You say DPhil, I say PhD...

In a break from our regularly scheduled programming of fun and lighthearted entertainment (and a recent focus on bicycle crime rings in Oxfordshire), I turn for a moment to my actual real life. It's not as interesting as bicycles, I'm afraid, but please bear with me.

My Real-Life Actual Academic Dilemma

Since I don't care tuppence about anonymity, or even pseudonymity, here's the inside scoop: I am currently reading for an MLitt at Oxford in Modern History. The MLitt is a less frequently read degree, since it's more work than the MPhil and less than the DPhil. To my American readers who are now completely confused, it's basically a master's degree somewhere between an MA and the PhD. It takes two years to complete, with one year as a Probationer Research Student (which means doing limited coursework and writing some preliminary background research) and one year of research proper on a thesis topic of one's choosing.

Fine. Okay.

But now, about halfway through the first term, I am starting to think that it might be a good idea to switch degree programs. In a number of conversations with advisers and supervisors etc., all of them have indicated that they think I would have no problem transitioning into a DPhil program at the end of this year. That would mean a third year at Oxford, and at the end I would have a shiny new DPhil, and hopefully would have written a cool and awesome research project.

I had originally thought to read my master's here and then go back to the States to do a PhD. But as more and more advantages to staying here emerge, I am forced to the last resort in decision-making (the creation of a pros/cons list) and am thus sending out an appeal for advice to the ether - I would definitely appreciate your legitimate, serious opinions. While it would seem that this is a far-off decision, it isn't actually, because I will have to apply for transfer of status this year, which means altering the nature of my basic research this year as well. This is, then, a decision which has to be made before Thanksgiving (otherwise, if I do decide to switch, I'll be playing catch up for the next two tersm). Here are the pros and cons of staying in Oxford for a third year to do a DPhil as I see it:

PROS

• I will not have much trouble obtaining third year funding. My fellowship coordinators seem to think I have a very good chance of being granted a third year extension.
• The Oxford system is SO flexible. I can do whatever I want, whenever I want, and there are very few hoops to jump through.
• My supervisor and other overseers are fully behind my research project and have endorsed it.
• The resources here are obviously unmatched anywhere in the US.
• Same for the proximity to the Continent, where I will be doing a lot of my case study research.
• There isn't anyone in the US or the UK who is working on the sort of research I'm doing. So there's no real impetus to study with someone specific, either stateside or here. Both places have experts in contiguous fields who can direct me perfectly well.
  
• Three years is pretty damn quick! No six or seven years of grad school for me. Staying here means not having to apply for grad school in the US or having to slog through basic coursework again (regardless of whether or not I actually need it).
  

CONS

• There seems to be, in certain academic circles in the US, a prejudice against hiring British DPhils. Why? Nobody is quite sure, but it seems to be related to some of the other points enumerated below...
• Lack of teaching experience. While I may be able to do some teaching, it will probably be far more ad hoc than the teaching experience I would get at a typical US grad school program.
  
• Three years is pretty damn quick! Because stateside degree programs take so much longer to complete, many seem to think that you can't possibly be as well prepared in half the time.
• I will be 24 when I finish my DPhil. Who is going to hire somebody who's younger than some of their undergrads?
• I don't think, after 3 years, that I would be qualified to go on the job market which means another couple years somewhere else, either as a postdc or an adjunct or a visiting or whatever, here or in the US (or maybe somewhere else in the Commonwealth).

So what it basically comes down to is this - how do I balance my research against marketability? I want to write a good dissertation, and that would be easier to do here, but I also would like to have a job at some point in the not-too-distant future, which might be easier from a stateside school.

Now I know that some people will say, this whole thing about British degrees not being marketable is a pile of crap. And maybe that's so. I don't deny that a degree from Oxford has a great deal of currency (duh! that's one of the reasons I'm here!) but I will say that I have talked to a wide range of academics from all over the United States, and many of them say something along the lines of, "Well, I don't necessarily think this myself, but a lot of people think that British degrees aren't as good when it comes to getting tenure-track jobs..." So I don't know who those people are. Or if they even exist. But there is certainly a perception that they do, and that they sit on a lot of search committees, or something.

So take out your pencils, and get ready, because here's the big take-home question:

Do I stay here and do a DPhil or go back to the States for a PhD?

Help me out.

It's official.

In a recent poll, subjects* reported that higher levels of sunshine in Oxfordshire led to better seminars, more cheerful attitudes, and a general sense of well-being. Investigators** are seeking to better understand the links between miserable weather and black depression, and are confident that these results will illuminate key processes. It has been posited*** that even the consumption of vast quantities of alcohol is not nearly as good as one day of honestly lovely weather.

* i.e., me.
** me again.
*** by - guess who? - me.

Nothing but net, sista.

Well done to Sheryl Swoopes for an excellent interview/article on coming out. You go, girl! In fact, I thought it was so excellent that I might have to start watching the WNBA. Well, maybe not. But still, good job!

I'm fixing to talk about grammar.

I am taking a course in Catalan this term, which is tremendously interesting. Today, I learned that Catalan is the only language which uses the auxiliary verb form of "to go" to form a past construction.

What the hell? you say.

Let me be clearer. In English, and French, and Italian, and Spanish (I don't know about Romanian), we form composite past tenses with auxiliary forms of "to have" or "to be" plus a present or past participle of the verb.

(Examples)
I was leaving your horrible house because it smelled of cheese.
I have left my keys inside your horrible house and thus have to go back in.

Okay so far. Well, most of us Romance language speakers also form certain future tenses with forms of the verb "to go" plus the infinitive. These are cleverly called "go-futures".

(Examples)
It is likely that I am going to die as a result of your smelly house.
Therefore, I am going to drive straight to the emergency room and have my nose cut off.

NB: an alternate form of the go-future can also be found in the Southern expression "fixing to."

(Example)
I am fixin' to shoot that dog if he don't shut up.

Anyway.

But it turns out that in Catalan, the verb anar ("to go") is the auxiliary verb with which one forms the past tense!!! I know!! It's crazy!!! So, for example

Jo vaig dormi

means "I slept," even though it looks a lot like "I am going to sleep." Apparently one can also say

Jo vaig a dormir

which is in fact a form of the future and really does mean, "I am going to sleep," but this is hideously confusing and consequently is best avoided.

AAAAAGGGGHHHHH!!!!!!

My fucking bicycle was fucking stolen!

GODDAMN!

It was locked up just like every other bicycle next to it. Yet, mine disappeared. Fucking hell! That was a LOT of money!

GODDAMN!

I can dump stuff on the ground for free.

So a week ago I bought a bicycle. From a slightly shady, but very reasonably priced, shop near where I live. And I have no complaints. The bicycle is great.

Sadly, at the same time I also purchased a basket, which the bicycle mafia promised to install for me. I believe, in retrospect, that "install" may have conveyed to me a slightly over-technical sense. The installation method, if it can dignified with that moniker, was to attach it to the frame with two of these bad boys:

The sequence of events was thus - I pedalled away, perfectly content. Two days later, when the stress on the basket (minimal) had stretched out the plastic which had been attached at the least logical places and designed to therefore provide the absolute minimum in the way of staying put, I heard this sound:

THUMP SCATTER SCATTER

And bonjour, there was all my shit fallen out of the basket and lying in the middle of the road. Fantastic. Because it's cool to pay £7 for a basket that instead of holding things, cleverly reverses the basket paradigm and enthusiastically dumps them on the ground.

"Piece of shit!" I swore at the basket, as I gathered all my stuff up off the ground.

"Well, the same to you!" said a lady passing by.

I think you've got to have pretty low self-esteem and/or be relatively paranoid to assume that any and all profanity (especially that addressed at baskets which consistently perform below expectation) is directed at you. I wasn't even looking at her.

Because I haven't had a chance to either buy some baling wire and fix it myself or go back to the shop and fuss at them, the basket now hangs off the back of my bicycle at a distinctly drunken angle, giving the entire affair a very rakish and crappy look. Maybe someone will cut the cable ties and steal the basket - but no, with my luck, they would steal the bicycle and leave the piece of shit basket locked to the lamp post.

Because I should be doing my Latin, but I'm blogging instead.

First week status - complete. Here's a quick roundup of the week in review. (Note: while it was a good week, and sometimes utter shite, I was not having the Best Week Ever. Who was? Wait till the end to find out.)

Classes
Few and far between, really. But I've found a Catalan teacher and will start learning that crazy language on Monday. Paleography rocks, and my teacher is incredibly sarcastic. Sample class moment:

RANDOM STUDENT
(trying to read complicated Latin charter, stumbling over words)...illas terras quas idem Willelmus tenebat a... ap...

PROF
Apud.

RANDOM STUDENT
...apud Badoena, um, I don't know what this is...

PROF
Quando.

RANDOM STUDENT
...quando ego primo fui fais?

PROF
What is "fais"?

RANDOM STUDENT
I don't know, um, it looks sort of like an "f", I think. Or an "s".

PROF
It's "saisitus". It means, "having taken seisin".

OTHER STUDENT
What is seisin?

PROF
Anybody?

CRICKETS
(chirp)

PROF
No? Any medieval historians out there? Apparently not... (NB: all the students in the class are supposed to be medieval historians)

CRICKETS
(chirp)

PROF
(gearing up for diatribe about how we are all completely useless)

ME
Isn't it a symbolic taking of land to represent ownership?

PROF
(deflated now that his rant has been taken away) Well, fine, yes, it is. But it needn't be land, etc etc etc (continues, slightly encouraged that I have been a little wrong and he can therefore complain anyway).

BISCUITS
Two words, cognoscenti - ginger nut. Goddamn McVitie's ginger nut biscuits are awesome. As, incidentally, are the mint chocolate chip ones. One of my new British friends is educating me about the wide world of biscuits - we have tea in the Middle Common Room after lunch most days, and gradually I am trying all sort of new biscuits. The ones with jam inside are pretty good, too.

Ballroom Dancing
So I went to the trials for the Blues team today (that's like the University varsity team). I was personally extremely pleased with my dancing, and danced with an amazing partner who was on the team last year and HE was happy with me too - but nevertheless, after the morning session I was told, "Hey - thanks for coming out. Now go away." Or something like that.

This would not have been a big issue had I not been a better dancer than a lot of the sods that stayed. Obviously the Oxford Blues team is looking for people who dance Latin as stiffly as they do Standard, and who have all the body expression of a:

You're right...that's not fair. That telephone pole does possess some understated lyric beauty, while most of the dancers did not. So there. What a big crock of shit those trials were.

Matriculation
Matriculated on Saturday, hurrah. Here are some pictures:

Me and various Corpus grad students

The Sheldonian Theatre, filled with matriculated students
(I was sitting down on the main floor)

Me and my flatmate in the main quad at Corpus

Somewhat disorganized procession from Corpus to the Sheldonian

What is all the silliness we have to wear under our robes? Why, it's called sub-fusc. And because 6,000 students matriculated this Saturday, and they all had to wear it, it's clear that

Sub-fusc is having the Best Week Ever.

Medievalist nearly killed in freak cycling accident.

The Daily Telegraph, Thursday, October 13

Oxford grad student Katie Clark nearly met an early death today on the High Street. Bystanders describe her cycling as "gruesome," and "completely insane."

"I don't know what she was thinking," said one passerby. "It was obvious she had never cycled a roundabout before."

Clark was taken to police headquarters for further questioning about possible mental unfitness or intoxication. Protested Clark, "Traffic goes the other way here! Bus drivers are crazy! It wasn't my fault!"

Police declined to comment, saying that the matter was still under investigation.

"Holy shit. You are rather well prepared."

So today was the first day of term, which meant I went to two classes for a total of two hours, and then was done. Phew! Time for a break, obviously!

I am on a research degree here, which means basically, I can do whatever the hell I want as long as my supervisor says it's okay. So I am taking three, count them, three (3) classes. Here's my schedule:

Mon.-Fri., 10 am - 11 am: Paleography
Mon., 11 am - 12 pm: Latin Reading Group
Thurs., 11 am - 12:30 pm: Medieval Seminar

Yep, that's it. Of course, there are heaps of lectures that I can attend whenever I like, so my actual schedule is fuller than that. But still! And people keep telling me that I don't have to go to things if I don't want to. Which is difficult to get my head around. The system here is so much more flexible and designed to suit your particular needs than those in the States.

I went to meet my course convenor (analagous to a head of department, sort of - or at least, a program coordinator) last Friday. I had been sick all week and had consequently missed the general meeting for those in my course. He started to explain things to me and then wanted to hear about my research, my background, etc. I told him what I wanted to work on, what languages I had, etc.

Quoth he (completely seriously and in an oh-so-British way), "My. I fear I am going to say something inappropriate: holy shit. You are rather better prepared than most of our postgrads."

!

I have never heard "holy shit" uttered as the most declarative and uninflected of declarative statements before. Nevertheless.

So apparently the rest of my time, when I'm not in class (for those taxing seven and a half hours a week), I'm allowed to go do research on my project and more or less operate as I please. Which is wild.

Incidentally, I think my course convenor was right about the rest of the students, at least if their proficiency in Latin is any judge. I guess I was under the impression that most of them would come to Oxford already having fairly decent Latin, but that would be wrong. They are all taking a remedial grammar course, using the book I learned from in Toronto when I started Latin. Which is fine, because originally I was supposed to take an assessment test which would allow me to clep out of that. Here's what happened - the test was scheduled for 2:00 pm one afternoon last week. I showed up, and so did one other kid, and no test materialized. Finally I went to find the departmental secretary and she found the lady who was supposed to give us the test. Lady comes in and says, "I have the test, but I'm not going to give it to you. I think you should just join the class that is already in progress." [NB: they've been meeting for the past three weeks, before term started; I elected not to show up] Well - here's the thing. My Latin definitely needs improvement, but I need to practice reading, not identifying impersonal pronouns and "ut" clauses signifying purpose à la Moreland and Fleischer's Intensive Latin. So I've decided that I'm not going to the grammar class, but will go a reading class instead. We'll see if anybody really cares. I sort of doubt they will. Crazy!

Oxford University Motto
"Dominus illuminatio mea"
(translation: only God will know if you go to class)

And now back to your regularly scheduled blogging.

The most typical conversation I've had in the past two weeks:

Me: Hi, what's your name?

British Person: Cheers, my name is Emmeline/Nigel/Josephina/Ian Duncan Smith.

Me: Nice to meet you, my name is Katie!

BP: Sorry, what's that?

Me: (slightly louder in case they are hearing impaired) It's Katie.

BP: (confused) Is that "Katie" with a "t" then? "Katie"? (BP pronounces the second syllable as if prizes were being given for clarity of "t" pronounciation)

Me: Yes.

BP: But yet you pronounce it as if it were a "d". Fascinating.

Me: No, not really.

The hell with you, British people! I CAN pronounce my name with a lazy and unclear medial dental consonant if I want! Learn the language! Jesus!

I have a maid. Sort of.

Originally written on Sunday October 2, 2005

Apologies to regular readers: due to a lack of internet connectivity, I am writing these posts in Word and then uploading them whenever my access is turned on, which will hopefully be Monday. So lots of these will come up at once, sorry.

At Oxford (and Cambridge as well, I think), we are assigned “scouts” – nice people who come in once a week or more to clean, vaccuum, empty the trash, etc. Mine is Olga (not her real name, of course, but close) and lives just outside the door to my flat. She has a notice posted outside her door indicating that she will be through to clean once a week on Wedensdays, and that all manner of things must be in order, and thus-and-so. Fine. A little further down the hallway is another notice, indicating that she will clean on Thursdays, with the same list of things that have to be done. Not entirely sure which day she would appear, I managed to have a very clean room both Wednesday and Thursday mornings.

She never came.

On Thursday afternoon, all my trunks of books arrived from the States. They were sent by mistake to the porter’s lodge of my college rather than the porter’s lodge of my residence, meaning that I had to arrange a taxi and several willing (and extremely good-natured) friends to help my drag all my crap out to where I do, in fact, live.

“What’s in all these?” the porter at the college asked.

“Mostly books,” I said, “nothing very interesting.”

“Oh,” he said with surprise, “the college secretary and I both thought it was your wardrobe.” Prior to shipping my trunks (with the somewhat disreputable company that was engaged, if you recall), I had cut down large UPS wardrobe boxes to go over them in case they were banged around in the container.

“Hardly,” I answered. “If I had brought as many clothes as I have books, I would never be cold again.”

Needless to say, once my things were out here, they exploded (as trunks are wont to do) all over the floor. When I got back from whatever pub I had been at late Thursday night, I just shook my head, thinking, I’ll deal with all that tomorrow. Mistake! This is what happened.

Setting: 9:30 am. I am asleep. Crap is all over my floor. Boxes and packing material have been haphazardly stacked near the door. All is chaos.

No knock at the door, or any other indication of entry is given. Enter Scout, hands on hips.

Scout: Shall I clean your room then?

Me: Nargle nargle nargle what? (attempting to give the impression that I was not, in fact, asleep, but was rather instead conducting a thorough survey of my bed linens and was of course up and about)

Scout: Shall I clean it?

Me: (thickly, still half asleep, realizing what a disaster she’s standing amidst) It’s too messy.

Scout: I know, so shall I clean, then?

Me: You can’t. It’s too messy. I’ll clean it up.

This continues for quite some time, she asserting that it must be cleaned, and I agreeing that it is indeed the case.

Scout: (cleverly changing tactics, in a slightly suspicious tone) When did you get in?

Me: Um, Friday.

Scout: (aware of the fact that it is Friday, today) Friday?

Me: Yes, but my things only arrived yesterday.

Scout: You got in Friday?

Me: Yes. I think so.

Scout: (giving up) Shall I just come back later, then?

Me: I think that would be best.

Scout: (leaves, shaking head in disgust)

Me: (already asleep again)

At least, I think that is what happened. It’s all a little vague. I do remember that it was incredibly confusing. I just wanted her to go away! And she wouldn’t, but kept instead asking me all these really difficult questions for which, at that hour of the morning, and in the somewhat delicate condition I was in, I was wholly unprepared.

I tried to find her later, to apologize and to find out when she actually does come round, but she was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps I have put her off the occupation altogether, with my too-messy room.

Update: In an interesting turn of events, I have just seen my actual scout in the hallway (I know it was she because her nametag said “scout” on it) and it was NOT the scary large woman who interrogated me earlier. I wonder who she is. Does she wander around asking difficult questions to people who are still asleep?

The "W" of Culture Shock

Originally written Wednesday, September 28, 2005

During orientation (which still, sadly, continues – albeit this time from the University and is nearly the last installment; really, how oriented can one be?) we were given a lot of talks about “two nations separated by a common language.” Don’t think the British are the same as we are, we were cautioned, because they aren’t. You just speak a vaguely similar language.

They gave us a sheet detailing the stages of culture shock. It goes something like this: arrival is the top left-hand bit of the “w”, and one slowly slides deeper into despair until one reaches complete and abject hatred of your new country. This, as you may have guessed, is the bottom left-hand point. Then gradually one comes to appreciate the similarities and differences, reaching the “independence” stage – which on their “w” is the same height as the beginning, certainly atypical of w’s as a whole, I feel. Then it’s back home again followed by another slip into depression as one realizes one’s native land is in fact crap, not nearly as good as it seemed from far away (bottom right-hand point). Finally one is able to stagger towards an acceptance of all things, and in a state of total zen, attain the W Of Cosmic Harmony.

What a load of rubbish.

Not that I wish to deny the reality of culture shock, or anything like that. But it seems to me that adjusting is a series of small, everyday victories and defeats (a bit AA, I know, but true). Not a “w” or anything nice and linear.

For example – telephone calls. It’s amazing how many assumptions are tied up in telephone calls. Saying the numbers, for one – in the States, we group three-three-four, with pauses at the hyphens, for area code plus number. But here it’s five-six, and if you say it the wrong way no one will understand what you’re talking about. And then there’s general phone conduct: I am usually pretty good at talking on the phone. I remember most of the words. But I had the most incredibly awkward conversation today with an Australian friend of mine. He called to remind me that we were supposed to get tickets for Hamlet on Thursday, and to ask me if I would send out an email to some other friends reminding them, too. All this is fairly straightforward. And we can, and often do, talk in real life perfectly well. But the telephone conversation was simply tortuous – he would pause at strange places and I’d think, ooops, my turn to talk, and I would be wrong, and then we’d both pause – dreadful.

It’s little things like that. I think the “W of Culture Shock” should be renamed “The Squiggly Line of Continual Adjustment, Barring Any Major Difficulties (Like Deportation), And Did We Mention That The Coins Are All Funny Sizes?” Because although that title may be a slight bit over-long, it could be called the SLAC for short, which is a lovely acronym.

Be patient.

I know there haven't been any posts lately. Not because I haven't been writing them, but because the Land of the Engs refuses to recognize my ethernet port. That's right, still no in-room internet access. So there will be several back-dated posts when that access is acquired (hopefully soon?).

Adjustment is going variably well (Wednesday saw an extremely low point).

I have the flu (or something very like it).

The weather is dreadful.

I am meeting with my supervisor in forty minutes. I have cashed in all my karma points as those advising me are better than I could have hoped for.

There is a bop tonight in the MCR (that last sentence was full of Oxford-speak, sorry; bop = big damn party, MCR = Middle Common Room, i.e. graduate students' college association).

I am auditioning for about ten different vocal ensembles this weekend, which should ensure at least a little success. However, with this flu, it may not. Tonight is Oriel College Choir, which distinguishes itself by offering several places to stipendiary singers. Long and the short of it? You get paid.

An even bigger bop at Balliol tomorrow, I am going as the erstwhile guest of an Australian...must buy a pair of shoes before then.

R- I have taken your stream-of-consciousness model to heart. It's an awfully lot easier.