The creativity-killing pressure of the academic market

This post is loosely based on a old post I wrote in 2006. My life now is very different from that intense moment of my life then, but some things are deeply similar.bird

I was struggling to meet my advisor’s deadline to submit most of my dissertation. I was also very pregnant, and under pressure to eat healthy and exercise (which, given the time crunch of the dissertation writing, was highly unlikely). I really did almost nothing but sit on my rear end and type. I ate whatever I could get, ate more because of the stress, and ate more cream puffs and chocolates and ice cream. Consequently, at my OB visit, the nurse told me I’d gained 8lbs in 2.5 weeks, and I know I did no exercise except walk to the bathroom now and then.

The day before I wrote this old blog post was a high, high-stress day, because I had to turn Chapter 6 in right away. I woke up and got to work, and worked till 3:30pm.

When I was done, I was ravenous, and wanted to weep loudly because a) I’d just been under so much stress and b) I’d just finished the stress-inducing task–and now what?

I was lost.

So I felt a bit like the day after Ramadan. I barely knew what to do with myself.

I wondered, when I emerge from my dissertation and my defense, what will remain of me?

Something about graduate school kills the creative impulse. And then the ensuing/continuing pressure to finish and then be productive forever kills all liberty to just get up and run out spontaneously and have fun. To write for fun. To write adventurously. To do anything that comes from within.

The anomie and alienation of the academic profession today threatens to disconnect academic writers from the very source of their intellectual and spiritual inspiration.

Where work should allow us to flourish, academic labor under capitalism alienates us from our work.

Sometimes when I decide, like once or twice a year, that we should really “do something,” I come up empty. I don’t want to do anything anymore. I just want to be still and be nothing. I don’t know what I want. I am a domestic mule for academic work and the endlessness of the work is devastating to the creative impulse. I’ve lost some of that inner child. No, not that inner child that I had in my womb. My own inner child.

At that time, I thought: When I come out of my defense and they tell me I’m Dr. Mir, I wonder how I’ll feel. When they grant me liberty from this task, and instruct me to go forth in triumph, I bet I’ll have an impulse to break into song, loudly and soulfully:

آشیاں جل گیا، گلستاں لٹ گیا
هم قفس سے نکل کر کدهر جایئں گے
اتنے مانوس صیاد سے هو گئے
اب رهائ ملے گی تو مر جایئں گے

My nest has been burned, the garden has been plundered
When they let me out of my cage, where shall I go?

So intimate I have become with my captor
If I were to be granted freedom, I will surely die 

(Raaz Allahabadi)

Today, years hence, I find that I am in the same position as many others. Our cage is wrought of the job market, cannibalistic employers, and the hordes of un/der-employed academics. The ropes of the broader economy tense and chafe against our skin, never allowing the freedom to listen fully to the free mind/heart.

The Face of the Endeavor: Muslim Female of Color

As a Muslim woman academic of color who is pretty good at public speaking and who is not a shrinking violet, I’ve often found myself drafted into service as the Face and Voice of various endeavors, organizations, and institutions.

I get drafted as the Face and Voice of various endeavors because I rock. But often, less talented male colleagues imply that it’s because I’m female/Muslim/a POC/pretty.

I’m female/Muslim/a POC/pretty, yes. But I also rock. I work hard.

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Silently judging you

In mainstream (predominantly White and predominantly non-Muslim) academic institutions, this has meant that I have served as a dash of color, a sprinkle of exotic faith practice, and a flash of academic talent and brilliance – just before I’m shoved out the door because I’ve served my purpose. (Check out my resume. You’ll see which institutions I’m talking about.)

At times this also means that in Muslim and predominantly non-Muslim settings, I have to do more, because I have to speak and shake hands with people and confer legitimacy on the host/endeavor. (Check out our resident vibrant Muslim immigrant female! Listen to her speak accentless English! How awesome are we!)

It also means that in certain conservative religious settings, I’m irrelevant because I’m not enough of a shrinking violet. At the Mosque Open House, I’m great. At the Friday prayer, not so much.

At times, too, once I’ve done more by way of lending Face and Voice to an endeavor, I’ll hear snide comments from male colleagues – who have been sitting idly in the peanut gallery – about how I surely don’t mind providing my pretty female Face and Voice to the endeavor, do I?

To those male colleagues, I present my most prized ability, one I share with Dave here:

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Islam in the local public library

A few days ago, I happened upon my local public library‘s children’s section on Islam. My disappointment and shock knew no bounds.
 
Today, looking for books to use for my Fall 2017 courses, I went to the adults section on Islam in the same urban public library.
 
I now no longer want to get off the couch. 

My heart is filled with despair. In order not to communicate it to others, I will quit writing about this for now.

Fixation: Gender and faith

I’m planning on teaching a Gender and Islam course this Fall, and as I collect readings, I realize popular and scholarly sources are ALWAYS producing work on gender-and-Islam.
 
Fascinating that, to Muslims and non-Muslims, gender is usually the primary shaping factor of religious identity, and the most salient Issue.
 
So my reading list grows, and grows, and grows. Works on spirituality, service, creed, etc? Much less so. So when people say they are “just human” and not feminist, or they don’t see gender, I tend to giggle inwardly. Let’s accept our general fixation and examine it, instead of pretending it’s not there. GENDER SEX GENDER SEX GENDER …

Daddy Sang Bass

“Daddy Sang Bass” playing on my car stereo brought tears to my eyes, as we drove to Guardians of the Galaxy, me thinking of my dispersed and ageing family. My child sat in the back, Svend in the driver’s seat and I’m thinking back to me sitting in the back seat, with my teenaged brother and sister. They’re now in their 50’s.
We’re driving to Hiran Minar on a sunny day. My abbu is singing in the front seat:
ماں پیاری ماں
گودی میں تری کهیلا بچپن میرا
Mother, my beloved mother
My childhood played in your lap
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When he stops, ammi in the passenger seat, is singing 1950s Lata in her absolutely beautiful melodious voice:
مٹی سے کهیلتے هو بار بار کس لئیے
ٹوٹے هوئے کهلونوں سے پیار کس لئیے
Why do You play with earth again and again
Why this love for broken toys
Abbu is now lying, smiling meekly in bed, a third of his size, a fraction of his strength. Ammi is helping clean his bedsheets. Abbu looks at my face on the computer screen and smiles mildly, saying, “Pretty.” “It’s Shabana,” ammi reminds me. He seems okay with that and moves on to muttering about something quietly.
No, the circle won’t be broken
by and by, Lord, by and by … 
I’m gonna join the family circle at the Throne

The crushing power of the mundane

It hit me Saturday after 4 in the afternoon, long after we’d watched Frasier re-runs (again), long after scrolling through the unending outrageous and provocative tweets and posts.

It was just as I was re-filling the dishwasher, all the plates lined up just so, all the bowls compactly queued, all the tupperware lids on the top shelf, reminding my husband to make sure and not put the brand new tupperware lids in the bottom shelf please so I don’t have to replace them because they’re all twisted.

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It was around the time I started re-heating a stale pot of rice with the last piece of thawed chicken from last weekend and some thawed eggplant.

I lit a frankincense incense stick in desperation, because if I can’t change anything, I can light a fire on an incense stick and make it glow, can’t I?

And a song rose from my heart, somehow:

تم همیں یوں بهلا نه پاو گے

You cannot forget me so easily

You cannot forget the times You and I had. I glance at the small kitchen and the surfaces that are perpetually covered, screaming at me endlessly There is no surface for cooking tasks here, somebody take away the random objects, somebody take it all away, somebody — oh wait, I’m that somebody. 

لگ جا گلے که پهر یه حسیں رات هو نه هو

Embrace me, for who knows, this beautiful night may never return

My heart fills up with the oppressive sense of the mundane everyday. It crushes. It will not let me breathe. I want that taste of the Eternal, the Limitless, the power of madness again. But I am in my late 40s, and I am crushed by bills, work, demands, expectations, norms, career, parenting, long overdue goals, poor health, calendars, coordinated schedules, so heavy, so powerful that I can barely feel my own heartbeat.

I can barely remember who it was that navigated 40 years on this planet in mad seeking.

عشق بهی هو حجاب میں، حسن بهی هو حجاب میں
!یا تو خود آشکار هو، یا مجهے آشکار کر

Love concealed, and Beauty too!
Reveal Yourself to me, or reveal me to myself!

Where is the insane confidence that led me to the doorstep where I threw down my belongings and stamped my foot, and said, I shall not leave, no, not until I have my wish?

ذرا سا تو دل هوں مگر شوخ اتنا
وهی لن ترانی سنا چاهتا هوں

I am but a little, pitiful heart, but so bold am I
I wish to hear the same You cannot see Me Moses heard on the mount

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The dishes, the leftovers, the groceries. That’s all I recognize anymore.

Yes I got your email I’ve been busy with grading I’ll be there for the meeting Sure you can turn it in late Have a great day No problem I’ll get it done Thanks I’m a bit tired Oh sure I’m better now 

Honey, remember to flush the toilet Did you get your snack for school You need to take a bath Don’t shut the door on me You need to take a bath What’s wrong now Let’s get the homework done now  

Can we please go away this weekend But there’s always work Can we please sit at the beach Can we at least watch a movie Can we go for a walk Can we sit on the porch for a bit at least Can we talk

Amazing Awesome Fabulous Beautiful Cute Powerful tweet post photo update 

Where is the air Where is the sky Where is the sun Who am I

Why is the ceiling so bloody low   

The middle space of academic Islamic education

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On the last day of classes, I asked my students: If you were to teach this course, how would you do it differently? Our discussion took us to the usual themes: topics, structure, readings, guest speakers, activities. But as we wrapped that discussion up, we wandered into the other questions: What kinds of Islamic education are there, and what kind do you really want?

There is the other kind of religious education – I’ve experienced it, and benefited from it – where you memorize Quranic surahs, master the correct recitation of the Qur’an, master the corpus of Hadith and jurisprudence, engage in devotions and prayer together. This is beautiful, and I hope everyone has that valuable experience.

But what about the academic study of Islam? We asked the tough questions. We agonized over what happens, and what can happen, when we engage in the academic study of Islam.

Students said they learned about diversity of perspective within Islam at American Islamic College. They heard a few of my graduate students express discomfort with the critical study of Islam and gender (no surprise there!). Other graduate students saw this study of gender as a lifeline for their faith. Students read books and heard opinions that seemed critical of key figures in the Islamic tradition. They saw, in other words, that this Islamic education wasn’t merely religious socialization or religious transmission.

Did that bother them? I asked. Was it a problem when the notions and knowledge they were raised with were interrogated, complicated, framed as one among many?

It was at times difficult, some of them admitted. But overall, they embraced the complexity. They accepted the possibility that instructors of certain courses might wish to personally approve the students who enrolled, ensuring they had the stomach for the interrogation involved.

At American Islamic College, I feel we have the best of both worlds. We interrogate and complicate, yes, but we explore and investigate as believers, ranging across the potential expanse open to us as believers. We do not identify with the secular dogmatism of much higher education. But we consume and sample secular studies of Islam, and we complicate those as well. We do all of this in a faithful community of scholarship, and we connect with scholars in academia broadly, Muslim and non-Muslim. There’s nothing black-and-white about this.

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Between the two modes of confessional and critical religious education, my students seek a middle ground. It’s still a tight-rope. We’re still figuring out our trajectory as we step carefully into the wilds. Scholarship of all kinds is an adventure, and what kind of scholarship would it be if it wasn’t exciting?

Systemic inequality in the US

Poverty is not an accident. Poverty is an integral part of a systemic historical pattern that includes slavery, economic policy, technological change, lobbying, globalization, class, race, mass incarceration, housing segregation, disenfranchisement, and lack of investment in the public sector (education, infrastructure, public transit).

Peter Temin’s new book, The Vanishing Middle Class: Prejudice and Power in a Dual Economy sheds light on the “dual economy” in the United States. This dual economy, this wealth gap that stretches across generations is what is perpetuated by the privatization of the public sector and disinvestment in the public sector. I am constantly amazed by how many “decent” people I come across fail to see the connection between privatization and systemic inequality.