I distinctly remember my graduate school mentors advising me to attend conferences to bolster my marketability. Naturally, when a mentor tells you that attending these academic events is essential, you follow orders and try to show up for as many as you can afford. Unfortunately, opportunities to make appearances are slim when living on a teaching assistant budget, which consists of a monthly stipend of navel lint and mice droppings. Graduate students will do practically anything to attend these shindigs, including sharing a hotel room with fifteen other impoverished souls looking to network with established professors. Between sleeping on floors and living on a diet of free treats from various graduate program tables, the academic conference is the nightmarish buzzard that steals the last traces of dignity from exploited aspiring scholars.

Just so we are clear with my stance on academic conferences, I despise them. None of the following rantings are baseless. I made the mistake of serving on leadership committees within a division or two in my time. So, I have no problem stating that I have found academic conferences to be a massive waste of time. I will stand by that statement until I am cold in my casket. If I were ever convicted of a crime and had a choice to serve a year in prison or spend four days at an academic conference, I would start shopping for the proper toiletries to share with my bunkmates in the one-hundred-square-foot iron bar Hilton. At least after my prison sentence, I would still feel that I had some semblance of dignity and humanity after becoming somebody’s prison wife. Most inmates have the common courtesy of cuddling with you after they ravage your mind, body, and soul.

The worst offender of this type of ordeal comes from the National Conference of Nimrods. I would use their real name, but the organization knows who they are and what they are guilty of. I attended these bizarre navel-gazing affairs primarily to network with fellow scholars like people told me to do, and that eventually evolved into service positions for a couple of conference divisions. Initially, I would go because it seemed I needed to be there. I had to schmooze. I had to contribute to the academic conversation. This environment taught me a lot, but those lessons revealed a darker side to academic conferences.

I never fully heeded any advice my father gave me while growing up. My father used to tell me to be honest with myself and follow my instincts. Never try to impersonate something you are not, and never try to please everybody. You have to sleep with your conscious at night after doing the deeds you did that day. This wisdom came from the same man who told me at the age of thirteen that he didn’t care if I drank alcohol, did drugs, or have sex so long as I didn’t leave the house. But if he ever caught me smoking a cigarette, he would “kick my ass up to my shoulders”. Again, these are the words coming from a man who smoked two packs a day, at least. He was such a prolific smoker that his tobacco brand would send him two free packs of cigarettes for his birthday every year. I guess it was a thank you from the company for not dying in the past year. As you can probably tell, I had to be skeptical about the parenting he gave me.

I kept that skepticism until I started attending the National Conference of Nimrods annual conference. At first, I was thrilled to talk to other scholars who might have insight into the research questions that I was working on. We could iron out the academic puzzles that stumped humanity. Conversation and dialogue would be the call of the day, and the whole scene would play out like The School of Athens painting. This fantasy was not the case in any way, shape, or form. It was an excuse for faculty to leave their campuses, air discontent about their administrative leadership, and get drunk under the guise of pursuing academic enlightenment. I learned quickly that this was not a scholarly environment for me.

At my first conference, I quickly learned that three types of people attended these assemblies of nitwittery. The first group consists of academic rockstars. These established professors probably got tenure three days after being hired because they decided to pace themselves with a day off. I mean, even God rested one day after creation. These people are the influencers. They could blow their nose, and that handkerchief would get accepted into a journal with only minor revisions. Most of these people know what they mean to their field of study. They understand the game, and they play it very well. Some of them are so good that they rewrite the game’s rules when bored. As far as I am concerned, they are the game. They are the end game. They are living the dream of every other scholar at this conference.

The second group of people is those individuals who aspire to be scholars. These graduate students are attending with the intention of networking and making a name for themselves. They are hungry and naïve. They are virtually destitute, and yet they are coming to this event wearing their best Sunday clothes and the goal of becoming a rockstar. It saddens me to think they saved up all their birthday and Christmas money to come to this mockery of meaningful dialogue. They spend those hard-earned pennies on food and fancy clothing that will do nothing to benefit them in this circus of faux-chic academia. I feel genuinely bad for this lot because they still have ambitions and goals. The academic hazing of graduate school has yet to crush their souls, especially when they start looking into the marketplace. I admire their zeal for the intellectual game, but they are probably in way over their heads. I have no resentment toward them. They are almost too innocent to know any better. Although, I sometimes have to fight my overwhelming urges to shake some sense into a couple while they talk to me.

The third group is the reason why I loathe even coming to conferences. They are the barnacles of academia, just like the ones you see on rocks, boats, and whales. They are the largest portion of the three types, and the biggest buzz kills to academic pursuit. The barnacle category divides into two species. There are the acolytes and the sycophants. Many barnacles can easily float between these categories depending on their mood. Regardless of which one you run into, you will want to pour some hemlock in your Merlot if you run into one of them during a department party.

The acolytes are devout followers of a particular scholar or train of thought. They are those people who ask questions with little bearing on the paper session because they have to wedge their scholar-mentor into the conversation. They typically pronounce their question this way: “I really enjoyed listening to your presentation. It had some really great points, but why did you fail to consider Burpandfart in this argument?” First of all, they clearly did not enjoy the paper because they would not ask such an asinine, self-serving question. Second, they do not want to hear your explanation because they really want to grandstand and have people sit in awe of their majesty as they cite passages from Comengeaux that have absolutely no bearing on the research. These people are so insecure that they feel compelled to display their tightly focused academic knowledge as a form of validation. Just once, I want to grab them by the collar as they are doing this and scream that their scholar deity is dead (even if they physically are not) and that their salvation does not hinge on how much missionary work you do for them. If their work applies to the research question, the researcher probably found it. At least nuns and monks keep their mouths shut, so why can’t you?

The second group of bottom-feeding parasites is the sycophants. They are the deadlier breed of barnacle because they can easily disguise themselves as normally functioning human beings. However, once an academic rockstar comes into view, they become a drooling, blabbering fool. They rush toward the rockstar the same way hardcore fans of a heartthrob pop singer would. It is truly something to behold as they instantly flip the switch from a perfectly sane person into a completely gushing buffoon. Once they have cornered a rockstar, they begin to praise their achievements. They heap on compliments about how incredible the rockstar’s work is and how it probably changed their lives. This bizarre foreplay is how all interactions begin between sycophants and rockstars, and then it takes a cringe-worthy turn.

Soon, the acclaim becomes a plea. The petition is always a request for some academic insight. This tactic is a highly elaborate ruse with a lot of foreplay involved. It starts with mentioning the research topic and will eventually (15 minutes later) get to the source of the inquisition. Sycophants actually believe that if they get an opportunity such as this, they will have their answer bestowed upon them. After the sycophant has finally made their intentions known, they bite their lip in anticipation of the reply, which will solve their puzzle and give them clarity. Watching this unfold is akin to watching the woman who believed that if she touched the hem of Jesus’s garment, she would become whole again. By touching the person, the paper will automatically write itself and be ready for submission when they return home.

Heaven forbid anyone tests the rockstar by questioning something they had written in front of one of these academic bottom-feeders. Their face will curl up in disgust so that it looks like they are trying to imitate a Shar Pei. Then, if one of them happens to corner you after you have asked what they believe amounts to a “wholly inappropriate” question to the rockstar, they will scold you like you stole something. For all I know, I might have stolen some of their innocence by asking their hero a question of critique. These maniacs will rail at you for minutes, which feels like hours, because they cannot believe anyone could have the gall to ask taxing questions to a rockstar rather than shower them with adulation and praise. I’m sorry; I thought the whole idea of academic discourse was to challenge each other to build greater understanding. I had no idea that we were no longer in the business of seeking truth and validation through criticism. As scholars, I thought our role was to investigate traditions and interrogate the status quo. But what do I know because now I am getting showered with spittle laced with whiskey and coffee breath.

The saddest part is that the barnacles are not just the aimless scholars trying to find career stability somewhere. It shockingly comes from tenured professors as well. The most obvious occurrence that took place involved my good friend’s mentors. They were established people in the hallowed halls of academia. They had tenure at a prestigious institution in the Midwest. They supposedly knew their stuff. They were also incredibly rude to my friend after finishing his Ph.D. They belittled him for his supposed lackluster performance in graduate school. However, when they were in the presence of one particular rockstar named Moses Cannon, they followed him with the excitable energy of a puppy. It was downright disgusting and disturbing. I felt terrible for them, but I feel bad for these saps. Other than the rockstars who pretty much control the academic game, everybody at the conference falls victim to the swagger and majesty of the national conference.

Now that I am off my soapbox, I had a panel presentation at this year’s conference. It was my Shadoe State cohort’s tradition to do a panel presentation to continue the work of our former course director. We were the last graduate students she ever worked with, and we felt obligated to honor her work. It was almost a guarantee that the conference would select our panel presentations. Our collective work was top-shelf stuff. I always felt that our contributions to the academic conversation were excellent and practical. Sure, we weren’t lighting up the theoretical landscape with our work, but we thought it was essential to those who primarily teach rather than research. Still, people tend to forget there are those of us who work tirelessly in the trenches to better the educational experience for our students.

The problem with Remus and the professional development scene is that there isn’t one to mention. Remus has never been concerned with faculty bettering themselves or pursuing academic contributions beyond teaching service. There is nothing wrong with serving students; that is our primary role as professors. We are supposed to put students first before solving academic puzzles. However, there are just certain things that need tempering with this statement. Primarily, as an academic, one should want to strive for self-improvement. There is always room to develop new teaching skills or cultivate academic pursuits. Even though we have terminal degrees, we should not act as though our quest for knowledge is dying.

The fact that professional growth was not a priority at Remus hit close to home during my first annual faculty evaluation. While sitting in front of Dr. Elymus, he asked me about my professional development. I stated that I had presented at the National Conference of Nimrods for their introductory courses. I further remarked that my work there is for the betterment of any classroom, not just my field of study. He inquired if I had attended any other conference, not that I went to other panels, but that I attended other conferences. I replied no, and he marked my professional development as a three out of five. As he explained his rationale, he declared that the impact of attending is far more valuable than any presentation I do. I know that last sentence just broke your brain, so you can only imagine what went through my mind when I heard this myself. I was unaware that attending a conference had more weight than sharing insights about improving classroom conduct and congeniality with fellow professors. You know, imparting some professional development to other professionals. It is any wonder I still have any hair left as I write because I want to rip it out as I recall and transcribe these memories.

The most depressing part of the whole affair and the reason why I feel the need to include this chapter (aside from the need to get my frustration out about a national conference) is a revelation that came via an email later in the semester. Dr. Elymus shared a faculty email proclaiming the achievements of the division. It was a small list, as Townsend and I was two of the six names listed. However, there was a surprising name included. I had not mentioned this person’s name before this because he had not done anything to grab my attention until now.

Dr. Allen Claghorn was an English professor at Remus who was loud in demeanor and fashion sense. I know English professors feel the need to be a little over dramatic. It is a symptom of most professors in the humanities. They feel the need to justify their existence and create markets where there were none. Some of them need to be the center of attention, even though they have captive audiences daily in the classroom. It would be kind of cute if it weren’t so sad to witness. Dr. Claghorn suffered from this ailment more than most humanities professors that I have dealt with. His particular strain of the disease occurred in two parts. The first was his garish taste in fashion. Every day Claghorn would come to campus wearing multiple scarves or sashes on clothing that resembled fancy pajamas more than anything. They were so baggy that they made parachute pants look tight-fitting in comparison. If he felt a little extra feisty, he would adorn a sun hat the size of your grandparent’s Lincoln Town Car. This thing was 98% brim because you need to protect yourself and half of the neighborhood from all the harmful ultraviolet rays coming from the sun, which was probably the most charitable thing he ever did. If Claghorn’s accouterments for academic inadequacy did not draw you in, he would command faculty meetings with the theatrics he learned from William Shakespeare’s less talented brother, Bob. Very little of what he shouted at faculty meetings would be relevant to the topic. Just so long as he could get you to acknowledge his existence, he was content for a second.

His need for attention quickly made him an annoyance to students, faculty, and the administration. If there is one thing that the leadership at Remus cannot stand above all else, it is somebody who needlessly grandstands while contributing nothing since the administration hates the competition. So, if there was an opportunity for them to get rid of him for a couple of days, the administration would take advantage of it. Apparently, Dr. Claghorn wanted to go to the National Conference of Nimrods annual conference, and he received a full travel stipend and per diem. Now, did Claghorn actually contribute something to the academic conversations there? Absolutely not. He claimed to have submitted something, but no evidence supported his claim. The only reason why I know this is because I was not an ecologically minded scholar and always ordered a physical copy of the conference program, which is a reference guide of events that was the size of a small-town phonebook. If someone presented or chaired a panel, their name would appear in the index. As I suspected, his name did not appear. The email had him listed as presenting something with the same name as the conference theme. That was totally brazen of him. If you are willing to fabricate what you did at a conference, at least try harder than some of the students who usually get caught cheating in my classes.

I could have easily called him out for it, but I later learned about his reputation with Dr. Stalwart. Stalwart despised Dr. Claghorn with such a passion that I feel confident she would not think twice about killing him if she could make it look like an accident. To keep her sanity, she would indulge his lunacy by giving him lavish support to make him go away for a while. Please keep in mind that the national conference lasts four days. He would typically be gone for a week or more. He got to gallivant around the host city on the school’s dime and did it for longer than was supposedly allowed. Meanwhile, I presented at the same event. I planned my trip so that I did not miss too many days of instruction, and I couldn’t get any support for the trip at all.

I probably sound jaded about this incident, but I am not. I was a little disgusted that I had to fill out some forms in triplicate upon returning to campus to earn a portion of reimbursement for the plane ticket. This gross inequality illustrates an annoying fact that is true in almost all places: the squeaky wheel gets the grease. Since Dr. Claghorn was so bombastic, it would be natural to do what was necessary to shut him up. I wish that weren’t a standard business model, but it is.

As an aside, the administration finally had enough and did not renew his contract after my second year at Remus. However, they brought him back for the next academic year due to a shortage of instructors. Unfortunately for him, this did not last long. After just three weeks into the semester, the school released him. I am not sure what happened to him after his termination. The scuttlebutt around Remus’ literary haven of a library – a term which I assure you I use sarcastically – was that Claghorn was going to vacate this awful institution in favor of moving to a foreign country to teach children to speak English, and by scuttlebutt, I mean Claghorn practically banged a drum and screamed in the face of anyone nearby about how charitable of a soul he was for his plans. As it was, life was looking to take him in a new direction, though not the one he had intended, as Claghorn died two years later. I never heard about how he passed away. I can only imagine it had something to do with being the center of attention. Probably something like jumping in front of a firing squad because this shouldn’t be about the traitor. That joker will be dead soon. So naturally, all eyes (and sights) would go towards Claghorn, and they opened fire. Of course, it could all be fake, and he flew back to his home world because they needed him for something beyond our meager comprehension.