My thesis supervisor retired at the start of the semester. He’s been
floating the idea since I was in Honours, but still, when he called me in to
his office to break me the news that the following week he’d be announcing his
retirement, I was choking back the tears.
Upon Chris’s retirement, I wrote him a letter. I gave it to him at his
farewell morning tea but, knowing that it would make him emotional, I told him
not to read it until he was alone.
***
Dear My Tyrant,
I can’t believe you’re retiring. I am so, so sad. But so, so happy
When I started the PhD and left my job as an outreach worker, one of my
clients cried so much. She told me that she was so angry and upset with me, but
that she was also so proud of me and happy for me. She told me that she felt my
PhD was important and would help other kids, but that she ‘selfishly’ wished
that someone else could do it so that she could keep me. She broke my heart and
also inspired me. I was so sad to leave her, but it was moving that I had such
a bond with a client that she cared so much when I left.
How she felt is how I feel about you leaving.
I know you’re not actually leaving me, and I know that I am not 17 and
living in an abusive environment with a heavy heroin habit and a psychotic
disorder. I know that she probably needed me in slightly more obvious ways than
you think I need you, but nonetheless, I still need you. And this is why I am
happy for you. I am happy that you are doing what you love. I am happy that the
piles from your desk are gone and that you don’t need to write any more annual
reports for CASR. I am happy that you will be happy and, selfishly, I am also
happy that this will probably be good for your blood pressure and increase your
life expectancy, because really, you simply cannot ever die.
You have been so wonderful for me, but also for many others. People
admire and respect you. They hold you in high regard both professionally and
personally. News of your retirement has saddened many. The common sentiment
expressed has been ‘It is such a loss’. And it is. Not just because you are Mr
Homelessness, but because you actually have made a difference. A difference in
your field, but also a personal difference in the lives of so many – the
thousands of workers who speak of ‘The Homelessness Man – Chamberlain’; the
thousands of students who have been blessed to have had you teach them; and
also your colleagues who all hold you in such esteem. Few academics are so
fondly regarded. You demonstrate that even when at the top of your game and in
no receipt of any benefit, you choose to go the extra mile. You appearance at
school events, your considered words, guest lectures, and collegiality
encourage and foster a culture which makes academia a great place. It is so
appreciated.
It’s been five years since I tentatively entered your office seeking an
Honours supervisor – who’d have thought we’d get to the point that news of your
retirement would bring me to tears and that I’d be nagging you about your blood
pressure and you sending my mother Christmas cards? I am glad we have.
So much of you is now in me. Even if you’re not downstairs every day I
can predict what you’d tell me to do and what words of advice you’d give me. So
much of my decision-making is informed by, ‘What would Chris say?’. You’ve
totally brainwashed me. But you’ve also taught me to write. So on balance,
we’re even
I’ve been so blessed to have you. I really didn’t have any confidence
when we met, and I most certainly would never have believed that I was the sort
of person who applied for PhD scholarships were you not so insistent. When we
co-authored that article and you told me the next one I would have to do alone,
I thought the prospect unfathomable. I would never be able to do that. ‘I can
barely string a sentence together – he’s not really going to leave me in this
alone?’. As it turns out, you taught me a thing or two. Enclosed please find
some letters that I think will make you proud*.
You may be retiring, but all of your lessons live on. In our school Dean
who relays stories of his tyrannical PhD supervisor and through students like
me who given their students ‘RULES for writing’ based on the same rules you
wrote for me.
I am so proud to have you in my life, and am but one of the thousands
who feel this way. You’ve had a remarkable career which you should be so proud
of.
Much love,
Kat the Brat.
p.s. Don’t even think about moving to Japan.
*I included some letters that journal editors had written me in praise
of my work. Chris holds editors in extremely high regard – I knew these would
please him, probably even more than they had pleased me.
***
Now I should make clear that among all of this sentimentality is a very
tough man. He is hard on me – very hard. Our deputy dean of research likes to
tell people, especially new PhD students, about the supervision dynamic between
Chris and I. She knows that it works and likes students to see that there’s
many ways a student/supervisor arrangement can work. But she always qualifies
it with, ‘But not many students can handle the level of bullying Kat receives
from him’. And while I wouldn’t use the word ‘bullying’, I will acknowledge
that you certainly need a thick skin as Chris doesn’t gloss over the point:. For instance, ‘Kat, this was so bad I wanted to throw it out the window’. But after telling you this he then he sits with you for hours explaining how to improve it. He is a teacher - in the finest sense of that much abused word.
Chris pushes me because he cares. He is tough, but I always know he's on my side and there's a deep sense of security that comes with that.
In my first year of my PhD, months after he’d counselled me through my
brother’s death, I had taken a week off. Chris suggested I was lazy. I
explained that I was sick. He doesn’t believe in sick – you’re either alive or
you’re dead and if you’re alive, you should be working.
I met with him the week later. He made a disparaging remark about my
‘illness’. I had to tell him that I actually was quite sick. It was pretty
serious. I knew he was going to be upset. I didn’t know how to tell him. I told him the story in a convoluted way.
He couldn’t speak. He asked for more details.
I told him I didn’t know much more. I told him I had to see a lot of
doctors.
His eyes started to fill with tears. His voice was choking. He wanted to
know the next step. I said I didn’t know. He replied, ‘Well if there is nothing
we can do then you must focus on your thesis’.
It was so typically male: I can’t fix it so let’s focus
on something I can.
A while after that, I had an episode at uni. I was on campus and could feel my blood pressure dropping rapidly and
I was waning in and out of focus with a colleague. I left and tried to get back
to my office. Chris was interstate. There’s a hospital just near uni. I got a
tram there. I walked in. I told the nurse what was happening. They rushed me
in. Someone came and asked who should be called? No one, I said.
A few days later I spoke to Chris. I asked if he would be my emergency
contact. Of course he would, he replied. That was like the time I had to be
interviewed by the police about my brother’s death and he was insistent that he
would be taking me. That’s the thing with Chris, I always know that he is there
– he shows his care by doing things.
But given this, when Chris told me that he doesn’t give instruction on
my life, except for the thesis, I nearly spat out my water laughing. He then
retracted, ‘Well, I try not to’.
Here are some examples of Chris not interfering:
At the beginning of the year when he came back from a trip to India he
told me about it and about the safety issues. He explained that he would
certainly not let any son or daughter of his travel there, ‘If you
told me you were going to go there, Kat, I would have to simply say that you
cannot’.
I am almost 30. I am not his daughter. But okay, Chris, sure you can tell me where I can travel to!
Chris has a deep interest in my love life. Mostly for entertainment, I
think. He asks about it a lot but rarely gives me advice, except in the case of one guy: ‘This is
the first time I am scared you have any chance of being hurt – be very, very
careful, Kat’. (Thanks, Dad!)
Generally, Chris is a bit like an overprotective father who thinks his
daughter is far superior to any suitor. He declared before Christmas that he
strongly encourages me to date – ‘a nice distraction’, he says. But I
'must be explicit' with any man I meet that my thesis is my priority and that I
do not want commitment. (Well thanks for clearing that up for me, Boss!)
I am laughing as I write this because his seriousness about the matter
was actually hysterical (for me). Who has these conversations with their PhD
supervisor?
Chris and I talk about everything. We argue a lot. We argue about
ideology, politics, semi-colons, does capitalising ‘State’ identify you as a
Marxist?, Should we ‘thank’, or ‘sincerely thank’ our participants in this
article?, What’s the best way to teach first year sociology?, Is it ethical to
use clinical data-mining as a research method? … and on and on it goes.
He tells me I get to make my own decisions. And this is true as long as my
decisions are consistent with the decisions he’s already made. Sometimes he
lets me do my thing and sometimes when I try and do my thing he describes me as ‘so
fucking difficult’ - which I take as a compliment.
We laugh a lot. Well, he laughs at me a lot. One of his colleagues told me, 'I always know you're in his office when I can hear his big belly laugh'. I like that.
I do get moments - more and more in recent times - where he seems to be
satisfied to sit on the sidelines as a spectator in my life rather than coach.
He saw me do a conference presentation a little while ago – I met up with him
later. I was expecting a dissection of what needed improvement (that’s his
usual style). Instead he told me that he was sitting in the audience thinking
about how proud he was of me, ‘I was thinking “She’s MY student!”’ ... Him telling me this was so shocking that I asked
if he was drunk.
The notion that Chris is only involved in my thesis even my mother finds
absurd.
Last week, upon me arriving at the hospital to see her, she tells me, 'I text you earlier telling
you not to come - you need rest, you look exhausted'
‘I got the text and I ignored it – you’re not the boss of me’, I
replied, 'Chris is the only boss of me',
‘Yes, this is true, I have to admit – he is the ONLY person you listen
to’.
Mum likes me having Chris. She likes that he’s tough on me. Whenever I
make a decision she replies with, ‘What does Chris say about it?’.
I think it’s of comfort to her to know that after she’s gone I’ve got someone
here with high expectations of me and whose interest in me is based solely on
what is best for me. After all, apart from gossip about my love life and
emergency calls from the hospital, Chris doesn’t get anything from me. But I
get so much from him. He is the kind of person you seek to emulate in life.
Retirement’s been wonderful for him, so I am very happy. Mostly I am
happy that I have him at all. You couldn’t dream a better supervisor or friend.
