#the faculty of social sciences

[its-zaina]

The Faculty of Social Sciences, Denmark🇵🇸🔻.

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[theivorybilledwoodpecker]

A prominent computer scientist who has spent 20 years publishing academic papers on cryptography, privacy, and cybersecurity has gone incommunicado, had his professor profile, email account, and phone number removed by his employer, Indiana University, and had his homes raided by the FBI. No one knows why. ... Fellow researchers took to social media over the weekend to register their concern over the series of events. "None of this is in any way normal," Matthew Green, a professor specializing in cryptography at Johns Hopkins University, wrote on Mastodon. He continued: "Has anyone been in contact? I hear he’s been missing for two weeks and his students can’t reach him. How does this not get noticed for two weeks???" In the same thread, Matt Blaze, a McDevitt professor of computer science and law at Georgetown University, said: "It's hard to imagine what reason there could be for the university to scrub its website as if he never worked there. And while there's a process for removing tenured faculty, it takes more than an afternoon to do it."

[jisuyayaya]

.

[tenth-sentence]

In the thirties, they came to focus on positive eugenics, which to them meant the biological fostering of aptitudes and faculties that might aid in the creation of the socialist order, and forms of talent and intelligence essential to literary, artistic, and scientific achievement.

"In the Name of Eugenics: Genetics and the Uses of Human Heredity" - Daniel J. Kevles

[gorgonsister]

a bitch with a phd in economics from connecticut talking to me crazy, when you should be saying please and thank you… i know you’re still paying off your mortgage. please humble yourself

[mit]

Advancing social studies at MIT Sloan

Associate Professor Dean Eckles studies how our social networks affect our behavior and shape our lives.

Peter Dizikes | MIT News

Around 2010, Facebook was a relatively small company with about 2,000 employees. So, when a PhD student named Dean Eckles showed up to serve an intership at the firm, he landed in a position with some real duties.

Eckles essentially became the primary data scientist for the product manager who was overseeing the platform’s news feeds. That manager would pepper Eckles with questions. How exactly do people influence each other online? If Facebook tweaked its content-ranking algorithms, what would happen? What occurs when you show people more photos?

As a doctoral candidate already studying social influence, Eckles was well-equipped to think about such questions, and being at Facebook gave him a lot of data to study them. 

“If you show people more photos, they post more photos themselves,” Eckles says. “In turn, that affects the experience of all their friends. Plus they’re getting more likes and more comments. It affects everybody’s experience. But can you account for all of these compounding effects across the network?”

Eckles, now an associate professor in the MIT Sloan School of Management and an affiliate faculty member of the Institute for Data, Systems, and Society, has made a career out of thinking carefully about that last question. Studying social networks allows Eckles to tackle significant questions involving, for example, the economic and political effects of social networks, the spread of misinformation, vaccine uptake during the Covid-19 crisis, and other aspects of the formation and shape of social networks. For instance, one study he co-authored this summer shows that people who either move between U.S. states, change high schools, or attend college out of state, wind up with more robust social networks, which are strongly associated with greater economic success.

Eckles maintains another research channel focused on what scholars call “causal inference,” the methods and techniques that allow researchers to identify cause-and-effect connections in the world.

“Learning about cause-and-effect relationships is core to so much science,” Eckles says. “In behavioral, social, economic, or biomedical science, it’s going to be hard. When you start thinking about humans, causality gets difficult. People do things strategically, and they’re electing into situations based on their own goals, so that complicates a lot of cause-and-effect relationships.”

Eckles has now published dozens of papers in each of his different areas of work; for his research and teaching, Eckles received tenure from MIT last year.

Five degrees and a job

Eckles grew up in California, mostly near the Lake Tahoe area. He attended Stanford University as an undergraduate, arriving on campus in fall 2002 — and didn’t really leave for about a decade. Eckles has five degrees from Stanford. As an undergrad, he received a BA in philosophy and a BS in symbolic systems, an interdisciplinary major combining computer science, philosophy, psychology, and more. Eckles was set to attend Oxford University for graduate work in philosophy but changed his mind and stayed at Stanford for an MS in symbolic systems too. 

“[Oxford] might have been a great experience, but I decided to focus more on the tech side of things,” he says.

After receiving his first master’s degree, Eckles did take a year off from school and worked for Nokia, although the firm’s offices were adjacent to the Stanford campus and Eckles would sometimes stop and talk to faculty during the workday. Soon he was enrolled at Stanford again, this time earning his PhD in communication, in 2012, while receiving an MA in statistics the year before. His doctoral dissertation wound up being about peer influence in networks. PhD in hand, Eckles promptly headed back to Facebook, this time for three years as a full-time researcher.

 “They were really supportive of the work I was doing,” Eckles says.

Still, Eckles remained interested in moving into academia, and joined the MIT faculty in 2015 with a position in MIT Sloan’s Marketing Group. The group consists of a set of scholars with far-ranging interests, from cognitive science to advertising to social network dynamics.

“Our group reflects something deeper about the Sloan school and about MIT as well, an openness to doing things differently and not having to fit into narrowly defined tracks,” Eckles says.

For that matter, MIT has many faculty in different domains who work on causal inference, and whose work Eckles quickly cites — including economists Victor Chernozhukov and Alberto Abadie, and Joshua Angrist, whose book “Mostly Harmless Econometrics” Eckles name-checks as an influence.

“I’ve been fortunate in my career that causal inference turned out to be a hot area,” Eckles says. “But I think it’s hot for good reasons. People started to realize that, yes, causal inference is really important. There are economists, computer scientists, statisticians, and epidemiologists who are going to the same conferences and citing each other’s papers. There’s a lot happening.”

How do networks form?

These days, Eckles is interested in expanding the questions he works on. In the past, he has often studied existing social networks and looked at their effects. For instance: One study Eckles co-authored, examining the 2012 U.S. elections, found that get-out-the-vote messages work very well, especially when relayed via friends.

That kind of study takes the existence of the network as a given, though. Another kind of research question is, as Eckles puts it, “How do social networks form and evolve? And what are the consequences of these network structures?” His recent study about social networks expanding as people move around and change schools is one example of research that digs into the core life experiences underlying social networks.

“I’m excited about doing more on how these networks arise and what factors, including everything from personality to public transit, affect their formation,” Eckles says.

Understanding more about how social networks form gets at key questions about social life and civic structure. Suppose research shows how some people develop and maintain beneficial connections in life; it’s possible that those insights could be applied to programs helping people in more disadvantaged situations realize some of the same opportunities.

“We want to act on things,” Eckles says. “Sometimes people say, ‘We care about prediction.’ I would say, ‘We care about prediction under intervention.’ We want to predict what’s going to happen if we try different things.”

Ultimately, Eckles reflects, “Trying to reason about the origins and maintenance of social networks, and the effects of networks, is interesting substantively and methodologically. Networks are super-high-dimensional objects, even just a single person’s network and all its connections. You have to summarize it, so for instance we talk about weak ties or strong ties, but do we have the correct description? There are fascinating questions that require development, and I’m eager to keep working on them.”  

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[allthegeopolitics]

Hunter College was ordered to remove two job postings for Palestinian studies positions by the Democratic governor of New York in the latest targeting of academic freedom in the state. Hunter College - which makes up one of City University of New York's (Cuny) 25 campuses - advertised it was seeking both humanities and social sciences faculty to take “a critical lens to issues pertaining to Palestine including but not limited to: settler colonialism, genocide, human rights, apartheid, migration, climate and infrastructure devastation, health, race, gender and sexuality”. The roles were announced Monday afternoon after they were posted on Cuny’s website, but the posts were removed by mid-week.

Continue Reading

[biglisbonnews]

Summer 2023 recommended reading from MIT Enjoy these recent titles from Institute faculty and staff. https://news.mit.edu/2023/summer-reading-from-mit-0629

[transmutationisms]

genq what are the actual reasons that plagiarism is bad apart from profit and prestige?

so there are two main angles i usually think of here, which ultimately converge into some related issues in public discourse and knowledge production.

firstly, plagiarism should not just be understood as a violation one individual perpetuates against another; it has a larger role in processes of epistemological violence and suppression of certain people's arguments, ideas, and labour. consider the following three examples of plagiarism that is not at all counter to current structures of knowledge production, but rather undergirds them:

in colonial expeditions and encounters from roughly the 14th century onward, a repeated and common practice among european explorer-naturalists was to rely on indigenous people's knowledge of botany, geography, natural history, and so forth, but to then go on to publish this knowledge in their own native tongues (meaning most of the indigenous people they had learned from could not access, read, or respond to such publications), with little, vague, or no attribution to their correspondents, guides, hosts, &c. (many many examples; allison bigelow's 'mining language' discusses this in 16th and 17th century american mining, with a linguistic analysis foregrounded)

throughout the renaissance and early modern period, in contexts where european women were generally not welcome to seek university education, it was nonetheless common practice for men of science to rely on their wives, sisters, and other family members not just to keep house, but also to contribute to their scientific work as research assistants, translators, fund-raisers, &c. attribution practices varied but it is very commonly the case that when (if ever) historians revisit the biographies of famous men of science, they discover women around these men who were actively contributing to their intellectual work, to an extent previously unknown or downplayed (off the top of my head, marie-anne lavoisier; emma darwin; caroline herschel; rosalie lamarck; mileva marić-einstein...)

it is standard practice today for university professors to run labs where their research assistants are grad students and postdocs; to rely on grad students, undergrads, and postdocs to contribute to book projects and papers; and so forth. again, attribution varies, but generally speaking the credit for academic work goes to the faculty member at the head of the project, maybe with a few research assistants credited secondarily, and the rest of the lab / department / project uncredited or vaguely thanked in the acknowledgments.

in all of these cases, you can see how plagiarism is perpetuated by pre-existing inequities and structures of exploitation, and in turn helps perpetuate those structures by continuing to discursively erase the existence of people made socially marginal in the process of knowledge production. so, what's at stake here is more than just the specific individuals whose work has been presented as someone else's discovery (though of course this is unjust already!); it's also the structural factors that make academic and intellectual discourse an élite, exclusive activity that most people are barred from participating in. a critique of plagiarism therefore needs to move beyond the idea that a number of wronged individuals ought to be credited for their ideas (though again, they should be) and instead turn to the structures that create positions of epistemological authority under the aegis of capitalist entities: universities, legacy as well as new media outlets, and so forth. the issue here is the positions of prestige themselves, regardless of who holds them; they are, definitionally, not instruments of justice or open discourse.

secondly, there's the effect plagiarism has on public discourse and the dissemination of knowledge. this is an issue because plagiarism by definition obscures the circulation and origin of ideas, as well as a full understanding of the labour process that produces knowledge. you can see in the above examples how the attribution of other people's ideas as your own works to turn you into a mythologised sort of lone genius figure, whose role is now to spread your brilliance unidirectionally to the masses. as a result, the vast majority of people are now doubly shut out of any public discourse or debate, except as passive recipients of articles, posts, &c. you can't trace claims easily, you don't see the vast number of people who actually contribute to any given idea, and this all works to protect the class and professional interests of the select few who do manage to attain élite intellectual status, by reinforcing and widening the created gap between expert and layperson (a distinction that, again, tracks heavily along lines of race, gender, and so forth).

so you can see how these two issues really are part of one and the same structural problem, which is knowledge production as a tool of power, and one that both follows from and reinforces existing class hierarchies. in truth, knowledge is usually a collaborative affair (who among us has ever had a truly original idea...) and attributions should be a way of both acknowledging our debts to other people, and creating transparency in our efforts to stake claims and develop ideas. but, as long as there are benefits, both economic and social, to be gained from presenting yourself as an originator of knowledge, people will continue to be incentivised to do this. plagiarism is not an exception or an aberration; it's at best a very predictable outcome of the operating logics of this 'knowledge economy', and at worst—as in the examples above—a normal part of how expert knowledge is produced, and its value protected, in a system that is by design inequitable and exclusive.

[yuri-alexseygaybitch]

Less than 10 faculty members at my university have signed our SJP's letter calling for a ceasefire and most of them are in STEM and tbh I never want to see some whiny liberal arts/social sciences prof do a land acknowledgment or talk about "decolonization" ever again or I will break their shins

[jcmarchi]

Miguel Zenón, assistant professor of jazz at MIT, wins Grammy Award

New Post has been published on https://thedigitalinsider.com/miguel-zenon-assistant-professor-of-jazz-at-mit-wins-grammy-award/

Miguel Zenón, assistant professor of jazz at MIT, wins Grammy Award

MIT Music and Theater Arts Assistant Professor Miguel Zenón has won a Grammy for Best Latin Jazz Album for his work on “El Arte Del Bolero Vol. 2.” Zenón recorded the album with Luis Perdomo, a follow-up to their critically-acclaimed “El Arte Del Bolero Vol. 1.”

“I’m incredibly happy and honored with this Grammy win,” says Zenón, a 12-time Grammy nominee. “We’ve been making albums for a long time, so it’s extremely rewarding to earn this recognition. This will certainly be an incentive to keep moving forward and creating more music.”

The album’s title references the beauty of the Latin-American Songbook and the Bolero in particular.

“The Latin-American Songbook is so vast and varied that it naturally lends itself to limitless explorations,” says Zenón in the album’s liner notes. “We purposely looked beyond the Caribbean (exploring composers from México, Venezuela and Panamá, for example) because we wanted to emphasize the point that these songs deserved to be explored and recognized for what they are, beyond labels, categories, and regionalisms. Just beautiful music that is a joy to perform and listen to.” 

Critics lauded the album, naming it the top Latin Jazz recording of 2023 in the Jazz Critics Poll. 

“In an extraordinary follow-up to ‘El Arte Del Bolero Vol. 1,’ these timeless tunes are slowed down, blended with unusual elements, played out of time, deconstructed and reconstructed as Zenón and Perdomo extract nuances from the originals that we hardly imagined could exist,” said critic Catalina Maria Johnson. 

Born and raised in San Juan, Puerto Rico, Zenón has recorded and toured with a wide variety of musicians including Charlie Haden, Fred Hersch, David Sánchez, Danilo Pérez, Kenny Werner, Bobby Hutcherson, and The SFJAZZ Collective.

A renowned saxophonist, Zenón joined the MIT faculty in 2023 as an assistant professor of jazz. He is also the current visiting scholar for the Harmony and Jazz Composition Department at Berklee College of Music. 

In 2008, Zenón received a fellowship from the prestigious John Simon Guggenheim Foundation. Also that year, he received the coveted MacArthur Fellowship, also known as the “genius grant.”

In 2011, Zenón founded Caravana Cultural, a program that presents free-of-charge Jazz concerts in rural areas of Puerto Rico. In 2022, he also received an honorary doctorate from La Universidad del Sagrado Corazón in San Juan, the highest honor bestowed by the institution.

[1000sunnygo]

Hi! I wanted to ask you if by any chance you have/know something about the bonus segment from volume 8 of OP Academy?

All I know about it is that is a segment similar to Bartolomeo's Notes but it's about the teachers of the academy.

I didn't, but now I do!

@walrsu coming in clutch as always 🫡

Quickly went through the first four pages, so here's a simple and shorter translation:

Sengoku: Principal, studied in all subjects, keeps thugs in control with his strategies, Tsuru and Garp's classmate.

Garp: Currently (probably) training the youth somewhere in his own style, never opens textbooks, his freedom traumatizes the thugs.

Tsuru: She's called a master advisor for her great wisdom, third year class 10 homeroom teacher, purifies the thugs' hearts, prioritizes school hygiene maintenance.

Akainu: Third year's head faculty, Phy. Ed and geology teacher, his yells are heard everyday at school, if it feels really hot he's probably nearby.

Kizaru: Second year's head faculty, teaches social studies and geography, shoots light beams instead of chalks during class.

Aokiji: First year's head faculty, one moment he's teaching language and other moment he's teaching how to brew coffee.

Smoker: Mainly maths but provides life guidance and other supplementary classes. Smoking ban in campus has become a hot topic so he carries a portable ashtray.

Hina: Smoker's classmate, physics teacher, she tells to throw away the small animals and bugs that the thugs pick up but makes cages for them anyway.

Tashigi: University student but teaches sword related history, also works part-time at a shop.

Spandam: Teaches english, political studies and economics, student council advisor. His dad worked for the Ministry of Education. He makes difficult questions and enjoys seeing the thugs suffer.

Ceaser: Chemistry teacher, has no interest in teaching but experiments as a hobby. Possibly a world class scientist but he's dangerous so there's rumors about the school planning to take him away.

Sentoumaru: Phy. Ed (Marial arts section), tags along often with Kizaru, said to be the toughest man in the world with impenetrable guard. Sometimes he slips out some exam contents on his own even though he never answers when asked. Seems to know things about science subjects as well.

The subjects seem on point, lol.

[it-was-summer]

Nevertheless (I'm In Love With You) 〰 2

A/N: I like to pretend that Spencer is a wanderer?? Like he thinks of a place and just starts walking without thinking twice. Just like me fr. Two grown adults... struggling with their emotions. Yummy... yummers to those who use that word (my bf). I actually proofread this bitch. Happy late Valentine's Day!!!! Hope you guys like it!

Link to the Ao3: Nevertheless (I'm In Love With You) Link to the: Yee olde masterlist Link to the: Nevertheless (I'm In love With You) Masterlist

Previous chapter: Enemies (If You Can Call It That) You are on: Friends (Associates at Best) -> (Better off as) Lovers Tags: Use of She/Her pronouns (I apologize), talk of forensic science, norovirus mention!!, the flu... my enemy, spencer has a 'oh shit,' moment, Spencer being a little oblivious to jokes and his feelings, gossiping students, something else?, this is a very soft and light fic.

Genre: Slight Enemies to friends to lovers. ForensicsProfessor!Reid x ForensicsProfessor!Reader

Plot: Two professors run into each other at a museum. One invites the other to coffee. They enjoy each other's company, and a friendship blossoms—a friendship teeming with affection.

Word Count: 6,414

Friends (Associates at Best)

Serial killers seldom rest during the holidays. Spencer has spent countless Halloweens, Christmases, and Birthdays working BAU cases. This is the first time in a long time that he can sit at home and not hover around waiting for his phone to ring… and he’s bored. 

Considering how fast his mind runs, the boredom comes and goes, but it’s still there. He feels lazy, like he should be doing some work. He’s planned out a rough outline of his lesson plans for the Spring Semester, updated his syllabus, and sent emails to his cohorts two weeks in advance. 

Now, he was just killing time for another week. Years ago, he would have begged for this kind of solitude. He could always catch up on some reading. However, the need to engage in some sort of social activity won’t leave him. 

He almost finds it laughable when he pieces it together. He isn’t bored. He’s lonely, and he blames all those hours spent surrounded by students and faculty. 

He pulls on his trench coat, tucks a technical book in the pocket, and pulls gloves on as he haphazardly drapes his purple scarf around his neck before heading out the door. He tries to think of things he’s never done in the city– everything he’s held off. 

He’s done the sightseeing, the occasional movie in the park, and trains to New York City; maybe he just needs to be out of the apartment. After all, he’s technically already seen seven people— mission complete. 

Spencer sighs as he pushes on. His feet take him to the metro, where he takes the Red line that will eventually take him to the Smithsonian Museum of American History. There are patches of ice on the sidewalk as he walks toward the entrance, happy to take his gloves off and stuff them in his pocket as he checks for new exhibits. 

He enjoys the electricity hall; it was a nice way to kill time. If he was being honest, there wasn’t a plan. He’s still debating the activity as he heads down to the second floor, his eyes scanning for something new, hoping it will catch his eye when he sees a familiar head of hair— or at least he hopes it is. 

He watches as you pace outside one of the exhibits on your phone and finds himself smiling as he sees the exhibit’s topic— Forensic Science on Trial. He wonders if you’re here just for this one exhibit, and that makes you better than him because he doesn’t have anything resembling a plan for his day. 

He watches you briefly, silently debating approaching you and saying hello. He’s sure you won’t want to see him, but when you hang your phone up and look up, you spot him almost instantly. Your eyes widen, and your brows furrow momentarily before glancing back at the exhibit, smiling, and walking over to him. So much for thinking you wouldn’t want to see him. 

Spencer can feel his lips start to twitch upwards as you walk over to him. You’re wearing a trench coat frighteningly similar to his, and your gloves peek out of your left pocket— purple. He finds these accidental similarities amusing, and it’s clear on his face as you stop in front of him. 

You notice his gaze falling on your coat and follow it, looking slightly confused before you realize it's the same dark brown as Spencer’s. Your head snaps up, and you point at his coat with a goofy smile. “Woah, we should get Dr. Matthew in on this matching action. It’ll be like a faculty spirit day.” Then you pause. “Or a cult.” 

Spencer scoffs a little at the idea, a look of confusion in his eyes, “Cult for what exactly?” 

“Trench coats?” 

“Are you feeling alright?” 

“I apologize for being enthusiastic about something. It’ll never happen again.” With that, Spencer gives you a playful raise of his eyebrow before shaking his head. You chuckle, your cheeks warm. “Are you here for the exhibit?” 

Spencer’s eyes leave yours to look at the exhibit steps behind you, silently debating lying and telling you yes– a vain attempt to hang around you a little longer– but the idea sours the longer he thinks about it. With a shake of his head, he lets out a little, “Not exactly, I was…” He trails off briefly, not wanting to say he feels bored. He’s sure any sane professor would hate him if he says he misses work. 

“Bored?” You finish for him, watching his cheeks turn pink. You give him a tentative smile, silently wondering how fast that mind of his works. Of course, he’d be bored. You got stir-crazy after having a few days of nothing to do. Spencer probably got cabin fever in a few hours. You gave him a shrug of your shoulders, “I get it.” 

Spencer drew his lips into a small line, nodding. “But I would love to accompany you. If you’d… let me?” 

He watches as your nose scrunches up, acting as though the idea perturbs you before you let out a soft chuckle, “If you insist.” Then, you turn on your heel and walk back towards the exhibit. 

Spencer happily follows, hands in his pockets as his long legs soon surpass you with long, easy strides. He watches as you walk a little faster to catch up with him, and he’s trying not to find the action funny– honest! But he can’t help the grin that stretches across his face. 

You groan, and then you do something surprising. He watches as you look up at him, your eyes pleading silently, brows furrowed just a bit, and his heart clenches in friendly adoration. He gives you a mocking look of exasperation before slowing down and settling into a stride beside you. He doesn’t miss the smile you give him as the two of you start to explore the exhibit. 

“So, it’s split into three sections.” You hold up three fingers, “ ‘Of people,’” He watches as you put down one finger, “‘By people,’” Then another, “‘For people.’” Then you put down your hand. Your eyes focus as you walk toward an ancient-looking polygraph machine. 

Spencer's eyes linger on you as you admire the machine silently. Organic conversations and reading rooms were always difficult for him. Whenever he tried to be conversational, his words came out awkward—too forced. That didn’t stop him from trying anyway. “Do you come here often?” 

Your back straightens with that, casting him a judgmental look over your shoulder, “Are you trying to hit on me?” 

His cheeks quickly set ablaze, a deep red against his pale skin as he stutters, “W–What? No! No, I meant, do you come to this museum a lot? The American History Museum.” He stammers out, heart pounding.

You’re surprised at how easy it is to make him flustered, and you hate that you enjoy the sight much more than you should. He frowns softly, almost pouting, as he watches the wicked smile that consumes your previously judgmental glare. “Stop that.” He hisses out, his voice cracking with embarrassment. 

“But it’s so easy.” You whine. Spencer gives you an annoyed look, his head tilting to the side to look down at you with displeasure. You sigh and throw your hands up dramatically. “Fine, take away all my fun.” 

“Thank you,” he chirps back, the warmth in his cheeks fading remarkably slow. “So, do you?” 

You move your head side-to-side, trying to count up all the moments you’ve been in this museum as he follows you to another artifact on display. Your voice is low, trying to be courteous to the small group of older women on your right. “Not often, no. What about you?” 

“I like the electricity hall.” 

You groan a little, a hint of amusement in your misery. “You would.” 

“What’s wrong with the electricity hall?” His brows furrow, his eyes flitting over to an arsenic kit. 

“Nothing! It’s simply not the best thing in this museum.” 

“Says the sporadic visitor.” 

“Yes, well, the sporadic visitor is right.” You scoff out, eyes studying a microdynameter carefully. 

Spencer's eyes stay on you, studying your side profile before he bites, “Well, what is the best thing here?” 

“Entertainment nation.” 

He rolls his eyes; that’s everyone’s favorite. He feels surprisingly stubborn as he starts to list other exhibits. “There’s Inventing in America,” 

You shake your head. “Nope.” You pop the ‘p,’ “Entertainment Nation.” 

“American Democracy?” 

“Enter–” You pause, pretending to think. “-tainment nation.” 

He frowns at your stubbornness. “The Star-Spangled Banner?” 

You sigh, turning to face him and narrowing your eyes. He raises his hands and nods, “Entertainment nation, fine.” He laughs. He then pauses and snaps his fingers, “Oh! The First Ladies.” 

You look off towards the ceiling, a low ‘mmm’ coming from your closed lips before you shake your head. “No, it’s Entertainment Nation.” 

Spencer sighs, walking around you to examine a framed court document. “Uninspiring,” he jokes a little. 

He smiles when he hears you let out an annoyed grunt, turning on your heel to walk closer to him. “I’m sorry, Dorothy’s red slippers are uninspiring?” You scoff out in a whisper of disbelief. 

He waves his hand with a mischievous look, “Apologies. Mainstream.” 

“It was the first technicolor movie!” 

“Actually, the first technicolor movie was in 1917 called, ‘The Gulf Between.’” He corrects you, his eyebrows shooting up with surprise at the playful glare you’re giving him. 

“Well, it is still an American Classic." You cross your arms over your chest. “I thought we were friends.” 

Spencer smiles, a laugh bubbling up in his throat. “If I remember correctly, the last time I called us friends, you called us associates. " He then licks his lips quickly. “At best!” Then, Spencer’s breathy laughter fills the exhibit, and you’re more than happy to shush him. 

-

The weekend before classes start, Spencer is deep cleaning his apartment. The thought of deep cleaning his apartment hadn’t left his head all morning, so he started the process at noon. He’s scrubbing down his bedroom door when he hears the familiar ‘ding’ of his –often neglected– cell phone. 

He scrunches his nose, trying to ignore it, his hands stuttering slightly. Then it dings again, and he’s sure it’s the team. He sniffles softly, the smell of pine sol fresh in the air as he pulls off the rubber gloves Garcia had gifted him four Christmases ago. 

The screen doesn’t display Penelope’s contact, nor Emily’s; instead, it shows yours. His fingers scramble to open the message, his eyes reading the text you’ve sent him at the speed of light, ‘Are you a fan of coffee?’ 

He feels his lips quirk into a light smile as he reads the following text directly beneath. ‘This is me asking you to coffee. Say yes so we can keep pretending to be friends.’ 

Despite feeling a little taken aback by the fact that you thought the two of you were simply pretending to be friends, he lets out an amused scoff. With a shake of his head, he sets his phone face down and picks up his gloves. However, just as he’s about to slide them back on, he finds himself tossing them on the table and reaching for his phone. 

He doesn’t feel like himself as he texts back a hasty, ‘Where?’ 

The ‘where’ in question is a small coffee shop two blocks away. Spencer knows he could have ignored the text and finished his cleaning, but for some reason, he’s happy –concerningly so— to abandon his half-cleaned apartment. 

The cold bites at the tips of his ears, and the wind wildly whips against the sensitive skin until he’s in the shop. He doesn’t spot you immediately, his eyes watering a little due to the cold gusts of wind on the street. After a few blinks, his eyes land on you. You’re wearing that same trench coat and thick knitted multi-colored scarf, your eyes transfixed on the window. 

He wonders if you were watching for him. Maybe you were nervous about him not showing? Though that possibility seemed slim. He clears his throat softly as he approaches the counter-height chair next to yours. When you hear it, your chin immediately tilts up toward him, your eyes shining, “Smells like snow,”

No hello. No greetings. Just “‘smells like snow.’” Nonetheless, the seemingly random comment makes him grin, slightly lopsided, as he sets down his messenger bag on the seat next to you. “Petrichor.” He says simply. 

You snap your fingers. “Yes! I always forget the word.” Then you take him in, your eyes trailing up towards his incredibly tousled hair. Your lips form an understanding smile. “The wind did a number on you, too, huh?” 

Spencer scans your appearance for imperfections but finds none, “Too?” 

Your smile broadens with that, finding that you like how he always looks into your eyes when he’s talking to you. “Well, I carry around a brush.” You explain, patting your bag gently. 

His lips form a silent ‘oh’ before he hears your name being called by the barista. Your face brightens as you slide off the seat and happily walk over to get your cup of coffee— a sweet, warm latte. 

You turn to tell Spencer to order something, but he beats you to the punch, already walking up to the front counter to order a drink. You hum softly as you head back to your previous seat in front of the window. 

Honestly, you weren’t sure why you invited Dr. Reid to coffee. You had plenty of other friends you could have reached out to, but after spending a whole day with him at the Smithsonian American History Museum, you found his presence calming. Being around him made something inside of you become still— quiet. It was… nice. 

You wondered if you had the same effect on him, though you knew that you’d rather die than ask him the question directly. For now, it would have to be a mystery to you, and you simply hoped that you weren’t annoying your coworker. 

He didn’t seem annoyed. His hazel eyes held yours in conversation, his body leaned into yours, and sometimes —when he couldn’t hear you well enough— he would lean his head down a little with a gentle ‘I’m sorry?’. A nagging voice inside you noted how attractive that action was, yet you attempted to shove the thought into the deepest recesses of your mind.

Nevertheless, seemingly against your will, your eyes slowly left the window’s view. You peer over your right shoulder, watching Spencer as he pulls out his card to pay the barista behind the counter. You notice the polite smile dancing on his lips, strands of brunette hair slowly falling into his eyes. 

Your lips form a smile as you watch how he pushes the hair out of his face, and— that’s enough! 

You blink rapidly, turning your face back toward the window and forcing yourself to stare at the windy winter streets of DC. You prop your elbows up on the wood counter, leaning your face into your hands to rub out the growing tension between your brows. 

“Everything alright?” Spencer’s worried voice spooks you, eliciting a tiny gasp from your lips. A gasp he seems to find amusing as he carefully sets his cup of coffee down on the wooden countertop with a smile. 

“I’m fine, just a headache.” You groan, picking up your latte and taking a delicate sip. 

“Have you been getting enough sleep lately?” 

You lick some foam off your lip, eyes trailing up towards the ceiling as Spencer sits beside you. “I believe so. I’m sure it is just the thought of the Spring Semester beginning in two days.” 

Spencer’s eyes linger on you, how you look down at your cup and then at him. He’s sure something is on your mind. He doesn’t know you well enough to determine what it is, and he wants to accept your answer with a simple nod, but he can’t help the urge to pry.

The following silence seems slightly tense, “You don’t strike me as the type to be nervous about teaching new students.”

Your lips spread into a slow grin as you shake your head. “No, I’m not.” Your fingers slowly trace the handle of your cup. “I don’t know, it's just a feeling I can’t shake— foreboding.” You chuckle at that, rolling your eyes a little at your words. “It isn’t important, just first-day jitters.”

Spencer let out an appreciative hum, the sound low and soft, as he compared your feelings toward the semester starting to his own. He’s always loved school, and learning new information brought him immense comfort. Teaching was a newer passion, but a passion all the same. He loved it. But he could still understand some of what you were feeling. 

Before he can express his understanding, a long sigh escapes you. “You ever miss it?” Your voice sounds far away as you stare out the coffee shop’s window. 

“What?” 

“Profiling. The BAU.” 

Spencer’s eyes follow your gaze, watching a young woman clutch her partner's hand. A slight ache in his chest makes him think of everything he’s gained… everything he’s lost. “I miss certain aspects of the job, yes.” 

“Such as?” You turn your head to look at him. 

“My team. I still see them, but not as much as I used to.” Spencer blinks, finding the words strange to say out loud. Adjusting to teaching was easy, but he missed his friendships. He missed his family. He missed their laughs, easy touches, and dependability. He missed being silently understood. “It’s hard for me to connect with strangers. I’m not exactly a social butterfly.” 

He can hear the smile in your voice before he sees it. “I think you’re turning it around.” 

You watch his head turn to face you, his warm honey eyes looking particularly amused. “Yeah?” he rasps out in a shy tone. 

You nod happily, “Yeah.” His smile grows at that, and you can feel your heart squeezing inside your chest. “Dr. Reid, I’m proud to bump your title to work, friend.” 

“Spencer,” He interjects, and you can’t help the butterflies that stir inside your stomach at how soft his voice sounds. 

You lick your lips slowly, ignoring your growing nerves. “Spencer.” 

And Spencer tries to ignore how much he likes the sound of your voice calling his name. 

-

Madeline Anderson was a dutiful graduate student. She was always happy to plan study dates with her cohort, ask questions openly, or visit a professor during office hours. However, despite a twenty-four-year-old's diligent efforts, she was still a person.  And, like most people, she never turned down a good story. How could she when there was a story as good as this one unfolding in front of her very eyes? 

Dr. Reid was a favorite of hers. He explained topics thoroughly, and sure, sometimes, he rambled about a different, unrelated subject, but he wasn’t dull. Halfway through his lecture, the hall could hear the eerie creaking of doors that slammed closed with a significant thud. Madeline’s hand kept writing her notes, ignoring the doors until her seatmate, Sadie, kicked her shoe softly. 

Once she had Madeline’s attention, Sadie glanced to the back of the room, silently pleading with Madeline to look that way and fast. Madeline scoffs, slightly amused, shaking her head, but she looks anyway. She was a little caught off guard when she saw you shuffling into an empty seat in the back row with a sheepish smile. 

Sadie nudges her, a mischievous look in her brown eyes. Madeline raises an eyebrow and mouths a tiny, ‘No way.’ 

Madeline steals another look over her shoulder to look at you, and your eyes are trained on Dr. Reid as he talks with his hands. Gossip!

Once the lecture was over, the two girls could be seen packing up their items terribly slow. Madeline watches as you stand, waving at a student or two before beelining it for Dr. Reid’s podium. The same podium that Dr. Reid was leaning against and looking down at you like you were a creature of captivating beauty. 

Wait! No! His gaze resembled that of a love-struck man in a painting! No, still not good enough. It resembled a love-lorn man pinning over a muse, a creature so close and far away. She finds she can’t look away as you drum your fingers on the edge of his podium, your body leaning toward his.

Sadie is the first of the duo to stand; her steps are small, and Madeline is close behind. Just before they leave the lecture hall, they stop by the door and openly stare. They watch as you pick up Dr. Reid’s messenger bag, holding it out for him to take. The way Dr. Reid smiles at you, the corners of his eyes crinkling sweetly as he thanks you. Then they watch how his hand hovers at the small of your back, leading you away from the podium, and how you tilt your head back to flash a winning smile. Then they’re out of there. 

-

Spencer couldn’t place his newfound friendship with you. It lacked —naturally– the familiarity that the BAU gave him, but it still managed to make him feel at home. He never dreaded coming to work, but lately, he’s found that if he doesn’t see you, the work day feels rather lackluster. 

He wonders how you would react if he told you that. He pictures you laughing a little at his confession, or maybe you’d get flustered like you did when he told you he liked spending time with you two weeks ago. 

That was another thing; he had never imagined his old coworker’s reactions to something he’d said before. Sure, there were moments in the past when he sat wondering what Derek or Emily had meant in their responses to his comments here and there. But this level of contemplation never occurred with his friends. 

He’d never sit at his desk like he is now, wondering how Penelope would react to an invitation to lunch or if she’d laugh at one of his jokes. Spencer couldn’t help but chalk it up to knowing precisely what Penelope —or anyone from the BAU team— would say to the invite. Hell, he even knows the jokes he would share with Penelope. He could easily say it was because he was still getting to know you, but something about that explanation didn’t sit right with him. 

That uncanny, familiar rush of excitement that courses through his veins whenever he hears your voice across the hall doesn’t sit right with him. The euphoric feeling he gets from making you laugh. And now, this excessive daydreaming. It’s an emotion he’s previously felt, yet he’s struggling to conceptualize it— frustratingly on the tip of his tongue. 

His foot anxiously taps against the carpet under his desk, and he fears that if he keeps it up, there will be a hole where his right foot naturally rests. He pushes his chair away from his desk, stands, and walks across the hall to your office door, gently rapping his knuckles against the wood. 

He can hear the faint sound of music coming from your office, and you don’t bother turning it off as you open the door, and Spencer gets an earful of something from the 80s. Spencer tries to suppress the giddy feeling that completely consumes his body when he sees that giddy look in your eyes. 

You always had the prettiest eyes, but when you were having fun? They just lit up the room— the universe. He’s seen people brighten or perk up when they are excited, but nothing matches the look in your eyes when you are excited. The last time he saw those eyes shine the way they are now was at the beginning of the semester when Spencer brought in some cookies that Penelope had given him that first week. 

You gasp softly, leaning against your door slightly, your head resting on the wood slowly. Those shining eyes stare at him almost dreamily. “Spencer Reid, my esteemed neighbor.” 

Spencer tries to ignore the saccharine tone of your voice and the way it makes him feel like he is melting into a puddle of goo. “May I borrow a cup of sugar?” He sounds slightly awkward as he jokes with you, and his head dips down in a vain attempt to hide his growing embarrassment. 

Despite his awkward attempt at being funny, he can hear the melodic sound of your laugh in seconds, and a surprising rush of reassurance settles in his chest. “You tried.” You state with an empathetic look on your face. “You looking for a lunch buddy?” 

Spencer’s eyes always have this puppy-like look when he wants something. Whenever he’s after something, his eyes —unbeknownst to him— become irresistible. Those honey and green hues in his eyes mix into a pleading look that has your stomach twisting into knots and refusal dying on your tongue. It’s terribly distracting and, if you’re being honest, disturbingly attractive. You’re huffing out a mocking sigh of frustration as you grab your bag, shut your computer off, and lock your office door. “I believe it’s my pick this time.” 

“It was your pick last time,” Spencer replies, walking beside you, his head tipping to the side to look down at you. 

“I thought you were a gentleman.” 

“What prompted this conclusion?" Spencer taunts as his hands reach for the door handle, holding it open with a warm smile. 

You walk past him with an incredulous look, “A hunch.” You can see the confused look on his face even when his face isn’t in view. The mental image makes your insides turn to jelly, and a small voice in your head begins to wonder what’s wrong with you. 

Before you can dwell in that house forever, Spencer reappears at your side. “At least hear me out,” He pleads softly, and for a brief moment, his slender fingers brush against yours. 

Your throat feels slightly dry. “Fine." 

Spencer brightens at that, leaving you dazed, “That café you like does specials on soups and sandwiches on Wednesdays.” 

It does? Why is it that Spencer knows that about your favorite café and you don’t? The notion that he took time to look up the weekly specials makes you feel —momentarily— warm all over. Then, a nagging voice reminds you of his eidetic memory. Of course! He didn’t take the time out of his week to look up something as silly as the specials at that café you like. He probably just remembered it from last time. 

The fact should calm you down and give your pounding heart a reprieve, but it doesn’t. Instead, you can feel your chest tighten with disappointment as you give Spencer a lackluster nod of approval. “Sounds great.” 

He notices the subtle shift in your body language, his fingers nervously tugging the frayed edges of his cardigan into his palm. “Unless you’d like to eat somewhere else?” He remembered the weekly specials the last time you took him there and was waiting for an opportunity to present itself. 

He doesn’t know if he’s said or done something wrong, but the brightness in your eyes has seemingly deflated. “No, I’m fine! That sounds good.” A tight smile forces its way onto your face as you walk toward the café in question. 

–

It’s not uncommon for campuses filled to the brim with students, such as this one, to experience outbreaks of various diseases—the flu, stomach bugs, the occasional case of mono. According to you, they posted pamphlets about norovirus last year— a germaphobe's worst nightmare. 

Spencer swears that he’s gotten better at handling germs; prison wasn’t the cleanest place. He got through the Fall semester without catching a single cold, and so far, he is accomplishing the same goal with the Spring Semester. 

Unfortunately, you have a different fate. You’ve canceled classes two days in a row now, and the last time he talked with you over the phone, you sounded terrible. Spencer offered to help you grade some papers or take over a class or two, but you vehemently declined. 

You trusted that Spencer would do a good job, but the guilt of him doing twice the work would eat away at you as you sniffled, shivered, and coughed roughly on your couch. You’ve slept through half of the day. Your fever is still going strong. Your hands blindly search for your phone, scrambling on your couch until you feel it in your hands. 

You wince at the time, six o’clock in the afternoon. Your appetite went out the window yesterday, alongside the ability to breathe through your nose. You groan, back hitting the back of the couch, slumping over a little. You need to eat, but your fog-filled mind and weak limbs struggle to get up and cook something. 

A knock at the door spooks a yelp out of you, but it quickly turns into a thick cough. Wrapping your quilt around your body, you hobble to the door and peek out the peephole. Your head reels back at Spencer Reid standing outside your apartment door. “Spencer, I’m sick!” 

Watching him through the peephole, you see him grin, “I know, I come bearing gifts.” 

You lean your forehead against the door, sighing out at the feeling, “Leave them on the–”

Spencer cuts you off with a rather loud, somewhat embarrassing, “No!” He clears his throat, shifting his weight on his feet. This isn’t his comfort zone, and while he hates germs, he cares about you. It was a feeling he was starting to piece together– tender and true. Not hearing your voice these past two days has felt oddly similar to torture. “No,” He continues, “I’ll heat it up for you, and don’t say no because you sounded terrible on the phone-–” 

His sentence is cut off as you swing the door open, and his heart clenches at the sight. Your hair is messy, you have a red nose and pale cheeks, and the look is complete with some baggy pajamas. You groan softly, motioning for him to come in with a wave of your hand as you trudge back over to the couch, laying down with a rough oof. 

Spencer's feet hesitate for a second, hazel eyes studying your messy living room– tissues on the coffee table, empty mugs on practically every surface. He swallows roughly, his Adam’s apple bobbing against his throat as he takes the plunge, taking a comically large step into your apartment and gently shutting the door behind him. 

‘This is a terrible idea. I’m going to get sick, and then we’ll both be out of the office, and then–’ A sneeze from you pulls him away from his panicking thoughts, and he looks down at the items in his hands with a sudden purpose. 

He can feel his cheeks warm as he looks down at the bouquet of daisies in one hand and the container of noodle soup in the other.  He can hear your labored breathing from the couch as he awkwardly finds your kitchen. As he searches for a vase, it dawns on him— this is his first time in your apartment.

His anxiety gets the best of him as he manages to find a pretty-looking vase. He silently wonders if he should stick the soup in the fridge, leave the flowers in the vase, and take his leave. He finds a pair of scissors, carefully cutting the stems as he anxiously chews on his bottom lip. He’ll heat the soup, take care of the flowers, and get out— yes!

He fills the vase with water absentmindedly, arranging the daisies with gentle hands before moving on to the soup. He shakes his head at his anxious thoughts, thousands of reasons to get out, escape routes overlapping in his mind. He finds that he’s already done everything he said he would do. So, why was he still here? 

Spencer rolls out the tension in his shoulders as he grabs a spoon from the kitchen drawer. He can hear a soft cough from the living room as he carries the warm soup with extreme care. Setting the soup bowl and spoon on your side table, he looks down at you as you stare up at him tenderly. “Thank you.” Your voice is hoarse as you carefully sit criss-cross on the couch and hold the bowl of soup in your left hand, your right hand using the spoon to search for the best-looking egg noodle in the bowl. 

Your eyes stray toward Spencer, who flashes you a warm smile. His nervous eyes look around at the tissues on the coffee table just before he disappears into the kitchen. 

You barely have time to ask him what he’s doing when he comes out wearing your hot pink cleaning gloves, holding a plastic bag in one hot pink gloved hand, “How did you–” 

“They were by the kitchen sink,” He hurriedly explains as he gets work picking up the dirty tissues around you and tossing them into the plastic bag. 

You sniffle as you sip on some broth. “You don’t have to clean. I know how much you hate germs. I won’t be mad if you leave. You’ve already been so helpful–” 

“I want to help.” His head turns to look at you, his hazel eyes filled with determination. You let out a soft laugh, covering your mouth as your laugh turns into a shaky cough. Spencer smiles at that, feeling a warm burst of pride in knowing he can make you laugh, even now. 

You continue to watch Spencer as he tidies up your living room, his eyes and hands concentrated on the task at hand. You feel your body growing warm, and you’re unsure if it’s because your fever is breaking or because of how sweet he’s being. You shift on the couch, taking small bites of the soup and smiling softly. 

If you didn’t feel so terrible, you would be talking more, but you’re finding that this is a comfortable silence. Spencer leaves your view again, the living room now clean of dirty tissues and empty tea cups, as he carries the mess into the kitchen. 

When he returns, he’s carrying a vase full of daisies— did he have those when he came in? Your eyes widen at the sight, and you quickly set the bowl of soup back on the side table. “You got me,” A sneeze followed by a short sniffle. “Daisies?” You ask him, cheeks burning with emotion.

Spencer’s pale cheeks are tinged pink as he sets the vase of daisies on your now-clean coffee table. He watches with a warm, giddy smile as your fingertips reach out to brush the petals. “I– well, yes. Did you not see them in my hand when you let me in?” 

You shake your head, glancing up at him with a beaming smile. There those eyes are again, big and bright with joy. He’ll buy out flower shops if that’s what it takes. He watches as your gaze drifts back to the flowers, and he can feel a slight shiver of realization slither into his heart. He loves you. 

His calm demeanor dissipates rapidly, praying that you don’t look over at him as he stares at you with a shell-shocked expression.  

How? 

When? 

His shell-shocked expression morphs into one of slight panic, and his breathing begins to sound slightly erratic. He’s got to get out here. He needs to… what does he need to do? He can’t think straight. He can’t tell you, no. No, no, no, you’d be appalled. 

Well, would you?

As he steadies his breathing, he decides he needs time to think. He can’t reach a healthy conclusion with you three feet away from him on the couch. He’s searching for a good enough reason to leave when you announce, “I love them.” Your eyes flit over to him, and he feels like he could melt. 

“I–” He sighs, swallowing against the lump in his throat, “I’m so glad.” 

You notice the tension in his shoulders and, resting your back against the couch, “Thank you for everything. You’re the best friend a girl can have, honest.” You lick your lips, a mischievous look in your eyes. “However, I fear I must force you out.” 

Spencer starts to protest, but you shush him quickly. “Nu-uh, I won’t hear it. You’ll get sick if you stay here a moment longer.” You stand, sniffling softly as you gently motion to the door. 

When Spencer doesn’t immediately move, you groan and gently press your right palm on his shoulder, pushing him weakly toward the door. His feet work against him as he looks over at you, “At least let me–” 

You shush him again, earning an annoyed look from the tall brunette man you’re bossing around. You open the door for him, leaning against it as you watch him step out into the hall. He looks utterly confused, stuttering softly, “Well, I can bring you lunch tomorrow?” he suggests weakly. He doesn’t understand why he feels so disappointed at his leaving. He had just decided to leave, so why did leaving feel so… melancholy? Despite his confusing new revelation, he wants to stay and care for you— even if it means catching a cold. 

But you persist. “I’ll call you if I need your assistance.” 

He wants to tell you you’re being unreasonably stubborn, but he bites his tongue. His lips form a slight frown. He’s on the verge of a pout as he throws his hands up.  “Fine.” 

Your pale, sick cheeks have a little color in them now as you wave. “Goodnight, Spencer.” 

He swallows, feeling the desperate urge to beg you to let him stay. “Goodnight.” Spencer remains standing in the hallway as you slowly close the door. He groans out in frustration, shaking his head as he mournfully makes his way down the hall. He needs to call someone. 

Unbeknownst to him, you’re sitting on your couch again, admiring the daisies with a soft smile. You let out a weak sigh, shaking your head a little as the thought crosses your mind. As you slowly lie back on the couch, you mutter to an empty room. “How am I supposed to get over my feelings for you when you do things like this?” Maybe you need to phone a friend, too.

[focalorsobsessed]

Hello, my friend. I hope this message finds you well. 🙏

I'm Ola, a graduate student from the Faculty of Science at Al-Azhar University . I'm a dedicated and passionate student, striving to become a good researcher and teacher.

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Help

[exhaled-spirals]

« If an individual with a highly contagious illness works in a job that puts them in contact with the public, an epidemic is the result. In the same way, if an individual in a position of political power is a psychopath, he or she can create an epidemic of psychopathology in people who are not, essentially, psychopathic. […]

The traditional interpretation of these great historical diseases has already taught historians to distinguish two phases. The first is represented by a period of spiritual crisis in a society, which historiography associates with exhausting of the […] values heretofore nourishing the society in question. Egoism among individuals and social groups increases, and the links of moral duty and social networks are felt to be loosening. Trifling matters thereupon dominate human minds to such an extent that there is no room left for thinking about public matters or a feeling of commitment to the future. Let us associate such periods of crisis with the familiar phase in social hysterization. […]

When the atrophy of natural critical faculties with respect to pathological individuals spreads to the macrosocial level, a society tends to develop contempt for factual criticism and to humiliate anyone sounding an alarm. Contempt is also shown for other nations which have maintained normal thought-patterns and for their opinions. Egotistic thought-terrorization is accomplished by the society itself and its processes of conversive thinking. This obviates the need for censorship of the press, theater, or broadcasting, as a pathologically hypersensitive censor lives within the citizens themselves. »

— Andrew M. Łobaczewski, Political Ponerology: A science on the nature of evil adjusted for political purposes

[twinterrors29]

star wars OC idea: university social science department chair who has to keep spending their whole budget to hire bounty hunters to drag their faculty out of the field to fulfil their teaching responsibilities