Academic Research in the Wild

I don’t write much about my regular day job on my blog or talk about it on social media. For readers who don’t know, I currently work in victim services, providing information, support, and resources to crime victims. I can’t say very much about it for reasons of confidentiality etc etc etc, but that’s what I do in my life when I’m not writing, editing, tweeting, or taking photos of something.

Sometimes people ask me why a historian would be working as a victim advocate or how my PhD skills translate into working at a non-profit. Last year, I found myself at a work-related training with a bunch of people that I didn’t know. The woman seated next to me and I started talking. She asked me how I got into the field of victim advocacy. I hesitated, because I never really know how to talk about my PhD in my current job. I often feel awkward mentioning it and usually crack the old joke about being a recovering academic and move on.

One of the things that’s the most difficult about leaving academia is the very real sense of leaving behind a vital part of oneself. In academia, the boundaries between the personal and professional often vanish completely. Your research becomes much more than just a thing you’re kind of interested in and study; it is a deeply personal part of you. In academia, you talk about your research all the time. In my work in victim advocacy, I don’t have much opportunity to talk about the thing to which I devoted many years of my life to and still care about deeply. I’m still not quite sure how or when to talk about it to people.

That day, I decided to take a chance and tell her about not only about my personal story, but also about my research. I talked about my experiences as a Peace Corps volunteer in Guatemala from 2004 to 2006. I told her about the many people I met who had family members disappeared or loved ones who were victims of political violence. Their stories weren’t mine, but they grabbed my heart and wouldn’t let go. I shared how I couldn’t stop thinking about their stories, even long after the end of my service. I went to graduate school because I wanted to understand what had happened to people and why.

 Generally I stop talking at this point, assuming that my short answer has satisfied my listener’s curiosity.

But my new colleague seemed interested, so I kept talking. I talked about the Guatemalan banana fields of the 1920s and how the United Fruit Company had a stranglehold on the national economy and politics. About how the 1944 revolution overthrew the military dictatorship and opened up an unprecedented ten years of democracy, known as the Ten Years of Spring. About the CIA-backed military coup of 1954 and the counterrevolution that followed. I talked about the how the violence escalated and the bodies piled up.I talked about the bloody years of the Rios Montt dictatorship and the support it received from the Reagan administration, even as human rights abuses grew. I talked about recent forensic anthropology efforts to reunite the remains of the dead with their families and communities. I talked about recent genocide trials and the testimonies of survivors of massacres. I talked about the legacies of the conflict, the continued impunity and how it fostered vigilante justice and lynching. I linked the violence of the conflict to the waves of Central American kids who had arrived to U.S. borders in 2014.

“I never knew any of this!” she said when I’d finished. “You should present this at next year’s state conference [for victim services]!”

So now I’m writing this non-academic abstract that touches on some of my work on Guatemala at large conference of victim service providers. I’m pitching it as an opportunity to think about how individual victimization always takes place within larger political, economic, social, and cultural structures, even if we can’t see them. To make it relevant for my audience, I’m planning to talk about some strategies for working with refugee and immigrant communities. As war, immigration, and refugee resettlement continue to be huge issues that appear in the news daily, I’m hoping that I can give people a new way to see the people with whom they work.  
I confess that I’d never pictured using my research in this way, but the chance to present at this conference resonated with my big goals. As I wrote last week, when you find yourself thrilled by doing something, think YES and write that down. I’ve presented research at a lot of academic research at different conferences. Conferences used to freak me out. The idea of reading a paper in front of a bunch of people ready to rip it to shreds used to terrify me. However, the more I presented, the more I liked it. As a sworn introvert, I was shocked to discover that I actually really enjoy public speaking. In fact, I’d like to be doing more of it in my life. I genuinely like taking those moments to connect with the audience to help them see the world in new ways.
Presenting my academic research to a non-academic audience will require some different strategies than the standard academic conference presentation. If accepted, the presentation will necessarily be more narrative than an academic paper. It also needs to focus on helping people see the world differently and solving a problem for people. It needs to be, in sum, something to the effect of a TED talk. As historian Megan Kate Nelson argues, there’s really no reason that historians have to present in the boring ways that we find ourselves doing at academic conferences.The magic of the TED talk is listening to someone present complex ideas (even obscure academic ones) in accessible language to general audiences in a compelling way. You walk away feeling like you have a new lens through which to see the world. Translating academic research for non-academic audiences seems like a skill I could learn. Maybe I could be doing something similar.

This morning, I read a thoughtful piece in The Guardian by Daniel Jose Camacho. I loved reading it because the author used history (bonus points for it being the Latin American kind) to talk about how loudly talking about diversity doesn’t actually erase racism. He points to the indigenistas of Latin American in the early 1920s and how they attempted to talk about non-white people in a new way. Nevertheless, their rhetoric failed to alter structural racism and kept traditional white elites in power. I admired how the article linked our current discourse about diversity to a decisive anti-blackness. He analyzed a current problem we’re having using the past to provide people with a new way of looking at something.

It occurs to me that the opportunity to present my academic and personal knowledge about Guatemala to a non-academic audience is exactly the kind of thing I want to be doing in the world. I want to be answering current questions using my research on race, indigeneity, gender, fake science, mass media, and representation to help people understand the world better and solve real world problems. I’m not sure what that’s going to look like yet, but presenting my knowledge about violence in Guatemala to victim service providers seems like a good start.

Breaking Fake News from the Early Twentieth Century

I've been really fascinated by public debates over our personal echo chambers and how we can discern real news from the fake news cranked out by random teenagers in Macedonia. I'm reminded by some of my earlier work on how people tried to figure out what was real about archaeology in early twentieth century Guatemala. This post is a recycled conference paper that explores these issues.

Early Twentieth-century Mesocamerican Archaeology and The (Pseudo-) Scientific Origins of the Maya


Egypt. The lost city of Atlantis. Ancient astronauts. These and other patently absurd theories about the origin of the ancient native civilizations of the Americas seem to have come straight from the zany pages of the Weekly World News. In particular, unorthodox theories about the external origins of the ancient Maya have been employed to explain the presence of some of the most enigmatic and least understood civilizations of the ancient world that flourished in the midst of inhospitable jungles. Although the existence of other ancient civilizations, such as those of the Nile River Valley and Mesopotamia, have long fascinated both scientists and more general audiences, the mystique of the ancient Maya continues to provoke global debates over the development of their technological, scientific, and cultural achievements. What is it about the ancient Maya that makes for such fertile ground for such rampant speculation and the endless proliferation of outrageous theories?

The historical legacies and continuity of debates over the origins of native peoples could be attributed to scientific misunderstandings of archaeological evidence or simple racism towards indigenous peoples. Nevertheless, neither scientific misinterpretations nor racism seem able to account for the continuation of these debates even after conclusive scientific evidence should have put the matter to rest. In this paper, I argue that ongoing debates over the origin of the ancient native civilizations of Mesoamerica reflect a deep ambiguity and uncertainty over the very nature of native peoples. Rooted in colonial era debates about the capacities of native peoples for spiritual conversion, controversies over the fundamental characteristics of both ancient and contemporary native peoples continued throughout the twentieth century. During the 1920 and 1930s, the production of new archaeological knowledge from recently excavated ancient Mayan sites in Guatemala, such as Quiriguá, Piedra Negras, and Tikal, brought these debates to the forefront of scientific research agendas and new interpretations about the role of native peoples in national mythologies. In both Guatemala and the United States, intellectuals, archaeologists, explorers, and the interested public appropriated archaeological evidence to answer a series of perplexing questions. How did the ancient Maya fit into historical and cultural understandings of the ancient world and modern nations? Were they civilized or savage? Advanced or primitive? Sophisticated or unsophisticated?

The parameters of debates over the nature of native peoples emerged during the early period of the Spanish conquest in the context of controversies related to the unexpected existence of native peoples in a supposedly virgin land and possibilities for their subsequent spiritual conversion. Colonial officials and clergy struggled to determine if native peoples truly could become Christians. Expressed in religious terms, these debates attempted to evaluate the capacities of native peoples for inclusion in not only the body of the Church, but also the larger enterprise of colonial empire construction. Contentious arguments about the relative civilization or barbarity of native people erupted in ecclesiastical and intellectual circles; both made impassioned arguments in favor of their particular understandings of how to best interpret the meaning of indigenous cultures. Theories about the origin of Mesoamerican cultures emerged to try to explain the presence of native peoples, but also to resolve doubts about their fundamental characteristics; Egyptian, Carthaginian, Spanish, and Asiatic origins were floated as likely possibilities and because of the limitations of colonial science, no single origin theory could be proven or disproven. The unresolved questions about Amerindian origins further confused the fundamental question of how to understand native peoples. Neither the Spanish crown nor the Catholic church reached any clear cut conclusions on the matter, leading to a contradictory set of Indian policies that relegated native peoples to the status of dependent while treating them as sufficiently mature for purposes of taxation and economic exploitation.

These unsettled debates influenced early nineteenth-century thinking on native peoples, as earlier controversies over the suitability of native peoples for Christianity were transformed into debates over their role as new national citizens after political independence in 1821. In a major turning point in 1840, proto-archaeologist, diplomat, and travel writer John Lloyd Stephens made three startling arguments about native people in Mesoamerica based on his archaeological work published in his bestselling travelogue, Incidents of Travel. First, pointing to the spectacular ancient ruins that he explored, he argued that ancient native peoples of Mesoamerica were an undeniably civilized people. Secondly, he argued they alone authored the great cities, such as Copán and Quriguá, dismissing earlier theories of the external cultural development of the ancient Maya. Finally, Stephens asserted the existence of unbroken cultural and biological linkages between ancient native people and their contemporary descendants. His conclusions created shock waves that cut through intellectual circles in throughout both the U.S. and Mesoamerica. The idea that the wretched and downtrodden Mayan Indians that worked as beasts of burden should considered as civilized challenged racial and cultural stereotypes of them as lazy, barbarous, and far too culturally different to be a part of the body politic in either Mexico or Guatemala. Some Mexican intellectuals outright rejected Stephens's conclusions about the ancient Maya, as they threatened long-established racial and cultural hierarchies that did not seem to coincide with tangible realities of the present. In particular, in the midst of the violence of the Caste War of Yucatán, journalist and historian Justo Sierra O'Reilly publicly rejected Stephens's characterizations of native people as civilized and suggested that his naïve enthusiasm had led him to erroneous conclusions.1

Drawing on fashionable theories of scientific racism and evolutionary paradigms, late nineteenth century discourses cast native peoples as major obstacles to national progress because of popular perceptions of their racial degeneracy and cultural backwardness. Debates over the possibilities of external cultural development of the ancient Maya reached a crescendo during this time because interpretations of them as either civilized or barbarous had direct implications for national economic development and the attainment of European-inspired ideals of cultural modernity. Anxious to put Guatemala on par with its U.S. and European counterparts, intellectuals in both Guatemala and the U.S. often linked the archaeological remains of Mesoamerica with the great pyramids of ancient Egypt or the glories of ancient Greece. Nevertheless, when equating the ancient Maya with the ancient Greeks, both U.S. archaeologists and Guatemalans made a point of carefully emphasizing the distinctly American origins of the Mesoamerican archaeological treasures. Many U.S. archaeologists asserted the American origins of the Maya to reinforce geo-political hemispheric power relations, while Guatemalans sought to construct a national history that began with the cultural greatness of the ancient Maya. Those intellectuals and archaeologists who insisted on the independent cultural development of the ancient Maya often contrasted sharply with those who either continued to argue in favor of the Egyptian origins of the ancient Maya or claimed that the existing evidence was insufficient to make such judgments. In a bizarre twist on most external origin theories, the British-American archaeologist Augustus Le Plongeon amassed an astonishing amount of archaeological evidence that he claimed proved the Mesoamerican origin of ancient Egypt, based on the numerous cultural similarities he imagined between them, including sun worship, pyramid construction, and hieroglyphic writing systems.2 Although his unorthodox theories caused later generations of archaeologists to regard him as a crackpot relic of the late nineteenth-century, his arguments about the civilized nature of the ancient Maya resonated with Guatemalan intellectuals. They seized on his claims about Mesoamerica as the cultural cradle of Egypt to support the development of cultural narratives that positioned that the ancient Maya and their significant architectural, scientific, and technological achievements as the cultural bedrock of the modern nation.3 Nevertheless, they continued to struggle to reconcile the contrasting evidence of the glories of the ancient Maya with what they viewed as the cultural and racial degeneracy of the destitute and exploited Indians that surrounded them.

Although by 1915, most professional U.S. archaeologists had taken a firm stand in favor the American origins of the ancient Maya, Le Plongeon's legacy lived on in the proliferation of other equally imaginative theories that drew on recent archaeological evidence. In his 1924 book, Elephants and Ethnologists, anatomist and amateur ethnographer Grafton Elliott Smith argued that the iconography he observed on Stela B of the Classic Period site of Copán represented an Indian elephant, which he claimed was unmistakable evidence of the Asiatic origins of ancient Mayan civilizations.4 Marshalling an impressive body of archaeological and ethnographic evidence, Smith twisted the newly formulated anthropological theory of cultural diffusion to explain the how elephant iconography had migrated with the ancient Maya to the New World. He proposed that upon their arrival to the Honduran city of Copán, migrants from the Indian sub-continent transferred their memories of the majestic animals of their former home onto the stone stelae of the New World. Despite the strenuous objections from the U.S. archaeological community that Smith had erroneously interpreted images of the Mayan rain god Chac as an Asian elephant, Smith fired back with stinging criticism. Not content with merely promoting his own theory of external cultural development, he derided the U.S. archaeological community for its disbelief and criticism of his theory. He accused U.S. archaeologists of blindly adhering to an inflexible “ethnological Monroe Doctrine” that disparaged schools of unorthodox origin theories and barred even well-documented theories of outside cultural influence.5

Historiographic debates over the origin and nature of ancient Mayan civilizations not only took place inside of U.S. archaeological circles, but also between Guatemalan intellectuals anxious to reify the place of native people within national cultural narratives. Guatemalan intellectuals staunchly believed in the American origins of the ancient Maya, but remained bitterly divided over the nature and characteristics of these civilizations, as well as the implications of these interpretations for national development. Drawing on official and revisionist histories of the Spanish conquest, heated debates ensued in the columns of El Imparcial in 1937 over the role of native peoples in national histories.6 Indigenistas, including Antonio Carrera Goubaud, Carlos Gándara Durán, and others argued that pre-Columbian cultures had constituted separate nations, each with its own language, world view, and religious practices. These thinkers drew on archaeological data to support their contentions that pre-Columbian peoples had developed civilized, sophisticated societies, complete with advanced scientific knowledge and strikingly modern political systems. Echoing John Lloyd Stephens's earlier arguments about the reasons for the cultural degeneration of contemporary native peoples, indigenistas argued that the force and brutality of the Spanish conquest had resulted in the subsequent destruction of these nations and obliterated all traces of ancient Mayan culture. Anti-indigenistas refuted these arguments and asserted that pre-Columbian native peoples had no civilization prior to the Spanish conquest and constituted an inferior race devoid of any vestiges of cultural refinement. They further argued that the Spaniards destroyed nothing of value when they arrived because there was nothing valuable to destroy. Followed to its logical conclusion, anti-indigenista rhetoric suggested that the national government had no responsibility to incorporate culturally native peoples into the body politic, as such racially and culturally degenerate people clearly belonged outside of civilized society. The eventual outcome of these debates held serious consequences for later Indian policy, as indigenistas sought to craft state policies that promoted cultural assimilation, which they believed would finally solve Guatemala's persistent Indian problem.7

Because so much of the historiographic debates about native peoples hinged on the presumed degree of civilization of pre-conquest societies at the time of the Spanish arrival in the Americas, archaeological remains immediately became crucial pieces of evidence deployed strategically in support of political arguments. Indigenistas pointed to the vestiges of the ancient Maya as incontrovertible proof of the cultural sophistication of these civilizations. According to J. Fernando Juárez Muñoz, in his 1931 publication El Indio Guatemalteco, archaeological remains “...are sufficient to demonstrate the culture of these people...their religious beliefs, their marvelous astronomic conceptions, and their government, a constitutional monarchy, similar to the English government.”8 Archaeological data came to be viewed as the most authoritative sources about ancient native people, preferred over even colonial chronicles or indigenous texts. Colonial chronicles and conquest-era indigenous texts were thought to be tainted with traces of Christian influence and far from the unadulterated evidence that indigenista thinkers sought. In his compilation of colonial Spanish documents about the discovery of Palenque, indigenista Ricardo Castañeda Paganini evaluated the respective merit and reliability of colonial chronicles, indigenous texts, and archaeological remains as evidence in the debates over native peoples. He concluded that archaeological remains offered the best way to understand ancient cultures, as they could be read and understood as texts. “In these books of stone are sculpted the heroic deeds, religious acts, and the sacred science of the American man,” he wrote.9 The Classic Period site of Quiriguá, with its finely sculpted and towering stelae, became a crucial site for indigenistas and they endeavored to promote it as an important part of their larger political program. Indigenista archaeologists, such as J. Antonio Villacorta, gave educational lectures at Quiriguá to prominent members of Guatemalan society, carefully elucidating the site's significance and details of its fine sculpture to his eager audience. Drawing on the latest scientific findings about the site, he linked Quiriguá to classical antiquity and suggested that the towering stelae served as proof of the builder's cultural sophistication.10

Debates over the origin and nature of native peoples have not abated during the twentieth century. Writing with the benefit of hindsight in 1962, archaeologist Robert Wauchope argued that the intellectual clashes in the U.S. over unorthodox theories of ancient Maya origins reflected ongoing struggles between professional scholars and their amateur counterparts, characterizing these debates as struggles to define the contours of archeology as an academic discipline.11 Nevertheless, his reading of the persistence of unorthodox origin theories ignores the longer history of debates over the nature of native peoples and characterizations of them as either undeniably civilized or irredeemably savage. During the early twentieth century, emerging archaeological knowledge became a crucial piece of evidence in these debates and employed to support diverse interpretations about the meaning of ancient Mesoamerican civilizations. A wide variety of scholars, intellectuals, and archaeologists in both the U.S. and Guatemala participated in these debates and often appropriated questions about the nature of native people in order to substantiate their own beliefs about the the rightful place of indigenous cultures in national narratives. Even in the face of seemingly solid scientific evidence about the New World origins, unorthodox origin theories continued to flourish and often provided conflicting conceptions of the degree of civilization and savagery of ancient native peoples. The continual shifts in interpretations about their origin and nature suggests a deep ambiguity and a profound uncertainty about how archaeologists and intellectuals thought about them in the past and the ways that we continue to think about them today.


1 John F. Chuchiak, “Indians, Intellectuals, and the Press: The Politicization of Justo Sierra O’Reilly’s Views on the Maya While in the United States,” in Strange Pilgrimages: Exile, Travel, and National Identity in Latin America, 1800-1990s, ed. Karen Racine and Ingrid Fey (Wilmington, Del.: Scholarly Resources, Inc., 2000), 59–74.

2 R Tripp Evans, Romancing the Maya : Mexican Antiquity in the American Imagination, 1820-1915, 1st ed. (Austin: University of Texas Press, 2004), 126–152.

3 Robert Wauchope, Lost Tribes & Sunken Continents: Myth and Method in the Study of American Indians (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1962), 7–27; Augustus Le Plongeon, Queen M’oo and the Egyptian Sphinx (New York, The Author, 1896).

4 Grafton Elliot Smith, Elephants and Ethnologists, (London; New York: K. Paul, Trench, Trubner & Co.; E.P. Dutton & Co., 1924), 4.

5 Grafton Elliot Smith, Elephants and Ethnologists, (London; New York: K. Paul, Trench, Trubner & Co.; E.P. Dutton & Co., 1924), 5–6.

6 Marta Elena Casáus Arzú, “El Gran Debate Historiográfico de 1937 En Guatemala:‘ Los Indios Fuera de La Historia Y de La Civilización’. Dos Formas de Hacer Historia,” Revista Complutense de Historia de América no. 34 (2008): 209–231.

7 Antonio Goubaud Carrera, Indigenismo en Guatemala. (Guatemala: Centro Editorial “José de Pineda Ibarra,” Ministerio de Educación Pública, 1964).

8 J. Fernando Juárez Muñoz, El indio guatemalteco; ensayo de sociología nacionalista, (Guatemala, C.A: [Tip. Latina], 1931), 31. “...son bastante a demonstrar y patentizar la cultura de dicho pueblo...sus teogonías, sus maravillosas concepciones astronómicas, y la forma de su gobierno, monárquico constitucional, a modo del gobierno inglés.” Translation mine.

9 Ricardo Castañeda Paganini, Las Ruinas De Palenque: Su Descubrimiento Y Primeras Exploraciones En El Siglo XVIII (Guatemala: Tipografia Nacional Guatemala, 1946), 12–13. “En esos libros de piedra están esculpidas las gestas heroicas, los hechos religiosos y la ciencia hierática del hombre americano.” Translation mine.

10 J Antonio Villacorta, “Quiriguá,” Anales de la sociedad de Geografia e Historia 3, no. 3 (1927): 244–270.

11 Wauchope, Lost Tribes & Sunken Continents: Myth and Method in the Study of American Indians, 123–137.

Report from the Field: #AHA17

Last week, amid freezing temperatures and snowstorms, the members of the American Historical Association met in Denver. (No, I don’t know who decided that meeting in the dead of winter in Denver was a good idea. San Diego, people. San Diego.) The snowstorm delayed flights causing many panelists to miss their presentations. Participants, including me, snarked our indignation about the lousy weather on Twitter. Our histrionics caught the attention of the local news.


The first time I went to AHA as an unaffiliated person, I felt a little weird about it. This year, I felt more confident about my unaffiliated status. I did not present any research or chair any panels. Since last year, I’ve managed to get a job at a non-profit dedicated to crime victim advocacy. Being gainfully employed and getting paychecks that didn’t make me laugh a bitter laugh increased my confidence considerably.

“Um…so …where are you?” people asked. They meant which university.
“Here in Denver,” I responded. “I had to get a day job. I work in crime victim advocacy.”
“Oh, wow…that sounds…difficult.”
“It is. But responding to crime scenes beats grading.”

Don’t get me wrong. AHA has some great parts: seeing old friends, meeting new ones, and taking full advantage of available open bars at receptions. I loved hearing about the adventures of former colleagues and classmates. I was genuinely happy for the people who got the tenure track jobs they wanted. I felt pained for those who reported that they were still adjuncting.

I went to a few panels. I listed to the speakers at a panel on travelers in Central America. Hearing papers on early 20th century travelers and tourism to Guatemala made me think that my research was still relevant. I began to think that maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t totally washed up as a historian or an academic. I schmoozed people after the panels. I talked to the panelists about my research and people still seemed to think that I had something worthwhile to say.  

Besides the panels focused on individual research, some highlighted the state of the profession and the ongoing job crisis. Kevin Gannon, a fellow Twitterstorian, argued that many history departments train their PhD students for a job market that hasn’t existed for thirty years. Though I wasn’t able to attend the panel because of a conflict with another panel, I was heartened to hear that many people attended. The job crisis can no longer be ignored. In my own cohort of graduate students, fewer and fewer seem to be getting academic positions. I’m no longer convinced that good students still get good jobs. In years past, people used to assure me that the job crisis was temporary. I now think that the dismal job prospects for PhD students are the new normal. If the AHA continues to advocate for the profession as a whole, it must address the job crisis and work to expand the definition of success in the field. If it can’t meet these challenges, it risks becoming irrelevant, the main advocacy organization for a dwindling number of professional scholars.

The Woes of the Academic Conference-Industrial Complex

In the unspoken rules of the academic world, participating in the annual meeting is almost mandatory. On the plus side, conferences can be great fun. They present immediate opportunities for self-promotion and networking with major scholars in the field. People jockey desperately to impress one another with the prestige of name badges. Jobs are also won and lost at the annual meeting. Despite the AHA’s attempts in recent years to promote alternative careers for historians, academic jobs and careers remain the focal point of the conference, as evidenced by the dreaded job center. Junior scholars and graduate students on the job market must do everything in their power to appear like serious scholars with that magical quality: potential. Some of the people who have job interviews at the conference will be invited for campus visits; the majority will not.

The ugly side of conferences is that they operate on a pay to play model that excludes many people. Conference attendance, the yearly gamble on the job market, is expensive and has no guaranteed payoff of the coveted tenure track job. I realize that in the world of huge corporations, the idea of paying $1500 for a conference is truly small potatoes. However, for academics, it is sometimes a serious burden. A small breakdown of costs at the big conferences goes something like this.

Plane ticket: $400
Hotel room: $750
Eating/bar: $350

This comes out to be a grand total of $1500. In January. Right after the holidays. A good number of people, including myself, can’t afford this without institutional support. To add insult to injury (and some cliches), no one is interested in giving travel grants to random scholars unaffiliated with any university. I have lamentably not discovered any way to generate huge sums to cash on demand. Adjuncts, alt-ac people, and graduate students struggle to attend.  

For me, I’m done gambling. I no longer believe that gambling $1500 in conference costs brings a huge academic payoff in the form of an academic job or book deal. I’m already struggling with a huge amount of debt (a post on my debt situation coming soon). I have a day job that is paying me enough to cover my bills, but not much more. My goal this year is to pay off a tiny part of my student debt that is collecting a huge amount of interest. Because of this, I don’t have a whole lot of disposable cash.

I went to Denver this year because I live here. This was by far the cheapest conference that I’ve ever attended, largely because I commuted from home to the conference center. I probably didn’t get as much out of it as I did last year, but the cost-benefit ratio seems more distorted to me every year. Next year, AHA is in Washington, D.C. I doubt I’ll go. Then it’s Chicago and New York. Ditto.  

It’s hard to participate in academia as an outsider. If the AHA is really serious about about career diversity (and I have some doubts about this), participation in the annual meeting needs to be easier for people who are paying out of their own pockets. Establishing some sort of travel funding for the unaffiliated would be an awesome start.

Just thoughts, as usual.