'Klanderud's List'

[Paul A. Klanderud]

Having received a reasonable number (although by no means overwhelming)
number of inquiries about my last posting regarding a lack of concern on the
part of the "general public" over departmental closings, I thought I'd offer
"Klanderud's List" (as Ms. Israeli so tactfully called it).

I don't think I ought to rehash all the reasons why departments are
currently being cut, sliced and diced; we're all well acquainted with them,
whether we agree with these reasons or not.  What I had mentioned was how
some acquaintances and collegues outside of academia view academia, and why
some of them are not only not alarmed by these closings, but even greet this
sort of news with a bit of satisfaction.

The short list:
1) Tenure and work schedules
2) A lack of relevance
3) Closed cliques writing and talking to and for each other, without regard
for their students' needs.

I can't add anything new to the "tenure battles," but I can say that I
haven't yet convinced *one* person outside of academics that tenure is a
Good Thing.  I may be a poor debater, but the general gist of discussions
runs along these lines:
- Tenure protects academic freedom.
Rebuttal: That may have been the case years ago, but today there are plenty
of safeguards in place.
- Speaking for myself, my own argument in favor of tenure runs along these
lines:  People who devote a significant portion of their lives to mastering
a discipline such as language, linguistics or literature know that they are
not going to earn the sort of living they could have earned had they chosen
a more lucrative career. What's more, the further one pursues such a
discipline, the more one by necessity shuts doors to other careers.
     Literature, in any event, is not like business, engineering, medicine,
accounting, or any number of other generally "marketable" skills. Its value
cannot be measured in terms of immediate gain and reward; rather, it
contributes to the overall well-being, awareness, and "well-roundedness" of
a society's citizens. It helps us learn how people far different then us
think, act, and live.
     What's more, the further a teacher/professor continues in his or her
profession (in my opinion), and the more he strives to improve his knowledge
so that he might share it with his students (I realized that I'd be
overwhelmed by all the "s/he's" and "his or hers," so I'll dispense with
them, if I may), the more he "renounces" other opportunities outside of
academics. In effect, he enters into a "social contract" with his
institution and with society at large, according to which he may continue to
pursue this course unencumbered by the fear that the whims of the moment
will lead to his being tossed off the ship of modernity.
     Personally, I have a sense that for many years, particularly in the
50's and early 60's, this social contract was viable and even accepted by a
society that viewed education as a truly valuable commodity, albeit in the
long term.  Others would know better than me, but I'd guess that there were
few complaints that the study of Tolstoy, for example, didn't prepare
someone for a career with IBM or Proctor and Gamble.
     I'd guess there was a sense that, no matter the "ivory-tower" seclusion
of the professoriate, the profs to which parents sent their kids off were
genuinely concerned with making these kids into better people, better
communicators, and better citizens.  At worst, profs might be viewed as
slightly off-kilter uncles or aunts who might be "ne ot mira sego," but who
nevertheless were genuinely concerned with their students *and* with the
world they would soon enter.

     I get the sense that this attitude does not hold sway anymore (recall
that I spoke in my last letter of perceptions; we may feel differently). I
think that, among many, attitudes have changed markedly, and the academia is
now viewed (I'll oversimplify here) as an enclave almost hostile to those
values many "traditional" Americans adhere to.  From the few people with
whom I've talked who address directly the question of teaching literature,
the general response has been along these lines: "Oh yea, deconstruction and
nothing means anything and all that stuff."

     We can say this is an oversimplification, and it is. Or we can say that
it's some perverse strain of anti-intellectualism dominating our
Beavis-and-Butthead culture. And, as always, there's a bit of truth in
everything. But it's been my experience that people who don't know the "nuts
and bolts" of something (and I'm sure we could all think of fields about
which we don't know a whole heck of a lot) tend to rely on what they've
heard in the media, from friends and acquaintances, or simply from cultural
lore.

     We can't deny (I can't anyway), that among a lot of people, the study
of literature (and the arts in general) has degenerated into the most
useless sort of anti-humanistic and recondite blather intended to be
comprehensible only to those who engage in its study. What's sad about this
situation, to my mind, is that it's *true* when applied to certain fields,
but *not* to Russian literature. Russianists, it seems to me, have resisted
the temptation to deny that anything means anything; we've been willing to
put stock in ideas that both transcend national boundaries and that have
sustained the soul of a nation for many years.

     But we're an easy mark right now. Think of the hullabaloo (did I spell
that right?) that arose around the notorious Maplethorpe exhibit, and how
much flack the NEA caught. Personally, I don't consider that art; count me
among the unwashed millions. But what matters is that this single incident
galvanized public opinion, and the damage it did was in no way undone by the
countless other examples of real art supported by the NEA.  In a similar
manner, trends that have enchanted many literature departments over the past
decades have disenchanted much of the public (and, as you ought to be able
to tell by now, me as well). But literature is literature, and, as I said
above, when it comes time for the axe to fall, Russian -- as a "less
commonly taught language" (and culture and literature) -- becomes an easy mark.

     So: we can say this is wrong; it is. But the question of "relevance"
still remains -- and it doesn't have to be reduced to the question: "what
sort of CEO's can the study of Russian produce?" The question of relevance,
to my mind, lies on a more fundamental level. But it's a level that, to hear
it told, is increasingly being ignored.

Since I've long ago came out from behind the curtain of public opinion and
climbed up on my own soapbox, I'll put another telephone book under my feet
and continue.

Relevance has to do with writing for, and speaking to, not only each other,
but also the very large block of educated American citizens who go to work
five days a week, who wonder if what they're doing for a living can really
be reduced to the goals of a new car every four years, and who -- despite
leading the most "ordinary" of lives (and perhaps because of it) -- would
welcome with open arms anyone who could, in a Clear, Enjoyable, and
Enlightening prose, invite them into a world that's quite different than
their own, yet that somehow makes them think of their own condition.

We as scholars have produced scant few works of this type (and I include
myself in this group). And no wonder: there's no reward system in place for
writing for a general audience. Yet if there was ever a time when we should
be going out to the "masses" and making a case for our existence, now is
that time. I'd go further and say: If *you* cannot envision yourself penning
a readable work (even with a year off funded by the NEH) whose fundamental
argument would answer the question -- "Why should we study Russian
literature?" (or "culture," or "linguistics") -- then how can you expect the
public to feel any concern over the plight of our field?


I really think that this is a crucial period for our profession and for
Russian studies overall. I think it's time to broaden our focus, to
recognize that we need support, and, moreover, that we have to earn that
support. I've seen over the last year or so suggestions of how departments
can reach out to the public through lectures and so on. I think these
efforts are useful. But I think in the long run, it might be worth looking
at precisely what comprises truly "valuable" contributions to the field:
another argument over who's a bigger scoundrel, Pushkin's Silvio or Saleri,
or words that can help awaken in a decent citzenry a respect for, and
interest in, the work of people who pursue what they do largely because they
genuinely feel that they have something worthwhile to share,

Remaining a humble servant,
Paul Klanderud