I do not believe in asking anyone to do anything I would not do myself. Now, of course, I work with people who possess skills I do not possess, and I flatter myself by thinking that I have training that allows me to do at least a few things that other people could do only after putting in their ten thousand hours, give or take a few hundred. But, generally, I think that our office is pleasant, in part, because we all agree that the first person arriving in the morning makes the coffee.
Not only are there no small jobs, front-line jobs are, in fact, the best introductions to any operation. When I first got involved in advising students, I put in some time behind the information counter, fielding general questions. Last week, I strapped on my information badge again, and, for my trouble, I got an education.
One of our reorganizations has eliminated a common lunch hour. Students seek advice through noon, so by a series of shifts we can have people available through the whole business day. In preparation for the upcoming wait-listing crush, we closed the office to prepare, to clear old files, and this seemed like a good opportunity for colleagues to decamp for a brief meal together. Unfortunately, our computerized registration system chose that morning to crash, filling students with considerable anxiety. Although there was nothing we could do from the advising side, we decided to open the front of the office to receive students, to reassure them. There were few visitors, but those who did come by appreciated the contact. But what about that office lunch?
The solution was clear; I would run the information desk myself. How much damage could I do? My main concern might have been that it was "Casual Friday": in jeans and a sweater, I looked less businesslike than anyone in the office would likely ever allow themselves to look. But, for triage work, I was sure I would do.
The first eighty-five minutes went without a hitch. But, just before the end of the shift, a young woman came in and flopped her books on the desk. "It's stupid that there are no advisors working today," she said, plainly.
"Oh, no," I assured her. "They are working; they're just taking their lunch. This has been a very busy week, and we're getting ready for wait-listing."
"Well, it's stupid because I need a question answered."
"I'd be happy to try to help you," I countered.
She looked me up and down. "I want to try Archaeology, but it won't fulfill a program requirement for me."
"No, you're right," I agreed, looking at her paperwork. "But it's an interesting elective."
"Electives are stupid. I really don't want to do anything outside my major."
I took a deep breath: "We're committed to a general liberal education here, of course. You'll get a range of courses that complement and supplement your main interests over four years."
"It's stupid that the health centre is closed."
I’m sorry," I shuddered at the non sequitur. "I don't work for the health centre."
"Well, the whole thing is stupid. Who could I talk to if I wanted to get permission to do only courses in my major, only courses I like."
I took another breath, and I looked straight at her. "Well, you’d have to talk to me about it."
"You, she asked?"
"Yes, I’m the Associate Dean."
She turned on her heel and walked out without another word.
I could, all day, defend elective courses. What discouraged me was how the young woman spoke to me. It is not that my skin is particularly thin, and I certainly would never use this as an opportunity to mourn general civility. But what I think happened was that, having immediately dismissed me as someone who could never offer her anything tangible in solving what she saw as a problem, she really closed her ears (and her mind) to what I had to say. I was not worth hearing.
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