Get sad. Then leave the ghetto.

Writing for Slate, Patrick Iber suggests giving up his dream of being a history professor. It’s good advise. In other words: can’t be a pimp? then leave the ghetto.

Packard-plant-1940s

This post may seem familiar because I wrote a similar in in January, because reality is similar: if you’re not doing something you’re great at, that you love doing, that you get paid for doing, you may be doing the wrong thing. You may be living in the ghetto.

Packard-Plant-Detroit

There are four types of people in the academic ghetto: pimps who are full professors, disaster tourists from rich families who are just having fun, hos who are exploited by pimps, and escapees who gtfo.
The pimp is a pretty fun place for pimps, sufficiently amusing for disaster tourists.

Patrick Iber’s post was especially moving because it so closely tracks my experience in academia (though he also dragged his children thru it). This part of his piece brought tears to my eyes:

[My mother] was released from the hospital on Jan. 1 to recover at her brother’s house. I flew to Washington, D.C., the next day. When the plane landed, I had multiple messages waiting for me, telling me to call home. My mother, age 64, had died in her sleep. Her youngest grandson was 7 weeks old.

The [academic conference] was a daze. I walked the streets between conference hotels in tears. I told friends. I told strangers. To others, with no logic to it, I said nothing. I might have gone home, but the severe weather in the Northeast scrambled routes and made it nearly impossible to rebook my flight. As a lecturer with no research support, I had spent half a month’s salary to travel there anyhow. My mom had wanted me to give my paper, so I did: to an audience of three. I shook hands at mixers. I had no interviews.

I also lost a parent while in academia. I also gave presentations to audiences of three.

Academia was fun for me. It’s a great place to be a pimp. But if you’re not a tourist and you’re not a pimp, become an escapee.

Gtfo.