Bye-bye, nice to have met

When we talk about momentous occasions in academe we usually refer to things like commencements, the publication of a book, or the winning of a prize. Clearing out an office seems merely routine. But, as I discovered, it can entail far more.

This summer my colleagues and I will move into a newly constructed building, where we will have fewer shelves and less storage space. With 18 inches of snow on the ground, no pressing commissions and the department closed for the winter holidays, it was a good time to start culling things from my cupboards.

Simply, I dumped the contents of several big drawers, plus a tall stack of decaying paperbacks, into the recycle bins out in the hall. But it was not a simple task. Getting rid of more than 20 years of accumulated stuff exercised more than my muscles. I discovered that my "archives" contained more than bundles of papers. They contained lots of memories, and a number of challenges.

Parting with some of those files and texts seemed like parting with old friends. I agonised. But whenever I found myself hesitating, I recalled my wife's words (no doubt intended to warn me against bringing packages home with me): "When did you last look at them?" I tried to gain some emotional distance by telling myself I was engaged in a research venture, which merely compelled me to acknowledge that my own life and ouvrage would never warrant scholarly attentions.

However, since most of my files sat in piles in their respective cabinets, I imagined their retrieval as an archaeological expedition. But whom was I kidding?

The first drawer I opened was filled haphazardly with papers from all the courses I have offered. And, boy, have I offered a lot of them.

In fact, I momentarily worried if their number and variety made me a mere dilettante. But I rejected the notion, preferring proudly to think of myself as a lifelong student. Reviewing the syllabi from my introductory course gave me pangs of guilt. Even when I had 200 students, I used to set a lot of writing assignments. I now resort to "objective tests" and just one essay. I absolved myself by noting that it is still more than most of my colleagues demand.

If it is true that each of us has just one truly great course in us, I believe mine is "Historical perspectives on social change" although my students might not agree. But, if so, why had I drastically revised it so many times? I wondered what it meant -intellectually and politically - that, as globalisation has advanced, I have "narrowed" the focus of the course from the making of the modern world to the struggle for freedom in the United States.

The next drawer I tackled held my files on Ronald Reagan, Margaret Thatcher and the New Right. Ejecting those took little out of me; though I could not let go of a photo of Ronnie and Margaret walking together, captioned "Conservatism's heroic age: Is it over?" I did resist giving up issues of The New York Times reporting the 1989 Chinese students' and workers' mobilisations in Tiananmen Square. For memory's sake, I kept two, headlined "Biggest Beijing Crowds So Far" (May 21) and "Troops Move in to Smash Beijing Protest" (June 4).

Hidden in another drawer were my failures. Of course, I enjoyed disposing of rejected grant applications. But rereading the contents of one of the folders led me to relive past frustrations and disappointment.

In response to arguments about the decline of public life in the US, I had proposed to develop a model curriculum in favour of "Creating the next generation of public intellectuals".

The leading liberal foundations, which had made an issue of the state of American civil society, praised my initiative, but said they did not fund such endeavours.

Angrily, I contacted the premier conservative endowment, the Bradley Foundation. To my amazement given my politics, it expressed real interest and invited an even more detailed proposal.

In the end it turned me down as well. I (egotistically) claim they had me do all the extra work just to distract me from pursuing the labours of the left.

I put off to last addressing the credenza-length drawers that held my papers on historiography and historical theory. I honestly did not know if I could part with my files on the British Marxist historians. I now have access to the same work via their respective volumes of collected essays; but, silly as it sounds, so much of my scholarly identity seemed bound up with those original photocopies.

I warmed up by trashing my files on Nietzsche, Foucault and their postmodernist followers (no second thoughts there). Reluctantly, I then cleared out the folders on the "Annales School" historians. Finally, I proceeded to gather those on the British Marxists. Surprisingly, I did not hesitate. I dropped them into the recycle bin, went back to my office, put on my jacket and headed home.

In the car, I thought about how much we had lost when we lost the radical E. P. Thompson. Returning after the holidays, I had no regrets about what I had done. It had afforded me an opportunity to recollect and reflect. I felt ready to move -not just to the new building.

Our departmental secretary expressed a different view. When I proudly showed her my empty file drawers, she exclaimed: "How could you do that? It's as if you had died."

Harvey J. Kaye is professor of social change and development at the University of Wisconsin-Green Bay.