He Took the Vice Dean Job to Get a Bigger Title. It Cost Him His Health, His Team, and His Academic Future.

The first time he sat in the vice dean’s office was September.

A pothos sat on the windowsill, left by the previous vice dean. Its leaves hung over the edge of the desk. He put his thermos beside it. The thermos was filled with goji berries. He didn’t drink it. That day he signed seventeen documents. One was a lab safety responsibility letter. He asked the director who used to sign it. The director said the vice dean in charge signed it. He signed it.

He had never signed things like this before.

Before, he arrived at the lab at seven in the morning and left at ten at night. In between, he revised papers, answered emails, and argued with students about error bars. He wore a white shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms. When he gave talks, his eyes were bright. Students said he was handsome. Colleagues said he would get a major talent title sooner or later. He smiled. One step at a time.

Then the party secretary called him in. The school needed to develop, he said. Young people needed to shoulder responsibility. The position of vice dean would give him access to resources and people. It would help him get a major talent title later. He thought about it for three days. His wife said, If you take it, what about the family? He said, Just a few years. He took it.

The first month, he attended forty-two meetings. Three were called by university leaders. The rest were with administrative departments. At every meeting he had to speak, take a position, and accept assignments. He learned a word: lead. To lead meant you did the work, you carried the responsibility, and others cooperated. He led the discipline evaluation. He led the doctoral program application. He led talent recruitment. He led the allocation of graduate student quotas. He had never used the word coordinate before. Now he said it twenty times a day.

He oversaw research and graduate students.

One day, an old professor came to him. The graduate student quota was too small. He explained that the university allocated quotas by funding and output. The old professor slammed the table. You’ve been an official for a few days and you don’t recognize your old teachers anymore. He stood there and said nothing. The old professor left. He sat down and looked at the quota table again. He fought for one more quota for the old professor. The dean said, How could you do that? Where are the rules? He said, I’ll make it up next year. The dean said nothing.

The first time he fell asleep in his office was winter.

At eleven at night, he was still revising discipline evaluation materials. It was snowing outside. He messaged his wife: You go to sleep first. She replied: The stomach medicine is in the drawer. He opened the drawer. A box of stomach medicine lay there, unopened. He had forgotten he hadn’t eaten dinner. He stood up and walked to the window. Someone walked past below with an umbrella. He remembered that at this hour he used to be in the lab, revising papers with students. He messaged a student: Check the error bars in Figure 3 again. The student replied: Teacher, aren’t you a dean now? He stared at the screen and didn’t reply.

In the second year, his papers stopped.

One he had submitted early that year was rejected. The reviewer said the novelty was unclear. He had no time to revise it. He still had two projects, one to finish and one at midterm. A student wrote the final report. He revised it three times. He put off the midterm report for a month. The funding agency called to urge him. He was sitting in a meeting. His phone rang. He declined it. An administrative department was talking about delegating power, improving regulation, and optimizing services. He didn’t understand. He wanted to go back and revise his proposal.

His students began to leave.

One PhD student transferred groups. Before leaving, he said, Teacher, you’re too busy. He nodded. Another master’s student said, Teacher, I want to change advisors. He asked why. The student said, You haven’t discussed my project with me for a year. He sat in his office, opened the student’s thesis, read two pages, and his eyes blurred. He closed the laptop. He messaged the dean: Can I be in charge of a little less? The dean replied: Hold on a little longer.

In the third year, he got sick.

At a meeting. When the ambulance came, he was lying on a chair, two buttons of his shirt undone. His white socks showed. His ankles were thin. The hospital said overwork, immune system problems. He was treated for five or six years.

After he left the hospital, he stepped down as vice dean.

The school held a simple handover. He handed in his office key. In the cardboard box was a pothos, two leaves yellow, and the box of stomach medicine, unopened. He carried the box down the corridor. Someone greeted him. He smiled. Someone didn’t see him.

He went home. He changed his WeChat Moments avatar.

The old one was a photo of him giving an academic talk, white shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms, eyes bright. The new one was a landscape, gray. He no longer discussed academics with people. Occasionally someone asked, Are you still writing papers? He said, Yes. Slowly. He was alone, no team. His papers stopped for two or three years, then slowly picked up. He submitted, was rejected, submitted again. He went before review panels several times. Each time he fell a little short. Someone told him, You have no one behind you. He nodded.

A new teacher at the school was called in by the party secretary.

The secretary said, You’re young. You should shoulder responsibility. The new teacher asked, What are the benefits of being vice dean? The secretary said, Resources, connections, platform. The new teacher went back and asked a colleague. The colleague said, Look at him. They meant him. The new teacher didn’t ask again. Later the new teacher refused. The secretary was not happy. The new teacher still taught, wrote papers, and supervised students. At seven in the evening, he passed by the vice dean’s office. The light was on. Inside sat the newly appointed vice dean, signing documents. On the desk was a pothos, leaves green. The new teacher walked past and didn’t stop.

He was slowly approaching the age limit for the big talent title.

Spring went. Autumn came. He no longer looked at academic talks on his own. Someone invited him to give a talk. He went. He spoke slowly, modestly. He wore a loose shirt. His white socks had been worn for who knew how many days. His ankles were thin. When he finished, he stepped down. No one applauded. He sat in the last row and took out his thermos. It was water, no goji berries. He took a sip. Outside the window, students walked past. He watched for a while. He put the lid back on.

At the end of the corridor, the pothos was still there.

Another leaf had turned yellow.