well for me in conceptualising the transition to academe as a working mother with young children. There is no doubt that I enjoy the interactions with students as we learn together and teaching their classes, which affords me the privilege of immersing myself in reading and learning and maintaining discipline specific knowledge. Alongside this privilege comes the intensive times of semester, on about a three-monthly cycle of peak workload times. Times that test my commitment to my work and especially my commitment to the relationships with my husband and my children, who inevitably come last over these times. I have cognitively re-framed this to think that this is another opportunity to practice stress management skills and more personally important to me, opportunities to prove myself to my workplace, appreciate relationships, and resolve to live a life true to my values. These peak times are actually times that provide opportunities to learn more about my work and strengthen relationships; further to opportunities to work on maintaining character traits of perseverance, courage, and commitment. It has taken me and my little family three years to keep adapting our strategies each semester to come to a system that works for us. This has involved my husband and his generous work team to use my teaching timetable each semester, adjusting shift-work rosters months ahead. At home, it has involved a few weeks each semester where there are more than a few easy dinners or take-away or fastfood options (much to the joy of the children). Fun traditions of hot chocolates and colouring in or collage sitting with Mum while she does work and marking on the computer early mornings, evenings, and on weekends. Going together into the garden to pick flowers and look for lady beetles during marking break times. Paying attention so that every few days I put effort into noticing a beautiful moment of connection with my children or husband, noticing the seasonal changes in our garden and the sky. Remembering to laugh and that tomorrow is a day full of new surprises and opportunities. Future focus and adapting situations, self-control of frustration during immensely busy times of semester, appreciation of beauty and

168  Rosie Bruce excellence, alongside grateful and giving attitudes have been identified as supporting resilience and mental health through Seligman’s research findings and positive psychology theories (Seligman, 2006, 2011). During these periods, which could be perceived as life imbalance, the focus has been on maintaining a sense of humour and fun and acceptance of circumstance. Occupational balance for me then, is different in this role, where the balance comes through using short breaks to build memories for the children and maintain relationships with a quick game of cards, music, and reading to one another for the longer nights and weekends of marking. The unique nature of academia, workplace culture, and environment requires creative and individualised ways of adapting and a significant commitment of time and perseverance. Once committed to this pursuit, relationships and social support becomes more important than it seems. The value of staying connected is established. Focussing on values – breaking barriers Women can contribute to University teaching in a part-time capacity and there needs to be an attitude of supportive acceptance that there may be a period of time where research outputs are not as high and rapid as desired by the institution. Supporting working mothers who are University teachers to join research teams and activities is one way to ensure that engagement in research activities continues, regardless of employment tenure. This way working mothers can enjoy both the teaching and research aspects of their job, whilst contributing to their team and building collegial relationships within the University community. University institutions promote diversity, equality, and acceptance amongst student communities; these attitudes need to be equally valued by the attitudes of staff. The future in various sectors, including universities, is moving towards an increase in contracts and decrease in long-term permanent appointments. Despite this, part-time working mothers can be supported to contribute to positive research and teaching outputs for universities when there is a focus on values and learning communities, rather than permanency of tenure. Sharing the narrative of lived experience is an important part of learning and development across the lifespan and in the adjustment to adult life and is not unique to any one culture, although it may be practiced differently across cultures. The opportunity to share the living experience of balancing motherhood alongside the transition to becoming a University teacher is a rare and precious one. There is a growth of literature exploring this balance of life roles (Miller & Hollenshead, 2005; Misra, Lundquist & Templer, 2012). I hope that opening the door to my personal and professional journey will add insight and options to other mothers around the world either entering or continuing this worker role and/or transitioning from clinical roles into academia.

Conclusion This chapter provides a personal account of my experience of transitioning from a clinician role to educator role in University academia, after having established

Being a mother, becoming a teacher 169 the life role of being a mother to two young children. Identified themes have been discussed through personal narrative with an exploration of relevant literature. Predominantly, the values of: access to education, valuing curiosity, family relationships, understanding oneself, being authentic in learning-teaching contexts, and accepting diversity have influenced my transition to becoming a University teacher. With my story, I am proposing that greater attention to sustainable support systems and sharing of experiences through coaching and mentoring would assist women who are mothers and from different workplace contexts to transition to University teaching work. My aim in sharing my story is to provide an insight into my personal experiences – which may or may not be shared in some way by other women in academia. It is hoped that sharing experience and understanding will support women to adjust and adapt to the unique and exciting world of University environments and teaching, as they enter the academic workforce, regardless of tenure status.

References Aarts, P. G. H., & Op den Velde, W. (1996). Prior traumatization and the process of aging: Theory and clinical implications. In B. A. Van der Kolk, A. C. McFarlane, & L. Weisaeth (Eds.), Traumatic stress: The effects of overwhelming experience on mind, body and society (pp. 359–377). New York: Guildford Press. Barcan, R. (2013). Academic life and labour in the new university. Surrey: Ashgate. Barnett, R. (2009). Knowing and becoming in higher education curriculum. Studies in Higher Education, 34(4), 429–440. Friedman, S. D. (2016). Work-life-harmony not work life balance. Blog article. BigThink Blog. 30 June 2017. Retrieved on from http://bigthink.com/big-think-mentor/ stewart-friedman-strive-for-harmony-not-balance Friedman, S. D., Christensen, P., & DeGroot, J. (1998). Work and life: The end of the zerosum game. Harvard Business Review, 76, 119–130. Goleman, D. (1998). Emotional intelligence. London: Bloomsbury. Harris, R. (2009). ACT made simple: A quick-start guide to ACT basics and beyond. Oakland, CA: New Harbinger. Harris, R. (2012). The reality slap: Finding peace and fulfillments when life hurts. Oakland, CA: New Harbinger. Hayes, S. C., & Smith, S. (2005). Get out of your mind and into your life: The new Acceptance and Commitment Therapy. Oakland, CA: New Harbinger. Jenkins, C. (2011). Authenticity through reflexivity: Connecting teaching philosophy and practice. Australian Journal of Adult Learning, 51(Special Edition), 72–89. Kreber, C., & Klampfleitner, M. (2013). Lecturers’ and students’ conceptions of authenticity in teaching and actual teacher actions and attributes students perceive as helpful. Higher Education, 66, 463–487. Liamputtong, P. (2013). Qualitative research methods (4th ed.). Melbourne: Oxford University Press. Matuska, K., & Barrett, K. (2014). Patterns of occupation. In B. A. B. Schell, G. Gillen, M. E. Scaffa, & E. S. Cohn (Eds.), Willard & Spackman’s occupational therapy (12th ed., pp. 163–172). Baltimore, MD: Wolters Kluwer, Lippincott Williams & Wilkins. Miller, J. E.,  & Hollenshead, C. (2005). Gender, family, and flexibility  – why they’re important in the academic workplace. Change, 37(6), 58–62.

170  Rosie Bruce Misra, J., Lundquist, J. H., & Templer, A. (2012). Gender, work time, and care responsibilities among faculty. Sociology Forum, 27(2), 300–320. Murray, C., Stanley, M., & Wright, S. (2014). Weighing up the commitment: A grounded theory of the transition from occupational therapy clinician to academic. Australian Occupational Therapy Journal, 61, 437–445. National Excellence in Educational Leadership Initiative (NEELI). Women and leadership Australia, Canberra. Part of national excellence in school leadership initiative (NESLI) and the global schools leadership alliance. 29 June 2017. Retrieved from www.nesli.org/ Oosterhuis, H. (2014). Mental health, citizenship, and the memory of World War II in the Netherlands (1945–85). History of Psychiatry, 25(1), 20–34. Orlov, J. M., & Allen, K. R. (2014). Being who I am: Effective teaching, learning, student support, and societal change through LGBQ faculty freedom. Journal of Homosexuality, 61(7), 1025–1052. ProDAIT. (2006). Critical reflections on teaching. A resource manual, professional development for academics involved in teaching. 30 June 2017. Retrieved from www. weblearn.bham.ac.uk/prodait/resources/cr_on_teaching.pdf Seligman, M. (2006). Learned optimism: How to change your mind and your life. New York: Vintage. Seligman, M. (2011). Flourish. New York: Free Press. Stewart, M. (2012). Understanding learning: Theories and critique. In L. Hunt & D. Chalmers (Eds.), University teaching in focus: A learning-centred approach (pp. 3–20). Camberwell, Victoria: ACER Press. Yehuda, R., Joels, M., & Morris, R. G. M. (2010). Perspectives viewpoint: The memory paradox. Nature Reviews Neuroscience, 11, 837–839. Young, J. E., Klosko, J. S., & Weishaar, M. E. (2003). Schema therapy: A practitioner’s guide. New York: Guildford Press.

17 Metaphors for women’s experiences of early career academia Deborah M. Netolicky et al.Metaphors for women’s experiences

Buffy, Alice, and Frankenstein’s creature Deborah M. Netolicky, Naomi Barnes, and Amanda Heffernan Playfulness as an orientation to research can provide a way to re-see the world and spark imagination (Watson, 2015). Playfulness is also an irony (Haraway, 2000), where we hold together things which might be contradictory – like a vampire slayer, a curious girl, and a monster – and see where they meet. Playfulness is a “rhetorical strategy and a political method, one [we] would like to see more honoured in feminism” (Haraway, 2000, p. 291). In this chapter, metaphor is a part of our playfulness, as is our Baradian method of re-turning. Metaphor is a powerful vehicle for defining reality, structuring experience, and understanding intangibles like feelings, experiences, and beliefs; it is a coherent frame for imaginative rationality (Martı́nez, Sauleda & Huber, 2001). Thought processes and conceptual systems are defined and structured through metaphor (Lakoff & Johnsen, 2003). Metaphor is particularly useful as an analytical tool in the exploration of complex, abstract, or emotionally challenging human experiences (Billot & King, 2015). We three authors – Amanda, Deborah, and Naomi – in this chapter offer up to the reader our own metaphors of woman-self-in-academe (the academe referring to the intellectual community of academia). We are represented here by the three characters of vampire slayer Buffy, Lewis Carroll’s Alice, and Victor Frankenstein’s creature. The choice to use well-known pop-cultural and literary characters as metaphors for lived experiences of women in the academe taps into readers’ experiences of known cultural models (Mus, 2014), thereby offering layers of relatability and meaning, and offering potential ways for women to do academia differently. We three authors came together via technology, meeting and initially communicating via the social media spheres of Twitter and blogging. Amanda writes as a part-time student and tenured member of the academe, nearing the end of her PhD. Deborah writes as a newly awarded doctor and academe-industry boundary spanner who wrote her PhD full time, while also working and parenting two small children (six months and two years old when she began). Naomi writes as an early career academic seeking tenured work in the academe, two years after completing her PhD part-time while she, too, parented small children, aged four and six at the time. We communicate here through writing, the technology of

172  Deborah M. Netolicky et al. cyborgs (Haraway, 1991). We traverse and blur the borders of fractured identities, roles, and geographies, like Haraway’s cyborgs: hybrids between organism and machine. As Haraway (1991) notes, there is nothing about being female that naturally binds women. While the sociological imagination can act as a connective tissue, there is nothing material about being a woman in academia that binds these experiences together. Through writing this chapter, however, we work to bind ourselves together via machines (Twitter, email, Google Docs) because we live at three corners of our vast continent of Australia. There is much to be gained from sharing, binding together, interrogating, and teasing apart stories of women in the academe. In particular, those stories that tap into imagination and playfulness through metaphor can help to illuminate the convergences and divergences of being human, being woman, being in the academe, and of the associated constant state of becoming. Our identities and self-perceptions shift as we iteratively and unceasingly become our female researcher, thinker, reader, writer, collaborator, and agent-in-academia selves. We do not seek to speak for women in the academe, but our metaphors of our lived experiences tangle together to show that it is the very differences between our experiences that can bond us and bind us together. We read our stories through each other and we offer them to our readers with the invitation to do the same: connect with us in our separate journeys to find academic selves and paths in which we can feel that we belong, contribute, and can live with integrity and authenticity.

Re-turning, entangling-detangling as method While this chapter shares the ethnographer’s goal of drawing insider meanings directly from insiders, it moves away from the ethnographic focus on reflection. This chapter draws instead on Karen Barad’s (2014) messy theorising that describes a dynamic re-turning, entangling-detangling, and reading our lives through each other. In this chapter, each author channels Barad’s (2014) process of re-turning. That is, not returning from or to, but turning over and over, folding over and over, our stories, and each other’s stories, of self within and without academia, our thus-far journeys into the academe. We take on Barad’s challenge to respond to “thick tangles . . . that are threaded through us” (p. 184). As we wrote this paper, we entangled ourselves with each other’s metaphors in order to reimagine our own academic selves, finding points of connection and deviation. Our tangles of “I” threads entangle and detangle into our “we” and in doing so have something to offer to a greater universal “We” (of women in the academe, of the academe in general, of being a human being in the world). Our three metaphors for women’s experiences of academia come together and pull apart, embracing the broader metaphor of the tangling of common and diverse threads. Our metaphorical explorations provide a tangled multiplicity of ways for viewing the lived experience of being a woman in the academe (self and others/alone and supported/insider-outsider/constantly becoming). Following Barad (2014) we are searching for the differences within. As Barad points out,

Metaphors for women’s experiences 173 entanglements are not unities, but simultaneous differences. Each of our stories is singular, but itself a tangle of frayed, knotted, multiplicitous threads that knot together and diverge apart at various intersections. Our method of collaboration was to write separately, read each other, and then pick what resonated, challenged, worried, and provoked. We used a collaborative Google document as a malleable, agential text that could both constrain and extend us. We allowed ourselves the time and space to respond in our own time and space. Collaborating in this way led us to interrogate our commonalities and divergences, the differences within.

Buffy the PhD Slayer: Amanda nearing the end of the PhD The television series Buffy the Vampire Slayer broke new ground with its portrayal of a strong, young, female hero who saved the world each week. Buffy became a role model for many of the young women who watched the programme and has attracted a significant amount of scholarly attention since her debut in 1997. Buffy was a once-in-a-generation character, both on-screen and off, who helped to shape portrayals of young women in popular culture. She was part of a long line of women who had come before her and who would come after her. She had deep, abiding relationships with people but also felt the burden of being the ‘chosen one’, one who alone wields the strength and skill to save the world. Since its debut, I have connected strongly with Buffy’s struggles to find her place in a complicated world, and I adopted elements of her story as a metaphor for my own PhD journey. In particular, I resonate with notions of relationships and collaboration in what is ostensibly a solo doctoral journey. There is a tension in the notion of the lone PhD quest for knowledge and understanding which, in practice, is facilitated by a support network of people who understand – or at least, who seek to understand: supervisors, fellow doctoral students, friends, and family. As a part-time external student, located hours from campus, my PhD journey was initially a lonely endeavour. I felt at times as though I was relying on my wits, my resilience, and my own strength to make it through. In the same way, Buffy often felt a sense of aloneness, but in practice her support network was a vital part of her journey. While Buffy was fighting monsters to save the world, I was grappling in a different way with difficult theory and the ongoing process of ‘becoming’ a scholar. As the chosen one, Buffy shouldered a large burden, but she had a ‘Scooby Gang’ of trusted friends upon whose experience and expertise she often drew. I eventually established my own Scooby Gang consisting of fellow academics I met on Twitter, which includes Deborah and Naomi. My network are experts in their own areas, who are unconditionally supportive of my work but are unafraid to challenge me when I seek feedback or share my ideas, echoing Buffy’s gang who challenged her thinking and forced her to grow and evolve as a result. External PhD study can feel isolating, but it seemed less so after I began to form these networks. We have shared experiences of postgraduate study and shared research interests, which results in insightful support that gives me new directions of thought, new sources of readings or research, and critical feedback on new ideas.

174  Deborah M. Netolicky et al. In the neoliberal university environment where individual achievement is so valorised, I sense that it would almost be easy to work alone and to write alone. Buffy’s storyline culminates in a purposeful action of empowering other women, referencing the slayers who came before their generation, and paving the way for future generations. As a woman in the academe I, like Buffy, seek to draw upon the experiences and knowledge of those who came before me. I will contribute from my own position as a tenured woman to opening up opportunities for other women and to making what difference I can for future generations of women scholars.

Alice in academic Wonderland: Deborah post-PhD Lewis Carroll’s Alice became a metaphor for my academic story during my PhD. I wrote and illustrated her into my thesis (Netolicky, 2016) as a literary metaphor and structural frame (Netolicky, 2015). My research was a rabbit-hole portal into which I burrowed and through which I, my participants, and my readers, were transported and transformed, emerging with new knowledge and heightened understandings. The constraints of academic being and writing mirror the rules and regimentations of Victorian England in which Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland is set; there are certain expectations of how one is expected to behave as researcher and academic writer. Like Alice, I am often out of place in the academe, mirroring Alice’s experience of growing smaller and larger; sometimes she is so big she stands out, or so small as to be invisible. Like Alice, I can’t go back to yesterday because I was a different person then; my experiences of the PhD and the academe have transformed me, and continue to shape me. Author Charles Dodgson used the pen name Lewis Carroll. Signing his more fantastical work ‘Carroll’ and his more mathematic-logical work, ‘Dodgson’, he literally created author selves. Like Carroll, and like Alice who is at once awake by the riverbank and dreaming in Wonderland, I am in two places at once, simultaneously in the rule-bound, sometimes ridiculous world of academia, and outside of it. I continue, post-PhD to be betwixt and between, to be insider–outsider, fitting snuggly into neither the world of my work nor the world of academia. I work in a school as a teacher and leader, but also in a university adjunct position. As an education scholar, I can see that the K–12 education world is in many ways a nonsense Wonderland-esque one, with educational concepts simplified and sloganised into meaningless contradictory gibberish. The international culture of neoliberal education reform seems like the Queen of Hearts of educational Wonderland: autocratic, a force of fear, and tyrannically focused on a narrow view of right and wrong. In both academia and in school education, I live with the discomfort of being too big, too small, too inside, too outside, too sensible, not sensible enough. As I move further away from the PhD, I can feel myself moving away from the Alice metaphor, towards braver and darker metaphors (e.g. Netolicky, 2017). As I develop my understanding of the academe and my place in it, I am speaking

Metaphors for women’s experiences 175 out and moving on from being the naïve observer of a world I don’t understand, and towards an identity in which I seek to transform the academe from within, to use its rules to my own advantage. I am finding the courage to use my freer, less distant, and less worried-about-expectations voice more in my academic writing. As part-outsider to the academe I can embrace being simultaneously awake and dreaming, inside and outside, belonging but not belonging. I can, like Alice, rebel against the academic world and influence it from the inside.

Frankenstein’s creature stitched: Naomi two years into the academe For me, Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein became a metaphor for my academic story during the final months of a postdoctoral publication scholarship. I began to write Frankenstein’s creature into my blogging, writing as inquiry, and slowly into my publications. I see the creature as a metaphor for the assemblage that is an interdisciplinary scholar engaged in narrative research practices. Through Frankenstein’s creature, I have sutured together the diversity of my scholarly life. My research is situated in education, digital media, cultural studies, philosophy, and critical literacy. It is very difficult to select the discipline I prefer, and the idea of a creature created from various transplants rings true when asked to define my academic identity. Furthermore, by selecting a so-called monster I make obvious the messy complexity of my scholarship that is difficult to behold in a single glance [or paper]. My scholarship is a process of continuous and forever becoming, where I constantly search for the bolt of electricity which will make the interdisciplinary creature that I am assembling (and is likewise assembling me) live. The choice of Frankenstein’s metaphor folds into three aspects of my researcher self. First, as a scholar of digital culture who is pessimistic of the unfettered adoption of digital tools with limited criticality, the luddite undercurrent of Shelley’s book is appealing. Shelley lived at a time of rapid scientific and industrial progress and I see her book as a warning about the ethics of unchecked and unethical invention. Second, Frankenstein’s creature is cyborgic, a coming together of the technological and organic. I am very conscious of not separating the technical texts from the humans who write them. Furthermore, my researcher identity is largely formed through my digital-organic self (see Barnes, 2017, in press). The co-authors of this paper and I connected over social media so our initial understandings of each other were through this framework. Third, my cyborgic monstrous identity is in part inspired by the theorising of Haraway (1992) who explains that monsters offer promises. Identity formation becomes about tacking together, becoming ungainly, contradictory, leaky, and monstrous: full of promises. Identity development becomes about what we can become rather than where I fit. How can we work together to move to the future, discarding a search for harmony. Harmony ends. Horror continues – we are never quite sure if it is over. I have tried on many academic outfits and believe the monstrous is one I can wear without regret. At present, my blog is a cyborgic manifestation of my researcher–writer–reader self. When I write my blog I am a contradiction who

176  Deborah M. Netolicky et al. both abhors and embraces technological advancement. It is the place I work out what about the academe I accept, what I will tolerate and what I abhor. As a reader traverses my bibliography they will note a lack of coherence in all things except the digital and the ethical. Like Shelley, I trouble the connection between the organic and the technological by exploring what it means to be human and humane in a rapidly advancing world.

Findings In order to write our findings, we returned to Haraway’s (1991) cyborg, embodying it to enmesh the human. Communicating via technology allowed us to engage as humans through the words on a screen. Our keyboards clattered in three different Australian locations, as we focused on ideas and words, not on one another’s bodily presence, non-verbal cues, or tone of voice. This allowed multi-geographical collaboration, humanising the academe for us, bringing us together as an antidote to isolation, a connector, and a support. The following explicates our findings, those convergences and divergences that emerged as we re-turned, folded over, tried on, entangled, untangled, and cut-apart-together.

The metaphors Buffy provides an empowering and supernatural representation of the lone, but supported, PhD journey. Buffy, while supported by the Scooby Gang and her supervisor–mentor ‘Watcher’, Giles, was tasked with difficult challenges episode after episode. She relied on her strength, smarts, resilience, and slaying powers to fight through those challenges and emerge from each one victorious. Buffy, like many women in the academe, was surrounded by professor-type Watchers who were largely male. Buffy reflects the importance of support in what is often lonely and isolating work, particularly during the PhD. Buffy’s struggle with her powers, her identity, and the villains she comes across, reflect the discomfort in the learning during the PhD, and the shifts in identity as one moves towards and through being ‘doctor’. Buffy was a strengthening metaphor that allowed Amanda to channel her inner fighting spirit and envision her success against PhD odds, including being an external student. Buffy propelled Amanda forward and gave her a sense of efficacy and intrepidness. Buffy’s fight and slayer mentality is quite different to the adventures of Alice and the identity forming struggles of Frankenstein’s creature; it is sacred, mythic, and uncomfortably powerful. As a metaphor for tackling the PhD it is galvanising and useful, but still acknowledges the complexities of the journey. Alice offers someone who journeyed through the unknown on an adventure which kept throwing her the unexpected. She had to be constantly open and ready for the unusual. She points to the need to look more carefully at the nonsense in the world, including the illogicality or hidden rules of the academe. Just as Alice in Wonderland was a comment on the nonsense of Victorian polite society, so does Alice as metaphor for the female academic encourage us to pay attention to the ridiculous and to question what is accepted as normal. Alice’s messy and

Metaphors for women’s experiences 177 continual transformations reflect the female academic’s identity struggles. Alice reflects the moments of trying to understand who we are, who we become, who we want to become, and how that fits in with the worlds we’re putting ourselves into as women in this research environment. Alice reflects women changing themselves – slightly or in larger ways by moving cities, changing jobs, altering how we present ourselves in different spaces physically – to fit with the expectations of the academe or to deliberately work against them. The Alice metaphor also allows the PhD candidate or academic to see what happens when you come out the other side: new knowledge and heightened understandings. Lewis Carroll’s pen name and real name point to the boundary-spanning notion of someone like Deborah who exists in the research world, and simultaneously outside it. Unlike Buffy, whose struggle is ongoing, and Frankenstein’s creature, whose tale ends badly, Alice has an end to her journey. She emerges from Wonderland’s world of nonsensical conventions and re-enters the rule-bound world of Victorian England. No matter where she goes she must encounter a form of the ridiculous, and adjust herself to fit. Frankenstein’s creature presents the ugliest and most tormented metaphor of the three. It is also the only metaphor that is male, although written into being by a woman author. The creature is a sutured assemblage of parts. Its monstrosity reflects the female academic (especially the early career or adjunct academic) as Othered, not fitting in, stitched together from disparate pieces, not accepted by or ‘in with’ the academe. The creature lays bare the feeling of not belonging, of a fringe dweller peering out of a hovel. It reflects the scorn of peer review rejection, and of being spurned by universities for academic positions. It reflects the academic’s relationship with technology as an equally embraced but abhorred part of the academic self. The creature is also representative of the search to find a discipline where the academic ‘fits’, as well as the search for the bolt of electricity, the spark of academic life and passion. The creature’s representation of a messy scholarly identity, untidy and sutured together from contradictory and leaky pieces, generates the feeling of an outsider searching for the spark that connects. While it points to the ways in which the Othered non-tenured academic navigates the academe – its expectations, cultural norms, and its costs – the creature is also empowering, giving agency to Naomi who is deliberate in her choices about what work and conditions she will accept, tolerate, and abhor.

Convergences All three metaphors converged in their representations of the lone struggle-filled quest, with the need for self-reliance and the desire for support. Even though we intellectually understand that the PhD and academic journey are not travelled entirely alone, our metaphors reflect struggle and the need for self-reliance and resilience. Each character has to struggle as they face odds, challenges, messiness, absurdity, and times where things go wrong. While we acknowledge our privilege – as white, middle-class women with supportive spouses – each of us were remote or part-time candidates, and two of us were mothers of very young children during our doctorates, which amplified our feelings of being on our own.

178  Deborah M. Netolicky et al. That we authors came together through social media reflects that our inability to have a physical presence at our universities during our doctorates led us to seeking and finding virtual support in online spaces. The need for self-reliance, resilience, and the support of others is common to all three metaphors. All three metaphors are in some ways outsiders who do not fit or belong in the places in which they are trying to exist. Buffy felt at times like she was on the fringes looking in, as might an external doctoral student. Alice fits neither in Wonderland nor in Victorian society, and the creature is rejected by all who lay eyes on it. The characters are connected by a thread of the quest for belonging. Becoming a doctor–scholar–academic is identity work in the at-first-unfamiliar world of academia. All three characters are forever becoming as they make sense of themselves and the worlds or experiences into which they have been thrust. All three characters are fictional and embody or experience an aspect of that which is magical, supernatural, or otherworldly. Buffy has superpowers and deals with the supernatural. While Alice is not magical in herself, magic and the otherworldly is enacted upon her on a regular basis. Frankenstein’s creature is the source of fear but also supernatural strength, eloquence, and resilience. The magic in each of these characters’ stories speaks of being in an entirely new place. It reflects that we are cutting our way through an entirely new path in unexplored ground, as women academics entering and engaging with new worlds of knowledge and experience. We wonder if the pull to the magical and fictional is a result of the sacredness of the doctorate, as a title with mythic privilege and responsibility, or the desire to find the weapons necessary to face the neoliberal reality of our chosen profession.

Divergences The three metaphors diverge when we consider how each of us has engaged with our metaphor. Amanda’s Buffy is a state of being, an image she channels as a kind of mental talisman to strengthen her resolve and propel her action. Deborah’s Alice shaped and became a written, illustrated, and acknowledged part of her PhD; it is reflected in the words and illustrations in her thesis. Naomi’s monstrous creature has emerged post-PhD as a way to make sense of postdoctoral adjunct life and being; it makes itself visible in her writing and research. While Buffy and Alice’s actions and fictional experiences are important for Amanda and Deb’s metaphors, Naomi’s metaphor of the creature is more about what it is, rather than what it does. The metaphors, emerging as they do from different times, authors, and sociocultural contexts, reflect different representations of the feminine. Buffy, from the 1997–2003 television series, shows an element of physical and intellectual female strength, but Buffy remains mentored, encouraged, and supported by her male Watcher. Alice, from Carroll’s 1865 novel, bucks the Victorian subservience of women by being outspoken, curious, and adventurous, but also conforms to the Victorian feminine ideals of being courteous and gentle. She is continually manipulated by the male characters she encounters. Frankenstein’s creature is a

Metaphors for women’s experiences 179 male character, although written by a female author. The creature is, however, not typically masculine; he is initially gentle, kind, and loving, yet as he is unusual and ugly, he is Othered and outcast. Naomi did not choose a heroic male character to represent her academic experience, but one sutured together and shunned by its world. The metaphors also deviate in their attractiveness. Buffy and Alice are physically attractive; the creature is not. Buffy and Alice are white, blonde, young, and conform to Western ideals of beauty. The creature is described as hideous and deformed. We wonder about the effect of choosing a physically attractive versus an ugly metaphor to represent one’s identity and experiences. At first glance, Amanda and Deborah’s metaphors might seem aspirational and optimistic ones about seeking acceptance in the academe, and Naomi’s metaphor one that more keenly acknowledges the struggle and rejection inherent in many women’s experiences of the academe. Yet all three speak to a dual female academic paradox of seeking power and belonging, while at the same time struggling to fit snugly into a world in which belonging and power are sought.

What our stories add to conversations about the female experience of the academe We, the authors, came to this chapter and its assemblage separated by geography and time zones, but together via technology. As thick tangles of storied metaphors entwined, we read through each other’s stories of being women in the academe. We are simultaneously intertwined and untangled, separate women deliberately weaving our stories together to make a new one, each strand complementing, strengthening, pushing, and pulling. We invite other women to read our narratives and weave their own stories through them, because together we are stronger, better able to navigate the greater labyrinthine web of women’s lived experiences of the academe. Separate-but-together. Individual threads entangled across times and spaces. As Gillis and Johnson state, “through metaphor, we meet ourselves;” metaphors capture our evolving selves and trace our professional lives (2002, p. 41). In this chapter, by engaging in one another’s metaphors, we also came to wonder how women academics might use metaphor deliberately as tools for exploring, reclaiming, and shaping their academic identities. By re-writing these metaphors, we re-wrote ourselves. By sharing the metaphors, we began to remake them in the image of the sort of academe to which we want to belong: one of honesty, productive collaboration, and the joy of scholarship. Our tangled-disentangled apart-together metaphors present a vivid, visceral, and personal vision of women in the academe: that of the female scholar feeling alone and Other, but alive and inspired. She seeks ways to find her academic place, her version of academic success, and her academic spark of life. Metaphors like those shared here offer a meaning-making frame for the identity work of the academe. By reading ourselves through each other’s metaphors, we were not only understanding one thing in terms of another (as in most explorations of metaphor where individuals’ metaphors are protected as discrete), but in terms of multiple

180  Deborah M. Netolicky et al. others. Through co-authorship and sharing comes solidarity in both similarity and difference. As authors, it was through collaboration, and deliberately weaving ourselves together through metaphor, that we realised our sameness, our uniqueness, and our entangledness. The multi-layered, collaborative process helped us to tease out the experiences and their meanings. It helped us to feel some of the belonging that we all sought, and through our writing we claim some of the power we seek, over our identities and our journeys. It is through co-authorship, and sharing, that we might together shape the academe we want rather than the academe we have. Our method of reading our lives through metaphors and each other offers a way for authors from different contexts, experiences, and places, to carve new ways of thinking through experiences, challenging one another, and bridging gaps.

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18 The double life of a casual academic Gail CrimminsThe double life of a casual academic

Gail Crimmins

No, she’s not a secret agent, double agent or government agent – in fact she feels she has little agency at all. She’s not a secret sex worker and doesn’t have a second family hidden under the stairs. She’s not an avowedly vegetarian who eats bacon in private. But she does lead a double life. You see, although she dresses in a ‘capable and confident’ lipstick and, ties back her ‘I’m all over it’ hair, it takes all the strength she has to carry her chin up. Inside she feels paper-thin, like her ribs are made of pipe cleaners, her spine made of liquorice. She’s had the stuffing knocked out of her. She’s spent. She’s a casual academic who wakes early to check emails respond to most urgent read student drafts craft sensitive feedback taking care to emotionally support the student whilst guiding her/him to a clearer understanding of the task requirements, offering suggestions of further reading that might help her/him more fully address the question. . . She’s encouraging and guiding. And if she’s lucky she ‘gets to’ prepare part of a lecture or tute. 3–6am is the time she sets aside to ‘catch up’ on the work left over from the day before. Yet even through missing sleep, precious wake-ups with her husband, or an ease-into-the-day, she never manages to get on top of a mountain of emails, assessment drafts, grant apps, marking, chapter proposals, course outlines, lecture slides, moderation, tutorial guides and discussion board questions. Sigh. Then at 6am her children rise, the longest hugs are shared, breakfasts are made, stories told, laughs had, morning teas and lunches prepared, songs are sung, homework supported, school hats found (mostly), bags packed, sunscreen applied, kisses given and her children are reminded to ‘have a good day, be a good friend, be a good learner, and don’t forget that I love you.’

182  Gail Crimmins Big smiles and waves farewell the children into their school day. Sigh. As she drives to work the mum hopes that she’s role-modelling strength and resilience for her children. She hopes that her façade is in-tact and that her double life is not exposed, that the anxiety and fear which eats into her bone marrow and saps her energy isn’t revealed; that her tissue thin heart, thinner than skin, which threatens to travel up her throat to gag or choke her stays in place for another day: and that her chin stays upright until she’s back home this evening. Please. Despite the twelve-hour days from Monday to Friday, and the six-hour days she works on Saturdays and Sundays, she’s terrified that this will be her last year of employment. She’s been on one- and two-year fixed term contracts, in the same role, for five consecutive years and it seems that no matter how hard she works – and she can give no more – she’s just not good enough for permanent employment and the security and validation it brings. Maybe her story is not too dissimilar to yours. You see, this woman’s story is not that uncommon. Although the details of her (non)academic (personal and lived) experience may be unique, living the tightrope of a long-term ‘casual’ is not. In fact, the majority of academic staff in American and Australian universities are now on casual contracts, with 70% of faculty positions in the non-profit higher education sector in America and 61% in Australian universities and are employed on what are described as casual or sessional contracts (Kezar & Maxey, 2015; May, Strachan & Peetz, 2013) and 50% of teaching in higher education is undertaken by casual academics in the UK, France, Germany and Japan (Bryson, 2013). Also, the majority of casual academics are women who seek ongoing academic employment (May, Strachan & Peetz, 2013). So this woman’s story (my story) could be your story – though I hope it’s not. If it is your story, I’m sorry, I wish it wasn’t. If it’s not your story, I’m glad, but I’d like you to know this/my story so that you can have an understanding of y/our colleagues’ experience.

The ‘back’ story to my academic (non)career I started working as an academic over 20 years ago in the UK and even though I’ve been ‘in it’ for such a long time I’m obviously not successful at playing its game. Understatement. How do you present understatement as an understatement on a page? What does it look like? Do you present it in smaller print? Should it be fainter? Not sure. I initially started working at universities when I was twenty-seven. Before that I’d trained as an actor and worked as an actor and director in the theatre but in my mid-twenties I had an accident. On the last day of a theatre tour I damaged my back by throwing a no-longer-needed piece of theatre set into a skip. For a few

The double life of a casual academic 183 hours I hobbled around, not quite able to stand, not quite able to sit – thinking I’d pulled some muscles, trying to be useful. But after driving to my sister’s house ready to babysit for my then beautiful toddler niece, a prescription for painkillers still in my pocket, I felt warm liquid run down my legs. For a second I was shocked, not knowing what it was. Then I realised that I’d lost control of my bladder, that the warm liquid was my urine. But I hadn’t sensed that I’d needed to go to the toilet. I didn’t know what was happening. Shocked/embarrassed I reasoned that the intense pain I was experiencing must have masked any sensation I needed to have a pee. OK I thought. Not great, but OK. My dear sister helped me shower, cleaned me, cleaned the floor, dressed me and took me to see a doctor. A ritual in the making (not that I knew it at the time). In the waiting room of the hospital I wet myself again. This time I was frightened. I knew exactly what the warm liquid was soaking my sister’s trousers and filling the shoes she’d loaned me. X-rays and MRI scans confirmed my fear. I had slipped two discs and damaged muscle tissue in my back. I had some nerve damage which caused a breakdown of communication between my bladder and brain. I lay in a hospital bed for days/ weeks/months wondering what this would mean for me. Tears skating across the white Teflon-like hospital linen. A bed of striped tears. Luckily – and fast-forwarding detail and months of despair and repair – I was able to walk again, and regain full control of my body (mostly). The details are insignificant but the story is important to my (non)career in academia as I was told by doctors that I needed to find a different career. I was no longer ‘built’ for performance, no longer built for physical work, for embodying and communicating character. I was C R E S T F A L L E N. My body had been my main instrument of work and play, but it was damaged and I would have to rethink how I would live and ‘be’. No matter how much I searched for answers I didn’t have any. Months passed and solutions eluded me. Then about nine or ten months after the accident a friend of mine, Deb with whom I’d trained, invited me to sit in on a rehearsal for a play she was directing. I was to sit at the back of the theatre and offer my thoughts about the work – what I thought was/n’t working, where the energy dipped, where

184  Gail Crimmins the narrative dropped out. . . ‘Yes’ I said. ‘I would love to,’ I said. Performance was/is still my first language, was still in my body – even though my body was no longer an able participant. So Deb would pick me up, (I was still unable to drive) and take me to theatres, colleges, universities and community halls where she was directing, teaching and facilitating. It felt great to be working with drama and theatre again, though not in a physical or even official role. Then just over a year after my accident Deb asked me to look after some of her projects and classes for a couple of weeks whilst she went to spend time in the presence of Mother Meera in an Ashram in India. I felt honoured to be asked but scared too. What if I wasn’t able to get out of bed one day? What if I wasn’t able to walk into a rehearsal space? What if my body wasn’t up to it? ‘Yes’ I said, ‘thank you’, and decided to deal with the consequences. Weeks rolled into months as Deb had decided to stay in the Ashram and asked me to carry on her work, some of which involved running acting or directing classes at a college and two universities. Over time, as course and program coordinators saw my work, I started to receive more teaching contracts and appointments than I could manage. This is how I entered academia – as an accidental academic – quite literally. And I kept saying yes. I was offered a full-time permanent lecturing position and I said yes. I was offered a full-time permanent senior lectureship and I said yes. I met a man who was supposed to stay ‘just for the summer’ and I said yes (please). We married the following year, baby-in-belly and immigrated to Australia. I said ‘yes’ and ‘hard can it be?’ Ha. Hard! So just over twenty years from starting as a casual academic I am again a casual academic – though I am in a different continent with a husband, two children, a PhD and a list of publications and teaching awards. Yet I feel as vulnerable now as I did when I started back then. But these days my questions are: What if I’m not able to raise my chin today (the mask feels heavier than heavy)? What if I don’t manage to keep my head above water (the worry in my head is too great)? What if my façade falls or fails to fool?

The outward visage But my colleagues don’t know see this in/side of me. They just see a calm, competent, confident teacher who achieves excellent student evaluations on teaching and course development. They see a successful academic whose won both national and international teaching awards. Senior staff, interested in numbers, the metrics of academic ‘outputs’, and balancing the books, see that I stay in the black. I publish in international, peer

The double life of a casual academic 185 reviewed scholarly journals. My h index metric is above world average. I supervise PhD students. I win grants. Yet despite all these ‘measures’ awards and outward visages of success my inner-self, that which is made up of a sense of self-respect, dignity, integrity, is riddled and hollowed out by fear and insecurity I have given everything to the instituion for which I work, and I am spent. And despite Inspite of In spite (perhaps) of what I ‘produce’, I’m still not considered ‘good enough’ to have fourth consecutive fixed term appoitnments converted to an ongoing role. What else can I do? I can give no more. I have given sacred family time as my children have grown from tolders to talkers, from hop scotch to Harry Potter, and playdough to iPads. In that time I’ve missed: Children’s award ceremonies; swimming classes, netball /soccer games; Cinema trips (popcorn, hand holds and lap sits); TV movies with sofa cuddles and giggles, or hiding behind cushions at the scary bits; Birthday parties (laughter, shenanigans and cake); Backyard cricket and necklace making; And I dare say opportunities for secrets to be shared and fears to be assuaged, in order to write a chapter few people will read or a grant app likely to be passed up. I have replaced, ‘I am here with you’ with ‘just a minute darling, mummy just needs to finish this sentence.’ Except sentences never finish. I’ve also substituted shared time with my husband with hand-over time. To-do lists have replaced the long love letters, lunch box love tokens and the love poems I would compile into leather bound Christmas gifts dedicated ‘To Dave, with love’: Cheeky emails I used to pen mid-morning are left unsung. ‘Can you help me?’ has taken the place of ‘can I hold you?’ And ‘Can you hold me?’ comes only after a long hard day when I can hardly stand or make it into bed without falling. I replay conversations I’ve had with my Dean asking (begging?) for a permanent academic position, and forget to ask how his day has been. I wear my upset and insecurity instead of that ‘knowing’ look to bed (you know, the one that says ‘shall we?’) My bones feel too brittle and skin too bruised to be held. These secret sacrifices paid to the altar of academia can never account for yet another award or certificate to hang on a wall. They can never cover the cracks or the the hollowing out of my inner and family life. That which is hidden is more than that which can be seen.

186  Gail Crimmins

I tell this/my story because . . . I now realise that I’ve been complicit in my personal and family sacrifice. I understand now that I’ve been ‘good’, compliant and complaint-free, I’ve followed the rules (at least the rules that were made available to me). I’ve written in the third person, eradicating the subjective (me), believing that hard work, perseverance and personal and family sacrifice would ‘pay off’ and I’d gain that elusive permanent academic appointment. Yes, playing the game, keeping my head down, being compliant has not served me, or our academic community, well. It has only served to financially support the institution/s for which I/we work, and has fed a culture of competition, fear and insecurity which leads to (self)exploitation. As Gannon et al. (2016, p. 191) note, academic subjects are complicit when we adopt and internalise self-surveillance practices within an intense culture of performativity. I had internally accepted that surely to goodness one more publication, one more grant, one more teaching award would prove that I’m good enough to be made ongoing. But now I see that my striving, self and family sacrifice simply feeds a system of intense competition and performativity. I now wear my rewards as badges of shame and mildewed marks of falseconsciousness. I have come to recognise that ‘rewards confirm compliance with norms and are regulatory forms of recognition’ (Morley, 2016, p. 32) and that my fear of non-survival simply served to make me more governable (Morley, 2016). I speak here in the past tense.

What I have come to know from writing my story I have come to understand that the notion that contemporary academia recognises and promotes intellectual ability and hard work is a myth. Women are not individually ‘to blame’ for our lack of career success as the odds are stacked against us. In Europe, despite the fact that women make up 60% of graduates (Grieshaber, 2016) only 18% of full professors are women (Vernos, 2013). In the UK, the US, Canada and Australia, compared to their presence among permanent faculty, women are over-represented in the less secure segment of academe such as contingent faculty and constitute less than a quarter of all Vice Chancellors in Australian universities and less than a third of women academics are promoted to above Senior Lecturer, compared to 69% of men (Grieshaber, 2016). At the current rate of recruitment and promotion it will take 119 years for women to achieve equal numbers in the professoriate (Acker, Webber & Smythe, 2016). I have also learned that my fear of being ‘exposed’ as insufficient and lacking by the academy, and the fear of unemployment, merely creates very pliable and gullible workhorses. I also recognise that politeness (and not railing against the lack of fairness in being given short-term contract after short-term contract) does not support institutional or personal change. Indeed, raging masked by smiles, and polite ‘niceness’ often leverages more exploitation.

The double life of a casual academic 187 From these understandings I have committed to living and doing differently in academia, and offer my (gentle) advice to think differently about who you are and your inherent worth. If you’re a woman academic who is not (yet) recognised as having institutional value, please don’t think that it’s all your fault. Don’t carry the blame/shame like a dark secret. Don’t cry behind sunglasses and pretend to your ten-year-old daughter that you ‘must have a touch of hay fever’, or a bit of a cold. And don’t imagine that increasing your workload and producing ‘more’ is necessarily going to help improve your situation. No. Working longer/harder/more simply continues to propagate the myth that academia is a meritocracy. Academia is not meritocratic. It’s highly gendered, and women are structurally disadvantaged by organisational University structures (Bird, 2011). I urge you instead to hold your head high, speak your truth clearly, unashamedly, as a small act of resistance to the sexism and neoliberalism of the contemporary competitive academy (Lipton & Mackinlay, 2017). I’ve learned in the writing of this story that my story reverberates many other women’s stories. You might sit with (someone like) me at meetings, pass me on corridors, publish with me, or follow my work on Research Gate. The women with whom you work may also lead a double life of apparent success and innertrepidation. Therefore, please be gentle with all those around you for you cannot know what lies behind their smile/guile. Where possible, build women (academics) up, offer them support, guidance and friendship. Lend them your ear, but never your judgement. Cite their work and invite them into your research projects. I also tell my story to share the personal and emotional life of an academic – the one hidden behind ‘kind regards’, squeezed flat between a third person stance in order to bring honesty, rawness and emotions to the fore in our academic work as part of the key feminist concern to make the personal political and to expose the micro politics of our lived experience as women academics. Our emotion can reveal political structures and strictures, so share and listen to y/our stories. Niceness has gotten us nowhere. Worse, it often hides our truth. I urge you therefore, to also tell your stories, plump as they are with political texture. By speaking our truth we trouble the myth that academic ability and hard work will lead to recognition. We need to show our scars, and expose our hurt but not quit, as what would happen if the resistors or failures quit or become silent (Eagleton, 2015)? Let’s agitate the system that masks disadvantage and seeks to individualise academic failure. We must share our stories to show that there are many of us trying to navigate the ‘slippery paths of academia’ where the ‘the neoliberal marketisation of higher education fosters a number of indirectly discriminatory practices and conditions that substantially disadvantage women’ (Wilsona, Marks, Noone & Hamilton-Mackenzie, 2010, p. 535). Our stories, of failure and success, are needed to add to the multiplicity of stories and storytellers within academic organisations (Boje, 1995), so that our knowledge and experience is included in the ‘knowledge construction in the academy’ (Bell, 2002, p. 209). Our stories, the ones we may even keep from our families – for shame – need to be shared so that others may know our experience and not feel so alone, or self-doubtful.

188  Gail Crimmins And if we need to express ourselves differently (different from academic convention), through personal stories, poems, drawings or songs, so we must. Morley (2016) suggests that ‘academic creativity should incorporate transgression and re-signification, and not just compliance and mechanistic productivity’ (40). If the form of polite, objective, third person narrative, of non-complaint doesn’t allow us to share our experience or emotion, our insights, then let’s creatively find new forms through which to express ourselves. Forms that speaks our truth. Compliance signifies institutional support and if you, like me, no longer wish to support a system that marginalises women and renders fearful academics who strive for the security and dignity that comes with ongoing employment, then find your voice and use it to speak your truth. And as I share my story I risk the precarious position I have held on to with every bone, vein and pore. But as I take this risk I acknowledge that ‘to critique is risky work . . . because to draw attention to the very terms through which existence is made possible, to begin to dismantle those very terms while still depending on them, even for survival . . . requires a kind of daring’ (Davies, 2004, p. 2). I do so in a ‘non-academic’ voice because I agree with Lorde (2007) that ‘the master’s tools [of academic objectivity] will never dismantle the master’s house.’ Academic convention has not served me or women more generally. So, I’ve finally broken my silence, using my own words, in order to sit alongside you and remind you that doing more will not necessarily help, but ‘doing differently’ and ‘saying differently’ just might.

References Acker, S., Webber, M., & Smythe, E. (2016). Continuity or change? Gender, family, and academic work for junior faculty in Ontario Universities. NASPA Journal About Women in Higher Education, 9(1), 1–20, doi:10.1080/19407882.2015.1114954 Bell, J. C. (2002). Narrative inquiry: More than just telling stories. TESOL Quarterly, 36(2), 207–213. doi:10.2307/3588331 Bird, S. R. (2011). Unsettling universities’ incongruous, gendered bureaucratic structures: A case study approach. Gender, Work and Organization, 18(2), 202–230. Boje, D. (1995). Stories of the storytelling organisation: A postmodern analysis of Disney as ‘Tamara-Land’. The Academy of Management Journal, 38(4), 997–1035. doi:10.2307/256618 Bryson, C. (2013). Supporting sessional teaching staff in the UK – To what extent is there real progress? Journal of University Teaching & Learning Practice, 10(3), 1–17. Retrieved from http:// ro.uow.edu.au/julp/vol10/iss3/2 Davies, B. (2004). The (im)possibility of intellectual work in neoliberal regimes. Discourse: Studies in the Cultural Politics of Education, 26(1), 1–14. Eagleton, T. (2015). The slow death of the university. Retrieved from http://chronicle.com/ article/The-Slow-Death-of-the/228991/ Gannon, S., Kligyte, G., McLean, J., Perrier, M., Swan, E., Vanni, I., & van Rijswijk, H. (2016). Uneven relationalities, collective biography, and sisterly affect in neoliberal

The double life of a casual academic 189 universities, Feminist Formations, 27(3), 189–216. Retrieved from https://muse.jhu. edu/article/607299 Grieshaber. S. (2016) Women in the professoriate and the boys’ club in Australian Universities. Retrieved from http://monash.edu/education/events/deans-lecture-series/suegrieshaber.html Kezar, A., & Maxey, D. (2015). Adapting by design: Creating faculty roles and defining faculty work to ensure an intentional future for colleges and universities. Retrieved from www.uscrossier.org/ pullias/wp-content/uploads/2015/02/DELPHI-PROJECT_ ADAPTING-BY-DESIGN.pdf Lipton, B., & Mackinlay, E. (2017). Introduction: Framing feminist talk. In B. Lipton & E. Mackinlay (Eds.), We only talk feminist here: Feminist academics, voice and agency in the neoliberal university (pp. 1–25). eBook: Palgrave Macmillan. Lorde, A. (2007). Sister outsider: Essays and speeches. Trumansburg, New York: The Crossing Press. May, R., Strachan, G., & Peetz, D. (2013). Workforce development and renewal in Australian universities and the management of casual academic staff. Journal of University Teaching & Learning Practice, 10(3), 1–24. Retrieved from http://ro.uow.edu.au/jutlp/ vol10/iss3/3 Morley, L. (2016). Troubling intra-actions: Gender, neo-liberalism and research in the global academy. Journal of Education Policy, 31(1), 28–45, doi:10.1080/02680939.2 015.1062919 Vernos, I. (2013). Quotas are questionable. Nature, 495, 39. Retrieved from www.nature. com/nature/journal/v495/n7439/full/495039a.html. doi:10.1038/495039a Wilson, J., Marks, G., Noone, L., & Hamilton-Mackenzie, J. (2010). Retaining a foothold on the slippery paths of academia: University women, indirect discrimination, and the academic marketplace. Gender and Education, 22(5), 535–545.

Afterword

AfterwordAfterword

A special feature of this book is the use of responsive, personal and aesthetic ways for communicating stories of experience – including metaphor, manifesto and memoir. Forms of writing such as these support women’s storytelling. They support listening. They support conversation. We hope that with these stories you have connected to what it is like to be a woman in the academy and that you are encouraged to engage in your own storytelling about your own life in the academy. Thank you for taking time to sit with these stories, and for connecting to our hopes and our vulnerabilities. We leave you with a manifesto, perhaps a feminesto, derived from ideas expressed in each chapter of this book:

Index

Note: Figures are denoted with italicized page numbers. academia: androcentric enculturation in see androcentric enculturation; arts academics in 32 – 42, 182 – 184; careers in see careers; casual or sessional academics in see casual or sessional academics; doctoral programs in see doctoral programs; flexible workplace provisions in 13 – 14, 15 – 17, 22, 55, 59; gender inequity in see gender inequity; lived experiences of women in see lived experiences; management in see corporate management models for academia; supervisory relationships; neoliberalism in see neoliberalism; women in see women in academia; workplace fatigue and burnout in 55 – 63, 115 academic journeys: androcentric enculturation affecting 79, 83; cultural influences on 77 – 85; geo-political and political influences on 78 – 79, 81 – 82, 83; Global South 76 – 85; metaphors for 76 – 85, 173 – 180; motherhood and family commitments in 77, 80 – 81, 83 – 84; neoliberal context for 76 – 77, 80, 81, 174; sisterhood in 77, 78 – 79, 81, 83, 84; supervisory relationships influencing 80 – 81, 82; trip metaphors for 76 – 85 academic violence: androcentric enculturation and 132; career/ professional effects of 132 – 137; gender inequality reflected in 130 – 138; identity alterations from 132 – 136; institutional change to address 137 – 138; institutional ineffective response to 132 – 137; mediation on 134, 138; ongoing

harassment and 134, 135 – 136; reporting of 132 – 133, 134, 138; social/collegial support in face of 134, 135, 137 – 138; trauma and pain from threats of 130 – 138; witnesses to 130; Workplace Violence Policy on 133 – 134, 138 Alice in Wonderland metaphor 174 – 175, 176 – 177, 178 – 179 ambivalence, maternal see maternal ambivalence androcentric enculturation: academic journeys affected by 79, 83; academic violence and 132; career affected by 112, 150; corporate management models reflecting 1, 66; gender inequity and 1, 15, 17, 66, 68, 79, 83; motherhood misfit with 15, 17, 66, 68, 150; neoliberalism and 15; vulnerability inhibited by 41 arts academics: activity/passivity lens on 41 – 42; casual or sessional 34, 40, 182 – 184; challenges for 32 – 42; criteria and evaluation of 35 – 40; culture affecting 39 – 42; duoethnographic portrayal of 32 – 42; failures among, value of 37 – 38; funding challenges for 32, 38 – 39; motherhood and maternality among 40 – 41; personal experiences of 33 – 35; political influences on 32, 35 – 40 arts activisms 3 – 4, 6 Australia Research Council (ARC) 18 autobiographies: collective 3, 4, 77; linear 18, 19 – 20; polyphonic, on motherhood and career 140 – 151 autoethnographic approach: to academic journeys, collective 77; to academic motherhood 65 – 74; to casual

194 Index academic’s experience 181 – 188; to play between academia and personal life 98 – 107; to transition to teaching 161 – 169; see also duoethnographic approach body: clothing of 23 – 30; corporeality of mothering 14 – 15; human sensorium/ sensory attentiveness 46 – 48, 54; maternal 14, 65 – 74, 155; mucus/bodily fluid metaphors 65 – 74 Buffy the Vampire Slayer metaphor 173 – 174, 176, 178 – 179 burnout see workplace fatigue and burnout careers: academic citizenship during 116 – 117; academic violence affecting 132 – 137; androcentric enculturation affecting 112, 150; career centrism 18, 20 – 21; childhood and early experiences shaping 110 – 111, 161 – 164; children’s and partner’s responses to changes influencing 141 – 149, 142, 146, 147; corporate management models affecting 112, 113 – 116, 117; evolution of 111 – 113, 161 – 169; future outlooks and goals for 117; insights from looking back on 109 – 117; legacy of 116 – 117; metaphors for 171 – 180; migrant women’s regression of 121, 123, 124; motherhood affecting trajectory of 59 – 62, 140 – 151, 154 – 155, 158 – 159, 164 – 165; motherhood as interruption of 13, 15, 18 – 21, 66; transition to teaching as 161 – 169 casual or sessional academics: arts academics as 34, 40, 182 – 184; assembling writing of 5, 7; autoethnographic approach to experiences of 181 – 188; double life of 181 – 188; gender inequity for 186 – 188; income and position insecurity for 21, 25, 60 – 61, 99 – 100, 102 – 104, 105, 107, 182, 185 – 188; motherhood among 21, 59 – 61, 66, 99, 100 – 102, 104, 107, 168, 181 – 182, 185; neoliberal system and myths for 186 – 188; outward visage of 184 – 185; play between academia and personal life for 98 – 107; prevalence of 182; resistance of 187 – 188 childhood, career in academia shaped by 110, 161 – 164 citizenship 116 – 117

clothing: appreciation of meaning of 24 – 25, 29; apron over 26; blue 28 – 29; brown 25 – 26; feelings engendered by 24 – 29; motherhood changing choice of 25 – 26; neo-Victorian skirt as 25; personal identity reflection in 24, 26 – 29; phenomenological lens on 23; practical considerations for 27; safety considerations with 27; socioeconomic status and 24, 29, 30; uniform or ‘go-to’ look with 28; vignettes on 24 – 29 collaborative interaction: careers supporting 115 – 116; childhood experiences with 162; corporate management models and lack of 115, 166; duoethnographic approach using 32 – 42, 119 – 128; entanglement through 172 – 173, 179 – 180; migrant and outsider challenges with 122 – 124, 126; solidarity in resistance narratives as 87, 88, 91 – 92, 93 – 95; trauma support via 134, 135, 137 – 138; writing and 3, 4, 13, 14, 77, 171 – 180 collective biographies 3, 4, 77 complexity of life and work: academic journeys reflecting 76 – 85, 173 – 180; casual academics’ double life reflecting 181 – 188; clothing presenting 23 – 30; maternal ambivalence reflecting 152 – 160; motherhood and academic career in 13 – 22, 55 – 63, 65 – 74, 140 – 151; multiple voices expressing 5 – 9; play between academia and personal life as 98 – 107 contract positions see casual or sessional academics corporate management models for academia: androcentric ideals and 1, 66; careers and effects of 112, 113 – 116, 117; collaborative interaction lack with 115, 166; education as commodity in 89, 91, 95; workplace fatigue and burnout from 55 – 56, 63, 115; writing assembly and manipulation parodying 6; see also neoliberalism culture: academic journeys affected by 77 – 85; androcentric see androcentric enculturation; arts academics affected by 39 – 42; gender and see gender inequity; identity and inclusion influenced by 119 – 128; maternal ambivalence influenced by 154 – 157; motherhood/ motherhood lack stigmas in 40 – 41, 140 – 151, 154 – 157; neoliberal see

Index  195 neoliberalism; race, ethnicity, and see women of color and migrant women cyborgic identities 172, 175 – 176 diversity: cultural norms and risks of 41; gender equality rhetoric and 1 – 2; teaching and appreciation for 163, 168 doctoral programs: academic journey during 79 – 83, 173 – 174, 177; for arts academics 32 – 42; clothing during 25; criteria and evaluation for 35 – 40; metaphors of journey through 173 – 174, 177; motherhood during 18, 20, 141; supervisory relationships in 34, 45 – 46, 80 – 81, 82, 111, 141, 173, 176, 178 duoethnographic approach: of arts academics 32 – 42; definition and description of 120; to identity and inclusion in academia 119 – 128 emails: ongoing harassment via 134, 135; play between academia and personal life revealed in 98 – 107 emotions see feelings and emotions empowerment: inclusion and identity in academia leading to 119, 125 – 126; metaphors for 174, 178; motherhood and ideals of 16, 17; resistance narratives on 88, 90, 92 – 94 entanglement, metaphors for 172 – 173, 179 – 180 entrepreneurial university see corporate management models for academia Excellence for Research Australia (ERA) 35 – 36, 39 family commitments see motherhood and family commitments fatigue see sleep deprivation; workplace fatigue and burnout feelings and emotions: affective dissonance 16; career reflection engendering 116; casual or sessional academics’ 187 – 188; clothing choices engendering 24 – 29; female academics disproportionately tending 66; metaphors for analyzing 171; motherhood-related 15 – 16, 25, 80 – 81, 101 – 102, 154 – 157, 164; self-reflection on 109 – 110; trauma- and pain-related 53 – 54, 66 – 67, 72, 130 – 138 Feminist Educators Against Sexism 3 – 4, 5, 6

feminist lens: on academic journeys 76 – 85; on arts activism 3 – 4; on feminism as a movement 6; on motherhood 13, 19, 65 – 74, 154 – 155; on mucus and bodily fluids 65 – 74; on neoliberalism 76 – 77; phenomenological lens vs. 23, 30n1; on resistance narratives 88; on voice 2; on writing 3, 4, 73 flexible workplace provisions: motherhood and 13 – 14, 15 – 17, 22, 55, 59; workplace fatigue and burnout despite 55, 59 Frankenstein metaphor 175 – 176, 177, 178 – 179 gender inequity: academic journeys influenced by 79, 83; academic violence reflecting 130 – 138; androcentric enculturation as 1, 15, 17, 41, 66, 68, 79, 83, 112, 132, 150; arts activisms on 3 – 4, 6; casual or sessional academics’ experience of 186 – 188; clothing selection and 27; diversity discourses and 1 – 2; migrant women’s experiences of 124 – 125; motherhood and 13 – 22, 63, 65 – 74; resistance to 87 – 95, 187 – 188; workplace fatigue and burnout furthering 63 Global South academic journey: androcentric enculturation affecting 79, 83; cultural influences on 77 – 85; geo-political and political influences on 78 – 79, 81 – 82, 83; motherhood and family commitments in 77, 80 – 81, 83 – 84; neoliberal context for 76 – 77, 80, 81; sisterhood in 77, 78 – 79, 81, 83, 84; supervisory relationships influencing 80 – 81, 82; trip metaphors for 76 – 85 health see physical and mental health issues ideal worker/ideal mother: academic trajectory for 59 – 62; accountability of 62; broken system affecting 61, 62 – 63; complexity of schedule for 56 – 59, 62 – 63; flexible workplace provisions for 55, 59; workplace fatigue and burnout affecting 55 – 63 identity, personal see personal identity inclusion and identity in academia: career regression and 121, 123, 124; collaborative interaction opportunities

196 Index and 122 – 124, 126; confidence and 123, 126; cultural influences on 119 – 128; duoethnographic approach to 119 – 120, 127; empowerment from 119, 125 – 126; gender inequality and 124 – 125; lessons learned about 125 – 128; outsider challenges for 122 – 124; self-discovery about 127 – 128; unfamiliar yet familiar context of academia for 121 – 122 linear biographies, motherhood as career interruption in 18, 19 – 20 listening 67 lived experiences: arts activisms reflecting 3 – 4, 6; career experiences as see careers; complexity of see complexity of life and work; motherhood as see motherhood and family commitments; writing about see writing male-defined culture see androcentric enculturation management see corporate management models for academia; supervisory relationships maternal ambivalence: career concerns and 154 – 155, 158 – 159; characterization of ambivalence and application to 152 – 153, 154, 158 – 159; cultural influences on 154 – 157; interdependence and 153 – 154; narratives of 154 – 157; narrative theory on 153 – 154, 157 – 160; productive, flexible, responsive power of 160; resolution of 159 – 160; unified or wholeness of self vs. 152 – 153, 158 – 159 meaning, clothing as expression of 24 – 25, 29 mental health see physical and mental health issues metaphors: for academic journeys 76 – 85, 173 – 180; Alice in Wonderland as 174 – 175, 176 – 177, 178 – 179; Buffy the Vampire Slayer as 173 – 174, 176, 178 – 179; convergences of 177 – 178; divergences of 178 – 179; for early career experiences 171 – 180; for entanglement 172 – 173, 179 – 180; Frankenstein as 175 – 176, 177, 178 – 179; for interruption and marginalisation of motherhood 18; mucus/bodily fluids as 65 – 74; playfulness through 171, 172; trip as 76 – 85; visiting as 45 – 54;

wilderness, cheetahs, and giraffes as 88, 89 – 90, 91 – 95 migrant women see women of color and migrant women motherhood and family commitments: academic journey and 77, 80 – 81, 83 – 84; androcentric enculturation lack of fit with 15, 17, 66, 68, 150; arts academics’ 40 – 41; as career interruption 13, 15, 18 – 21, 66; career trajectory affected by 59 – 62, 140 – 151, 154 – 155, 158 – 159, 164 – 165; casual or sessional academics’ experiences of 21, 59 – 61, 66, 99, 100 – 102, 104, 107, 168, 181 – 182, 185; children’s and partner’s responses to changes influencing 141 – 149, 142, 146, 147; clothing appropriate to 25 – 26; complexity of schedule with 56 – 59, 62 – 63; cultural views and social expectations of 40 – 41, 140 – 151, 154 – 157; flexible workplace provisions for 13 – 14, 15 – 17, 22, 55, 59; gender inequity and 13 – 22, 63, 65 – 74; ideal worker/ ideal mother 55 – 63; linear biographies and 18, 19 – 20; maternal ambivalence 152 – 160; mucus/bodily fluid metaphors for 65 – 74; neoliberal views on 13, 15 – 17, 18, 20, 21 – 22, 81; play between academia and personal life including 98, 99, 101 – 102, 104, 107; silence on 14 – 15, 22, 140; teaching as career choice with 164 – 165, 166 – 169; voice expressing issues of 14 – 15, 70 – 71 mucus and bodily fluid metaphors: for academic motherhood 65 – 74; for boundary loss 65, 73; for breastfeeding 69 – 71; for divinity and angels 68 – 69, 72; for health issues and trauma experiences 66 – 67, 72 – 74; for pregnancy and miscarriage 66 – 67; for subjectivity 67 – 68, 70 – 71, 72, 73 – 74 neoliberalism: academic journey in context of 76 – 77, 80, 81, 174; agility mechanisms in 91 – 94, 95; androcentric enculturation and 15; careers and effects of 113 – 116; casual or sessional academics’ experience with 186 – 188; clothing choices in light of 24; education as commodity in 89, 91, 95; feminist lens on 76 – 77; individualism

Index  197 vs. solidarity in 87, 88, 91 – 92, 93 – 95; motherhood views and 13, 15 – 17, 18, 20, 21 – 22, 81; resistance to 87 – 95, 187 – 188; wilderness and cheetah metaphors for 88, 89 – 90, 91 – 95; see also corporate management models for academia

politics: academic journeys affected by 78 – 79, 81 – 82, 83; arts academics affected by 32, 35 – 40; geo-political Global North and South 78 – 79; resistance and political agency 87, 88, 94 – 95 professional development (PD) 105 – 106 published writing 16, 184 – 185

Performance Based Research Fund (PBRF) 35, 39, 113 – 114 personal identity: academic violence altering professional and 132 – 136; ambivalence about 152 – 160; clothing as reflection of 24, 26 – 29; cultural influences on 119 – 128 (see also culture); cyborg hybrids of 172, 175 – 176; inclusion in academia and 119 – 128; metaphoric images interwoven with 65 – 74, 172 – 180; as mothers 13 – 22, 55 – 63, 65 – 74, 152 – 160 (see also motherhood and family commitments); narratives of 157 – 160; psychological coherence and compatibility of multiple 128; selfconcepts of 98; as teachers 165 PhD see doctoral programs phenomenological lens: on clothing 23; feminist vs. 23, 30n1; on teaching as career choice 161 physical and mental health issues: casual or sessional academics’ career affected by 182 – 184; childhood experiences influenced by 163 – 164; mothering children with 66, 72 – 74; play between academia and personal life affecting 102, 103; trauma and pain affecting 53 – 54, 66 – 67, 72, 130 – 138 play between academia and personal life: benefits of sessional positions in 106 – 107; complexity of 98 – 107; duality of 98; health impacts of 102, 103; income and position insecurity in 99 – 100, 102 – 104, 105, 107; invisibility in 105; motherhood and family commitments in 98, 99, 101 – 102, 104, 107; place-to-place variation in 100 – 101; professional development in 105 – 106; self-care in 104 – 105; sessional academics experiencing 98 – 107; value sought and offered in 99 – 100 playfulness 171, 172

racial and ethnic issues see women of color and migrant women research: academic careers including 14, 17, 20, 21, 113, 115; academic woman visiting academic women for 45 – 54; arts academics’ challenges with 32 – 42; collective vs. individualised output of 3; criteria and evaluation for 35 – 40, 113 – 114; metaphors for 175 – 176; motherhood and opportunities for 168; research assistant fatigue and burnout 59 – 61; sessional academic opportunities for 106 Research Assessment Exercises (RAE) 39 Research Evaluation Framework (REF) 35, 39 Research Quality Framework (RQF) 35 – 36, 39 resistance narratives: agility mechanism disruption in 91 – 94, 95; articulate and informed dissent in 94; empowerment vs. disempowerment in 88, 90, 92 – 94; leadership disruption and change in 90 – 94, 95; neoliberal resistance in 87 – 95, 187 – 188; political agency in 87, 88, 94 – 95; solidarity in 87, 88, 91 – 92, 93 – 95; wilderness, cheetah, and giraffe metaphors in 88, 89 – 90, 91 – 95 re-turning, entangling-detangling method 172 – 173 safe places: academic violence and lack of 130 – 138; career changes and concerns of 144; clothing choices and 27 self: ambivalence and division of 152 – 153, 157 – 160; autobiographies of 3, 4, 18, 19 – 20, 77, 140 – 151; autoethnographic approach based on 65 – 74, 77, 98 – 107, 161 – 169, 181 – 188 (see also duoethnographic approach); clothing as reflection of 24, 26 – 29; personal identity of see personal identity; self-care, in academic-personal life balance 104 – 105; trauma shattering 136; voice of 2 (see also voice(s))

198 Index sensory attentiveness 46 – 48, 54 sessional academics see casual or sessional academics sexism see gender inequity silence: casual or sessional academics breaking 187 – 188; on motherhood issues 14 – 15, 22, 140; of students 81 sleep deprivation 21, 56, 66, 102, 181 socioeconomic status: academic salary and 21; career choices affecting 143, 145; clothing and 24, 29, 30; income and position insecurity and 99 – 100, 102 – 104 supervisory relationships: for arts academics 34; Buffy the Vampire Slayer metaphor on 173, 176, 178; career including 111, 112, 113; in doctoral programs 34, 45 – 46, 80 – 81, 82, 111, 141, 173, 176, 178; motherhood response in 141; visiting academic women to explore 45 – 46

influence on 45, 50 – 51; supervisory relationship exploration by 45 – 46; trauma and pain revealed during 53 – 54 vocations, coexistence of multiple 17 – 18, 21 vo5 – 9; feminist lens on 2; inclusion and identity in academia expressed through 120 – 127; motherhood issues expressed via 14 – 15, 70 – 71; resistance narratives using 87 – 95, 187 – 188; sessional academics’ lack of 103; silence of 14 – 15, 22, 81, 140, 187 – 188; threatening 130 – 138; visiting academic women and finding 45 – 46; writing as expression of see writing vulnerability: androcentric enculturation inhibiting 41; casual academics’ income and position insecurity as 21, 25, 60 – 61, 99 – 100, 102 – 104, 105, 107, 182, 185 – 188; migrant women’s experiences of 127

teaching as career choice: authenticity in 161, 165 – 166; childhood experiences influencing 161 – 164; curiosity underlying 161 – 162; developing as a teacher in 165 – 166; diversity appreciation and 163, 168; motherhood and 164 – 165, 166 – 169; personal identity and 165; phenomenological lens on 161; reframing and adaptation to 166 – 168; research and 168; transitioning to 166; university education leading to 164; valuing input and breaking barriers in 168 theatre, arts academics in 32 – 42, 182 – 184 trauma and pain: academic motherhood and experiences of 66 – 67, 72; androcentric enculturation and 132; threats of violence causing 130 – 138; visiting academic women and discussion of 53 – 54; witnesses to 130 trip metaphors 76 – 85

wilderness, cheetah, and giraffe metaphors 88, 89 – 90, 91 – 95 women in academia: academic journeys of 76 – 85, 173 – 180; androcentric enculturation affecting see androcentric enculturation; as arts academics 32 – 42, 182 – 188; careers of see careers; as casual or sessional academics see casual or sessional academics; clothing of 23 – 30; collaborative interaction among see collaborative interaction; of color and migrant women 2, 76 – 83, 84 – 85, 119 – 128, 161 – 163; complexity of lives of see complexity of life and work; doctoral programs for see doctoral programs; empowerment of see empowerment; feminist lens for see feminist lens; flexible workplace provisions for 13 – 14, 15 – 17, 22, 55, 59; gender inequity for see gender inequity; lived experiences of see lived experiences; management and see corporate management models for academia; supervisory relationships; motherhood among see motherhood and family commitments; neoliberalism affecting see neoliberalism; personal identity of see personal identity; physical and mental health issues for see physical and mental health issues; play between academia and personal life of 98 – 107; socioeconomic status

violence see academic violence visiting/researching academic women: beauty discovered during 53 – 54; blindness to other avenues for 48 – 50; displacement and 51 – 52; human sensorium/sensory attentiveness informing 46 – 48, 54; lack of imagination in 49 – 50; memories of 51 – 52; mingling in 52 – 53; from muteness to voice via 45 – 46; Serres’

Index  199 of see socioeconomic status; transition to teaching by 161 – 169; visiting/ researching academic women by 45 – 54; vocations of 17 – 18, 21; voice of see voice(s); vulnerability of see vulnerability; workplace fatigue and burnout for 55 – 63, 115; writing by see writing women of color and migrant women: academic journeys of 76 – 83, 84 – 85; childhood experiences influencing careers of 161 – 163; gender inequality for 124 – 125; identity and inclusion in academia for 119 – 128; voices of 2, 120 – 127 workplace fatigue and burnout: broken system creating 61, 62 – 63; complexity of schedule leading to 56 – 59, 62 – 63;

corporate management models creating 55 – 56, 63, 115; ideal worker/ideal mother affected by 55 – 63 writing: academic journey reflected in 76 – 85, 173 – 180; assembling multiple voices in 5 – 9; career reflections in 109 – 117; collaborative 3, 4, 13, 14, 77, 171 – 180; collective biographies 3, 4, 77; creative, by arts academics 32 – 42; differently 2 – 5; emails as 98 – 107, 134, 135; feminist lens on 3, 4, 73; metaphors in see metaphors; play between academia and personal life revealed in 98 – 107; play scripts as 32 – 42; poetry as 76, 77, 78; published 16, 184 – 185; ‘sticky moments’ of motherhood interrupting 65 – 74; uncreative 4 – 5, 6 – 8