I never intended to stay in Southern California.
My childhood and graduate-school years in Northern California had instilled in me a thorough disdain for what we termed "inferior California." True, I had accepted a postdoc at a campus along the San Diego Freeway, but I arrived knowing it would be just for a year.
During that year, I would polish my CV and apply for academic jobs around the country. As I wrote in an earlier dispatch, intellectual fit -- not geography -- would guide my search for a tenure-track position in anthropology. I applied for 30 positions, only one of them at a campus in Southern California.
Before the American Anthropological Association meeting in December, six colleges and universities contacted me to arrange conference interviews. As it turned out, one was the liberal-arts college down the road, or should I say, down the highway from me. Soka University of America accepted its first freshman class in August. Most of the students, the president, and all of the financing came from a Japanese Buddhist sect known for its aggressive proselytizing. Backed by this controversial group, the university boasted an entirely new campus overlooking the Pacific and a commitment to training future leaders of world peace.
While the ambition of its mission impressed me, I wasn't so sure I wanted to participate in Soka's experimental curriculum without the security of a conventional tenure system or even regional accreditation. I left the anthropology conference focused instead on two research universities in the Midwest where the faculty interviewers had really engaged my research findings.
Then, one Saturday morning at the start of the new year, I met Matt.
He was visiting a friend who was in my running group and decided to join us for a long run. Matt was in his last year of medical residency at UCLA and had clearly aced the class in bedside manner. I felt instantly at ease talking to him. Over the course of the run, he asked about my plans for publishing my dissertation and we debated how best to prevent the spread of HIV in developing countries.
Since moving to Southern California, I had dated only sporadically, figuring I wouldn't be staying long enough to cultivate a fulfilling relationship. But wasn't that my excuse in grad school as well?
My compatibility with Matt was too promising to pass up, so we arranged to meet for dinner. He and I quickly established a rhythm of meals, hikes, and conversations. Soon, we had cleared our weekends for each other.
After a month, he invited me to accompany him to the doctor's ball in March, a dinner dance for all the members of his residency program. It was clear to me that Matt and I had long-term possibilities. When the dean of the faculty at Soka called to invite me to campus as one of two finalists for the anthropology position, I immediately thought of Matt. My excitement at the chance of staying in Southern California eclipsed my previous misgivings about Soka's sectarian tinge. Matt helped me pick out a tie to go with my new interview suit and calmed my nerves with encouraging words.
As far as I could tell, the job talk went smoothly, with many students staying after to ask questions. Faculty members declared my research fascinating and questioned me with interest. Before I departed, the dean confided how much he liked me and that he planned to invite me back to meet the university's president.
How else could I interpret this reception but with optimism? Seeing the campus had allayed some of my worries about Soka. And with the prospect of staying near Matt in mind, I could even see myself accepting the Buddhist philosophy.
A few weeks after my visit to Soka, the dean called again, but not to arrange a meeting with the president. "I'm sorry to convey bad news," he said. "We've decided not to fill the position." All I could muster was a weak thank you before he hung up without further explanation.
I didn't mention this call to Matt. I was still perplexed myself and hopeful that I would hear from other colleges.
Soon enough, I did. The chairwoman of the anthropology department at the University of Oklahoma called to offer me a position. By all measures, it was a great offer: a tenure-track position, a manageable teaching load of two classes a semester, money for summer research. The chairwoman suggested I take two weeks to decide.
What was to decide? When I started the application process, this was the kind of job I was aiming for, and I had received no other offers.
But there was Matt. Could I let a two-month old romance derail a shot at the academic career I had prepared a decade for? On the other hand, how could I put at risk such a rewarding relationship, the kind I had dreamed about long before I decided to become a professor?
Before I made my final decision, I told Matt that I wanted to accept the position in Oklahoma, but still felt committed to our relationship. By scheduling classes on Tuesdays and Thursdays, I could return for long weekends, and there were the three months of summer free from obligations.
Matt was less worried than I. He had understood since he met me that I might be leaving the area, but he wanted to continue seeing me. Come August, when I would have to start the job, we could re-evaluate our options.
Even though we ran the risk of growing closer in the coming months only to exacerbate the pain when we had to part, this compromise cheered me. We went to the doctors' ball as planned, giving me another chance to wear my interview suit and tie.
I accepted the job, put the paperwork in motion and, unknowingly, set off soul-searching in Matt.
He called me from the hospital one afternoon while he was waiting for an expectant mother to dilate. "This has been weighing on me," he said over the din of the nurses' station. "It was one thing when going to Oklahoma was just a possibility, but now it's concrete."
I dreaded what he would say next. He feared that a long-distance relationship would not be satisfying for him. Better to end it now rather than invest more in a partnership with an uncertain future. As I contemplated the death of our relationship, a buzz summoned Matt to the delivery room.
The romantic movie director in me says I should turn at the last minute from the airplane jetway, kick off my new cowboy boots, and run back to Matt. With love, the practical matters will work themselves out.
But the striving student in me says I should start planning the syllabus for the graduate seminar I'll be leading in the fall. With a job, the personal matters will work themselves out.
On my to-do list for this year, finding a boyfriend came several notches below finding a job. For a brief, gilded moment I had both. I'm still wondering whether it was cynicism or good sense that made me choose a promising career over a potential companion.
I will go to Oklahoma in the fall with my tenure-track plans intact, but my heart in pieces.
