Nay-Nay on the hand-holding

I haven't had much more than a sniff of the N2 in recent weeks. Tied to my desk, typing, typing, all I can do is dream of the days I've spent outside of these four flimsy walls. Just to prove that I'm not a totally unproductive schmuck, I'll share something of what I've been writing about for thesis purposes...

So, there's this whole model of engaged research right, to which universities the world over are hitching their ivory towers. One of the big things that this model values is building relationships with communities. In South Africa, where universities are characterized by a history of exclusion, making the institution seem less inhospitable is a worthwhile activity. It's all fine and well having these aspirations, but, and here's where I start to smell a rat, if an institution isn't willing to prioritize the hand-holding Kumbaya singing, then hells, it mustn't expect to lose its reputation of elitism and inaccessibility. AND, invariably, when the Kumbaya singing comes up against, say, something like the production of knowledge--which come on, we all know is the real business of universities--then you must rather just roll up the campfire in a ream of papered institutionalization and give it all up.

A little to abstract for you? Let me offer an analogy.

The Masincediswe Seniors Club have ongoing knitting projects in which they expect me to participate. So I have mismatched knitting needles and a bundle of grey wool and need to turn that all into a tangible product. A couple of weeks back, I arrived at the EWC to find Ma’Sophie sitting outside with her back to the sun.
“Molo ma,” I offer a smile and a greeting. We chat for a bit, about the week, about the change in the weather. And then she tells me, “they missed you inside.”
I couldn’t visit last Friday, and I’ve been feeling guilty about it since.
“Ndiyazi,” I tell her, I know. “I missed them too.” I turn to the bungalow’s door but before I can go inside, Ma’Sophe reaches for the knitting in my bag. I untangle the errant threads from the bag’s zip and pass the woollen bundle to her.
“Is this all you’ve done?” she looks at my efforts disapprovingly and shakes her head. I’ve added only a few rows in the last two weeks. “You are being lazy!”
More guilt. I look down, I look at her, “I know ma, I’m sorry, I was so busy this last while.” I offer a contrite smile and a “I’ll do better, I promise.” It’s a promise flavoured by desperation.

Sadly, it’s not the first time the women have commented on my “lazy hands”. Back in the days when I was still on my ridiculously misguided ethnographic data collection mission, I’d sit with my book as they’d sit with their sewing: me taking notes, them stitching and knitting and beading. They said I had lazy hands, because as far as they could see, I was doing nothing.

And so my lazy hands are back. The deadline to complete my thesis, a shining artefact of knowledge, edges closer, day-by-day. Between reading and writing, I’m not knitting. My mismatched needles and grey wool lie at the bottom of my bag, occasionally making it onto my lap. But you can’t, no matter how much you want to, type and knit simultaneously.

Right now, I have a research grant, an academic department, and an impending deadline, all telling me: Jen, you need to finish (To be fair, I suspect my department isn't wildly interested in what I'm doing). My masters degree requires a wordy product, and my knitting, my happily tatty knitting and all that it symbolizes; it suffers. 

How's that for an analogy? 

So I'll continue hiding here in front of my Mac. Not building relationships, not singing Kumbaya, not knitting. Tied to my desk, typing, typing, all I can do is dream of the days I've spent outside of these four flimsy walls...