Compretensile* Tales

Okay, so everyone is clear on the fact that I’m a bit of an elitist as well as a smarty-pants wearing kind of guy. But for fuck’s sake, I was raised on a farm in east Texas. I’ve earned by stripes.

Last night at the Fulbright meeting—granted, a rather elite organization in and of itself—I was struck by how certain kinds of intellectuals, academics, and students were much more palatable to me than others. Namely, I felt quite at ease chatting with sociology and music professors. Even the high school language teachers were remarkably worthy of my time. And as always and as for most people, I’m impressed with neurologists and anyone else who sticks her/his hands inside other humans. (Within limits, of course: I’m only referring to trained medical professionals here.)

But when one student announced he was earning an MBA, I felt a wave of Sartrean nausea wash over me. There is nothing like one rancid, quasi-academic apple to ruin the whole barrel. I mean, why don’t we just start handing out Fulbrights to applicants from the American Truck-Driving Institute or any of the mock universities like DeVry or Phoenix?

I have no problem with people merely wanting to make more money, but don’t try to pass yourself off as an intellectual or cultural diplomat in so doing. Moreover, how completely self-unaware does one have to be in order to merely want to make more money but ask for funds from American taxpayers via a non-profit organization such as the Fulbright Commission? I guess if we’re willing to hand out the cash, then they will always be more than willing to take it. Greedy bastards! Which is probably what led them toward an MBA in the first place.

I have no respect for the “degree.” I do have, however, several friends—many whom I respect and adore—who have undergone such remedial common sense programs at supposedly respectable institutions of higher learning. But don’t ever try to tell me that they’ve ever done a bit of good aside from increasing their salary. You want to study cake decorating at the Art Institute (an arguably laughable amalgamated moniker)? Fine, go ahead. You want to earn a higher wage for not a lot of effort? Sign right up. But if you want to truly be educated, your only recourse is to enroll in a real academic program at a real school.

After submitting an outstanding panel proposal to a conference yesterday, I thought one of my next creative projects would be to organize a bogus panel filled with “academics” from the above-disparaged institutions. Perhaps something along these lines:

• “Lévinasian Semi-Ethics: Meontological Theology and the Eighteen Wheeler” by Billy-Joe Bobblekopf, ATI, Automotive Repair Program
• “Heidegger’s Word: Dasein (as Design) from the Ground of Being” by Suzie Galvan, Art Inst., Fashion & Retail Mgmt. Dept.

Now it’s time for me to return to my underpaid academic world that remains utterly superior to everyone else’s. (Even though it is a public university.)

* a combination of comprehensive, apprehensive, pretentious, and prehensile

Pitstop on the Way to Mensa

My popularity has soared over the past several months, while my faith in such things as popularity has plummeted.

When I was in high school, I always thought it strange that I wasn’t invited into the honor society until the end of my sophomore year. I had been earning the highest grades of my class since my family moved into the district when I was in third grade. And of course I was destined to be the valedictorian of 1986.

Even though I knew I was “the smartest hillbilly in Hillbilly Town,” I really received an education with the politics of popularity because one, after all, had to be invited into the honors club; one could not merely join based on one’s merits, or grades, or intelligence, or aptitude, or IQ, or any other factor. One had to earn it, ostensibly by being noticed by those already accepted.

But I too was destined to obscurity, especially among my peers. I think eventually enough of my teachers or perhaps the honor society’s advisor probably felt awkward enough to convince the popular kids to invite me in, even though my gpa had always been and would continue to be several points higher than theirs. It would’ve been scandalous, no doubt, not to have the soon-to-be valedictorian as a member.

I did join. And I also briefly toyed with the idea of not joining just to prove an already over-proved point. By “accepting their invitation,” I also proved that I could play nice even when the cards were stacked against me. That lesson, I’m certain, was lost on my smart (in a popular sense) classmates.

I’ve always felt clumsy and shy when people noticed my intelligence anyway. Just in the past couple of weeks several of my friends, colleagues, and professors at the university have made very flattering comments about how I stand out on campus as “the smart one.”

I’m even more flattered by the fact that I really value the opinion of those people whom I respect as some of the smartest people I’ve ever known. It’s like an ungainly feedback loop of smarts and flattery falling back upon itself as if upon a black hole. But lessons learned at sixteen temper too much egoism.

That said, I’ve always been jealous of Stephen’s graduate school cadre of geniuses who would spend hours sitting in coffee shops having fabulous and articulate conversations for hours at a time. I’m not sure if it was the number of people in the group (popularity) or the quality of their conversations (intelligence) I was most envious of. But now it seems I have some of that for myself. Finally. After how many freaking years in school! I’m really looking forward to the next couple of years working with these people.

To quote an email I sent just last week: “P.S. Do you think Andy likes me?” And no, I'll never join Mensa.