Women's History Conference

Last week, I traveled to a part of the upper midwest that is not underwater to attend a women's history conference in one of the Twin Cities. The trip offered the added benefit of getting to visit with one of my college roommates who lives in Canada South. It was great to catch up with her and meet her family. Her 5 year old son was happy to share that he knows a kid named Michael whose "farts really stink." According to my friend's son, this kid's flatulent expressions earned the distinction of being "even worse than [his] dad's." And we all know how bad Dad farts can be. My friend's son attributed Michael's problem to "eating beans for breakfast, lunch, and dinner."

The older son attempted to educate me on the finer points of Pokemon. Lucky for me, there wasn't a quiz after our discussion. I fear the day that my nephew discovers Pokemon and we're all forced to feign interest in health points, evolving cards, and Pikachu!

After this intellectually stimulating visit, I headed to the women's history conference. I have to say that I haven't been around that much estrogen since I graduated from a women's college. My advisor, one of the Queen Bees of Women's History, was clearly in her element. She flittered about, all a-twitter that four of her grad students were on the conference program. She shoved me in front of well-known scholars and a publishing rep, gushing about my dissertation and accomplishments. Quite a welcome change from the national conference last year where she couldn't remember my name. Not kidding. She went to introduce me to a well-known historian and her whole expression went blank. And, yes, I had on my name tag.

This time, she spotted a prominent historian across the book sale, grabbed my arm, and asked if I wanted to meet the historian. "Sure," I said. Next thing I know, my advisor has a copy of the historian's book in her hand (a copy that she hasn't purchased) and my arm in her other hand and we're making a beeline across the space, straight toward this other woman who is clearly having a conversation with someone else.

No matter to my advisor. Nope, she just butts right in and shoves the woman's book in her face, insisting that she inscribe the book to me. So now, we've stolen a book and defaced it - with my full name. The other historian seemed to take it all in stride. Clearly, my advisor has a well-earned reputation and everyone just goes along with it - kind of like the way that they used to treat the mentally ill.

Meanwhile, my advisor introduced me, saying, "She's just finished her dissertation, which was on..." and pointed to me expectantly. Slightly disoriented by the instant spotlight, I ignored the loud screaming in my head and managed to give what I think was a coherent summary of my dissertation. Then, we took our ill-gotten book and returned to the publisher's booth, where my advisor had left her very expensive digital camera just sitting on the table. On the way, I asked, "Are you buying this book?" And she did.

I was scheduled to present my paper on the second day of the conference - at the same time as an impromptu panel on the Presidential election. Conference planners insured that no one would come to my session by engaging every big name historian, including my advisor, for the election panel. Sure enough, about 10 people came to my panel, and 2 of them were my friends who really didn't have a choice. By the time I got up to speak, the crowd had whittled down to 6 people. Two dozed off while I was talking. I'm choosing to think that the previous 2 speakers lulled them to sleep. Surely, it wasn't my paper.

But before those 2 headed to Dreamland, I once again learned that academics should not be allowed in public. I stood up and arranged my paper on the podium, waiting for the exiting throng to get out the doors. As I started to read my paper, I noted that one of the remaining few had gotten up from her seat and was bending down to get something off of the floor. I'd seen her name tag and I'm familiar with her work, so she wasn't an anonymous face. I kept reading, taking note that she'd gotten back to her seat with her half-eaten apple. I surmised that she'd chased the apple across the floor, then retrieved it. She picked up her crochet yarn and continued to make granny squares. I just kept reading.

Not more than 3 minutes later, I looked over at her and she was eating the apple. I consider it a minor miracle that I was able to keep reading, while "Holy crap! She's eating an apple that rolled around on the floor!" reverberated through my head. I realize that yelling, "What the hell are you doing?" might have been inappropriate, but seriously, ewwwww.

Then, after she'd chomped away for a while, she set the apple back down on her desk and resumed her crocheting. At that point, I made a mental note that if I ever received an afghan from this well-known historian, I would wash it thoroughly before use. Or just burn it.

Luckily, I can list the conference appearance on my CV without adding, "Only 6 people showed up, and one of them was really, really gross."