So this was not originally news that was intended to make it outside of the Rice Graduate History Dept. Thanks to the over-sharing wonders of social-networking we have a very detailed explanation of what exactly happened on that lonely Thursday evening high up on Fondren Library’s elusive 5th floor. If you want to know just what the hell I am talking about I have posted the full Facebook entry after the jump.
Technorati Tags: Chair Gate ’07
ChairGate
Today at 2:03pmTHE FOLLOWING HAS HARSH LANGUAGE AND IS RATED R.————————– ————————–——–
It was the roll heard round the world….or at least around one wing of Fondren Library’s fifth floor. And it all started . . . with me, the black sheep of Rice’s history department….
The incident in question occurred around six p.m. on a Thursday evening. The offices of the Journal of Southern History and the Jefferson Davis Papers were closed up. All persons of authority had departed from the floor. And the only thing that could be heard were the faint rustlings of paper from a few dedicated graduate students. Okay, maybe only one or two were still working–that’s it. Everyone else had gone home. I know one was still working; she was the one who turned me into the graduate representative for rolling a chair down the hallway, just a few days later. Loyalty to one’s fellow history graduate students? Huh? Loyalty? What does that mean? Here’s the ironic part: she was once my friend. (Cue bitter chuckle)
A fourth-year grad student–one of the most studious and serious in our department–was chatting with me in the office that was in the corner….where all of the other graduate students went to check their e-mail and chat about football or to debate over who they believed was the best whatever-the-hell. Yeah, it was my office. And I worked there; and I had to listen to all of that shit for a year.
I worked away from other people; they didn’t need to see me work on grad school things. And they certainly didn’t give a shit about my thoughts on divers discussions. I didn’t even drink with them that fall semester. And that’s saying something–because everyone knows that academics drink together; I virtually became a wagon-riding member of AA because I avoided them like the plague. I didn’t trust any of them. I had learned that the hard way.
That mantra turned around and bit me in the ass during my last year of PhD school. A person who I had even given an idea for her dissertation to became one of my biggest critics in the department–which is strange, because after helping a person, you would think that they would at least back the hell off you. You would think that they would at least shut the hell up instead of talking smack behind your back. Alas, that was not the case.
You see, graduate school is a fucked-up world that really isn’t real. You’re not even a real person in grad school. Congrats, we want you to come to our school; we’ll even give you money to come here because we want you that much…..but, if you make two or three mistakes or have a different way of learning or doing things….you’re out. Oh, and if your advisor leaves and you’re stuck with some 80-year-old political historian (and you just happen to be leaning toward gender history)–you’re shit out of luck. Oh, and Professor Allen Matusow: the Progressive Era was largely about the irradication of social vice (i.e. prostitution), even though you said it wasn’t. There, I said my peace. But, may you write many others books about Nixon or Carter and other political and uninteresting topics during the remainder of your platinum years. You must be living in your platinum years because you’re too old to be in your golden years.
Anyway, a grad student really isn’t a real person who has individual wants, needs, and problems. When real life does enter the academic world, it is criticized or it helps to contribute to your downfall. And your opinion–your honest-to-god opinion–is not what is valued–it is how well you play the game. That’s it. It’s almost as if the people who hold your fate in their hands have forgotten what it is like to be a young graduate student. Which, again, is strange….because these are the yahoos who are supposed to be your guides through the muddied, albeit sanitized, waters of academia. Ah, that wonderful world of pretentious make-believe!
It is unsurprising to me, that rolling a chair down a half-deserted hallway was taken so seriously in a world of make-believe. Well, in hindsight it is unsurprising–but when it happened, I was shocked at how out of hand it had gotten. I was virtually dumbfounded that one incident further created a rupture between some of the students and me. I became persona non grata; to hang out with me–in their eyes–would have been academic suicide for them. Thus, my many efforts to invite one girl out with me were repeatedly rejected.
That’s what an event like ChairGate will do to a person. The atrocity that I committed all happened like this:
The serious fourth-year student and I were chatting about something. I might have even showed her a clip on YouTube of Arrested Development. After a laugh or two, I sat in a new rolling chair. It was the only one of its kind in the large office, and so I was compelled to take it for a spin. I rolled down the hall, gently gliding, working off the pains in my back and neck that had gathered from a full day of working at my desk. I turned around and glided back. When I returned to her, I joked, “This would be really cool for a late-night chair race around the floor.” She humored me, laughing at the prospect. Then she turned me around and gave me a generous push down the hall. With the chilly air conditioner’s wind in my face, I uttered a “weeeeeeeeeeeeeee.” Ten seconds later, I was back in my office, chatting with the serious student. The incident had lasted 30 seconds, maybe a minute. The one other student doing work had her office door open. When I passed, she looked at me and gave an amused smile.
Three days later, all hell had broken lose. On a Monday night, I received an e-mail from the graduate representative–our voice to the grad committee–stating that the graduate director had gotten complaints of the noise level on our floor. Apparently, the religious studies students who shared our floor had informed our director that the history students were having chair races. And now for the best part:
The girl who I had passed and who had SMILED at me, had turned me into the grad rep. A few other grad students followed suit. They said I was the source of all of the noise on the fifth floor; which was strange, because every fucking afternoon, these were the same students who were so loud in the graduate lounge down the hall that my office mates anD I had to close the door to our office to keep from being disturbed. Every fucking afternoon.
The next day, the grad rep accused me of being the only source of noise. I went to the graduate director to admit that I was the one who had rolled down the hall. But I told him that I did not have chair races, and I was not the only source of noise. I felt like I was in the twilight zone, thinking, “Is this really happening? I mean, really?”
I was honest, but that didn’t matter. ChairGate was just another brick in the wall that separated me from the other students. And the people who did support me–were, unfortunately–the quiet ones of the department. A few older students, however, did go to the graduate director in my defense. But, alas, ChairGate had already tainted my reputation. And it had kind of knocked the wind out of my sails.
Within months, I soon boarded my own metaphorical helicopter and waved a generous peace sign to Rice University. Nevertheless, instead of presenting Nixon’s gesture of peace as he boarded his helicopter after the most famous “gate” of them all, my wave of goodbye had one middle finger held up. The douche bags at Rice just didn’t see it.
But, hey, at least I can say with all certainty, “I am not a crook.” Rolling a chair down a hall just doesn’t seem as bad as–well, anything of significance in life. Real life, that is.Ch
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