Opening about me and substack: This is a note I wrote a few years ago to a law professor friend, since deceased, who had written me about advancing years. I see now we were still not so old. But years have passed. I make passing mention in the note to a vote of no confidence in which my colleagues and I participated that led to the departure of a dean of my institution. You will see that I refer to retaliation by a subsequent administrator. One of my books I hope to complete that is substantially in draft provides accounts of that no confidence vote and of others that my co-author and I studied through interviews with some of the principals and examination of available materials about the history of the institution and the limited coverage of the vote. Stay tuned for posts about the various no confidence votes under review in the book.
I believe I managed to set up a button for paid subscriptions, so I hope someone might give it a go. I would like to see if it really works.
For now, here is a way I was thinking about the passage of time, after time has passed.
Hi:
I certainly understand the changes that getting to, or near, 60 brings. I am aware of mortality now, with a sense of urgency about doing things and a simultaneous awareness that it seems a little nuts after living so long to keep thinking anything is critical, either a setback or an achievement. But I have three big writing projects that I want to complete, with some hope to leave some worthwhile insights in a relatively permanent form.
The law college remains an unpleasant place, and Dean X is a big factor. She clearly is tasked with retaliation against those of us who stood firm in the no confidence vote. I think I am managing to bracket the extent of the insults more than I could have 10 years ago, but I would prefer to be treated with respect. My meeting with her for my annual review was mind boggling. Her sole basis for evaluating my year was that she felt disrespected by my votes in faculty meetings. I abstain too often, which she said "was sending a message." Yes, Ms. Former ACLU lawyer. In faculty meetings, I express views in a variety of ways. I had planned to say nothing but was so astonished by what transpired I turned to blunt Texas talk. You could say at my age I could have just dropped it, but my reaction was, at my age, I might as well be blunt. Age cuts different ways. I am blending a degree of withdrawal from a bad scene with occasional strong input about the moral and ethical climate in an American law school. (Update: I will address that version of a climate crisis on occasion in this publication.)
I just read the Blackmun bio by Linda Greenhouse. His "career" began in his early 60's when he went to the Court. He struggled, grew, had a long challenging career that started around our age. For us, the problem is, we are unlikely to have such a new beginning that winds up defining our lives. Note, too, that Hillary Clinton is my age. She is hinting at retirement, but one wonders. (Update: She ran for President. You know how that went.)
On how one's priorities change, Arthur Schlesinger's diary has an interesting passage. He had a sense of urgency about his writing after he turned 60. His wife was younger, so they had a difference about how to use time. She wanted long breaks in Europe, and he wanted to protect his time for writing. Logic might have said, enjoy time with your wife, but he had an inner drive about writing that he could not abandon.
One of our faculty members died somewhat suddenly. We knew something was wrong for a long time, but he was so odd people didn't quite get it. About a month ago, I saw that he couldn't stand up and that he could barely move his feet. Then he began rolling around the building on a secretarial chair. On about the same day, it hit a lot of us that he must have Parkinson's. I went on Google and discovered that any fool could diagnose it. He had every symptom, in gross manifestation. He went to the ICU the following Monday, was found to also have a serious blood disorder, and died on Saturday. He was 60. I think he would have no regrets because his only life was being a law professor. Some of my colleagues who got sick and had little or no retirement were bitter they did not retire. A guy named Nick had planned to hang in there for a long time and regretted it when he developed a lymphoma that kept him from having a retirement with travel. I argued that the reason to travel is to have memories in old age, and if you die young, it was fine you didn’t travel.
I was a bit freaked out for a while at seeing faculty people ahead of me die--there seemed to be no narrative arc, except that semesters collect, then you die. I finally figured out I probably have a narrative arc that interests me well enough, making their lives, and endings, irrelevant for my purposes. Now people behind me in service are dying, so, in a way, their sudden departure is less relevant to the arc of my life. Concededly, watching a guy functioning as a member of the faculty and then seeing him fail completely in a week and disappear entirely and forever does get your attention. I knew about death, but the guy is simply gone. Dean X is seizing upon it to post overdone claims about his merits and to carry on about loss, oh loss, but the rest of the faculty never looks sad and never mentions him. Speaking of which, his name is anonymous here. Seems advisable.
And then there is Tuscaloosa and Joplin. I spent part of last night with my two dogs in a small bathroom hiding from a possible tornado. We have no basement in Haslett. In the past, I ignored tornado watches and warnings, but now I believe. (Update about what this is: I think there were bad tornadoes in those two places. The passage of time obliterates the details of catastrophe. Immediacy recedes, as does hope for a narrative arc before one’s own turn for exit arrives.)
Stay healthy. I hope your ailments entirely go away. And I totally agree you must gradually decide what approach to take to changing mental and physical processes, and the matter of limited duration.
Best, and much affection,
Mae