Posts made in September, 2012

Sisterhood by Mary Thompson

Sisterhood by Mary Thompson

Sisterhood Mary Thompson Before we were friends, my older sister always called me “a little snot.” The word still makes me cringe. Snot? What an awful bodily excretion to be nicknamed for. As a little kid, I never understood why she felt that way about me. Was I really such a bad sister to have? I might have been a little rambunctious and overdramatic, and yes, I wanted to wear the same clothes that she did and have my hair tied up the same way that hers was, but did I annoy her so much that she felt the need to label me as a disgusting piece of biohazard that accompanies illness and bad nose-picking habits? My sister’s first baby is now three years old and is, as everyone claims, just like me in that she is full of ornery spunk and doesn’t slow down for a minute. My sister adores her and is proud that she resembles me in personality. When my niece gets to be a little too ornery, her mother simply calls out her name, sternly, and then waits until she settles down or wears herself out. It is never with anger or annoyance, but with an experienced, loving patience.   I remember one Christmas Eve at my grandma’s house, all of the older cousins were playing Trivial Pursuit, the decades-old board game that was the only form of entertainment my grandma had kept since her own kids had grown up and moved away. Though they were all still too young to actually know any of the answers, they had fun just taking ridiculously wild guesses and making up their own rules to win. I wanted so badly to join in the game, to laugh and be silly, to be one of the older, fun cousins I admired. When I asked my sister if I could play, too, or at least be on a team with her, she ignored me. I asked again, again, and again, until she told me that I was too young to know any answers and no one wanted to play with such a whiney little snot, anyway. After her wedding, my sister moved five hours away, where her husband’s family lives. For the first time in her life, she had really, permanently, moved out of our house and away from our family. Speaking to her on the phone, I try to keep her updated on all that is going on with our family: my older brother and his wife moving into their new apartment, my little brother’s high school football games, and my plan to go to California in the spring to meet my boyfriend’s family. I avoid subjects that deal...

Read More

The Truth by Sierra Cammack

The Truth by Sierra Cammack When you’re looking for the truth, you have to be careful. Finding truth is like attempting to sail a boat through a violent storm, while you are not wearing a life jacket. You have to be careful not to go overboard, when your only support is a thin cord that tethers you to your mast. That tether is what you know for sure. It keeps you upright and provides some security. The raging storm? That’s what has been said, written, and whispered in hushed tones behind closed doors. It’s all the information, true and false, secret and widely known, that you are going to have to deal with. The wind and the rain are lies, pushing you off course and blinding you. The occasional finger of lightning that touches down in the distance is a truth that lights up your situation, so that just for a moment, you can see a bit further and a bit clearer. The thunder is encouragement, like a far away audience applauding, reminding you to keep going. You have to keep going. The storm is going to try and push you out to sea, but you have got to keep moving forward, guided to the answer by random flashes of light and your own instincts. After all, it is not the whole truth, if you settle for only halfway, and half a truth is not enough for me. Half a truth is still half a...

Read More

The Loneliness of the Independent Scholar by Stu Burns

The Loneliness of the Independent Scholar by Stu Burns

The Loneliness of the Independent Scholar by Stu Burns You steer your car into the university’s interior drive. There is a lot next to the library where the impressions on the asphalt have taken the shape of your tires. You pull into the familiar spot marked “Visitors Only,” grab your well-worn leather bag, and make your way inside to a flimsy table. The temporary desk will support a diverse stack of books today, background research for a rigorous article on an original topic. You set up on the faux-wood laminate, noticing how it has warped from the condensation of too many students’ drinks on too many humid days. This is the closest thing to an office you have here. It suits you. The conferences where you speak list you as an independent scholar. When you were a grad student, an old Oxford Don sniffed that this was a discreet euphemism for “unemployed.” You are more fortunate than that. Self-interested college instructors always said that a liberal arts education prepared you for a number of jobs, and they were right. You were trained to research things and write about them. In a business drowning in reports and figures where accountants can make profits appear and disappear based on office politics, executives appreciate well-made narratives and charts. You make a living as a business analyst, not as a tenure-track professor employed by a university to teach and do research. As an independent scholar, you do it for the love. That’s what the word “amateur” means: one who works for love, not money. You have become a professional at something else. Your job keeps a roof over your head and clothes on your back. You work steadily, and you live well. Business hours are much easier to keep than the amorphous schedule of a professor. Research is still something to enjoy, not a struggle for tenure with your career path tilting and swaying like a cheap boat threatening to capsize if you imprudently shift some weight. The work you do is to please yourself and the audience of your choosing, not a committee with ill-defined objectives. You contribute, you publish your articles, and you paste together bricks for the temple of knowledge. Every once-in-a-while, you see your name in a footnote. People are reading, so it seems. Writing is a solitary art, but you are more solitary than most. Most of your old colleagues have little time to do research and writing. Grading and committee work see to that, let alone spouses and children. Even so, when they do write, when they take trips to read newly-catalogued manuscripts or do fieldwork examining living cultures, they have support. They have colleagues who don’t...

Read More

Signup for the latest news and events at Finelines!

Current Issue

2017SpringCover