The work I do—teaching and researching—is fun.
I took a social theory class during my first year of the PhD that was taught by a genius. Offhand one day, between his extemporaneous lectures on the evolution of theory in the West, where interpretations of Freud went wrong, and how we got to The Dialectic of Enlightenment, he opined, “‘Fun’ is such an American word.” It was meant to be denigrating but only slightly; I think he was testing us on the idea. But it has always stuck with me: “fun” as a uniquely American catch-all category, the foundation and litmus test for anything worthwhile.
How was lunch with your friend—did you have fun? How was vacation? Fun? Aw, I’m sorry the meeting was no fun. Did you have fun at the gym? I know of a fun place to grab lunch. Let’s just have some fun this weekend.
“Fun” can be an anesthetic to all varieties of experience, big and small, difficult and easy, entertaining and disciplinary, enriching and simple, happy and sad. It is a descriptor perfectly suited to a culture oversaturated with numbing consumerism, a culture obsessed with amusement and distraction and one that proudly spawned Hollywood, Disney World, and Silicone Valley. Things need to be fun to matter because all that matters is if things are fun.
I am very empathetic to this diagnosis. (I love its naked cynicism—you can whip that line out at a party and impress anyone with your callousness and deep take on contemporary culture.) I also like it because it sounds like something a disgruntled Frenchman would say with a cigarette hanging from his lip. But I have to admit—what I do is fun. Sorry prof.
I talk and write about literature, which I love. I chat with students. I do close readings, read incredible books, check out stuff from the library. What’s not fun here? It is unimaginably rewarding to work with ideas and critique and respond texts, think about aesthetics, and form, and philosophy. Allow me to channel a bit of Whitman, as I’ve put together a little catalog for you—a slice of my life:
I get to do my work at coffee shops three days a week, if I want. I can work at home on the couch with my cats, if I want. I can read on my bed all day, in my office chair, on the back deck, in my university library. I can go to our English department’s sterile office space and listen to the soothing buzz of the relentless HVAC as I grade papers. I can sit outside on a bench and listen to undergraduates step through the puddles on the way to class and lunch. I can skip a class day if I want. I can sleep until noon if I want. I can work through the night if I desire, burning the midnight oil. I can wake up at the butt crack of dawn and read (I won’t ever do this, actually). I can teach from a slideshow every class or freewheel lecture about whatever I wish. I can cancel without repercussions or demand my students’ perfect attendance. I can take six years to complete my PhD or burn through it in four.
But ah, we have run against our first problem with freedom and fun—it can be paralyzing. And even illusive. Are these truly choices that I have, and is my ability to “pick” between them even constitutive of freedom? Is freedom as simple as the choice between A and B? Is my job fun because of freedom? I’m not so sure. I am reminded of Gabriel Marcel’s observation that “there is a freedom which is not concerned with doing.”1 Maybe this is something to unpack another day, but it does lend some credibility to the idea that something deeper, more meaningful than “fun” is happening behind the scenes as I work.
I’ve been reflecting recently on this project (the dissertation) and the effort it truly entails. After the “ramping up” years—completing course work, reading for qualifying exams, writing a prospectus—one is suddenly thrust out onto the hearth of the academic world. It is at first intoxicating, tantalizing. But I am left with the rub of freedom: responsibility. This thing is hard work—and perhaps therein lies some of the fun for me. There are expectations to meet, deadlines to write toward, and insanely high personal ambitions I am pressured to fulfill. It’s one of those jobs where everything is on you. There is no “team” here. Either I earn my degree, publish peer-reviewed papers, and land a job—or I don’t, and behind that is simply my effort.2
But this is what I asked for—a challenge. I would not change it for a marketing team desk job, a position teaching English at a local high school, or a full-time copyediting gig (not that these aren’t challenging jobs!). I’ve chosen a something that forces me to apply years of literary reading, note taking, and class sitting alongside skills of close reading, synthesizing, creative thinking, precise writing, and time management.
I feel strangely built for this. So even as I anticipate and hope for the next stage of life (getting a “real job,” teaching in a stable position, earning a livable wage), I know that what I have now is already the real thing, as Henry James might say.
At the same time, the dissertation is simply a thought experiment if I am unable to see myself in the classroom itself, doing the work I will be hired to do at a university: teaching and growing in the classroom. Sitting with students, learning how to explain the value of a novel, showing what an allusion is, drawing connections between themes and personal experiences, brainstorming good discussion questions, pulling my hair out at the occasional long silence in class—these are foundational. And thankfully, against the doomers, I’ve found that the young folk are not too far gone, too distracted to care, or altogether uninterested in the humanities.
As the pressure for better words, cleaner chapter transitions, tighter examples, and stronger arguments grows (and the page count adds up), I know that this dissertation will not be perfect. It can’t be perfect. There are too many variables, red herrings, distractions to lead me astray, but that’s okay, because it is the pressure and the task that makes it worthwhile (or rather, what the task reveals about me and who I am). In an essay about pilgrimages and philosophy,
writes of journeys,“There is no wrong way, but there are perhaps, better ways to do a pilgrimage. But a pilgrimage startes [sic] to teach you how to desire, and that is part of the riddle of who we are.”3
I hope I am not taking him out of context by adopting his very physical description of religious pilgrimages and applying it to a metaphor for life-work, but his point stands. There are no wrong ways to take on a challenge, but there are better ways, clearer paths, surer steps. And therein lies, I think, some of my internal pressure. I feel, deep in my bones, the necessity (desire?) of hard work. I have to know that I am doing my absolute best, every single day, or else I literally cannot fall sleep at night. (I’m sure this is extremely healthy and cannot possibly lead me astray one day.)
But for now I feel like I am sitting in a peaceful, blessed limbo. I am a man on the threshold, both perennial student and seasoned veteran. I thank God constantly for this weird moment of life.
And I hope and pray I can continue to find fun in the hard work, even as I try to let go of that pride that seeks perfection.
Gabriel Marcel, Mystery of Being, vol. 2, p. 123.
On a certain level I actually don’t fully believe this (that effort, productivity will lead to the promised land). But stick with me here. This is the first of many posts.
Right on the nose! I heard someone once say (in regard to sports) “fun is doing hard things well.” Seems resonant to this hard/fun sweet spot.
Thanks for this thoughtful application of my words. Including typo. Ha. I do think there are certain challenges that can be approached in a counterproductive manner and a religious pilgrimage isnt in this category. But the rule still holds that learning how to do anything involves desiring better and usually hardship. Really inspiring to read about your love of hard work to the pt of not being able to sleep!