You know an underused premise for magical realism or urban fantasy? Humanities departments. These are strange and magical places. There are commonalities among them, but they are also – and this is a key part of their identity, their quiddity – each distinctive. Gather round, o writers, and let me expound unto you the possibilities of this.
The Coffee Room/Room of Requirement
Here are kept office supplies and coffee, in some combination. Perhaps only the department secretary knows what combination. Perhaps no one does.
In my first institution, the office supplies were kept in a locked steel cabinet of ancient vintage; the department secretary (of equally ancient vintage) had to be supplicated for them. The coffee machine was a Keurig that was never perfectly clean. The grad students had a variety of electric kettles and eco-friendly brewing alternatives.
In my second institution, the coffee pot and electric kettle were both pretty regularly used. A few packets of instant soup were kept on hand for the moments when humanities professors (inevitably) forgot to feed ourselves. Those of us who went in to microwave our lunches between 2 and 3 p.m. invariably traded weary smiles of mutual acknowledgement.
In my present institution, there are two coffee pots. They are never used. There is a Christmas-themed tin shaped like a teddy bear for “coffee fund donations.” The office supplies are in labeled Rubbermaid bins. There is a bin of rapidly-aging rubber bands. There is, I kid you not, a container for floppy disk storage; that thing is definitely a portal of some kind. In the communal fridge, there’s a half gallon of milk. Has it been the same milk during the months I’ve been here? I have no idea.
To a sometimes terrifying extent, offices become reflections – not to say physical manifestations – of their occupants’ methods, personalities, and characters.
By custom, even the doors can be adorned with quirky art. You’ll have the American historian with a collection of newspaper cartoons stretching back decades. From language faculty, particularly, you’ll have an assortment of travel/language/art posters. You’ll probably have at least two outspoken feminists, and at least one cat person. One professor will have marker artwork from their kids semi-permanently on the whiteboard outside their door. Posters from past campus events form their own historical record.
And then there are the bookshelves. You haven’t lived until you’ve experienced the visceral fear of being buried under an avalanche of the worldly goods of a professor who has worked in the same room for 40 years. Some of those manila folders date back to the height of the Cold War. As a visiting professor, I worked in an office where two of the shelves were constantly collapsing under the weight of paperback editions of Shakespeare in double rows. I once knew a woman who kept the inflatable sharks of her predecessor on the bookshelves because she thought they looked cool. I have yet to meet a historian who doesn’t have show-and-tell objects of some kind. When I was a grad student, our ceiling leaked (into a secondhand saucepan) but we had a Lego castle which was the envy of the department.
Whereof we cannot speak, thereof we must be silent. There is a kind of holy mystery, I think, about the concentrated weirdness of dedicated scholars, brought together, often, from all corners of the world.
In grad school I knew and reverenced a woman who may be a reincarnation of a 17th-century Anglican. She had (has, I presume) a habit of lovingly semi-bellowing at her students about their poor study habits and life choices.
I retain passionate admiration for the small, stout, formidably brilliant Nepalese man who taught Orientalism using Disney films, and spoke with misty-eyed nostalgia about the footnotes on soil types in his dissertation.
I think with fondness of pedagogical encouragement offered in elevators, and with sympathy of the shell-shocked expression of a German with a double Ph.D. emerging from his first intro-level survey class in years.
Professors’ style choices are delightfully, triumphantly eclectic, varying in charming ways according to department, occasionally fossilized in the decade of their professionalization. Art historians are intimidatingly stylish. The English department has the best scarves. There is a great solidarity among young scholars trying to find good blazers they can afford. There’s always at least one good-humored man in the department who is slightly late to meetings but will buy everyone coffee (or beers at the end of the semester.) There are Possibilities here. I do love a good campus novel. But the sheer weirdness of campus life remains largely underexploited.
kaledo-art
annaxmalina
pixelskylines
jbbartram-illu
titsay
yousharknotpass
germansingergirl
