Gown

Last week, I had the pleasure of appearing in a gown for the first time as the promotor of a PhD candidate. Fortunately, there was a spare gown available in the gown room, complete with a matching – ‘just pick a nice one from that box’ – cap. The outfit was topped off with a silver sash trimmed in purple, indicating that I represent the TPM Faculty.

In the past, only full professors were entitled to wear gowns. Associate professors had to show up in dark suits. After all, there had to be a distinction, and I fully agreed. Then someone had the lucid insight that associate professors often do the same work as full professors. As a result, associate professors can now also be granted the right to act as promotor (ius promovendi), and more recently, they may – must – wear a gown during the PhD defence ceremony as a kind of ‘reward’. For all other formal occasions, however, it’s back to your own zoot suit. After all, you’re still just an associate professor, with the matching salary scale to prove it.

It was the first and most likely the last time I was allowed to wear a gown. After all, a full professor can become a columnist, but a columnist can never become a full professor. A professorship appointment goes through an Advisory Appointment Committee, and the odds that someone on that committee has taken offence at one of my many columns are quite high.

As one dean once subtly put it, “You’ll never become a full professor because too many people dislike you”. This might be a sobering revelation to unsuspecting young readers who still believe that academic promotions are fair and based on merit. But as someone high up the ladder once confided to me, it has to be granted to you, and without two sturdy wheelbarrows to carry you in, your chances are slim.

A full professor can become a columnist, but a columnist can never become a full professor

I’ve sat on plenty of PhD committees before, but rarely was it such a rushed affair as this time. After the candidate concluded his defence, the committee withdrew for deliberation. A mere 15 minutes later, the beadle came in and urged the committee to wrap it up. After the diploma was signed in haste, we proceeded at full speed back to the Senate Hall.

The other promotor had asked me to deliver the laudatio. “Three minutes!” barked the beadle on our way in. No one had told me that in advance, and my speech took a wee bit longer. “That was five minutes!” the beadle snapped at me, as if the universe was about to collapse. The PhD candidate had poured seven years of his life into a research project that culminated in this joyous day, but apparently, five minutes to acknowledge that is two too many. Hogwash!

These days, the PhD defence ceremony feels more like a funeral service. Hurry up, keep moving, and clear the stage, because the next soulful/soulless body is already queuing up. In both cases, it’s disgraceful to reduce what is – most likely – a once-in-a-lifetime ceremony to conveyor belt efficiency. Turpe est!