Roughly five years ago, Christian Davenport and Will H. Moore hit something of an impasse and began discussions about what might be done.  We were dissatisfied with how political scientists continue to use 20th Century practices and organizations to provide feedback to one another on work in progress.  Conferences have primarily become rent-seeking forums: people attend for subsidized travel and reunion with friends (actual and potential), some professional networking, and a pinch of research interaction.  As expectations of useful feedback have dropped, the effort people invest in presenting well conceived, well executed work declines with it.  “It's just a conference paper.  But did I tell you about the restaurant/art exhibit/ball game/etc. I visited?” Eye.  Roll.
 
Our professional associations diluted the research value further by putting more and more people in each session with 5-6 presentations and 1-2 discussants, the better to drive up association membership.  While great for association coffers, this leaves less and less time for presentation and discussion. Indeed, panels increasingly feel like “academic speed dating” as each presenter zooms through the presentation hitting the highest points of the chorus, but leaving the gems of the lyrics in the paper, which probably wasn't uploaded to the conference webpage, and is likely to go unnoticed if it is.  

With this as backdrop we began to search for things we might do to step into the breach.  The current process was created back in the days when academics traveled by train, produced copies of their working papers by having a human being type two copies (an original and a carbon copy) at a time, and then paid the postal service to carry it in a stamped envelope to potential readers.  Telephone calls were prohibitively expensive, so it made economic sense for researchers to coordinate annually over a several day period when they could travel to a common location and respond to one another's ongoing work.  That we would continue this as our best practice today is an exemplar of path dependent collective stupidity. It doesn’t need to be our grandparents’ 1950’s politico-social.  Surely we can do better.  


The Past as Prologue

Given our intellectual background, it made sense that our discussions invariably led to a conversation of Charles (Chuck) Tilly (who had recently passed at the time of the conversation referenced above).   Chuck had run a workshop at Michigan, the New School and then Colombia that followed some basic rules.   Upon being asked about exactly what was involved, these were outlined below by Roy Licklider – a constant participant when the workshop was in New York:

I think we all agree that the seminar/workshop that Chuck created and ran was a remarkable phenomenon. It might be useful to compile its rules in the hope that they might be helpful to others trying to do similar things. Of course, the rules were never written down, and one of the issues with unwritten constitutions is that people often disagree about their content (unlike, say, written constitutions, but that's another story). 
Anyway, I thought I would put down my version, and everybody else can explain where I got it wrong. I've put brackets around my comments and specific illustrations from my own experience. 

The overriding purpose is to improve a piece of research. Critics are not supposed to show how smart they are by humiliating the author [there was no point to it anyway since Tilly was smarter than anyone else in the room]. A good comment doesn't just point out a weakness in the project; it also suggests what should be done to make it better (constructive criticism). 

There is no overriding topic or theme. Basically it is all about how to do good social science research. [The final title was Workshop in Contentious Politics, and there isn't much that couldn't be included under that heading. The lack of a topic made it different from most other seminars and, especially at Columbia, made it difficult to attract members who would keep coming back; Tilly's reputation helped a lot, and some of us became infatuated with the whole approach, but as noted below this became a problem.] 

Within the seminar everyone is treated as an equal. First names are used by everyone for everyone. Everyone is an author and a critic; every regular member of the seminar is expected to present (ideally once a year, although that may not be possible) and to comment on everyone else's work every week. Specialized knowledge on the topic is useful but not necessary, and often the best comments and questions come from people who know nothing at all about the topic. 

Papers are never presented; they are written and distributed a week ahead of the session. There is a reciprocal arrangement; authors limit themselves to fifty pages or less, and all members read the papers in advance. [Chuck once said it was okay if you didn't read the paper, but you couldn't say so and then make a comment.] The paper should include an introductory page putting the research in context and explaining its audience (is this a dissertation, a potential article or book, a conference paper, etc.). 

At the beginning of the session the author is allowed but not encouraged to say a few sentences, usually about the context of the research (which should be covered in the introductory page but sometimes isn't). But the session really starts with extensive comments by two preselected critics, at least one of whom does not have a Ph.D. [In recent years these comments were often written in advance and read aloud, with a copy going to the author either before (my preference) or after the oral presentation. This allows the author to not have to worry about taking notes and facilitates discussion. Chuck and I disagreed about reading the comments; I felt that, at least for native speakers of English, people should talk about the comments rather than reading them, which would be good practice for conferences and teaching classes.] 

After the two critics have made their remarks, the author is given a substantial amount of time to respond.

The floor is then open to comments and questions. Members attract the attention of the leader by raising their hand (one-finger question); the leader keeps a queue of names and calls on them in the order in which they have been seen, except that the first three comments after the critics must be made by people without Ph.D.s. It's okay for an individual to raise several separate questions at once. A second kind of intervention is the two-finger question--it must be directly on the point under discussion and thirty seconds or less. Asking a two-finger question does not change your position in the regular queue.

In addition to oral comments, members are encouraged to submit written comments. These fulfill at least two different functions: (1) they communicate specialized knowledge, bibliography, etc. which would not be of general interest to the group and (2) by repeating the oral questions or points, they again free the author from trying to take notes while answering a barrage of very different questions and issues and give them a record of the discussion which will be useful later when trying to recall what went on. [I have actually tape recorded several sessions where I was the author for the same reason. I learned from Chuck to try to keep my own comments until late in the session; with any luck others would make the points on their own and learn more from the experience than if we led the discussion.] Repeating a point made earlier, it is a firm rule that, no matter how wrong-headed the paper is [and there were some dillies], discussion is courteous, friendly, respectful, and directed at improving the project at hand rather than showing that the commentator is brilliant or that the author is insane or dangerous (although all of these may be true). Ideally the author is presented with several different ways in which the paper can be further developed, often contradictory ones which gave some choice.
​
After the seminar (which is scheduled for two hours), everyone is invited to go out to dinner somewhere nearby (it obviously helps if the seminar is scheduled late in the afternoon). The check is shared, but the author doesn't pay. [I used to explain that they had provided the entertainment. This may not be haute cuisine; Chuck would alternate between two inexpensive restaurants (usually ethnic). He justified this by saying he wanted to encourage graduate students to come by keeping it cheap. When he didn't attend during the last semester, the seminar went somewhere else to eat, although not to a much more expensive place, so maybe he was on to something. Once, when only faculty showed up, we went to a better restaurant. Occasionally, if he had gotten a nice check (as he would put it), he would pay the whole bill himself. 

I think he regarded the dinner as the high point of the experience, and certainly many of us did. I made a point not to sit next to him to give graduate students a shot at him; at Columbia they were sometimes a little shy, but they soon got over it.] 
​
With Chuck's Workshop in mind, three years ago we decided to create something in line with the spirit outlined above but do it virtually, online – taking the older model into the 21st Century.  The Conflict Consortium Virtual Workshop was born.


Challenges & Successes: Our Experience to Date

Given where we were coming from, we anticipated that there might be some issues to overcome.   

For example, who the heck would want to put themselves through what some view as a grueling performance of academic “Survivor,” which is one thing in a room of 5-50 people who after leaving the room basically forget the whole experience. This is quite a different matter when half a dozen people have 90 minutes to discuss your working paper, live on the Internet, and the whole thing is recorded to CC's YouTube Channel for posterity. Have you been to a panel where a discussant rips into the presenter and the audience (seeing the “blood in the water”) moves in for a kill like some version of “Academics Gone Wilding”? 

In contrast, we wanted to “nurture the youth,” and limited CCVW applications to working papers by non-tenured faculty and PhD students.  We were interested in getting people comments on their work and doing this in the supportive way that Chuck had managed to pull off.  We began by adopting Chuck's “Rules of Engagement” (as articulated by Licklider), bounced back and forth drafts of carefully worded emails and a blog post, shared our vision face to face with senior folks we know play well with non-senior folks, and selected kind, engaging and communicative participants to serve as Discussants.  We also continued to remind one another to keep a watchful eye on interactions while sessions are underway, task the Chair (one of us) with mediating (should the need arise), and hold a dyadic debrief after each session to discuss how we might improve.  Without exception all of these interactions have, indeed, been marvelous.

That said, we have not been deluged with applications in response to our Calls for Papers, and as such, are still working on getting the word out.  The CCVW provides a unique opportunity: where else can one get half a dozen conflict researchers to spend 90 minutes giving you feedback on your working paper?  We have discussed collecting testimonials, and we ask our past participants to spread the word virtually and face-to-face.  As with any new endeavor, however, progress can be a bit plodding and we can always get more assistance in moving things forward (did we mention that we were being backed by the NSF?).

Another potential challenge concerned soliciting free labor: who would be willing to sit and participate 1½ hours to discuss someone else’s work (we very consciously try to build networks by selecting participants who do not know one another well, but given the small size of the community our success varies).  

Here, too, Chuck inspired us.  He enjoyed speaking and was an incredibly good as well as entertaining speaker.  But, one thing that stood out to us about Chuck (and many other, given the tributes written after he had passed) was his desire to help people do better social science.  Davenport, who was able to participate in several Workshop sessions over the years, gained tremendously from his interactions with Chuck.  Davenport came to realize that Chuck would never really tell you what he thought was the most promising approach.  Rather, he would provide 2-3 alternative ways that seemed equally promising.  Now, his opinion might have existed somewhere in the three (like some intellectual shell game) but Davenport never found the shell that contained the item he preferred.  Always teaching, Chuck knew better than to just hand one a solution.  With that approach he engaged researcher's work and joined them in their search to find the right argument, the right data, the right test or the right conclusion.  He truly enjoyed the journey and as we would find, many of us similarly enjoyed it as well.

To our delight we have found the people in the conflict and peace community remarkably gracious with their time and supportive of the endeavor.  Plenty of people are unable to accept a specific invitation due to a travel or other commitment, but with the exception of a few “non-responses” we have people not only willing, but enthusiastic to contribute time reading the paper and then an hour and a half online in discussion.  

Equally important, if you watch some of the sessions we are sure you will agree that the quality of comments, suggestions, and discussion are very high quality: much stronger than the type of exchange we tend to generate at out megameetings.  This has been, perhaps, the most gratifying part of the experience for us.

Third, might 90 minutes be too long?  Given the short amount of time that most academics get to discuss their work, we wondered if we could provide an environment where actual conversations could emerge – online, among strangers.  

Scheduling the sessions for 1½ hours proved a good decision.  The conversations are engaging, content-rich, insightful, occasionally funny and quite useful – not just for the presenter but for all that observe the interaction.  Individuals come away with a sense of how the presenter as well as other participants think but also how one responds, how research designs are structured, how data is collected and how results are written - all of the components of a decent research paper.  

The conversations also seem to have an interesting rhythm to them.  The beginning typically leads to partial immersion, followed by a bit of a lull, then a deeper dive to full immersion, some reflection, some probing, and then at about the hour mark there is often something of a 7th inning stretch, after which the full energy returns for the final twenty five minutes, and we almost always ending up cutting off the conversation due to time rather than having it “run out of steam.”  

We have also encountered the standard sorts of diversity that confront science.  In an October 2013 blog post, Moore lamented a particularly lopsided gender session, and reviewed the numbers to date.  Our process has become one where Moore takes the lead generating a list of six people to invite as Discussants and a list of four to six “alternates” to pursue as we get declines.  Davenport then reviews, and revises the list.  Given that the two of us, who are male, participate, we have found that four women and two men in our initial six works best for striking a gender balance.  We also try to get at least one full Professor and two other tenured faculty, filling out the roster with Assistant profs and PhD students.  We also like to find at least one person who is from a different field (generally Economics, Sociology or Psychology).  And we want our panel of discussants to represent different subfields, research networks, and so on.  Did we mention race?  Language? The global south?  The fact that the time of day systematically excludes Asia is an issue as well (which is asleep at the time of our e-event)?

That sounds like a fun set of dimensions to maximize, right?  Needless to say, we do not maximize that multi-dimensional space.  Instead, we start with a list of names, eyeball our criteria, and start cutting and adding, cutting, and adding people (sometimes searching our CC Member List, Google Scholar, References of papers, and so on).  It is a very seat-of-the-pants (or skirt) process, and hopefully we haven't sucked at it.


To CCVW and Beyond!

With two year's experience under our belt we are pleased with where the CCVW is.  And we have begun to seek out other uses for the virtual format.  One extension concerns what we call “Data Features.”  Deviating from the standard workshop, these will involve a short data presentation, but immediately afterwards we will open the “floor” for an invited panel to ask questions about how the data were collected, what could be done with it, what has been done with it and what would they have done differently or next.  

Another extension acknowledges that megaconference panels that actually “work” are frequently just too brief, and that there is really no reason why we could not continue these conversations off-site and online.  We are calling these “Conflict Consortium Continua” as the presentations and conversations should be thought of as moving along a continuum of interaction.  We will be adding these to the mix over the next year.  We also discuss additional extensions, and welcome your ideas and feedback.  


Please Steal this Idea

In closing, we hope that others will follow our lead, launch virtual workshops for their communities, and produce even better innovative public goods for nurturing research.  Indeed, the Legislative Studies Virtual Workshop and Virtual IPES are already up and running.  The International Methods Colloquium offers another model.  Some will want to invest their energy in changing the existing megaconferences, and there is nothing wrong with that (basically).  This said, we hope to see more entrepreneurs thinking of novel ways to leverage communications technologies in the service of the production of scientific knowledge.  As the voice-over for old tv show The Six Million Dollar Man so presciently reminded us, “We have the technology.”  Now it is time to use it.


This post is cross-posted at Analog (the anti-blog) and Will Opines.

I have been around gay men my whole life.  Specifically, gay black men.  The reason: my family was and is in the arts: e.g., dance, TV and film (my mother was respectively in things like Alvin Ailey, the Ed Sullivan Show as well as The Wiz) and music (my stepmother ran a record company or two). And, yes, in line with the stereotype, there is an abundance of gay males in general and gay black males in particular within the arts (luckily, in my opinion).  We all benefit from their light, talent and energy. 

Now, because of my upbringing, very early I developed what is referred to popularly as “Gaydar” -- the ability to detect a gay man.  I am not as gifted with detecting gay or bi-women, which would have been helpful while clubbing in New York City in my younger days but with a guy: give me about a minute and I'll tell you what the deal is (or not).

Now, I go into this because there are many brothers within Rwanda that are ummmmmm…. "closeted" (in the shade/shaded), in my opinion. These brothers are not "in the jungle" or "in the bush", to be clear - suggesting some crass primitivism. The logic of this position is straightforward: the continent is not the best place for homosexuals and, in my opinion, in Rwanda there is a whole country that's trying to keep the reality of gay Rwanda hidden.  Indeed, I have heard and seen denial before but the degree of resistance to even the possibility of homosexuality in Rwanda during my travels there was astounding.

When asked about the idea of a gay black man in Rwanda, I was told “no, we don't have THEM here” and “no, they’re are NONE in Rwanda.”  Yes, like it was the plague or something.  Direct quote.  Hand to the universe. On my travels, I constantly heard this.  Pushed to the edge of reason and thinking about what every gay, black, male friend of mine would have said to such an assertion, I pushed and finally had one person admit that there might be at least one or two homosexuals in the whole country but that was a major admission after some alcohol. Right after my colleague said this though he added: they had better not to get caught.  Seriously.  Truth be told, the conversation caused my colleague to get mad at me, like I was calling him a "barbarian" or "underdeveloped" or something because of how they (he and his country) were handling their homosexuality issue.  It was like he was Archie Bunker on crack with a side arm, walkie-talkie, explosive, machete (of course), a german shepherd and access to more of the same.

The evidence for the possibility of a few homosexuals in Rwanda was clear - at least to me.

First, men and women do not generally show affection to one another -- especially in the rural context. No hugging, holding of hands or kissing.  Men and women however can show affection within their respective groups.  Men, in particular, can and do walk hand-in-hand as well as arm in arm with each other down the road in the center of town without anyone caring. This practice was particularly problematic when Rwandans traveled abroad. For example, in America (where the last Tutsi king lives), I am told that he is often seen walking arm in arm with one of his “friends.”  Of course to those in the US, it was simply assumed that they were a couple.  Not that there's anything wrong with that but this is how it looked to neighbors. This was also problematic when someone I considered a friend, naturally swooped their hand to mine and started walking down the street.  Now, while I agree that we were friends and appreciated the Rwandan acknowledgment of such, I still was a bit uncomfortable about what it meant in my context and what it meant to the other mizungus.  This was not an issue of being homophobic (which because of my upbringing I am not).  Rather, it was an issue of being seen as having “gone native” – something especially frowned upon by non-anthropologists.  To have an air of legitimacy in the academia and as a researcher in the field, one had to have an air of empathy, sympathy but also a little distance.  But, I digress. 

My second piece of evidence for the gay Rwandan is that there was an observation of the occasional male prostitute hanging out with the female ones, eyeing the male mizungus. How did I know he was gay?  Well, I mentioned my Gaydar was pretty good but, aside from this, the mascara, swishing of the hips, slicked back hair, crotch-hugging jeans and glossy lips were a big hint.  Leaving with the gay white mizungu was another one.  The gay mizungu was even easier to identify.  Also, on this one particular occasion, there was a straight male prostitute standing right next to the gay one and the comparison was pretty simple to make.  Presumably, if there's at least one gay prostitute for mizungus, there must be at least one gay man in Rwanda.  Just saying.

Third, men hang out with one another all the time and are quite comfortable with one another, everywhere and at occasionally high levels of intimacy.  It does make sense as far as I'm concerned that relationships would emerge.  For example, men chill in saunas buck naked and real close.  Men constantly rubbed oil on each other at the pool and dancing with each other at nightclubs where women would never go unless they were prostitutes. Now, I do not believe that every woman is a prostitute but mizungus are a constant draw for this type of woman and they always appeared to be wherever they congregated.  In addition to that, single women never seemed to go to such places, leaving the environment all male, all the time.  Now, I am also not saying that every man dancing together in a Rwandan nightclub is gay.  Heck, by that category everyone dancing at Danceteria, Area and the Paladium back in New York when I grew up would be gay - which actually might be possible (except for me as well as my club buddy at the time - Parnell) and thus that is a bad example but hopefully you get my point. 

The epitome of the comfort/familiarity/intimacy phenomenon of which I speak is observable by watching men occasionally sit on each others laps in a bar.  Again, this in and of itself does not suggest homosexuality but the response to such familiarity and comfort did suggest homophobia, which I took as an indication that homosexuality was possible. How can you be homophobic is there is no homosexuality? See what hoops one has to go through in order to address the topic.  For example, one evening I pointed out to my Rwandan host two men at some bar and asked him if sitting like that was common.  To this question, it was first denied that the man was sitting on his associate’s lap - at all.  This, however, was clear to everybody. There was no other place that would be as proximate to the individual's chest and groin that did not involve the lap. Now, you say: "of course, non-gay men could be sitting on each other's laps and hanging out".  Well, as I mentioned, my gaydar works pretty well and I could just tell: those brothers were GAY and fabulously so!  Upon acknowledging that my observation was legitimate, and this one guy was indeed sitting on his friend’s lap in a slightly gay-like manner, my Rwandan associate stood up, walked over to the host and complained. Several minutes later, there was no more lap sitting.  Shortly after the initial complaint, the two gentlemen were approached by the host (who whispered something to them) and they left the bar entirely.  After they left and my associate seemed to beam with a little tyrannical, homophobic pride, I wondered about whether or not and how badly I'd put the two guys at risk with my little observation. I had merely attempted to learn a bit more about Rwandan society, but quickly realized that there were just certain things that Rwandans did not want to know themselves or have visitors probe. At that point, I realized that "outing" in Africa was both possible as well as potentially dangerous. 

To be honest, I found all of this completely fascinating except for the two guys being asked to leave, which I found a bit horrifying.  (Note: I actually looked for them over the course of the next month to make sure that they were ok but never saw them again). The identification of Rwandan gayness as well as the denial was in large part interesting because it revealed important differences to the United States. The image of old-school, hyper-masculine aggressive youth with weapons, military fatigues, attempting to mount every female in sight still existed in the US but it is also countered by an equally open, flamboyant, bold, triumphant gayness which no one (at least not openly) would label as anything but male. One sees this in the amazing celebrations during gay pride celebrations in New York and San Francisco - perhaps some of the best parades and parties offered in America.  In Rwanda, however, gay men were not even allowed as an idea, let alone reality. There are no parades there but only charades. On this dimension (and perhaps a few others), the country wears the mask that grins and lies. Indeed, the strength with which they were denied their existence was perhaps as indicative of the tenuousness of control over the society as the openly, hyper masculine aggressive young men with weapons and military fatigues attempting to mount every female in sight which was not only clearly observable in Rwanda but largely celebrated.  Just as I could not imagine an America without its fabulous gayness, I could not imagine a Rwanda with one. 

So, Dan Drezner put forward a cogent overview of the recent networking debate about whether or not as well as how political scientists should net work (in his Foreign Policy blog) and he made a few references to some things that merited some comment.  Here are the others in this series:
Posts: Dan Drezner, Dan Nexon, Erik Voeten
Counter-Posts: Laura Sjoberg, Me, Will Moore
Counter-Counter-Posts: Bear Braumoeller

I would argue that there is clearly a "good" approach to networking. I grew up around artists and entertainers. While this has not assisted me in many aspects of my academic career, I believe that it has assisted me with being comfortable talking with people and additionally being able to figure out what I should wear for the day. Dan (Drezner), who I was colleagues with and consider a friend, clearly has this ability as well (both meeting people and sartorialism).  Not everyone feels comfortable talking to strangers or even talking for that matter. Many in our profession also have some problems dressing themselves but that is the subject of another blog - the Academic Sartorialist?  

Despair not however. Individuals like Rom Harre have maintained that we each learn and communicate in slightly different ways. Some are best able to communicate/learn through words, some images, some equations, some sound. We now are beginning to live in an age where you can find your thing and use that as you exchange with others. In short, "everybody's got a little light under the sun".  You just need to find your spot. I do not envision an APSA or a political science where we just have small conversations going on in a large, poorly lit and frequently poorly designed room. This pushes and privileges a certain type of communication/interaction. Rather, I envision an APSA and political science where we have some conversation going on over there, some DJ over here, some 3D projection over here, some film over there, some performance art over here and some large lecture over there. 

Riffing off of Mos Def, people often speak of political science as if it some giant in the hillside or something, where we are just subject to what it does when it decides to come down from it's cave. But, we are political science! We can create what we want for/with this thing. Actually, Dan is a perfect example of this with blogging and Zombified-IR. I'm now working on/pushing for interactive data, film, archiving and animation work. What you wanna do? I think that many of us face a crisis of imagination regarding things like APSA and then get blocked on things like networking.  We don't send ourselves to professional meetings.  We send our representatives (props to [Erving] Goffman and [Chris] Rock). I think we need to start attending - if you get my meaning. Things need to be done to "feed the beast" as it were but we need to start making it our own and taking it where we want to go.

The idea I was trying to communicate in my initial blog is that our discipline is too internalized. We live largely in our heads and publishing venues but if we are to survive, thrive and indeed have any impact at all on our world (which I think we should), then we will need to change this. We begin by meeting and interacting with one another at places like APSA. Awkward it might be but we are much better off from the sense of community and contact that arises from this. For example, has anyone been to a Peace Science meeting? Anyone who has gone will attest to the fact that this is a much smaller meeting than APSA as well as one where you feel immediately accepted, appreciated and very much part of a family. APSA might be too big for this but we never interact with the whole meeting anyway. We stick to our primary interests, panels and people. Well, imagine the meeting in this way: APSA is simply an opportunity for communication, community and fellowship. We can shape it as we see fit.  We need to stop looking for this to emerge from the panels, workshops, business meetings and receptions put forward. There are an awful lot of hours in the day and many places in the cities that we are going to year after year. 

So, you might not be able to chat up the leading political scientists on the fly in some elevator for 30 seconds, but perhaps you have a short film in you that you place as your poster, in the hallway to catch people walking by, on your webpage or in a local bar - ever heard of Pechakucha presentations?  Perhaps you have a cool graphic that you can sport on your t-shirt or a musical composition that you play during your presentation or somewhere in the city where the conference is taking place - folks would come if you told them. Who wants to hang out in the lobby not knowing anyone when they could have some place to do.  Perhaps we should create a multi-media room: something like the old "paper rooms" where everyone deposited their papers for conferences but more allowing for creative diversity as well as more permanence than posters. 

Now, I am not just some extrovert who strangely became a political science or even an optimist - anyone who knows, meets and/or talks with me will readily communicate this to you. Rather, I believe that we have something to gain from interacting with one another at moments when "our people" congregate. Some of these things we have to gain are professional. Many, however, are not and this tends to get lost sometimes in our conversations. 

Why do we do what we do?  Why do we study political science?  There are many reasons but I joined for three reasons: 1) to get paid to think about things and tell people about what I came up with, 2) to have 4 months off during the year as well as much control over how I spent my days as possible and 3) to try to change the world.  I admit that I over reached a bit on the last one but what the hell: I was young.  

Now, I mention this because although I was clear on what I wanted to do and be my junior year in college, I made the mistake of going to Binghamton University.  No offense to the school intended.  They covered me completely for 4 years with no greater responsibility than maintaining an A average and after figuring things out a little, I managed to get a very good beginning to my education.  Things have continued since this time.

So, Binghamton was a mistake not because of the school itself but because of how people in the profession viewed the University and because I could have gone to a better ranked school but did not. I didn't know it mattered. I thought that I just needed to pursue my interests and the rest would work itself out.  How naive I was.

Binghamton trained me to get a job but at every turn on the job market and frankly for years afterward, I got questioned like it was comps.  Now, I have been around long enough now to understand how interviews go when you want the candidate and believe that they will be a major addition.  This I did not get.  In fact, I would argue that I got second guessed a great deal.  There was the lunch with Charles Franklin and Andy Sobel at my Washington University interview when I barely had a chance to eat as they asked me questions about analyzing time series data. John Sprague continued grillings over coffee and seemingly every other passing in the hall. I don’t think that I would have gotten this grilling had I been from Princeton or Yale as this is where everyone there seemed to have their degree from. This is all just speculation of course but the second guessing because of affiliation thing is not just a thing of the past however. One faculty member at the University of California at San Diego a year ago (when I was considering a job there) asked me “so, I have been meaning to ask: why Binghamton University?”  This is twenty years after I graduated from the place. Who cares where I went to school?  Well, evidently this faculty member cared and I think there are many out there that share the opinion.

My point. In the past day or so a handful of prominent bloggers, who happen to hold degrees from political science programs ranked more highly than Binghamton's have been talking about networking at meetings (see here, here, and here).  Well, in my experience good work does not just speak for itself, so I thought I'd offer my thoughts.

Good ideas and good work go far in this business and this is basically the baseline from which everything happens.  At the same time, if you have that but no quality mentorship (people telling you whats up and down to your face) or, more importantly, sponsorship (people acting on your behalf with you not having a clue), then there is only but so far you can go.  These people are advisors, mentors, sounding boards but also letter writers, people who recommend you to funders and publishers.  These people are your lifeblood.  As the saying goes: it takes a village and, folks, these are your villagers. Treat them well.

So, should you go to APSA to “network”?  F yeah!!  Coming out of Binghamton I did not have access to heavy hitters in my chosen area – a more comparative take on conflict and contentious politics, like Ted Gurr and Charles Tilly (my interview at the University of Houston explicitly revealed that they wanted someone that did “Ted Gurr like stuff”).  I had to meet these people on my own and I did this at conferences as well as workshops.

Gurr I met at one APSA meeting following a session on the LA riots.  Yes, I went to the meeting specifically for this purpose.  I sat the whole panel nervously debating whether I should approach him or Doug Mcadam (another important scholar in the area). I came to the session ready.  I had a cover letter, my vitae, and three unpublished papers.  After the session, I “bumrushed” him: introduced myself, said something clever and then handed him my packet.  It was not brief.  We talked for long enough that Will Moore (who I would meet later and who was accompanying Gurr) sat down, realizing that this could take a while.

The connection was essential.  Gurr helped me get an interview and probably job at the University of Maryland, he allowed me to briefly run Minorities at Risk, he introduced me to individuals at the Political Instability Task Force (who later offered me a job to run their project on genocide) and he served as a letter writer, advisor and probably reviewer more times then I know.  

I met Charles Tilly more or less the same way.  To meet Chuck I traveled to New York from Washington DC every other week and bumrushed a workshop that he ran out of Columbia.  I just started showing up and engaging. This has been suggested by others as part of the “do good work” suggestion. I also started meeting with him for coffees and conversation which helped me grow tremendously. Not only did Chuck give amazing advice but he sent people my way as an "expert", he wrote letters, he read everything as well as everybody and he inspired me to not only continue to follow the party I had chosen but to do my best to be the best scholar I could.  Perhaps the smartest human being I met personally suggested that I was not an idiot and that I should continue.  This might not sound like much but this always meant a great deal to me.

Later I became a bit more strategic with my networking.  I picked 5 people whose work I admired and invited them to coffee or a drink.  These folks were not all heavy hitters.  I looked for kin, fellows, my peeps. Never start with a meal, I thought. We would talk about what they were working on and for a few minutes I would discuss what I was doing.  I would later hand them a paper or later a cd (remember them?) or later a digicard (sleep on this innovation?) or later still a flashdrive or invitation to a dropbox folder.  Sometimes it worked out and I got some important feedback. Sometimes it did not. Sometimes I just got to share with someone that I really enjoyed their work and got to hear how they thought as well as get a sense of how they did what they did. Sometimes I made a new friend. Sometimes I didn’t.  All good though. The contact with other scholars, other humans similarly engaged, brought the vocation/calling back to life for me.  I am now renewed by every experience, every conversation.  This is something else I got from Tilly.  A love for the interaction that accompanies what we do. We might be geeks but geeks need some love and some communion as well (wasn’t this the point of those movies in the 1980s and 1990s about nerds?).

Now, perhaps the gripe against networking is that it makes us sound careerist and overly-strategic, but so what.  The academic market is not a nice place and tenure-track jobs are not falling from the trees – at least not for those who are not from the elite institutions in the US (which is the majority of the population). This is especially the case now. You might be able to tweet, skype, email, instagram and viber with folks all over the planet but when it comes down to it three to four people in a room are going to make a decision about you that could influence several years to the rest of your life. Every little bit of information they can get about you could help your case – especially when you are not from a top institution. And one piece of information that might turn the tide is contained in that little interaction you had with someone at some panel, some reception or some small conversation after a business meeting.  

Note: Between 1999-2004 I traveled around Rwanda during research. Many things happened on my trips and it is only now that I start to share them.

My first exposure to Alison Des Forges (the human rights activist who worked for Human Rights Watch) was through her book – a sweeping account of political violence in Rwanda during 1994.  The book was extensively well researched – her command of the history, personalities and the care with which she took to address the topic was evident on every page. As she spoke, you heard the voice of keen insight, meticulous detail and immense sorrow.

You could not help but be moved by Alison.  With her lovely face and soulful blue eyes, mane of white hair, joints and bones that appeared to be turning inward onto her being (perhaps for protection, perhaps for rest); she was quite something to interact with.  She was as much alive and as variable as the sky itself – constantly moving, shifting and contorting clouds, shapeful, then shapeless, bright, then overcast, thunder, break and clear (again).  She was in, around and under Rwanda.  She admitted so upon the second hour of our first long conversation (the sun peaks through a cloud for but a second before being covered again). 

Perhaps our last conversation however was the most memorable.  I had moved around a table to ask her something.  Up until that point, we had had only brief conversations.  First factual (how did you x, how many people did z kind of stuff).  Then probing (what is your opinion about r or q). Her answers shifted by the hour.  Always intense and pointed; always careful (a cloud moves in from the west).  She entertained me essentially – not really knowing what to do.  Through Al (Stam), I discovered that she did not immediately care for our work on Rwanda but over the two days that we interacted I believe that she began to accept at least us as humans if not the work that we produced.  “I think that you are right,” she said at one point, “but I will never say so publicly.  There is too much for me to lose.  I love this place.  I needed to come back to it.  At least, for a while.  Coming out in favor of your work would hinder that.”

This time, I was shifting the focus.  I was no longer interested with Rwanda but with her in/and Rwanda.  “How have you been able to do this,” I asked.  “This place seems to take it toll on you.  (The sun moved over a large cloud and diffuse beams of light cast downward).  “It was not easy,” she replied.  “I initially had bouts of depression, loneliness, thoughts of suicide.”

Almost imperceptively, she hunched into the conversation, taking me downward with her.  “This place is hard,” she said.  “Luckily, I have this ability to live in/through something and afterward look back and think - boy was I lucky.”

There was no luck in Alison though. At least, none that I could see.  Over the last two days, seeing her, hearing her, it was clear that she was passionate, determined, weathered, stubborn, a force – luck seemed to have nothing to do with her.

We spoke of murder but more we spoke of those who lived around us as we dealt with the horror that makes up our mutual obsession (the sun sits at the middle of some cloud rising now as if it lies at the middle of an explosion of light).  “My husband and I used to share everything,” she continued.  “When he went to China, I was with him as were the kids, but when I started this…. I could not take him with me.  In a sense, it seemed unfair (clouds again moved over the sun).  He had his life but it should not have to involve this.”

She recounted an incident of being surrounded by dogs and carrying babies (some alive, some dead) away from a killing site.  The former (the dogs) seemed more frightening, the latter (the carrying) reflected her uncanny ability to act, to save, to move, to be in action – regardless of the context. 

“You all here know more about what I do and who I am, than those at home,” she lamented.  In part, welcoming me into her world and at the same time revealing that there was a part of her world that was far removed from the current setting of approximately 10 genocide scholars, eating pizza, drinking beer and looking over Kigali in the dusk. 

I told her that she had touched me with her work, with her being and I thanked her for what she did and how she did it.  It was one of the moments you have thousands of miles away from home where the honesty of the moment is upon you and you go with it.  I may not see Alison again, I thought, and as much as she struggled, as much as we all struggled with Rwandaness, it seemed only fitting that I let her know how I felt. 

I do not really know what strength of character exists within me.  I have not yet moved that high or low, I believe.  If I could but muster a fraction of the conviction of this woman I thought, however, then I would consider myself lucky.  At that moment, unlike most, I felt understood and understanding.  (As the intensity of the conversation diminished, I saw the last flickers of light and clouds moving backwards as if retreating in the distance).

(Alison passed on February 13, 2009; one can donate to her scholarship fund at the following link)

From 2007-present I have been visiting Norway, collaborating with individuals at the Peace Research Institute in Oslo or PRIO (facilitated by a Fulbright and an award from the Center for the Study of Civil War) as well as traveling around the country a little. These are some of my stories from those days.


Strawberries went bad (lasted 3 days)

            Back to the store to replenish

Bread went bad (lasted 5 days – barely)

            Back to the store to replenish

Milk went bad (lasted four days)

            Back to the store to replenish

Welcome to Norway!

When describing what I had learned of Norwegianess, I mentioned shopping more than once.  My conversational partner (a Norwegian who [as usual] will not be truthfully named but will be called Thor), called me on it:

            “Why do you associate Norway/Norwegianess” with going to the store?”

I laughed, noting that: 

“Everything keeps going bad (getting spoiled) and I have to get more, which in and of itself is one thing; the exorbitant cost makes it quite another.”

Somewhat defensively, but not really (for the speaker was Norwegian afterall and they are seemingly never defensive), they replied:

            “Well, this is because the food is fresh.  There are no preservatives.”

“Well then,” I replied, “give me some preservatives back so that I do not have to keep walking to the store, so I can get more work done.”

As is frequently my way, I was half-joking.  One part of me found it an imposition that I had to break out of my work routine to walk up the street (well a few blocks) and get to the supermarket before it closed (6-8 depending upon the day and the type of store).  I had a book to write and was on a schedule.  Accordingly, I wanted my bread for a week or two; my milk and strawberries for the same (they were all in the refrigerator for goodness sake).

The Norwegians had no problem with any of this.  The store was outside afterall – their preferred domain.  They had things to see and absolutely nothing to see; Things to do and absolutely nothing to do; places to sit, conversations to have, drinks to imbibe, deadlines to ignore.

This well captures the people and the place.  I loved them for it but at the same time despised them (well as much as you could an angel of humanity - they are generally kind as well).

Just the other day, the magnitude of difference between Americans and Norwegians came to me.  I was talking to someone from America about the three t’s: trying to write, trying to get grant money and trying to get some reading done, and a colleague from PRIO (Odin we will call them) came down to tell me that their inquiry on my behalf regarding access to some data was delayed.

            “I could get no response,” they said.

Looking at my watch, I remarked:

            “well, it is after 3” (it was 4:05).

Without missing a beat, they said

            “life is short.”

In a moment of intense duality, I thought, “yes, it is short.”  

Although we had used the same phrase, the moment was divided however because part of me understood about taking the moment, going outside and doing something or doing nothing at all.  The other part thought that “one is not remembered for their walks, laying in the grass or drinking beer.”  I was then puzzled for I wondered if we should be.  I then wondered if my metric was off.  Instead of thinking about the time after I departed this life – using it to build some pyramid of paper (a memorial of reflection and/or wasted effort), perhaps I should be thinking of the time during this life.

Then I was like, well – they could not be so relaxed without the oil money.  The cash allowed them to take to the streets, parks, motorways and mountains.  Like a country full of lil Budhas they now had the wherewithal to find enlightenment in the hillside or in the beer glass.  Almost immediately I wondered if this was not the essence of hedonism – a reification of the flesh, of the immediate.  Indeed, if everyone took off at 3, with an hour for lunch, what could be accomplished?

Well, of course, the immigrants kept the Norwegian wheel greased and moving.  They had their shops open most of the night – a light in the dark or a dark in the night (given that they were generally people of color in a sea of whiteness).  I could not even dislike Norwegians for this because they were seemingly kind to the newcomers.  Well, at least until their numbers increased too much – then we would see (Cheikh Anta Diop would note). Strangely though, I would bet on Norwegian kindness.  My optimism troubled me.

I then started to wonder about whom the hedonists back in the day were fighting with.  What was the argument against living in the moment and not indulging every whim/desire that one had?  My thoughts were disrupted by two things: 1) whoever the hedonists fought against was irrelevant at the moment (I seemingly embodied their competitors position); and, 2) whoever won, I had 10 minutes to get some milk at the store. 

Note: Between 1999-2004 I traveled around Rwanda during research. Many things happened on my trips and it is only now that I start to share them.

As one leaves an establishment in Rwanda (a restaurant or a hotel) one must invariably prepare themselves for the onslaught of thin, hungry, dirty, scantily dressed but completely adorable children who ask for food or a few francs.  The culture at that time was still essentially Francophone – this would change quickly as the RPF presence increased.  There is little variation however: there are no fat children, none who look healthy, none who appear clean and none of them is fully dressed.  Now, being from New York, I have been approached a million different ways by people in the street: “hey buddy, got a quarter,” “got a light,” “got busfare,” “got my rent in yo pocket,” or “blow for a meal”?  You hear everything.  I have even been approached by kids who just pull your heart strings.  Literally.  They just open you up, pull out veins and start playing.

The situation here is compounded by the sheer volume of the issue.  There is no isolated child like in New York but rather there is a veritable sea of youth.  The onslaught is held back by armed guards, making the place safe for foreigners and those with resources, but once you leave the safety of the establishment – unless you have guards with you or manage to sneak to your vehicle – you have to deal with the kids.

After a while, I could take it, which I was both grateful for and troubled by.  After the umteenth child solicitation, a certain degree of callousness overcomes you in Rwanda.  I really could not function in any other way because there were simply too many children.  The problem was too daunting to contemplate.  My colleague Candace could not take it either but she decided that she was going to cave in completely – albeit reacting to only one at a time. 

Something that became obvious upon closer observation was that there was a system to the solicitation.  While you were approached by a barrage of individuals, if you interacted with one or gave something to one of the children, you were thereafter “owned” by them.  If after marking, another kid interacted with the marked outsider, then it appeared that you could be sanctioned by some regulator with a stone, stick or some harsh words.

Candace was marked by a spry little kid with eyes like midnight, a smile like sunlight and a face like the sky (vast, full of potential and haunting).  He was named Innocent like many people in Rwanda.  You could not help but want to help him.

It was absolutely amazing to see.  Upon coming out of any store on the Butare strip, Candace’s Innocent would find her.  “Madaam…  Madaam…”  He would start, tilt his head to the side and smile – hand out.  Initially, Candace would give him a franc or two but then she came up with a mini-development strategy.  First, she would work on his nutrition: a sandwich instead of a franc, a power bar or a vitamin or two.  Second, she would take him for a visit to a doctor – after the buy-in purchased with a meal.  Then she would talk about school, over a bottle of water or coke. 

Candace was all into his life and he lapped it up.  How could he not?   They both seemed to need each other and you were warmed by the connection. Amidst all the horrible things one saw in Rwanda, if just one life could be improved, things would be just a little more tolerable.  That was the idea at least.  The reality was more complex. 

You see, the children were also marked.  They did not run amok as we thought.  Over a few weeks, I managed to sneak in the back of the Made Niggaz Hair Salon and sat in the front with some people I had met before.  This allowed me to watch where the kids were hanging out as well as where Candace was coming from.

Watching the street, I could see that there were clics/groups of youth – a gaggle of little capitalistic entrepreneurs.  There were older kids as well – between 15 and 20 who seemed to run the pack.  The leader would gather the youth at the beginning of the day and pass out assignments.  Innocent’s job was seemingly Candace.  He would trail her everywhere – walking, running, hiding, waiting – always placing himself where he could be seen (which after you have been marked becomes easy somehow – it’s like there are no longer a hundred kids in a crowd, just yours). 

At the end of the day, the kids met again to hand over their goodies to their handlers, from the days catch.  There is no joyful enjoyment of the goodies.  There is no gracious handover of the piece of bread to grandma back at the old house in the bush.  Rather, grandma is dead and there is no house but there is a somber handover and reallocation.  After Candace’s giving, all Innocent does is cross the street, turn the corner into an alley and hand over everything he got.  On the way back to the street, he might take a nibble but not too much or else he might get caught.

Why give up the goodies?  Protection.  Fear.  Survival.  Numbers are the only thing that seem to keep you alive on the streets of Rwanda.  You give up to get set up and you get set up to live (not die). 

Seeing this whole process once, by mistake, Candace later mentioned to me that “oh, that’s so cute.  He’s sharing.”  I just looked at her.  She missed his submissive demeanor (it looked like someone waiting to get punished), the look on the older kid’s face of anticipation (it looked like some drug addicted fiend waiting for their fix), the eight or so kids that stood around waiting their turn (reminiscent of the first).  She even missed Innocent’s look on his face after he gave over this prize (like his lunch money was taken that day, like everyone before it – this was actually pretty accurate but the money was not just for lunch). 

At that moment, I realized that we were and were not from the same place.  Later, I realized that she needed to see Innocent share.  To see anything else would be too hard.  I, on the other hand, didn’t need anything but to see what was in front of me.  Both of us were likely wrong.  I needed more of a filter for all this stuff lest I be overcome by it and Candace needed less of one lest she be underwhelmed. 

Recently, an old friend passed.  HIs name was Gil Scott Heron.  According to Gil's obituary in the New York Times, he was "the poet and recording artist whose syncopated spoken style and mordant critiques of politics, racism and mass media in pieces like “The Revolution Will Not Be Televised” made him a notable voice of black protest culture in the 1970s and an important early influence on hip-hop, died on Friday at a hospital in Manhattan. He was 62 and had been a longtime resident of Harlem."

Well, this is kind of correct.  Gil is also the person who first "hipped" me to the realities of the world and politics of every situation.  Sitting around between his recording or getting his cover art worked on, he would break things down to me.  It was hear that I first learned about repression, oppression, discrimination and Apartheid.  I had some of the words before these conversations but I did not have the concepts.  

Gil and I would see each other every now and then but the last few were kind of painful because of his problem with drugs.  In fact, this seemed to make it hard for him to talk to me.  I must have just reminded him of something different.  I know that he did to me.  

My last good memory with Gil concerned some time when we were both in London.  I think I was there to hang out for a summer.  He was there for a concert.  Walking down the street, I saw some sign for an upcoming show.  I went to theater and stood outside for him.  Inevitably, he walked by and I stepped up: "Gil, how are you doing?"  He looked at me and said, "fine, little brother" and began to walk away.  I was like, "Gil, it's me - Christian".  He looked at me quizzically.  I then said, "Christian... Christian Davenport - you know connected with Arista Records."  He then smiled and quickly stated: "sorry brother - get over here" (he hugged me). He then continued, "I was going through my mental rolodex of negroes I knew in London and your name didn't come up.  Tell me what you're up too."  

Like so many times before, we spent the next 5-8 hours talking about the world, his career, my going to school and everything he expected me to do and be.  In between he did a show and then we went to go chill in some house somewhere where he did his best to steer me away from what I did not need to be involved with.  


These things Gil could not stay away from and this is partly what did him in. Indeed, my last bad memory of Gil was catching him at the Blue Note or one of those random clubs on the lower east side of Manhattan.  Same deal, I saw some sign that Gil was playing and I went to see him. This time, I figured I would just catch him after the show as I showed up late. I didn't end up waiting however because the show was kind of bad and Gil just did not sound right. I think he saw me at one point and then moved to the other side of the stage (I could be projecting here). At that point, I realized that it was probably not a good thing to check him out after: I did anyway and it was so awkward that I just excused myself. I think we were both embarrassed. I kind of lost him then but kept my memories of all that he did to/for me in my heart.  Indeed, any time I pick up something about politics (which is daily now), I think of Gil.