Question (from "Chip"): At 28 I'm the youngest tenure-track faculty member in my department. I'm often mistaken for a student and am constantly fielding comments about my age from colleagues. At conferences, I get raised eyebrows and "Oh, really?" when I mention my job title. I have considered growing a beard and getting glasses I don't need in a desperate attempt to blend in and look older. I've even thought about leaving the coveted tenure track for another job where this won't be a problem. The stress is aging me quickly.
Question (from "Tammy"): My students often ask "How old are you?" and "Do you have children?" and "Do you plan to have them?" and "Why not?" Will this annoying prying stop when I get older?
Question (from "Lancelot"): I admit to being an old fogy about niceties that have traditionally given the academic community a semblance of civility. When I retired recently and relocated to another state, I wrote to nearby department chairs, offering to work as needed as a visiting lecturer. I'm a well-known professor in my discipline with a solid international reputation, yet only four out of two dozen departments even responded. The others apparently threw my letter away. Am I off-base in thinking that minimal professional courtesy is no longer a norm in the younger generation?
Answer: "People ought to be one of two things," the late great Dorothy Parker used to say. "Young or dead."
Ms. Mentor would prefer a multiple-choice test.
She would also like people to, well, grow up about age. The worst thing is to be too soon old, too late smart. And so she would like everyone to smarten up, now.
Many departments nowadays are made up of three generations of faculty members, uneasily jostling. Only a few World War II veterans still teach, but there's a growing contingent of those born after the alleged death of Elvis Presley. "What we did in 1967 was just fine" wars with "Actually, the latest cutting-edge research shows. … " Generational strife can make department meetings feel like Thanksgiving dinner, but without the consolation of good food.
Certain complaints of the young — I'm too pretty! I'm too cute! — rarely elicit much sympathy from their elders. There must be some horrific surgical way to look older and escape the looking-too-young problem forever, but Ms. Mentor shudders at the thought. Nor does she approve of flaunting one's youth in scanty, tight-fitting outfits and calling any disapprovers (behind their backs) "jealous biddies" and "dirty old men."
Ms. Mentor much prefers Chip's approach: How does an obvious youngster get to feel comfy at the grown-ups' table?
Chip has more than a clue: A beard and (nerdy) glasses will neutralize any juvenile aura. Adding a touch of gray (in the beard) will add gravitas. He should be polite, but not absurdly deferential. Time will etch lines into his face, and hunching over papers will give him a middle-aged droop.
For women, a mature ("classic") hairstyle, some clever makeup, and a string of pearls can make any teen queen look over 30. Both sexes look grown-up with ordinary clothes in neutral colors and unimpressive business shoes (neither Crocs nor Manolo Blahniks). In academe, jackets and loose-fitting clothes convey authority, tight-fitting duds do not.
Your job is to be a fount of knowledge, not a fashion icon, and your colleagues want a comrade, not a sibling to be jollied and chided. If you dress appropriately, they're less likely to patronize you or behave oddly.
Chip does not admit to fear, but there are young faculty members like "Eloise," whose regular nightmare was about Parents' Weekend: "I was lecturing about the 1960s (before I was born) when an irate dad bellowed, 'I was there when that happened, and it was not at all like that!'" Eloise escaped to administration ("where I can bully — um, direct — other people, and I don't have to teach manners").
Often faculty members have to do just that, for we live in barbaric times. Tammy's students need to learn that some questions are proper and professional ("Can you tell us more about Etruscan pottery?"), others are mildly annoying ("Will we really have to know that for the test?"), and still others are seriously obnoxious ("Why isn't someone as hot as you living with anyone? Are you straight?").
The latter can be handled with a frosty stare until the inquirer flushes and looks away. Or the inquirer can be asked to repeat his question and explain its relevance to Etruscan pottery. Or Tammy can make a flat announcement: "That is not the subject of this course. Please do focus on Etruscan pottery, so we'll all learn."
And yes, such comments will stop when you're older, and you won't have to feel that you're such a terrible meanie anymore. You'll get a certain respect for being the age of your students' grandparents. Some will assume that you knew the Etruscans personally. They'll want gossip. For women, growing older gives you the right not to remain silent. Develop a deep voice, and speak up for the young and the quaking.
In your last years, alas, you're apt to be ignored, no matter what you do. As Lancelot found, you can't take your glory with you, nor assume that young flibbertigibbets will recognize you as a sage instead of a geezer. That's why healthy academic retirees often go into something new: spying, drumming, tutoring, poetry writing, hectoring the powerful. You're never too old, or too young, to do something every day for liberty and justice for all.
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Question: Besides letting whiners and slackers vent ("She expects you to read!" "He grades so hard!"), and thereby warning other whiners and slackers not to take your courses, thereby netting you only the most delightful and dedicated students, and making your teaching life a paradise on earth, can you (offhand) think of any other good purpose served by RateMyProfessors.com?
Answer: Nay.
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Sage Readers: Ms. Mentor trusts that her flock is being productive, rested, and well fed over the summer, and that job hunters have become regular readers of The Chronicle's Forums. Those still feeling bruised or petulant over last semester's foul doings should be confiding their feelings to diaries (not blogs), rereading them later, and discovering that many awful things are funny in retrospect. When your faux pas become good anecdotes to share with students, you know you've gained self-confidence — and you probably look older and wiser.
As always, Ms. Mentor welcomes rants, reactions, and queries, and regrets that she can rarely answer letters personally, though all are perused and digested. Ms. Mentor scrambles identifying details in published letters, and confidentiality is guaranteed. They'll never know your real age.
