"Remember, you're up for tenure next year."
The dean of arts and sciences at the campus I had applied to said it during the job interview. The department chairman there said it, too. And so did my own department chairman right after I told him I was interviewing for a position at a larger, very well-known and well-endowed state flagship campus.
Since earning my Ph.D. in 1998, I had focused on doing the right things to get tenure: spinning off dissertation chapters for conference presentations, doing new research for a national journal, writing book reviews and columns; doing committee work, and teaching a heavy load of four courses every semester. Somehow, I had been able to do it all, even though I had felt run ragged.
But when my wife had our daughter in 1999, the balance got out of whack. I wanted to spend time with my family. I fell behind in research, and then in my grading. I had vowed not to be one of those teachers who never gave back papers. Now I became one, especially in my news-writing class, which, of course, requires students to write every day. And money became a larger issue, too, with a new baby, my wife's decision to stay home with said baby, and the purchase of our first home, a 75-year-old beauty that needed cosmetic work.
So I started looking at other jobs where the teaching load was lighter. I got several bites, a few interviews, and one very good offer, from a not-so-great place that I turned down. I didn't have to find another job. I love what I do. As an assistant professor of photojournalism, I am one of the few people in the country to hold such a position. I am paid to pursue my hobby. I am popular with students and have the support of my peers and administration. Last year, after a fairly thorough job search, I decided that, despite being terminally overextended and underpaid, I would stick it out at Arkansas State University.
But there was one job opening from the previous year that was never filled, and I wondered about it. It was directly in my field. It was at a wealthy, well-established university. It had halls of ivy and beautiful facilities and 150 years of academic tradition. The university couldn't fill the opening during the first year because of budget cuts. Conditions improved the next year. There was a huge influx of students. The alumni fund-raising campaign brought in more than $100-million. The journalism department received a huge private grant. Now it could afford a photojournalism professor.
A former colleague of mine had recently taken a communications position at the university. An alumna there, she chose wedding china in the university's colors. I called her to ask about the position, and she strongly advised me to look into it. Still, I deferred a decision. I was tired of it all. I was happy with my marriage, my house, my child, and, for the most part, my job. I didn't really want to move. My wife's brother and his family, and her childhood best friend and her family had recently moved to town. She certainly didn't want to move.
I initially decided not to apply for the job. Then I read about the growth and the money coming into the institution, even after September 11, and I decided to talk to the department chairman. He said he really wanted to strengthen the photojournalism program, and he needed help in curriculum development. Well, I had built a solid program where I was and had developed the curriculum. He encouraged me to apply. It sounded like a good fit, so I did.
A few weeks later, I was invited for the interview. Everyone was very cordial and collegial. But the same sort of questions came up again and again: Would I be comfortable moving from a small, hands-on program with small classes and a lot of student interaction to a program with big lecture classes? How would I feel about not having my own photo program? My current university awards a degree in journalism with an emphasis on photography. The new university wouldn't offer such a degree. How did I feel about that? And would I be willing to start over on the tenure track when I was so close to tenure at Arkansas State?
As a veteran interviewee, I knew that I shouldn't have to start totally from scratch if I took the new position. Many colleges will accept a scholar's previous work and count it toward tenure. The administrators at the big university agreed that I could apply for tenure in two or three years in the new position.
But then we talked about money. Before I went to the interview, several colleagues, especially our resident recent refugee from the corporate world, had coached me on negotiating techniques. However, before I could try the ask-high-settle-for-less approach, the department chair told me that my starting salary would be about what I would be making at Arkansas State if I got tenure and promotion the next year. I forgot any strategies and told him that with a new job and a new house and all, I would like to do better than that. It was an awkward moment.
After most job interviews, either I feel I really nailed it, or I know I really blew it. This time, I truly didn't know. And it would take a few weeks to sort out, since I had visited just before spring break. About five weeks after the interview, the department chairman called me and said that he had made an offer to the other candidate. Since I had nothing to lose, I asked him why I hadn't gotten the offer. He hemmed and hawed and said there were "intangibles." Usually, that means someone on the committee, or several someones, either didn't like my act or felt that I was not a good fit. I pressed a little further; I honestly wanted to know. He finally said that I was "overqualified." I thanked him and hung up.
That was that. My last gasp in the job market had just expired. I wasn't surprised, really. When I thought about it, the hints were all over the place. In a sense, I was relieved. I had planted trees in my yard, and I wanted to see them grow.
A week after the interview, I was awarded a major fellowship that required a summer residency in Washington. It would have been next to impossible to find a house, leave my wife and 2-year-old to pack and move us, shuttle back and forth from DC, then pack and move home from DC and begin the semester in a brand-new place.
This fall, I will be working in a new state-of-the-art digital photo lab that I helped design. I just had another book review come out. And more projects are in the works for next year. I won't be starting over, but building on a solid, if imperfect, base.
For three years I looked at the job market, and ultimately I ended up where I started. At least I know I didn't miss anything. And as I look at my happy and settled daughter, and my wife and my house and my work and my new lab, I know I am where I am supposed to be.
