Academic conferences perpetuate a class system. The aristocracy consists of the established names in a given field of study, tenured professors with lengthy titles and bodies of research marked by important-sounding books, journal articles, and research grants. The mid-range scholars look up to them but often resent them simultaneously, believing themselves to be the equals of elders unwilling to share the spotlight. Younger professors searching for tenure and its attendant potential for upward mobility. At the bottom of the ladder are lowly graduate students. Some of them hunger for knowledge, others for post-graduation employment, and yet others hunger for a view from the top, no matter how fleeting and no matter what it takes. Star-fuckers, I've heard them called.
This conference unofficially started for me long before I reached the hotel's registration desk. Hours earlier, I stood at a baggage claim carousel, my face beaming with a hint of avarice as I anticipated the emergence of my new monogrammed luggage set. I nudged between a nondescript elderly man and a well-tanned cougar whose burgeoning wrinkles placed her in her mid-forties. My suitcase and garment bad emerged from behind the curtain, I knew them immediately. The bags were black -- like most of the others on the carousel -- but the bright red initials stitched into them gave them away. They were like everyone else's, yet they also were uniquely mine.
At that moment, I was startled to hear my name. I turned just in time to see a vaguely familiar couple. I froze, not knowing whether to ask for their names. "How are you and Marie?" the gentleman asked. I then realized that my wife had introduced me to this couple at a conference a year or two before -- in the days before she decided that the life of the mind was somehow beneath her.
"Ah, we're doing fine," I lied. "Her new job doesn't allow her to attend conferences anymore, though, so I'm on my own until Sunday."
"Well, please say hello to her for me," the gentleman requested. "She's still one of the best students I ever taught."
"And she's such a lovely girl, too," added his wife.
I managed to nod before the couple noticed that their luggage had passed them. As they hastened to retrieve their bags, I explained that I needed to look for a restroom and that I was sure that we would see each other a the conference.
I bolted toward the nearest exit and hailed a cab.
This conference unofficially started for me long before I reached the hotel's registration desk. Hours earlier, I stood at a baggage claim carousel, my face beaming with a hint of avarice as I anticipated the emergence of my new monogrammed luggage set. I nudged between a nondescript elderly man and a well-tanned cougar whose burgeoning wrinkles placed her in her mid-forties. My suitcase and garment bad emerged from behind the curtain, I knew them immediately. The bags were black -- like most of the others on the carousel -- but the bright red initials stitched into them gave them away. They were like everyone else's, yet they also were uniquely mine.
At that moment, I was startled to hear my name. I turned just in time to see a vaguely familiar couple. I froze, not knowing whether to ask for their names. "How are you and Marie?" the gentleman asked. I then realized that my wife had introduced me to this couple at a conference a year or two before -- in the days before she decided that the life of the mind was somehow beneath her.
"Ah, we're doing fine," I lied. "Her new job doesn't allow her to attend conferences anymore, though, so I'm on my own until Sunday."
"Well, please say hello to her for me," the gentleman requested. "She's still one of the best students I ever taught."
"And she's such a lovely girl, too," added his wife.
I managed to nod before the couple noticed that their luggage had passed them. As they hastened to retrieve their bags, I explained that I needed to look for a restroom and that I was sure that we would see each other a the conference.
I bolted toward the nearest exit and hailed a cab.
