To Wake the Dead

Tag: meta tool series

  • Tools of the Trade, 9: Meta-Tools: Networking in Undergrad (Without Faking It)

    One of the most frequent pieces of advice given to undergraduates is: “network.” But for students in the humanities—especially those who want to study ancient languages, inscriptions, or museum work—that advice often feels vague, awkward, or transactional. This is definitely a conceptual hurdle that I’ve had to overcome.

    This post is my attempt to reframe that word into something more grounded: building relationships, but not performatively. Rather, I strive to do so through shared questions, good conversations, and sustained curiosity. I’m not an expert on this at all, but I’ve built a small but meaningful network of scholars who know what I care about, who challenge and support me, and who have helped shape the work I do. This is how I’ve approached it, and what I’d tell someone starting out.

    Start Local, Then Reach Out

    The best place to start is with the people at your own institution. NYU, being so big, has been a wonderful place for this—with 60,000 students and some 6,000 instructors, it’s a goldmine for people who know what they’re talking about.

    But the following advice applies to any school. Go to office hours. Take professors’ classes—not just because the syllabus looks good, but because you’re genuinely interested in how they think. Even if the class isn’t squarely in your area, getting to know the professor might lead to mentorship, research opportunities, or simply perspective you didn’t know you needed. I talked about this in the last post, but it can’t be stressed enough.

    Before going to office hours, do your homework. I usually read at least two of a professor’s articles in advance—preferably recent, but not necessarily—and do a deep first pass early on, then a quick skim again right before the meeting to refresh my memory. I come with questions not just about the content, but about the field: how did this approach emerge? What debates is it part of? What’s happening at the edge of this subfield right now, and who’s leading it?

    If someone you’d like to connect with isn’t at your institution, email is a powerful tool—when used well. Keep it short, be deferential, have a clear purpose, and make it easy for them to see how they can help. Mention a mutual contact if you have one, such as if they were in the same PhD cohort as a professor at your school or have a student from your undergrad program in their graduate school. However, even a lighter connection—“I came across your work while reading X’s article on…”—can do a lot. You can also ask for an introduction from a professor, but I’ve even gently-warmed cold emails have worked just fine for me.

    Follow Up (without Hovering)

    It’s easy to get caught in the anxiety of “now what?” after a good meeting or email exchange. My best advice: space it out. A thank-you email goes a long way, especially if you reference something specific they shared. After that, I keep a simple handwritten list of who I’ve contacted, what we discussed, and whether they asked me to follow up.

    If you’re working on a long-term project—like my alphabet transmission project, APEX—then sending a short update every month or so when you hit a milestone is a great way to keep people in the loop without overwhelming them. Scholars are busy. Respect their time; this lets you build a slow, steady relationship.

    Bring Something to the Table

    This doesn’t mean showing off. It means coming into conversations with curiosity and initiative. If you’ve had an idea while reading someone’s work—an application, a parallel, a method they might not have used—bring it up gently and frame it as a question. “Have you ever tried applying X to your corpus?” can be a meaningful way to signal that you’re not just a reader, but a thinker too.

    One of the best questions I’ve learned to ask: “Are there any scholars or articles you’d recommend I look at to get a better sense of the field?” When you’re in multiple disciplines, the literature is bottomless. A suggestion from someone experienced can save you weeks of guesswork—and deepen the conversation at the same time.

    Use Clubs and Events to Build Connections

    One of the unexpected benefits of running the League of Linguistics is that it’s allowed me to reach out to scholars in a semi-official capacity. If you’re organizing an event, moderating a panel, or just planning a syllabus, you have an excuse to email someone you admire—not for yourself, but on behalf of a community. Sometimes they’ll help. Sometimes they’ll become contacts down the line.

    Just make sure you’re doing this in good faith. The event should serve your members first. But if it opens up a conversation with someone you’d like to work with, that’s a bonus worth nurturing.

    Know What You’re Asking For

    Always have a purpose when reaching out. Want to talk about their recent article? Ask for feedback on a related idea? Get advice about graduate programs? Whatever it is, make it clear in the first few lines. Don’t make them guess what you want. And don’t send them a novella. Long emails are a fast way to get ignored—not because professors are rude, but because they’re busy, and clarity is a form of respect.

    At the same time, everyone’s different. Some scholars love a detailed intro. Others would rather get three lines asking for a Zoom call and figure out the rest in conversation. When in doubt, start concise—and adjust based on the cues they give you.

    Etiquette

    Until you’re told otherwise, when you’re in undergrad, always address someone as Professor Lastname. If they sign off with initials, play it safe. Only switch to a first name if they clearly invite it—either in their signature, or later in the conversation. Respect for titles isn’t just about hierarchy—it’s about showing that you’ve taken care in reaching out.

    And if they don’t respond? It’s okay. Let it go. Especially if they’re at another institution, or heading multiple research projects, or simply overwhelmed, it’s not about you. If the connection’s meant to grow, you’ll have other chances. If not, trust that others will say yes. I’ve found academics on the whole to be extremely generous with their time, resources, and knowledge. You’ll find your people.

    Final Thoughts

    The best conversations I’ve had didn’t come from trying to impress someone; they came from being honest about what I care about, what I don’t know, and what I’m trying to figure out. Humility, curiosity, and gratitude are perhaps the most winning combination—especially when you’re early in your career. You don’t need to have all the answers, you just need to be a person worth talking to again.

    And one last thing: projects help. If you’re working on something—an independent research blog, a digital tool, a language revitalization game—it gives you a way to reach out that feels natural, not forced. “I’m building something, and I thought of you” is often a more compelling opener than a plain “Can we talk?”

    If you’re trying to build up these kinds of contacts, I hope this helps. If you’ve already started, I’d love to hear what’s worked for you. And if you’re not sure where to begin—reach out. I’m still learning too.

  • Tools of the Trade, 8: Meta-Tools: Courses for Aspiring Philologists and Archaeo-Linguist Hybrids

    I frequently get asked what classes to take if you want to work with ancient languages, inscriptions, museums, or language technology. This post is a reflection—not a blueprint—on how I’ve built a courseload that supports interdisciplinary work in epigraphy, historical linguistics, and digital tools, and what I’d recommend to others just starting out.

    Start with the Languages (But Be Strategic)

    If you’re reading this, chances are you already love ancient languages. So yes—take Latin. Take Greek. But if you have more than one on your list, resist the urge to take them all at once. Instead, start with one—preferably the one with the strongest institutional support—and stagger the rest. I did Latin in high school, Greek in my first year of college, and Akkadian in my second. That pacing gave me room to go deep into each one without burning out. Now, with that foundation, I’m able to handle several languages at the advanced level without losing clarity or joy.

    If it interests you, try to take—or propose an independent study in—a language that uses a non-alphabetic script early on. Whether it’s cuneiform, hieroglyphs, or Linear B, working with a writing system that doesn’t map neatly onto speech will sharpen your sense of what writing is, how it encodes meaning, and how it changes across time. It will also raise questions—paleographic, technological, cognitive—that you may find yourself returning to long after the class ends.

    Take Linguistics Early (You’ll Use It Constantly)

    I’m biased—I’m a linguist—but even if you don’t plan to major in it, an intro to linguistics course will radically shift how you read ancient languages. You’ll start spotting things like vowel gradation, phonological assimilation, and case alignment everywhere. Once you’ve got the basics, courses like historical linguistics, syntax, or phonology can help you engage more confidently with scholarship and identify patterns in inscriptions, dialect variation, or reconstructed forms. Even if you don’t go further in formal coursework, just knowing the lingo goes a long way—and will keep paying off, quietly and consistently, across everything else you study.

    Follow the Inscriptions and Those Who Teach Them

    If you want to work with writing systems or epigraphy, find the people who do that at your institution. In this field, people often matter more than courses. Research your professors. Read what they’ve written. Faculty bios will give you a general idea of their focus, but their CVs are often more revealing—long, yes (I’ve seen them run 50 pages), but worth scanning for article titles and projects that align with your own interests.

    Getting close to those key people might mean enrolling in something tangential—say, an intro to Greek art—just to build a relationship. Or asking if you can do an independent study reading inscriptions in translation. Some of my best classes weren’t labeled “epigraphy” at all—they were seminars where I was encouraged to bring paleographic questions into the final project. In one case, that was Data Science for Archaeology with Prof. Justin Pargeter, a course that shaped my thinking far beyond its original scope.

    Think Across Disciplines, but Choose a Home

    You’ll need a home base—a department that knows you, supports your work, and can write you letters. Having an intellectual anchor like that is not only strategic, it’s also deeply grounding. That said, your course list doesn’t have to stay confined to one department—and honestly, it probably shouldn’t. Academia is moving ever more toward interdisciplinary inquiry, and the best course of study often cuts across traditional boundaries.

    Some of my most formative classes have been outside my major—art history, computer science, even religious studies (Akkadian lives in Judaic Studies at NYU). Let your questions guide you. If you’re wondering why Phoenician letters look the way they do, or what it means to “revive” a dead language, go find the classes that give you tools to explore those questions, wherever they live.

    Just make sure you’re also building depth somewhere. Breadth can open doors—but it’s depth that gets you through them. Grad schools, mentors, and collaborators alike are looking for people who know how to ask big questions, but also how to sit with them for a long time.

    Study Abroad, If You Can

    There’s no substitute for learning ancient languages in place—or at least near the landscapes, museums, and excavation contexts where they come alive. Study abroad isn’t just about location; it’s about intensity, continuity, and community. My time in Greece, especially on digs and museum visits, made Greek less abstract and more human. It exposed me to a range of paths in classics and gave me access to resources—like fragmentary inscriptions in drawers—and rhythms, like reading in the field, that continue to shape how I think about epigraphy and transmission.

    If you’re aiming for grad school or museum work, study-abroad experience shows initiative. It signals that you’ve navigated other academic systems, worked across language barriers, and engaged directly with material culture. If your program includes language immersion—even better. Even if the modern language isn’t your focus, it sharpens your ear and re-situates ancient texts as living inheritances.

    If funding is a concern, don’t write it off. Many programs offer scholarships, and departments often quietly support students who ask early. At big schools like NYU, the key is often finding the right person—the one who knows how to unlock the support already available.

    Don’t Be Afraid of Skill-Based Classes

    If you’re anything like me, it’s easy to stay in the comfort zone of ancient texts and theoretical conversations. But some of the most valuable courses I’ve taken have been hands-on: digital humanities, data science, archaeological methods, computer science. These classes taught me how to manage a dataset, build a research tool, and think across evidence types. They’ve led directly to portfolio projects, study opportunities, and unexpected collaborations—and they’ve made my work in the ancient world more dynamic and durable.

    Leave Room to Be Surprised

    Some of my most formative classes were ones I hadn’t planned to take: a seminar on the topography and monuments of Athens (Prof. Robert Pitt), a deceptively simple primer in Greek archaeology that opened into real depth (Prof. Hüseyin Öztürk), and a course on the structure of the Russian language (Prof. Stephanie Harves). These were spaces where I tested my assumptions and rewired my thinking. Try to leave room in your schedule each year for one course that isn’t strictly “on track,” but that speaks to something curious or unsettled in you. That’s often where real questions begin.

    Last Word: Plan Backwards

    If you’re thinking about grad school or a research career, try working backwards. Look at the programs you might apply to—what do they expect? What languages, methods, or subfields appear in course requirements or faculty research? Then take classes that prepare you for those conversations. The goal isn’t to become someone else’s version of a scholar—it’s to become the version of yourself who belongs in the rooms you want to be in.

    Closing

    When in doubt, ask people. Older students, professors, internet strangers who study Linear B. This path isn’t something I mapped out alone—almost every turning point in my academic life has come from a conversation, an offhand recommendation, or a generous reply to a cold email. I’ve built my way forward through the advice of others, and I’m always happy to pay it forward.

    In a follow-up post, I’ll share how to structure independent study: designing personal projects, sustaining long-term reading, and building a research portfolio beyond the classroom. Done well, this kind of work lets you follow your own questions, test your interests, and create something distinctly your own. It’s also one of the clearest ways to show grad schools and mentors that you know how to learn without a syllabus.

    Stay tuned. And as always, if you’re not sure where to start, I’d love to hear what you’re thinking about.