grant writing in the humanities

Music: The Orb: Bicycles and Tricycles (2004)

Yesterday, along with Super-Scott and DJ Dr. D, I attended a day-long seminar for grant writing in the humanities. It was led by a former UT grad and now the chief development officer (viz., Rainwoman) at UNC Chapel Hill. It was funny and she did a good job.

After the morning half, however, I realized for the most part the seminar was designed to combat what I might simply term academic arrogance. The single lesson that was intoned, in differing ways, was to network and sell yourself. The biggest problem with grant writers is that they do not know how to sell themselves, and humanities folks in particular are not taught how to do that.

I also realized that the seminar really wasn’t meant for me. Folks there were interested in domestic violence, pedagogy, and library collections. There are foundation grants for that sort of thing (anything, in fact, that relates to health or community wellness in one way or another). But then there's me. I sit and think. I watch movies. I read. Jot notes. I write. I edit. Rinse, repeat. This process does not require start-up costs. I need a computer, some books. A cup of coffee or tea. I don't even need a teaching assistant. In fact, 98% of what I do is all up to me, on my dime. The only thing I can use grant money for is to buy out my teaching; I need time. And guess what? Foundations don't buy out your time. Nope. The only options are, well, the National Endowment for the Humanities and the Mellon Foundation. That's it, pretty much.

I asked a question at the end of the seminar. I explained what I said above, and then told her I was at the seminar because I was told I need to get grants, even though my research doesn't really require it. I then said: "Given the fact that you started out as a scholar on medieval poetry, I reckon this is just a philosophical question based on the contrast with your position now: is my line of work pretty much doomed?"

Her answer was somewhat flip. Dana thought it was funny. I found it a little, well, a little insulting, though I suppose I should have a better sense of humor. She replied by telling a story of a small pond in which there were two fish. One of the fish developed legs as the pool got smaller and smaller and eventually crawled out, becoming an alligator. The other fish evolved into a catfish. When the pool of water dried up, the alligator ate the catfish.