What I Read and Watched In 2020

Gentle reader, 2020 is nearly over, can you believe it? I can't. Here's hoping that the remaining days of your year are uneventful.

 

My twin sister, who I admire greatly as a reader and writer, has kept a list of the books she has read since at least (I think) the year 2006. I've always admired and envied that list--wouldn't it be fascinating to look back at your past selves through the lens of what you were reading at the time? To that end, I thought it would be fun to make a record of my reading in 2020.

Piecrust Matters: Taste-Testing the Mince Pies of Lincoln

Season's greetings and I hope you and your loved ones are healthy and safe.

Like many people around the world, the Christmas of 2020 is the first one I will be spending entirely on my own. I've know this was coming since November, but still only managed to make myself pick up the phone and move my flight home less than twenty-four hours before it was due to depart. I've been coping in various ways: reading lots of romance novels, sleeping poorly, going for a run every day, and eating baked goods. 

Is there a doctor in the house?

This week I received two Christmas cards addressed to 'Miss Violist' and there's a furor in the news again about women with PhDs using the title Dr, leading to much reflection on the issue of titles for women here on the barbaricum.

To be clear from the outset, the barbarians hold the position that it is both proper and polite to call someone what they want to be called, without arguing with them about it. This goes equally for names, pronouns, and titles. 

"Hello My Name Is Inigo Montoya" by oxygeon is licensed under CC BY-NC 2.0

If I am writing to someone and am not sure what their preference is, I will typically address the message to 'Dear First Name Last Name' to avoid irritating them by using the wrong title. If I can see an email signature or a staff profile, I will use the title indicated there. In a first email to someone I have not met who I know has a PhD, I will always address them as 'Dr Last Name', or 'Dear First Name (if I may)'--my intention is to express respect on 'meeting' them for the first time, and invite them to tell me what they would like to be called. If their reply is signed First Name Last Name, with an email signature that contains a title, I use that title and their surname until I either receive a message signed only by their first name, or I am explicitly invited to call them by their first name.

In sum, Dr Jill Biden introduces herself as Dr Biden? We call her Dr Biden. The barbarians have spoken.

Personally, I deeply dislike the title 'Miss', and will never use it for a woman unless I know that she prefers it. Why should a woman be introduced, before you even know her name, by the fact that she is not married? Oddly enough, I don't have the same aversion to 'Mrs'; in part because of the delightful essay Anne Fadiman wrote about her first awkward encounters with the title Ms, which she eventually came to prefer. One of the small bonuses of having a PhD that no one told me about beforehand was the ability to sidestep the Miss/Ms/Mrs question entirely--'Are you a Miss or a Mrs?' can be answered 'It's Dr, please.'

Why do titles matter? As has been pointed out many times, women are typically addressed by their professional titles much less often than men are, and a lot of the pushback women who insist on 'Dr' get is linked to the dismissal of expertise this implies. One of the best pieces on the question I found pointed out that only a tiny number of the general population (of the US, anyway) actually have PhDs; most people don't fully understand what a PhD means or involves. As Dr Nichole Margarita Garcia point out, using one's title provides an opportunity to share knowledge about what a PhD is with others. Like Dr Garcia, I want to share my PhD with others, and so I prefer to use the title 'Dr' where I can.

Mile 23

 In late October, Shelley Oppel Wood published an essay in Runners' World called 'Stop Calling 2020 a Marathon'. As she points out, the more you think about the parallel, the more it breaks down:

We’ve all heard 2020—a grueling, endless year—described as a marathon. But that only sounds right if you’ve never run one.

This year has indeed felt like the longest of slogs, an endurance test notable mostly for its many varieties of exhaustion and pain. Pandemic and quarantines. Poisonous politics. Violence and rage. And on the West Coast, where I live in Oregon, real fires that fueled the societal ones. But that’s where the parallels end.

With a real marathon, runners know what we’re signing up for. We have months to get in shape. We can find training plans to follow, or even hire a coach. We are mostly in control of the situation, right up to race day—of the miles we log, the dinner we eat the night before, the number of gels we cram in our pockets at the start line.

Unlike a real marathon, we weren’t ready in the slightest for what 2020 has brought.

For me, as someone who has run two marathons and was most of the way through training for a third before it was called off due to Covid, the most apt comparison is not the marathon itself, but to a very specific part of it.

Mile 23.

A marathon is 26.2 miles long, and for a slightly-above-average runner like me, the longest run you ever do in training is about 20 miles. Why? A marathon is hard, physically and mentally, and while you do a structured programme of runs to prepare to do it, you arrive on the start knowing that will be the first time you will try to run the full 26.2 miles.

I felt great for the first sixteen miles my first 26.2-miler, the 2018 Yorkshire Marathon. I was doing it! I was running a marathon! And then the rain got into its stride and I realised I had ten more miles to go, and by the time I hit mile 20, I was simultaneously bored and sore and incredulous--I had to keep going for 6 more miles? For real? (A note on being bored: the Yorkshire marathon course is mostly out in the countryside around York--you hit the Minster and the amazing high-fiving vicar within the first 5-10k, and then you are just plodding down flat country roads in rural Yorkshire. Which would be beautiful on a sunny day, but is less so in the rain.) By the time I got to Mile 23, I had reached a state of fatalism: I would be running down Yorkshire roads in the rain for the rest of time, and that was that. 

Eventually, mile 23 turned into mile 24, and then seeing the mile 25 sign and hearing people start to yell about the nearness of the finish line, I rediscovered some spring to my step, and realised that this was going to end. I was going to make it. I finished in a time of 4:50:19.

The sun came out in the evening, long after the race was over. The nerve!

 

My second marathon, Manchester 2019, was a bit different. For one thing, Manchester is a big-city marathon (about 16,000 runners versus the around 5,000 who run Yorkshire), and a substantial portion of the course runs through various boroughs of the city. For another, I started doing speedwork in my training, which helped me get faster and stronger. And finally, I knew that Mile 23 was coming.

And yet. Mile 23 still felt like it was in the middle of nowhere--physically, emotionally, geographically--and also like it was never going to end. A welcome note of absurdity in the endlessness of Mile 23 came when I passed a guy wearing a white rhino costume.

And despite my firm belief that I would be running down the back roads of Manchester for ever and ever, Mile 23 did give way to Mile 24, and then Mile 25. If there was a Mile 25 sign, I missed it, which did have a moment of sending me back to endless-running-land; the race organisers chose to replace it with an enormous television screen showing runners finishing the race, which felt like it was taunting me. But then I looked down at my watch and realised that I had a chance of beating what I thought was my sister's best marathon time, 4:19, and legged it to the finish line, for a 4:18:38 marathon.

Finished!

As I've had friends celebrate the tremendous good news of promising vaccines, the end of the second UK lockdown, and even the possibility of a return to normal life, I've been alternately bored and sore and incredulous. We're at Mile 23, I shriek silently, we'll be running this thing forever. And for some people--those affected by unemployment, by domestic and racialized violence, by long Covid, by grief and loss--2020 has no end.

Unlike a marathon, those of us lucky enough to be still on our feet did not train for 2020, but I know I am not alone at Mile 23. May we all reach Mile 24, and Mile 25, and sprint towards the finish line as it comes into view.