Zoo Story

Everybody's ganging up on the Copenhagen Zoo!  It's not fair, really.  Just because zoo officials butchered an adorable giraffe named Marius and fed him to the lions--I mean, is that any reason to get all indignant?  Be honest: Who hasn't wanted to kill a giraffe?  Or, for that matter, who hasn't watched Les Miserables and wanted to kill someone named Marius?  And it's not like the zoo had much choice: As they explained, Marius, while perfectly healthy, shared too many genetic attributes with his fellow zoo-mates, so the only way for the zoo to prevent potentially harmful inbreeding was to blow the poor fellow's brains out with a bolt gun!  What else could they do?!?

Well, OK, the COULD have given him to one of the other zoos that offered to take him in. . . . Or, I suppose they could have just neutered him. . . . Or just kept him separated from the other giraffes if it came to that. . . . So, yes, they could have done all kinds of things other than kill him.  But where would be the fun in that?

Because, let's face it, people basically go to zoos for the same reason they go to NASCAR races: the potential for bloodshed.  Who hasn't stood at the railing of, say, the polar bear exhibit, just waiting for an unwary seal to wander into the enclosure?  Who hasn't wished to see the Bengal tiger go to town in the lemur habitat?  Not me, that's for sure.

Indeed, I think Copenhagen might be on to something: The notion of a petting zoo is, let's face it, hopelessly passé.  But a killing zoo? I'm thinking there could be a giant roulette wheel at the front entrance, with all the resident animals on it.  Every morning, I spin of the wheel would determine that day's victim--uh, featured performer.  Today an eland, tomorrow a hippo, and the day after that, a giant sloth!  And why should the zookeepers have all the fun?  Visitors could get in on the action for a small extra charge.  How much would you pay to drop a toaster into the dolphin tank?  Or play Whac-a-Mole with actual moles?!?

So kudos to the Copenhagen Zoo for showing us all the future in zoological entrepreneurship!  And on behalf of the psychoanalytic industry, may I also thank the zoo for the uptick in revenue that will no doubt occur from all those children seeking therapy after watching Marius' demise!

Undignified

I support the whole idea of "death with dignity."  Who wouldn't?  What's the alternative?  "Death Accompanied by Hysterical Freaking Out"?  I am all for allowing people with terminal illness to choose, to a reasonable extent, the time, place, and means of their own demise.

Like-minded supporters of death with dignity, seeking to avoid the stigma associated with the term "assisted suicide," have adopted "aid in dying" as their preferred term of art.  Not completely sure this is an improvement: "Assisted suicide," while blunter than some would like, has the advantage of accuracy; "aid in dying" sounds troublingly euphemistic.  Jeffrey Dahmer provided plenty of "aid in dying."

More troubling, though, are people who push the limits of acceptable "assistance" in dying.  An article in today's Times tells the story of Robert Mitton, a 58-year-old with a terminal heart condition.  Although he would like to enlist assistance in his wish to end his own life before his health deteriorates to a point where he cannot take matters in his own hands, Mitton does not have that option: He lives in Colorado where, as in a majority of states, assisted suicide is illegal.

I am sympathetic to Mitton's plight, and I would not--do not--begrudge him his desire to avoid what by all accounts will be a lengthy and painful death.  Here's the thing, though: Mitton's condition is not, strictly speaking, terminal.  Unlike late-stage cancer patients or those slipping into irreversible dementia, Robert Mitton suffers from a heart condition that could be fixed through surgery: Indeed, he had a similar surgery in 1999 that successfully prolonged his life to this point--that's 15 years!

Now, in fairness, the surgery is extensive and painful.  I can understand this man's desire not to undergo it. If he would rather dies than face that surgery, that is his absolute right.  And, indeed, if he fears that the pain associated with his disease will become intolerable, he has the right to take matters into his own hands.  I do not think, however, he has a reasonable right to expect medical professionals--whose job it is, after all, to extend life whenever possible--to take an active role in helping him end a life that, by all accounts, does not need to end so imminently.

I worry that stories like that of Robert Mitton will provide ammunition for those who passionately oppose the assisted suicide movement.  Because what he seems to be asking for is not help in navigating the end stages of a terminal disease, but rather assistance in avoiding a potentially winnable battle to survive.  His search for "death with dignity" looks uncomfortably like a simple death wish.

Kiner's Korner

This week began with the shocking death of Philip Seymour Hoffman.  He was, of course, one of those folks frequently short-listed for the title "Greatest Actor of His Generation," and we will not soon see his like again.  The week ended, though, with another death, much less shocking and much less generally noticed, but sadder on a personal level: the passing of Ralph Kiner and. with him, of a distinctive part of my youth.

Kiner was a Hall-of-Fame baseball player, primarily with the Pittsburgh Pirates in the late 1940's and early 1950's.  Over a playing career abbreviated by persistent back injuries, Kiner was one of the most fearsome power hitters in the game.  But of course, he played his last game fifteen years before I was born.  So to me, and probably to a majority of baseball fans alive today, Ralph Kiner was not primarily a superstar slugger but was, instead, the television voice of the New York Mets.  From their almost satirical entry into the National League in 1962, through their miraculous 1969 season, and more than 40 more years of triumph and haplessness--OK, mostly haplessness--Ralph Kiner was the somewhat drab but always professional play-by-play man in the broadcast booth--and as such was someone with whom I spent an inordinate amount of time beginning in the mid-1980s.

Back in those days, my metabolism was such that I could polish off a pint of Haagen-Dazs peach ice cream virtually every night of the baseball season--from April to October--and still weigh about 140 pounds soaking wet come Halloween.  And the soundtrack to these ice cream binges, whenever the Mets were on channel nine (WOR Secaucus, NJ), was good ol' Ralph Kiner, ably complemented by the color commentary of Tim McCarver (not yet the official voice of Major League Baseball).  The results of those games were often nowhere near as sweet as the dessert, I'm sad to say.

Rest in peace, Ralph.  The games won't be the same without you.

Solomoronic?

According to legend, when King Solomon was confronted by two women who both claimed to be the mother of an infant and begged Solomon to decide the matter, the king displayed his legendary wisdom by decreeing that, since it was impossible to determine the true mother's identity, the baby should be sliced in two and distributed equally between the plaintiffs.  The actual mother thereupon immediately renounced her claim, imploring Solomon simply to give the baby away rather than kill it.  The "Judgment of Solomon" has since become an exemplary tale of executive wisdom.

In Solomon's defense, there were no CSI-style DNA labs in ancient Israel, so a certain degree of improvisation was called for.  But this strategy has always struck me as somewhat questionable.  I mean, do you suppose the king was actually joking?  "Hey, guys, if you don't stop bickering, I'm just gonna chop the baby in half, OK?"  And while Solomon could certainly expect a mother to object to the violent slaughter of her own baby, what kind of uncivilized hellscape was he presiding over that he would expect the other woman to so casually accede to attempted infanticide?

If I were Solomon, I would be all like, "OK, not only do YOU (woman who protested) get the baby, but YOU (woman who was going to go along with it) need to check yourself into a mental hospital!"  Or, whatever passed for mental hospitals back in those days.  Cappadocia, maybe, I don't know.

What the Dean Do (continued)

In case anyone out there was wondering, my exact title is "Dean of Liberal Arts," the Liberal Arts Division being one of four divisions at my college.  Liberal Arts comprises the following departments: English, Music, Drama, Foreign Languages, ESL, Journalism, and Fine and Media Arts.  I'm also in charge of tutoring.  I'm NOT in charge of the library, which is somewhat surprising; after all, you can't even SPELL "liberal arts" without using several of the same letters as appear in the word "library," but what are you gonna do? At any rate, I made it through the first week and I am pleased to say that I managed to achieve my first major goal: not having the college spontaneously combust on my watch. If the second week turns out to be as successful as the first, I expect that I might just succeed in this job after all.

What the Dean Do?

As I went through the application process for this position, I was heartened--touched, really--by a huge outpouring of support from members of the various departments that I would supervise if I actually got the job.  So many people came up to me to express their sincere appreciation to me for pursuing the job--and not just, as is often the case, because they themselves wouldn't take the job if you paid them!

(Wait, I AM getting paid for this, right?  OK, good.)

No, people seemed to think I would actually be good at the job.  They expressed faith in my managerial abilities, as well as a sense that I am someone who is easy to work with.  And I am!  Easy to work with, that is.  I have always taken an approach to work--whatever job I held--that there is pretty much never a reason to get too worked up about anything.  At a college, for example, no matter how crazy things get, no matter how many additional requirements get dumped on people, the fundamental job remains fairly straightforward: Teach the students.  Everything else really doesn't matter all that much.  Anyway, this fundamentally laconic attitude, I think, was reassuring to the people I work with: They know that I'm not going to get too stressed out, nor am I going to get terribly worked up about "the small stuff."

Absent, however, from all these expressions of faith and encouragement was any clear sense of what I would do as dean.  And then I realized why: Nobody exactly understands just what it is that a dean does!  I mean, we all knew that a dean oversaw the creation of the class schedule and monitored budgets.  And everybody knows about the best part of the dean job: canceling classes!  But there are only so many classes one can cancel.  (Alas!)  And then what?

For the benefit of future generations of mid-level higher-education managers, then, I will attempt to document here the various things that I do in my new decanal position.  First and foremost, I learn!  I have learned, for example, that the adjectival form of the word "dean" is "decanal."  I have learned in my first two days on the job how to fill out forms requesting new classes, changing instructors, and canceling classes--in fact, they're all the same form!!! I have filled out forms requesting that instructors be allowed to teach more than they are supposed to be teaching!  I have filled out forms requesting keys!  I have filled out forms ensuring that people get paid on time!  It's been an exciting start, I can tell you!

At my interview, I was asked about things like my vision for the position.  I didn't mention a neverending succession of forms.  So I guess I got that answer wrong.

Advice to an OLD Teacher: And Now What?

A few months ago, I went to an academic conference.  One of the breakout sessions was an hour-long discussion about why so few faculty aspired to go into administration.  I didn't actually attend this session, as I couldn't comprehend why anyone would need an hour to say, "Well, duh!"  Because, seriously, why would anyone, given a choice, opt for a workweek filled with meetings, bureaucracy, and complaints over the much more innately appealing prospect of hanging out with students, pontificating for several hours a week on a topic that interests you, and having summers off?  It's a fair question.

Nevertheless, last semester, when my own longtime dean announced her retirement, I decided to throw my hat into the ring and apply for her job.  And today, I was informed that I got it.  And now I am answering the obvious question: Why?

Mainly, I want a new challenge.  I enjoy teaching, and I think I'm pretty good at it, but I've been doing it now, in one way or another, for over twenty years.  It's time for something new.  And as much as administration features some unappealing aspects--I dread the meetings that are, I fear, going to become a major part of my life for years to come--administration also, possibly, offers opportunities.  If nothing else, a good administrator can make it easier for good teachers to do a good job.  If nothing else, I hope that becomes part of my legacy.

But, legacies are a long way off.  Tomorrow is day one.  Let the adventure begin!