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A Klingon's Guide to Academic Conferences
Brian Cremins
Louisiana State University
bcremins@lsu.edu
Posted: November, 2004 Student Affairs Online, vol. 5 no. 4 - Fall 2004
When they decided to tow the plane back to the hangar, I knew I wasn’t going to Gainesville. Although they offered me free passage to another airport in New Orleans, the attendant could not guarantee that I would arrive at Louis Armstrong International to catch another flight on time. I decided to stay home for the weekend. So I missed another academic conference, which has given me more time to write this article and pass out peanut butter cups to the few ghouls and goblins who are trick-or-treating this year. (I suspect the scarcity of little Frankensteins and ballerinas this year may have something to do with the impending election. All the kids are tied to their TV sets).
After my flight had been canceled, I found myself in a sort of limbo. I had already canceled my two Friday morning classes because I had been unable to find a substitute willing to teach science fiction novelist Samuel Delany. Once a class has been canceled, there’s no way to call it back again. Besides, I don’t have a list of my students’ e-mail addresses, and can you imagine waking up on a Friday morning and checking your e-mail only to find that your English professor has sent you a note which reads, “Flight canceled. Our American Lit. Class is a go! See you all this afternoon.”
I had also spent the last several days writing the paper I would present at the conference. Now it sat lonely and neglected in my briefcase and my neatly-pressed clothes were slowly returning to a wrinkled state in my suitcase. I found myself speculating on what the captain had meant by “technical difficulties.” What if we had taken off? What if those “technical difficulties” had manifested themselves as we made our way to a connecting flight in Atlanta? Having read too many Stephen King novels while in high school, I found my imagination running into dark corners. Maybe I should have called my students to an unexpected Friday class after all, if for no other reason to keep at bay my anxious imagination and its visions of what might have been had the plane not been shuttled back to its hangar for repairs. With no means of getting to the conference, no classes to teach, and no midterms to grade (I had finished those a few days earlier in preparation for the conference), I found myself with an unexpected day off during which to speculate on the similarities between Star Trek conventions and academic conferences.
My students often ask me what takes place at these conferences. I usually begin with a rather dull explanation of the process of submitting an abstract. The abstract is a short description (usually 250 words) of the essay you plan to read at the conference. Ideally, this paper should be a condensed version of a larger research project. If your paper is accepted for one of the conference panels, you have the opportunity to present your work to a group of interested (and sometimes not-so-interested) peers who will provide you with feedback and suggestions on how you might improve or expand upon your research. Conferences also provide academics with the opportunity to renew acquaintances with long-lost friends or colleagues, or, as my undergraduate advisor used to say, to get out of the house (and off campus) for a few days. The most popular conferences, as you might expect, are those held in balmy climates or romantic, mysterious cities.
I have compiled the following list for those attending their first academic conference in literary studies and/or for those attending their first Star Trek convention, both of which are often interchangeable realities:
1. Bring a Klingon dictionary. You will find yourself talking with people who use a language only distantly related to the one you use in your everyday existence. Klingons will not ask you if you speak fluent Klingon; rather, they will begin conversing with you as though you have been speaking the language since it was first heard in the 1979 film, Star Trek: The Motion Picture. Likewise, literary critics will begin speaking with you in the language with which they are most comfortable: formalism, structuralism, post-structuralism, Marxism, and various other forms of critical discourse. There are several Klingon-dictionary-like guides available for a novice who has stumbled unexpectedly into the dark wood of literary studies, most notably Terry Eagleton’s book Literary Theory. Eagleton’s book, however, is not pocket-sized, so for those moments when you find yourself wracking your brain to recall where you’ve misplaced your ideological apparatus or your sign/signifier decoder ring (you might check the glove compartment), I suggest the recent series of small paperbacks titled Very Short Introductions published by Oxford University Press. These are short studies in literary theory which will have you distinguishing your pathetic fallacies from your mirror-stages in no time.
2. Wear as much Federation gear as possible. As a committed fan of the original Star Trek series who has never accepted the leadership of Patrick Stewart’s Captain Picard, I recommend you find yourself a tight-fitting gold or blue shirt, black slacks, and Beatle boots just like William Shatner and Leonard Nimoy circa 1967. For the ladies, a mini-skirt in the fashion of Nichelle Nichols or Grace Lee Whitney (better known as Yeoman Janice Rand––the woman with the pineapple hairstyle) would be quite striking. In academic circles, one cannot go wrong with the black suit or, for the more adventurous among you, the navy blue suit and black shoes. Do not wear white to an academic conference, as you will appear to be lacking in existential despair which exists in the heart of all great literary thinkers. Men, leave those ties at home. Invest in a selection of black t-shirts to wear beneath your dark and dashing blazers. Denim is also an option, and, ladies, always consider the trauma which awaits you in the valley of those high, spiked heels. You could put somebody’s eye out with those things, and they’re absolutely murder on the ankles when you’re making your grand entrance down the staircase of the Marriot convention center. Trust me, I know. As a final
note to all you ladies and gentleman, leave those tricorders at home. You won’t get them past airport security.
3. Buy at least one, if not a family, of Tribbles. For those who need a quick lesson in Star Trek 101, the Tribbles are the furry creatures in David Gerrold’s popular episode from the original series. They multiply at a rapid rate until they eat grain poisoned by (you guessed it) the Klingons. During my first Star Trek convention at the Stony Brook campus of the State University of New York in 1991, I purchased two stuffed Tribbles, one of which I gave to a friend and the other which I kept on my bookshelf for years. Perched on the bookshelf, it resembles one half of a set of ear muffs, or a stuffed toy which has had its eyes, ears, mouth, and limbs removed. It also emits a loud squeak when squeezed, a delicate toy for the family pet. Academics will find it difficult to locate such a charming, exotic item at, for example, the annual Modern Language Association Conference. Instead, expect to buy a lot of half-priced scholarly books and monographs. You may also receive a couple of free tote bags from sympathetic publishers who don’t want to see you throw your back out as you walk away with your annotated, illustrated edition of Marcel Proust’s epic A la recherche du temps perdu. Also keep your eyes out for any free cookies, drinks, or meals (if you can convince your dissertation advisor to
feed you one last time before you venture out into the cold, thankless world of academia, do it).
4. Set your phasers to stun. If you meet a fellow Star Trek fan who believes that “Spock’s Brain,” in which Leonard Nimoy’s famous Vulcan is lobotomized but nevertheless manages to direct Dr. McCoy in how to perform a successful brain surgery, is the greatest Trek episode ever, do not quibble. Do not ostracize this person, do not condemn her. Rather, extend your hand in friendship and explain why Harlan Ellison’s “The City on the Edge of Forever” (also known as the “Joan Collins episode”) is the single greatest Star Trek tale ever told. Young literary scholars, hold your tongues when you meet an older colleague who insists on convincing you of the greatness of Ernest Hemingway or F. Scott Fitzgerald, when all you really want to talk about are comic books, detective novels, or Bob Dylan’s underrated albums from the late 1980s. We all need to work together, the badness of “Spock’s Brain” be damned.
5. Beware the Vulcan nerve pinch. Star Trek fans will challenge the depths of your Trek knowledge. Do not fall into this competitive trap. After all, the reason you are attending a Star Trek convention in the first place is that you hid behind the weight machines in high school gym class when the other kids were playing dodge-ball. Academic conventions are filled with people who never played sports, but this does not mean these folks have lost their desire for competition. After reading your paper, you may find yourself being asked oblique questions by an aggressive man or woman wearing a dark suit. While many literary scholars used books as an escape from the taunts of, for example, their grammar school or high school classmates, intellectual aggression is often an unfortunate element of the conference experience. Even the even-tempered Vulcans get restless now and then. My suggestion? Smile and nod your head and, if the question you have been asked about your paper is especially obscure, say, “I had not considered that point. Thank you for bringing it to my attention.” If this fails to defuse the situation, perform a Jedi mind trick. While this action might be frowned upon by Star Trek purists, it may be all that will save you. The Jedi mind trick requires the ability to see to the heart of the question which is being asked of you. Many academics who appear to be asking a question are in fact making a statement concerning their own research which has nothing to do with the paper which you’ve just presented. I believe the cliché most appropriate here is “axe-grinding.” When you hear the axe a-grinding, you would be wise to utter another cliché, “Beam me up, Scotty,” which will signify the end of your paper and your panel. With that finished, return to the book exhibit for another free tote bag, which will provide you with plenty of space for all those Tribbles you’ll buy at your next Trek gathering.
I realize in compiling my list that I may have neglected other striking similarities between the worlds of Star Trek and academia. Just as there are countless alternate dimensions, there are galaxies of other parallels which I leave for you, dear reader, to discover as you explore the strange new worlds of conference hotels and canceled commuter flights. I would advise you to live long and prosper, but I’m certain there are copyright infringement and trademark issues involved in my doing so. Therefore, I will wish you a Happy Halloween instead, and await letters from the true-believers who love “Spock’s Brain” and Proust with equal fervor.
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