Picking the fruit of knowledge from a rock garden

A college isn’t a good place to find ideas. It’s a good place to find facts - What year was the Franco-Prussian War? What is the current gross national product? What importance did Horace Greeley have in the development of American journalism?

A college is a good place to find parties and experience the social milieu - “No, two kegs probably won’t be enough; let’s order three.” A college is even a good place to learn of intrigue--“I can’t believe—I just can’t be-LIEVE-that Larry is screwing that slut in Geography, just because she’s chair of the tenure committee.” Yes, a college is a good place to find a lot of things, but it’s definitely not a place to find ideas.

When I decided to enter academics, this time as a professor, I thought I’d walk into the Ivy halls and pick ideas out of the air, as a fruit picker picks oranges and lemons. The ideas would be waiting for me to reach up and grab, to inspect, to roll around in my fingers, to analyze. Little did I know I’d be getting the lowest hanging fruit.

In graduate school, during the early ’70s, ideas, though not as prevalent as facts, were still available, deliberately put in my path by advisors who were forever testing me, and for whom I was constantly testing. Why is it different now? Is it the place? Or is it the time?

It seems as though everyone, student and professor, comes to class, does the work with varying degrees of interest and competence, and then goes home or to committee meetings where they can play academic games which are what now stimulates their minds.

For the moment, I am in the game. This one is called the Faculty Senate. It’s the college’s version of a duly elected, properly-sworn-in house of representatives. Twice a month for nine months I have attended these meetings. My sentence is over in one more year.

“Next on our agenda is the key policy.” The senate chair is a scholar of the first order from the Department of Biological Science. He also shouldn’t chair anything more complex than a four-chair poker game.

“Mr. Chairman!”

“Jack.”

“I believe that after reading all the arguments in favor of this policy, and since it was requested by the vice-president for administration, that we should implement it immediately.”

“Bob.”

“I don’t think so. I don’t think I understand it. I’m not sure. Does it say that we have to give up our keys if we go on leave or on a sabbatical?”

“Yes, Jack.”

“That’s not what is says. It says that we give up our keys only temporarily when on leave or sabbatical.”

“Jeff.”

“Define what is meant by the word temporarily. Does it mean only during the actual time of the leave of sabbatical, and that the keys will be retained in custody for the professor, or that we must reapply for new keys?” Leave it to someone from the social sciences to run around asking for definitions of everything.

“Jack, do you want to address that question?”

“Well, uh, the administration hasn’t quite addressed that problem yet, but I do think that it probably means just temporary. They’re still your keys.”

“No. They’re the university’s keys. Just on temporary loan.” Ruth was always a stickler for accuracy.

“Margaret. I see that you’ve been trying to ask a question for some time.”

“Thank you. I just wondered about illnesses. Do we have to give up our keys if we have a heart attack or something and will be out of work for a couple months?”

“We weren’t given guidelines on that. But, it does seem that the purpose of this policy is to prevent faculty from taking keys, then leaving and not returning from their leaves.”

“Mr. Chairman! Have any faculty ever gone on leave, and then never returned? “

“There’s been a couple. Took leaves, then took new jobs.”

“Did they return the keys?”

“I don’t know.” The chairman was annoyed. It doesn’t take this long to dissect an entire frog.

“I just want us to vote on this policy proposed by the administration.” Another fifteen minutes of discussion revealed that keys are important in order to be able to enter locked offices, and that faculty often forget to return keys. After two attempts to table the motion, one point of order, one amendment, and one call for the question, the vote proceeded.

“Why don’t all of you who oppose this motion raise your right hands.”

“Mr. Chairman!”

“What is it, Margaret?”

“I don’t understand what the motion is.”

“I believe the motion is to allow faculty to keep their keys when on leave or sabbatical.”

A dozen voices cried out. “No, I guess it’s just the other way around. The motion is to deny faculty the privilege to keep their keys when on leaves or sabbaticals, with an amendment that faculty may pick up and return their own keys to the Security Office if they are on campus, but that they must return the keys the same day they pick them up.” It took about five minutes to count, then recount, the vote. When it was finished, the body of professors, seventy percent of them holding doctorates, decided that, indeed, keys are important if professors wish to enter locked offices.

“Mr. Chairman!”

“Kenneth.”

“As long as we’re on keys, have you seen the new key request form? It’s to be made out in quintuplicate! It asks everything but what side do you part your hair on.” For several days, ever since the new vice-president for administration decided that the key request form—a relatively painless half-sheet that asked for a few identifiers, plus a chairman’s signature—was likely to be compromised, by executive decree, and with the assistance of a priority request at the printing center to create hundreds of new forms, now required signatures of the person requesting the key, the chairman or supervisor, a dean, the academic vice-president or other appropriate vice-president, and then someone from the Office of Security.”

“Yes, I’ve heard about the form. I think it’s been implemented to tighten security.”

“I don’t like it either, but we’re going to have to live with this one.”

“POINT OF ORDER!” From the back of the room came a hand, followed by a presence, this one a speech professor whose greatest contribution to Academia was to have memorized several books of parliamentary procedure.

“What is your point of order?”

“Kenneth’s statement about the number of copies, while important, is out of order. It’s not on the agenda.”

“It seems like an important point, considering the geometric progression of paperwork we’ve experience this past year.”

“But it’s still out of order. Perhaps he could discuss it during our open discussion session at the end of the meeting.”

“Your point is well taken. Let’s move on.”

“But this is an important policy.”

“Maybe we can discuss it later. Next on our agenda is a proposal from the campus beautification committee. They’d like our opinion on their plans for the West Quad.”

For the next fifteen minutes, we discussed the wisdom and follies of a rock garden versus a plant garden in the West Quad. Plant Garden defeated Rock Garden, 21-16, after a heated debate.

At 4:53 p.m., on the first Friday in May, the last Faculty Senate meeting of the year after slightly more than two hours of important policy-making decisions, adjourned. Not only was It the last Faculty Senate Meeting of the year, it was also the last committee meeting of any kind of the year. Not a departmental meeting, nor a curriculum committee meeting, not tenure, sabbatical, space and facilities, not anything. Three months without one motion, amendment, discussion, or group therapy session. The chairman, deans, and vice-presidents would spend part of their Summer to load their ammo, but wait until the Fall before they would fire their barrage of recycled trees. For now, it’s just a remembrance that higher education doesn’t necessarily refer to universities.