Last summer, I was asked to contribute an essay to an edited volume about Southern food culture.
I am not a foodie. As a native Marylander, I’m not even Southern (even though the Mason–Dixon line designating North from South sits at Maryland’s northern border, no real Southerner would consider me a Southerner; neither do I consider myself as such). I have never had a particular research focus on Southern culture or food, and other than attending an undergraduate institution in Atlanta and having an appreciation of Southern hip-hop, I don’t have any real connection to the culture. Not only that, I was—am—behind on writing for my own next book project, which is actually related to my primary research interest, equity in education.
And so with no reasonable justification to say yes to this project, and every reason to say no, I went the most obvious route. I said yes.
Fighting Burnout with…More Work?
Hear me out.
Last summer, I was feeling burnt out. I’d been spinning my wheels on a number of projects I’d agreed to work on for other people and wasn’t getting anywhere. I was feeling so betrayed by folks whose dreams I’d poured into while shelving my own projects that I couldn’t even find the motivation to work on my projects. I couldn’t think of anything I wanted to do more than abandon the work that had meant so much to me for more than 15 years and pivot to open an oceanfront cafe in Central or South America where my only responsibility was feeding people. (Ironic for a not-a-foodie, I know.)
I felt as though I needed to be productive to turn myself around, but I couldn’t make myself care about anything on my to-do list. My maternal grandmother had suffered two major strokes back-to-back, my family was topsy-turvy, my own book editor was calling, and I just wanted to get away from all of it.
The foodways essay felt as though it was the perfect opportunity to do just that. In a weird way, writing about something that didn’t matter to me allowed me to check the box of having accomplished something (even if I’m not actually sure I’ll even include it in my list of publications), but also having nothing at stake. The editors praised my writing, and it felt good. But there were no real-life implications for what I wrote—no students whose educational experience could be impacted, and no one who would scrutinize the strategies or policies from my research. No one will even really know I did it.
Therapy in Frivolity
I am a Type A overachiever who, if I’m being fully honest, probably measures her worth by her productivity, and so it is hard for me to consider doing things that don’t map directly to an overall goal. In my personal life, this translates to “if it’s not an enthusiastic yes, it’s a no” because my overall goal is to not spend time doing things that do not excite me. So not only was the food essay completely outside of my areas of expertise but it was also completely unlike me.
But I had a good time working on it. I dove back through my photos and notes from previous research trips and old Facebook posts to remember the names of the little small-town eateries I’d visited throughout the South and the stories I accumulated in them. The trip down memory lane helped me remember what’s really important: the little moments with real people whose stories collide over a plate of pork chops, the folks working to buy land that once enslaved their ancestors and the grandchildren working to keep their grandmother’s restaurant legacy going.
Most everyone who goes into a career in academia or research typically has a personal reason that guides their studies, but it is easy to forget the individual faces that represent the data behind the work. But telling the stories of these small-town folks through the eateries they’d welcomed me into was a good reminder that the reason I chose to focus on education equity so many years ago was because education sits at the crux of virtually every other societal issue we face. I enjoyed remembering the stories of the small-town mayors, and the church secretaries whose names were not recorded in the history books, but whose contributions to the advancement of civil rights in this country were just as noteworthy.
The reminder that one doesn’t have to be traditionally productive to make an impact was one that I needed. I am good at reminding people that rest is important to the work, but not as good at allowing myself grace to take rest for myself. But not only that, it was a good experience. Challenging myself to do something that I would not have previously done because it didn’t “count,” and realizing that it did matter after all, was perhaps the most fulfilling part of the whole experience.