Introduction: On Paying Off and Paying Back: 2012 Annual MMLA Convention

“You shall see, it will fall pat as I told you … ”

—Bottom from Midsummer Night’s Dream, 5.1.184

Why Debt?

When I was asked to serve as president of the MMLA 2012 annual convention, I recall thinking of something I learned as a student about medieval guild practices. One custom observed by city guilds allowed aldermen to pay a fine to get out of the duty of serving as Lord Mayor, the guild’s highest unpaid office, for a year. MMLA does not ask presidents to pay for their own installment ceremonies or pageant floats, so the office is hardly as burdensome or costly, but they are keenly aware of the labor involved. When asked to serve, I remember being excited. Okay, admittedly, I was a bit naïve. Why wouldn’t one want to be Mayor? And then—in panic—I remember thinking, if only I could pay off someone, how much would it take? But then, guiltily, I wondered if one can put a price on getting out of such a thing. How can one put a price on the hallowed traditions, or the idea of “service?” I was most likely thinking about this custom because of a deeper sense of obligation I felt about having to pay back an organization that benefitted me when I was a graduate student. For the guilds, paying a fine was not a permanent out, but a way of kicking the can down the street. “Pay the fine next year too, if you want. But you are going to be asked again. The fine will help alleviate the feelings of guilt, sure, but no one is getting out of anything. You will always feel indebted.”

It seems odd to us today to put a number on such a thing as obligation to the profession. The professional tasks we perform do not appear as economically equivalent in this crude way. Imagine being given the option of paying a fine to get out of serving as department representative on the college curriculum committee. (I am not suggesting this as a way for departments to create revenue. Although, now that I think about it …) What makes academic professions distinct, we tell ourselves, is that they do not have to use exchange value as the only way to measure labor, merit, or status. We perform our duty willingly. Well, we perform the “willingly” part, I should say. This is the badge of our mystery, in a word. This is the sign of our dedication to our field. And those colleagues who get out of it have learned to just say no or to look busily at their computer screens at the right time, pretend to be more dedicated—and thus already too busy—to serve. “I really have too much on my plate at the moment,” they say. What the early modern guilds realized is that economic exchange is not a theoretically abstracted system that will sully the dignity of their mystery if allowed into the complicated equation of valuing merit. Money, they knew, is not something that’s going to melt away all that is holy about guild service. “You want out? That’ll be twenty crowns. But this doesn’t change anything.” All that’s melted becomes quite solid in this process of accounting for obligation. All this flashed through my mind when I was approached about serving. That, and I couldn’t say no: they made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.

The Economy, Stupid

The way the Executive Committee entices people to serve is by letting them choose the theme and the guest speaker of the conference. And this cinches it. It is one of the only moments an ordinary professor working in the trenches will have the chance to focus the conversation. The reasons I chose the theme of debt should be obvious. Students are in debt. Schools are in debt. The humanities appear to be in a constant state of economic retraction. We read today that the student debt crisis may possibly dwarf the sub-prime crisis. When...