The Dreaded Question

Huzzah: the term is over! D. has survived a semester of UK schooling. Mind you, he has no idea how he’s done. They don’t provide small details like, oh, feedback or grades on anything… until the new term begins. Also strangely, though next semester’s courses begin in January, he has two papers from the previous semester due to be turned in to his old professors. Have you got it? New classes, new reading, new requirements, yet the old requirements still apply. At least he’s not an undergraduate; those poor sods have to take exams in March… on what they learned during the autumn semester while doing reading and assignments for the Spring semester. Don’t look at us. We don’t get it either.

Occasionally T. attends some of D’s evening lectures — and on one memorable occasion, she sat in what she assumed would be the back of the hall of loosely arranged plush chairs in the Student Union, only to have the speaker decide she wanted to be where the majority of the students had landed. She stood about five feet from T…. who, listening carefully to a discussion on artificial intelligence and quantum whatevers, got dozy.

Okay, so fine: she’s inherited her mother’s narcoleptic tendencies. WHATever. The point is, though she was sleepy, she wasn’t asleep, and so D.’s little taps along her shoulder were just UNNECESSARY. And apparently, noticeable.

The professor stopped the entire presentation to inquire as to whether or not T. was quite well.

After D.’s equally unnecessary explanation that he was trying to keep T. awake, and the laughter of the group, and after the red haze of abject HORROR had passed, after T. had closed her eyes wished the floor to open up and swallow her (and D. as well, but to spit him out someplace infinitely worse), it was determined that Dr. Stuart was infinitely kind (and somewhat insane, but in a fun way), and that we would all be best of friends. (T. had determined to ask her where she got her shoes, anyway. It’s not every philosophy professor who gives lectures in white Doc Martens with vines and butterflies with little skulls on them.)

D. spoke to her briefly after the session and talked about his interests, and we found out that she is tenured doctor of philosophy, but had a few years back separated herself from the department for some of the same reasons that D. has found it so difficult to get along there. She invited D. for tea and chat last Thursday, and it turns out that she’s setting up kind of a subdivision of study within a new department — which is on the phenomenology of technology, (phenomenology means “what it is like” essentially), the human side of technology, and how humans relate to technology, and how it affects them. It looks at things like the ethics of robotics, the ethics of androids (as in, how many implants can you have to make you the six million dollar man and still be a human, and when/where should the lines be drawn for that, etc.), etc. It’s very interesting, and takes from all disciplines, including history and linguistics and politics, and sounds like it’s just up D’s alley. AND they have funding; which is the whipped cream on top of the dessert. Next year, should he join the department — and there’s a good chance that he might — he could also teach technology courses as well. This sounds like the multi-disciplinary PhD that D. has wanted, and he’s very excited.

T. is excited that D. is excited. However, T. was mostly excited to find out where Dr. Stuart got her boots.

Hobbits like their comfort. They like food. They like warm fires. They like books and a hot drink and quiet. Hobbits don’t generally like adventures. Work with me, people, you’ve read the book. You know that hobbits don’t like parties. That one time with Gandalf and the dwarves… well, that ended badly, didn’t it? The hobbit involved had to go on a quest! Did his family ever live that down? No. So, our answer to those who ask us if we’re going to the International Club’s holiday ball, or to the Solstice open house in Brighton should all understand when we smile and begin to back quietly away from them.

Hobbits: we don’t do parties.

This is not to say that we won’t be doing anything during the holidays. We look forward to sneaking into a traditional Latin American nativity parade, which will be interesting, since this country is somewhat lacking in Latin Americans. We’ll pop by the Christmas market at St. George’s Square and check out the German and Polish artisans, and we’ll attend various holiday services and shows. But from now until the twenty-ninth or so, we’re going to keep a low profile so we don’t have to answer that dreaded question:

What are you doing for Christmas?

(Or substitute ‘solstice,’ or ‘Hogmanay’)

Christmas: not a time to be alone, according to conventional wisdom. Everybody wants to be sure we’re doing something with someone, everyone is sure they need to “help us celebrate.” This attitude is actually a very good thing, especially if you are a teen or twentysomething university student, and feeling at a loose end while everyone else is ensconced with their nearest and dearest. But after receiving an email from the International Student Coordinator with information about Host, the program that “brings together international students at universities and colleges in the UK with friendly British residents who welcome students to their homes for a short visit,” we were sort of flummoxed, and decided that the word to everyone from here on out is that we are going to be HOME for Christmas. Never mind that “home” only means our flat.

Many are the friendly and well-meaning people we know who have asked us what we’re doing for Christmas, and please understand that we don’t mean you when we complain. We mean… strangers. Or near strangers. People who know we’re Americans and either erroneously assume that we’re loaded and will be jetting to St. Croix or that we’re going to throw ourselves whole hog into the party circuit. (And it does seem to be one long champagne toast — which is another reason in itself to avoid parties: there’s nothing worse than being surrounded by drunk people you don’t even know. And since Glaswegian is hard enough to understand, someone blowing whiskey fumes at you and slurring isn’t a great help.) It’s not even that “What are you doing for XYZ?” is a very personal question, either, but being asked over and over and over and over and over and over and over again, even in the name of polite conversation? Gets old.

Whenever we feel sorry for ourselves that we’re not surrounded by familiar faces, we remind ourselves that Christmas has ever been about being out of place, uncomfortable and far from home. The original cast of the story managed all right: so will we. It will be a good year to be quiet and enjoy some time where we don’t have to get dressed up, wrap anything or smile unless we feel like it. It’s a chance to make some new traditions.

– D & T

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