Aw, Shit: Or, Guess Which One I Am?

Once upon a time a military history professor, in the course of lecturing on the naval reforms of the late nineteenth century, utilized an analogy to explain the symbiotic relationship between Admiral Stephen D. Luce and Captain Alfred Thayer Mahan. I was then a graduate student taking this particular course, “American Military Policy, 1607-1918,” for the second time, the first time having been eight years earlier as an undergraduate.

That first time I was taking it for a grade. This time I was just sitting in, but being far more grown up about it. As an undergraduate I had gotten an A—a slightly surprising outcome, given that I attended class maybe one third of the time. Or maybe not: over nearly three decades as a professor myself, I have seen more than one student manage the same feat. I never fail to resent it.

I thought the analogy so apt that not only did I write it down, I later incorporated it into my own lecture on the topic, back in the days when I had lectures that were (in this case, for example) eleven pages long, which, because it was in outline form, amounted to a word count of only 1,919. But that was still too long: you should commit the key stuff to memory and then walk around the classroom, giving the lecture without notes. You keep an eye on the students’ faces and when they start to look a little bored, you change things up. You quit lecturing and pause to tell a story, usually one that hits the topic of the day obliquely. This results in a conversational style that, judging by the comments in my Student Evaluations of Instruction (SEIs, of which probably more at some later date), most students seem to appreciate. The rest complain that Professor Grimsley digresses too much and should be fired.

Here is a vignette I nearly always use. The point of departure comes from a short story, “The Canterbury Ghost,” by Oscar Wilde, a nineteenth century British version of the wonderfully bitchy Gore Vidal (look him up: that’s what Google is for).

“I don't think I should like America.”
“I suppose because we have no ruins and no curiosities,” said Virginia satirically.
“No ruins! no curiosities!” answered the Ghost; “you have your navy and your manners.”

Ouch. About the Navy, I mean. But accurate, because in the 1870’s American warships were so antiquated that visiting Royal Navy officers were fascinated by their living museum quality.

In the 1880s that began to change, driven partly by an increasingly industrialized American economy but also by Luce and Mahan, who capitalized upon this opportunity to make the much-needed naval reforms.

In every reform movement there are typically two players, said the military historian whose course I was taking: “Mr. Inside,” and “Mr. Outside.” That is, some people work within the system while others remain outside, propagandize, and rally support without the burden of an institutional role. Luce, who founded the Naval War College, was Mr. Inside; and Mahan, whom Luce brought aboard as a professor, was Mr. Outside.

Given a choice between the two, I had much rather be Mr. Inside, if only because in academe Mr. Inside usually draws a much heftier salary. But by some combination of destiny and temperament, I have more often played Mr. Outside, which is an interesting role if you don’t mind being iconoclastic, which unfortunately I do. But when life hands you a particular role to play you play it. It’s better to strut and fret your hour upon the stage than to avoid strutting and fretting. Because the play has a limited engagement.