GenX women in higher ed from around the globe

Archive for the ‘Ponderings of a Peregrine Pinoy Professor’ Category

Endings and Beginnings

In Ponderings of a Peregrine Pinoy Professor on 2011/06/28 at 22:40

Rosalie Arcala Hall, writing from Iloilo, Philippines

Graduation and opening exercises bookend my university’s academic calendar and they are events which I make sure not to miss. The former I attend religiously because it gives me a once-in a-year chance to wear my PhD garb and to cheer my senior thesis advisees as they march one by one in their various fashionable expositions of the barong (pineapple fiber cloth) and sablay (the maroon-green-gold sash with the pre-Hispanic alphabet rendering of our University initials). The latter is the ceremonial welcome to new and returning students, heavy of symbolism and nostalgia-inducing. Both give me a renewed sense of purpose for my chosen profession, and a boost of varsity pride.

June is that time of the year when 16-year old expectant freshmen with their parents in tow brave the heat and the perspiration-inducing uphill climbs of our Miagao campus. They comprise 20% of the 6,000+ high school seniors who took the admission exam the previous August. Mostly honor graduates from public high schools in the Visayas and Mindanao regions, they leave their small-town accolades for the rigor and grit of academic programs where a grade of 3.0 (the equivalent of a “C”) is heaven-sent. Almost 90% of them will receive tuition and financial assistance; on their shoulders they carry the dreams of their poor to lower-middle class parents. They will fight homesickness at first, then years of rural bucolic living in the Miagao town where cable TV is non-existent (in dormitories).

I love opening exercises as genuine displays of unabashed gaiety with a mix of myth-making. In a jam-packed auditorium, the University hymn “UP naming mahal” (University of the Philippines our beloved) is sung; the echoes of unstinting service to the nation are repeated in speech after speech; the student activists chant “Iskolar ng bayan, ngayon ay lumalaban” (the nation‘s scholars are fighting now) with the exit of the University colors and stage a demonstration after the program. Academic groups (upperclassmen from various colleges) in their distinct trademark colors (red for Redbolts; green for Clovers; blue for Bluechips) and wacky paraphernalia try to outdo each other with their clever, sometimes raunchy cheers. Clapping and boo-hoos accompany introductions of faculty members and administrators. If one considers that this ceremonial opening is done at least 3 times (university, college, Division) in 2 days, you get the idea of how energized everyone is.

April is that time of the year when beaming 20 to 21-year olds proudly walk with their parents to receive their diplomas. Their faces are unrecognizable in the glare of evening lights and their salon do’s. The valedictory speech of the student with the highest GWA * tells of service to the nation; the “UP naming mahal” is sung ardently and the same student activists do their usual chant and demonstration– constants for 103 years. Preceding this main event, the University holds a formal recognition program; a free cultural performance and a baccalaureate mass. It is both celebratory and somber; and one in which I get to say seemingly never-ending goodbyes to my graduating academic brood.

Rituals and traditions in the academy are underrated in a world that has become too fast-paced and harried. Pragmatists may think such displays of pomp and circumstance are a waste of tax payer’s money (we are after all a publicly-funded University). But I am old-school and remain strongly convinced of the value of shared memories in community building. I would like to think that I bond with my students in the daily grind of classroom instruction as much as being part of the crowd during graduation and opening exercises. After all, we have the same “maroon” (UP colors) blood cursing through our veins.

*General Weighted Average

The Unapologetic Scholar in Search of a Writing Space

In Ponderings of a Peregrine Pinoy Professor on 2011/05/27 at 22:46

Rosalie Arcala Hall, from Iloiolo in the Philippines

“I am going on a writing break” reads the opening statement of my letter to the University Chancellor explaining why I am going to the US Pacific Northwest for four weeks in May. If one considers that temperature rises to over 100 degrees Fahrenheit with 90% humidity during the Philippine summer, surely escape to a temperate country if one can afford it is a reasonable option. Being married to an American, my annual sojourns to the US are regular events my reneging-fellow paranoid University officials are used to. I “disappear” during April-May and resurface in time for the beginning of classes. But having been designated as Division chair last year, my claim to a summer vacation is now subject to approval and rigorous inspection. In deciding to become an administrator, it appears I have also inadvertently signed up to relinquish any scholarly pursuit.

Being in the government’s employment, I need to get permission from my University boss to leave the country. A “travel authority” is one document I never treat lightly, having been barred once by Philippine custom officials for not having it en route to attend a meeting in Bangkok. Alas, I can’t just teleport myself into and out of my office. Worse, for newbie administrators like myself, I have to make a strong case for temporarily abandoning my post as it was assumed one is literally chained to her administrative job. Before I even wrote that letter, I had to consult with our human resources chief about the possibility of leaving, with her proclaiming that I have only earned 4.5 days (!) of paid vacation credits thus far and 15 days of teacher’s leave. I had to find an officer-in-charge, leave detailed instructions to the staff and promise to remain connected (via the internet) to take care of recruitment and student enrollment concerns wherever I am. It is NOT a vacation, I am constantly reminded but a necessary “spatial distancing” so that I can do scholarly stuff, which frankly I need no longer be concerned with since I am now an administrator (so the logic goes).

“I take my writing seriously” I added in my letter. I had to make the point because I feel that it is an under-appreciated activity in my University and even more so for administrators. It is neither financially rewarding nor is seen as a measure of success, not surprising for a faculty body that is so productive research-wise, but whose publication record is a mere blip compared to our counterparts in UP Diliman. For instance, my Division is one of the most prolific units in terms of research project involvement, but only four (out of 36) have ever published in an ISI journal and only a handful in established domestic journals other than the one published by our University. Writing for many is done under duress– to complete a report, to comply with the requirement for tenure– but rarely as an act of creativity. I am no snob– I celebrate and publicize my faculty members who take time to connect with their public through their writing, like my Economics colleague who’s set a record for conference paper presentations on his work on valuation, or my Political Science colleague’s short but erudite commentaries on everyday-cultural politics in his Facebook account, or another colleague who recently published a book of poems.

“I can’t write in the Philippines,” I hastened to add. Writing does not come naturally to me. To write a journal article for submission, I need 4-8 uninterrupted hours in a quiet environment to write a 3-5 page draft. I can’t write in a hot, humid setting nor surrounded by blaring stereo music from neighbors and a wailing baby. I can’t squeeze in writing as it were on regular days where I also have to teach, administer faculty members, and manage my home. I can only do it on weekends or on long breaks. I have a set writing rhythm interspersed by caloric replenishment every 2-3 hours. My husband knows when to physically disappear; quit sending me messages on iChat; never to comment on or touch the pile of papers and books strewn on our bed when I am in my writing zone.

I am writing this piece on our cottage rental at Port Townsend overlooking the Straits of Juan de Fuca and the distant Vancouver Island. I got my approved paid leave and travel authority. No small victory to an academic administrator who’s also trying very hard to retain her academic core.

Rosalie Arcala Hall is a Professor at the University of the Philippines Visayas and a founding member of the editorial collective at University of Venus.

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Two Lawsuits and a Funeral

In Ponderings of a Peregrine Pinoy Professor on 2011/04/19 at 10:37

Rosalie Arcala Hall, writing from Miagao, Iloilo, Philippines

Recently, two events engendered some serious self-reflection on my “why I am in the teaching profession” question: two landmark sexual harassment cases against colleagues and the sudden death of a retired Political Science professor. They expose the lack of a clear sense of private/public boundaries among academics with respect to their students, and the good or evil that arises from it. In a society such as ours where the power exerted by the teacher inside the classroom is rarely contested by students (nor by colleagues under the guise of “academic freedom”), a significant amount of impropriety in student-teacher relationship goes unnoticed or simply brushed aside.

When news about the sexual harassment cases first became available, I was outraged over what appeared to be a culture of silence and denial; it seemed that administrators and colleagues turned a blind eye over swirls of pregnant rumors because there is NO written complaint. This was despite the highly public Facebook comment thread discussion about the practices and multiple victims of the nameless harassers. Because of the emphasis on social harmony, nobody (not even our University’s gender office) has had the balls to confront the alleged harassers although their reputation was widely known. For many years, students were left to navigate this moral land mine by avoiding the teachers themselves; with hapless victims finding no recourse except in the anonymity of Facebook pages. I was equally alarmed by the knowledge that despite the presence of a decade-old legal framework in the university against sexual harassment, certain innocuous “practices” have been allowed to persist despite clear impropriety: dating students, making students submit papers/assignments or “consult” in their homes or beyond official university hours, exchanging highly personal email and SMS communications with students with no academic bearing, the list goes on.

The morass in which the community sunk because of these cases stood in sharp contrast to the testimonies during the necrological services of a former professor who was legendary for his irreverence and eccentric but unquestionable bond with his students. He terrorized students with his Socratic methods; he forced students to question conventions. On the drinking table and out-of-classroom excursions (involving alcohol), he nurtured young minds and built lasting friendships. At his final resting place, many came to pay him tribute: former students now Senators, mayors, lawyers, businessmen flying in from Manila and Mindanao. A Facebook page created upon his death brought an outpouring of sentiments from hundreds whose lives he touched. Here was a man who took the seriousness of teaching to heart– spending money for booze and meal subsidies on students too poor to make it through four years of college. His practices were unquestionably improper by any standard, but he was never accused of a breach of trust.

The harassers and the unforgettable mentor were products of a system that has no clear normative standards of “boundaries” in the relationship between students and teachers. It is also a system that conveniently ignores the inherent power asymmetry in a student-teacher relationship constraining, nay making it impossible for a romantic or friendly bond to exist that is not tinged with malice. There is a misunderstanding that the job of a teacher is to be friends with students. It is not, although one can certainly hope of such as a by-product. At best, teachers should endeavor not to break the students’ trust and to provide useful guidance.

In my two decades in the profession, my students have been no more than a parade of faceless entries in a grade sheet I have the occasion to seriously ponder upon only at that moment. I hardly remember their names, except perhaps if they had written such exceptionally crafted term papers or thesis projects. I take care of my conduct to avoid even the appearance of impropriety; I never socialized with students outside the classroom. I don’t expect to be a subject of a sexual harassment complaint nor would I expect my students to gush endearments at my funeral. Occasionally, I get an ego boost from former students who remember me and say something positive about me years after they graduate. Toeing the invisible line of academic conduct makes for an uneventful life.


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The Importance of Classes

In Ponderings of a Peregrine Pinoy Professor on 2011/02/10 at 04:46

Rosalie Arcala Hall, writing from the Philippines.

On the 3rd of January, I showed up bright and early for my Comparative Politics class and was peeved that only 1/3 of my students showed up. One student who was due to deliver an oral report said she wasn’t ready because “she didn’t think I would hold classes that day.” I was similarly aghast that many of the faculty members from my Division were also absent that day. The Arts and Sciences building felt like a ghost town–the habitués having decided they needed an extra day to recuperate from their holiday hangover.

This is, sadly, part of a larger cultural malaise besetting my home institution– the tendency NOT to take classes seriously. This is indicative in the way administrators set meetings, consultations and celebratory occasions within class hours (7am to 5pm, Mondays through Fridays) and suspending classes to give way to them. Apart from early January, faculty members routinely do not hold classes on the first week of the semester (arguing for attendance in “opening exercises/programs”) and a day before and during the Christmas Lantern Parade. Many also routinely miss classes on account of moonlighting activities (our professors are poorly paid). While it is standard to require the holding of make-up classes for these absences, many times faculty members are not as judicious given difficulties of scheduling. And so they just send the students away with loads of additional assignments and film showings. Predictably, students also imbibe this lackadaisical attitude; they anticipate these “informal” class holidays and go on long vacations, show up late in classes and max out their quota of 7 unexcused absences.

Read the rest at Inside Higher Ed (link here)

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The Virtual Chair: Academic Management by Remote Control

In Ponderings of a Peregrine Pinoy Professor on 2011/01/13 at 04:44

Rosalie Arcala Hall, writing from the Philippines

After two decades in the academe, I have purposely avoided being nominated to any administrative position. This came from an earlier conviction that I would rather be a serious scholar than a paper-pushing bureaucrat. Because the pool of would-be university administrators seems to draw disproportionately from a handful of PhD holders, I thought it was a great disservice to have such expensive education wasted on the banality of managing. Besides, being tied to a desk job is the antithesis of my desire to travel abroad.

I was finally persuaded to be Division chair after my junior colleague decided to step down unexpectedly. My motives were mixed: I felt that I ought to “take a turn” as a way of giving back to my institution; to introduce reforms in the way the University does business; to mentor the junior faculty to be courageous and aggressive in applying for grants; and to inspire my colleagues to publish internationally. I bit the bullet but not without reassuring the Dean and my colleagues that henceforth I will no longer accept additional travel commitments from the ones I already have. They all cringed when I posted my personal calendar from November to February (I was going to be away two weeks for every month); and the forthcoming meetings and conferences I expect to attend on a regular basis. My terms were clear: they can have me, but they will have for the most part a “virtual” chair. I won’t observe a 9-5 Monday-Friday routine (my early morning writing ritual is sacrosanct); my electronic signature and email correspondence are official; all intra-department communication (announcements, notices, minutes of meetings, even fund-raising and donations) will be circulated in the yahoo group for the department. I will force the faculty to adopt 21st century technology and its attendant values of openness and expediency (decisions in real-time).

I started with the fundamentals. I had the faculty directory and yahoo group updated; built and publicized a faculty list of recent publication and research (to bring attention to non-performers); examined the office’s finances (particularly the way the faculty fund for conferences is used); worked out relay system with the staff; and established a “perimeter” in the office where I could not be disturbed. I kept a running tab of Divisional concerns (a separate diary) which I noted and crossed out once accomplished. I kept a supply of brewed coffee, tea, biscuits and treats for tête-à-têtes with colleagues, students and visitors. It was fine for the first two weeks I was physically around.

My dry-run, however, as a virtual chair was dismal. Before going to 10-day conference in Austria, I had tediously prepared paperwork and left detailed instructions to the staff and faculty in charge for two activities: the Division-sponsored guest lecture on the Mindanao conflict and the Division status report during the college meeting. The lecture went off without a hitch; the report was a total botch because the secretary did not relay the information to the reporting faculty accurately. With more preparation (and plan B in case the person in charge fails to deliver), I am optimistic that the scheduled publication workshop and the personnel consultation for first semester load distribution in January and February will proceed smoothly, even when I am away in Kyoto and Yogyakarta. Over the Christmas holidays, I was actively posting official communications throughout the yahoo group. Most people responded; others did not (and they will surely get a reprimand). The staff were front-loaded with tasks which must be completed in early January before my plane takes off. I am convinced everyone else’s learning curve on my management style will occur soon.

Can an academic really be good BOTH as a scholar and an administrator? In the sample of my University’s administrators, the answer is no. There simply is no time to do anything else. In my two-month stint thus far, I can very well see how one could get easily sucked into the position. What could be more life-draining than having to face a 3-inch pile of paper to be signed, many of which actually the Chair has no business of (e.g. countersigning student request for overload when such has already been approved by the academic adviser) and to sit through two-hour meetings which can be done over email? But I am determined to be a statistical outlier (meaning, I will publish and research as much as I can) and also to win in my crusade of re-thinking the physicality of being chair.

This post was also published in Inside Higher Ed.


 

 

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General Education Examined

In Ponderings of a Peregrine Pinoy Professor on 2010/12/13 at 23:44

Rosalie Arcala Hall, writing from the Philippines.

My sister recently visited a physician in Manila who turned out to be a former undergraduate student of mine in Iloilo. Recognizing the common surname (Arcala), the doctor gushed about how I had tempted her to switch from a Biology major to a Political Science major, upon taking my General Education class in Social, Economic and Political Theory. To this day she remembers Plato, Aristotle, Rousseau and Marx and the engaging manner in which I embedded their ideas in their historical milieus. In my twenty odd years in the academe, it was the best compliment I have ever received (albeit indirectly). It is also a silent vindication of the premise behind General Education courses in my home university.

First introduced in 1959, GE courses comprise 45 units (or 15 courses covering Communications, Mathematics, Natural Sciences, Social Sciences, History, Humanities and Philosophy). Whether majoring in fine arts, computer science or marine biology, all students have to take the GE courses as they form the core learning and competencies that are the university’s trademark. One of my GE teachers referred to it as Renaissance education; another touted its usefulness for engaging cocktail conversation.

Read the rest at Inside Higher Ed (link here)

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We launched the University of Venus blog in February 2010 and currently have readers from over 125 countries. In October, 2010 the blog was visited by over 26,000 readers.

In July 2010 we partnered with Inside Higher Ed (a large higher ed media publication in the US) as part of a new initiative to support blogs focused on international and global higher ed.

In June, GlobalHigherEd and The World View launched with IHE. GlobalHigherEd is headed up by Kris Olds (professor at UWisconsin-Madison) and Susan Robertson (professor at UBristol, UK). The World View is a blogging venture coming from Philip Altbach’s team at the Center for International Higher Education at Boston College.

Beginning July 12, we started blogging at University of Venus @ Inside Higher Ed. Check out our new home and join the conversation (link here)

 

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An Unsuitable Job for a Woman

In Ponderings of a Peregrine Pinoy Professor on 2010/11/10 at 23:35

Rosalie Arcala, writing from the Visayas in the Philippines

Having recently acquired my own iPod touch, I finally found a reason to do some serious weeding of my address book. I realized that I have active mobile phone numbers of 4 army generals and numerous colonels, majors and lieutenants. Some years back, I have included notations on the units where they belong and their station to better manage this growing data. The notations have become more diverse– J3, OG7, engineering, CRS, RCDG, EastMinCom– indicating the many types of soldiers I have encountered in the course of my research career.

How and why I came into this research specialization was serendipitous. I picked up my interest in the military’s role in democratic transitions from my Latin American course, and decided to focus on the issue for a dissertation back when coup d’etats were a thing of the past in the Philippines. I zeroed in on counterinsurgency strategies and local civil-military engagements and hit a goldmine. I accepted back-to-back-to-back foreign-funded research projects on the military (disaster relief, overseas deployment, rebel integration, military-to-military cooperation, asymmetric warfare, women soldiers) and never looked back.

Doing research about the military in the Philippines is never for the faint hearted. There is an ongoing war against communists and Islamic separatists. While much of the violence has been scaled down and localized, a great chunk of the army is deployed on the front line at any given time. The empirics of military research demand fieldwork in places not always accessible nor safe for any non-local. There are the usual hazards of being shot at, kidnapped, or victimized by a bomb blast (improvised explosive devices were found or detonated killing people in Cotabato and Davao cities in Mindanao while I was there for fieldwork). As an institution that cut its teeth in counterinsurgency, the army is also reflexively suspicious of researchers, particularly those from my home University that have produced countless student activists-turned-rebel commanders, including the heads of the Communist Party and the Moro National Liberation Front. Plus, there is the much-lamented military bureaucracy which often requires permission to undertake research from higher authorities, necessitating cumbersome legwork and follow-ups.

In military research, force majeure events are never rare. I had to postpone my field work in Mindanao for 6 months because the army units that included rebel integree respondents were deployed chasing after rogue Islamist groups responsible for violence in 2008. I had to wait until the troops finished their operations. Another unit, which was a subject of my other research on disaster response, also got re-deployed in Mindanao for the same purpose. When a major typhoon hit our island in 2008, I had the chance to observe first hand the type of “military operations other than war” performed by the local army unit alongside American Marines with their fancy Seahawks. I camped at the airport by invitation from the local commander and did my informal interviews right there and then.

That I am a woman partly explains the kind of inside access I have with the military. The men who make up the bulk of our armed forces exhibit the kind of old-world view of and treatment of women. To many, I am non-threatening; I am not likely to question the celebrated masculinity of the institution. There is also a protective instinct towards the female. I have encountered commanders who flat out refused to send me to remote detachments for interviews (I can’t hike half-a-day up a mountain, they say) or would only do so with an armed escort. On one occasion in 2003, my escort pulled out his gun when we encountered an armed person by a road. That convinced me to refuse any offer for security from then on. Rather than me risking my life and limb to get to their remote detachments, the army respondents come to me! In great kindness, the division commanders in Mindanao have issued “special orders” for my respondents to descend to the headquarters specifically for my 2-day focus groups. I remember distinctly two male Muslim lieutenants who told me that had they been ambushed on their way to or from my focus group discussion, their deaths would be on my conscience.

In retrospect, women of high status (professors with advance degrees) CAN successfully do this kind of military research in the Philippines. I know of 3 other female professors who have done work on the Marines and on war trauma. It is a great tribute to the men in the armed forces that women like us are treated seriously. Perhaps it comes with having many women in my country who have had successful political careers, including commander-in chiefs. The status (whether you are a mayor, congressman, or a President) is more important than your being a woman.

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This post was also published in Inside Higher Ed.

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I Teach (Not)

In Ponderings of a Peregrine Pinoy Professor on 2010/10/12 at 02:11

Rosalie Arcala Hall, writing from the Philippines

The academic calendar is symbolic of how an institution values time. It pegs the community to set dates like enrollment and graduations; exam periods and study periods; and holidays and vacations. In my university’s case, what is not contained in the calendar is more instructive than what it actually says. Like many non-modern societies, we take a more malleable approach to time and along with it, a less strict teaching regimen.

My University’s academic calendar is a historical artifact from a former agrarian society that was dependent upon the young’s labor for planting and harvesting. It begins in June and ends in March. Book-ending the semesters are Christian holidays (All Saints/Souls Day in November 1; and Lent in late March/early April). Apart from the requisite two-week holiday for Christmas and New Year (December), we also give way to numerous “public” holidays celebrating heroes and heroic events (about 7 national and 3 local), which under former President Arroyo’s holiday economics scheme invariably were moved to Mondays (and inconveniently announced the week before the holiday!).

For a university with fixed class schedules on Mondays/Thursdays and Tuesdays/Fridays, the said holiday economics scheme is a killer on academic rhythm. It meant Monday/Thursday classes automatically lose anywhere from 4-5 sessions per semester. Moving class schedules to avoid Monday proved to be a disastrous experiment in my university, with students lamenting their midweek (Wednesday) respite. Unresolved, this serious problem drove some faculty members to shorten their syllabus topics or else wave their fists in frustration to a government more intent on building quasi-nationalism through these public holidays than inculcating knowledge to the young.

That our academic calendar falls within the typhoon/monsoon season also means several cancellations on account of flooding and other natural disasters. Surely nobody in his/her right mind would brave flying GI sheets and falling tree branches in a typhoon category 3. The same applies to those like myself who are too worried about getting leptospirosis from wading in flood waters. And so, while my professors in Boston would typically make allowance for one “snow day,” in the Philippines, 3 or 4 weather-related class cancellations are standard.

And then there are the numerous class suspensions from the democratic urges to “consult” by university officials– from visiting student/faculty dignitaries from Manila, University President candidates, pension fund administrators, student council members, etc. Memorandums are usually issued to this effect, and of course fashionably close to the actual date to make life extra miserable for teachers. These “consultation” events are so numerous (and NOT scheduled outside of class hours) that I have come to believe teaching is secondary only to accommodating bureaucratic niceties in my university. That very few eventually turn out in these consultations despite the class suspension should have cued administrators’ long ago of this folly. Worse are committee meetings for which faculty members are EXPECTED not to hold classes (or to make alternative arrangements) so that they otherwise spend half a day discussing matters better done on-line in less time.

My university also calendars various activities celebrating institutional milestones from foundation day, sports festivals, alumni homecoming to Christmas lantern parades. Typically lasting 2-3 days, they have become associated with “tradition” as well as an informal teaching holiday (I usually spend this week-long respite doing field work or attending conferences abroad). In fact, although NOT stated in the academic calendar, it has become general practice to not hold classes on these dates. Claims of “alternative” class activities etc. are touted to cover for these gaps, but everyone knows it’s just an excuse to party.

If you are keeping tabs, the non-teaching days sum up to a whopping 3 weeks every year where I am. To someone like myself who takes learning and face-to-face engagements with students as serious endeavors, it is a most unhappy situation. Am I too infected by Western academic standards where classes are sacrosanct to the university’s mission? Should my University be faulted for bringing up community and national values at par with knowledge building and sharing? Why bother with an academic calendar when red letter days are rendered invisible or hidden?

This post was also published in Inside Higher Ed.

 

 

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Naming Assumptions

In Ponderings of a Peregrine Pinoy Professor on 2010/09/09 at 22:32

Rosalie Arcala Hall, writing from the Philippines.

For women in the academy, one’s name is akin to a passport which under no circumstance must you tamper with. Your reputation as a scholar is attached to your name, which when subjected to a Google search, may yield only a few or a substantial number of hits depending on if it is correctly remembered or spelled. Unlike men, marriage pressures women to decide whether or not to make this changed civil status a separate “name reality” from their professional one. It is a tough choice to make.

Within my age and professional cohorts, I am a statistical outlier. First, I wanted a name that reflects a connection to my husband, a fact that some of my more liberal colleagues find counterintuitive. I also wanted my maiden surname spelled out to honor my local roots. Upon marriage in 2003, I conveyed this individual name preference in an official form to my university and government pension authorities. That I continue to receive communications in various permutations–“Dr. Arcala-Hall”;  “Dr. Alcala(sic)-Hall”; (medical) “Dr. Hall” suggests that my form possibly got sucked in a black hole (read: lost) or simply fell on deaf ears (read: ignored). Why is this is so? I blame feminism-infused university administrators on a crusade to hyphenate female faculty members’ names for this debacle, as well as spelling-challenged bureaucrats who mistake my maiden name for that of a more famous former Environment Secretary (Dr. Angel Alcala). As for the confusion between a medical degree and a Ph.D., “doctors” more often conjure men with stethoscopes rather than a female, book-wielding scholar like me. In the Philippines, my battle with bureaucracy and convention over my married appellation is like Don Quixote challenging the windmill. It is at times exasperating and downright comedic.

Adding to my woes is the fact that I have an obviously foreign surname, which never fails to draw unusual attention in our neck of the woods. Often, the reaction I get from colleagues range from “Why are you not in America?” to “When are you going back to the US?” indicating the built-in prejudice of Filipino wives of Americans whose only end-and-be-all is to get a green card. In several foreign fellowships I had applied for, I was “flagged” and asked to “prove” my intent to serve my home country given that I am married to an American. On the positive side, my name card tickles curious minds: the military General who spent some time grilling me about how I met my husband and why we chose to live in the Philippines; residents of a remote upland village dismayed by a motorcycle-driven woman (!) who came to interview paramilitary members rather than dispense medical services (easy to assume with someone named “Dr. Hall”); or a colonel from Mindanao surprised by me, an obvious local, coming to do research (she was expecting a blond woman, perhaps). In my area of research which is civil-military relations, I often have to dodge concerns that my husband is into covert operations (again, a natural assumption amongst many Filipinos whose limited encounters with Americans are either those in uniform or retirees).

It gets more complicated. Spelling out a middle name in the Philippines invites further speculation about your familial and ethno-linguistic origins. For a married Filipino woman, the maiden name is not a statement of sacrosanct individuality, but a window to a vast network of real and imagined connections. It opens doors, makes getting interviews a whole lot quicker and builds instantaneous trust, which a foreign surname simply could not muster.

These brushes with bureaucrats over my name will likely continue ad nauseum, but now I carry it with a grin and an unfailing patience. After all, I am one of only three Political Scientists in the entire country with a foreign surname and the only one in my entire university who insists on not being hyphenated. Uniqueness has its many rewards.

This post was also published on Inside Higher Ed.

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The Exodus: Philippine Academics Who Never Return Home

In Ponderings of a Peregrine Pinoy Professor on 2010/08/04 at 09:23

Rosalie Arcala Hall, writing from the Philippines.

There is something about the air in America that seduces the senses. To those who have never been to the land of milk and honey, the scent one encounters in opening the ubiquitous balikbayan box (Filipino care packages) is a close proxy. It is intoxicating, tempting and proven to induce reckless behavior among even the well-intentioned foreigner, even serious academics.

During the orientation for Philippine Fulbright grantees in 2009, one message was driven home like a hammer: there is no way around the two-year home residency requirement attached to a US exchange visitor (J1) visa. Not even marriage to a US national would waive this requirement. This point had to be made because the grantees included young academics, particularly women, who on record seem to be more prone to romantic liaisons while abroad (myself included). The spectre of Fulbright grantees violating their visa terms is a serious concern for an institution whose thrust is to encourage people to go back and contribute to their country’s betterment.

Academics are no exception to the hordes of Filipinos wanting to immigrate to the US to get a job (any job) that brings one closer to the middle class aspiration of a home, car/s and a 401k. Even the most ardent nationalists quickly realize how hopeless the Philippines is after spending some months abroad. No blackouts, free wifi, relatively cheap food, travel opportunities, all those green bucks– at some point one gets seduced by the idea of a First World lifestyle. When the built-in-support network of US-based relatives is added to the mix, Filipinos get braver in facing visa violations. It’s easy to be convinced by kin who tell you that it’s sheer stupidity to return to poverty back home.

To my home university, this brain drain has exacted a heavy toll. I know of at least 8 faculty members who were sent to obtain graduate degrees in the US, Canada and Australia and who have never returned. They disappeared from the grid as soon as they found a foreign citizen they could marry or as fast as their spouses or children could obtain dependent visas. No shame in stringing the university with false promises of returning after completing their degrees. No honor in turning their backs against the tens of thousands of dollars that the university spent to support their studies. No guilt over the thought that they have singlehandedly blacklisted other faculty members from ever being considered for future grants, given the stigma of their institutional affiliation.

To American Ph.D. holders who lament the dearth of tenure-track positions and the growth of adjuncts, the case of Filipino academics who reneged on their promises to their home universities but went on to establish successful academic careers in the US presents an interesting juxtaposition. How should their personal choices of economic betterment be weighed in against our (Philippine) values of honor and debt of gratitude? Is individual scholarship more important than the ethical/moral obligation to the collective? Do US universities even consider these points when hiring?

Case in point: A Filipino-American scholar, who unbeknownst to me was a reneging fellow from our Fisheries College, was to deliver a lecture under Fulbright auspices at our university. My colleagues from the Fisheries College raised a ruckus about this and boycotted the event. I also learned that the same colleagues rejected his earlier request for my university to be his Fulbright host institution. Clearly, this person is either insensitive, had permanent amnesia that he has legal obligations with my university or worse, totally convinced that his stellar scholarly achievements in the US would conveniently make up for his past unethical conduct.

I tend not to fault people for their “lapses of moral judgment” but with reneging Philippine academics, I take exception. Professional success is never a good substitute for a clean conscience, particularly in the business of “professing.” When I was dating my husband, I told him unequivocally that if he married me, he’d have to relocate to the Philippines permanently. It was non-negotiable. I take pride in being the Fulbright Philippines’ poster girl of an academic who returned home and never regretted it.

This post was also published on Inside Higher Ed.

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