"My university would never have accepted someone like you in our Ph.D. program," states the professor as she polishes off her sandwich. We're at an academic conference. We both have our doctorates in the humanities. The difference is that I'm attending in order to work my company's booth, while she is there to give a paper.
I am one of those Ph.D.'s who have abandoned academe for the private sector -- i.e., a "corporate sellout."
A year or so ago, when I was writing my dissertation, I whiled away the hours debating at which university I wanted to be a professor. I completed my Ph.D. in French literature at one of the two universities in England that are collectively known as Oxbridge.
The time to think, to write, to do research, and to wander around the city when I was stuck on Chapter 3 had been a privilege. Yet at the end of four years I hadn't taught a single tutorial or lecture. At the old-fashioned university I attended, graduate students simply weren't encouraged to get teaching experience. The focus was on writing the thesis. That would have been fine had I wanted to stay there, but I didn't have a work visa for Britain, and my passport was American.
So there I was, parked overseas with a degree from a prestigious university but no teaching experience, eyeing a sluggish academic market in the United States. What American university would pay for me to cross the Atlantic for a job interview, much less to relocate my European husband, my Jack Russell terrier, and my new armchairs?
I decided to apply to "easy targets" -- state universities in the United States. Surely an Oxbridge graduate, albeit one in French, would warrant an interview at such institutions.
Weeks passed with no response. Was it the funny postmark? I railed against myself for not having secured teaching experience as a doctoral student; for studying French instead of Spanish; for attending Oxbridge instead of Berkeley. I had nothing to do but write job applications. It was mind-numbing. I saw the future: Myself in a bathrobe, martini in hand, chatting with the postman.
I searched Monster.com using "French" as a keyword. Unfortunately I didn't have any experience in the private sector either except for the time I had spent volunteering as a tutor teaching English to political refugees. Something told me that that experience -- rewarding as it had been -- wasn't going to help me find a job in either the academic or the private sectors.
I applied to a grand total of two positions in the private sector. The first was at a consulting firm, the second at a company that provided academic electronic products and databases. The latter responded to my application and flew me to the United States for an interview. My head spun as the human-resources coordinator told me I was "too good to be true."
The company made me an offer on the spot to relocate my husband, my Jack Russell, and my armchairs. The salary was more than I had thought possible, and my eyes glazed over as a vision of myself in Chanel suits and heels replaced the bathrobe. Naturally I failed to negotiate my salary.
Leaving Europe to return to the United States was a culture shock, but leaving the sheltered academic world for the private sector was a seismic quake.
The first jolt came from the jargon of the American business world. I sat in a meeting and was told "we'll take that discussion offline." I almost laughed out loud, realizing in time that doing so might make me seem like a bit of a snob. I was used to savoring every word I wrote and weighing each with great care. Now I can almost write words like "bandwidth" and "positioning" with a straight face.
Unlike the solitary research I carried out in libraries for years, succeeding in business means fitting in and, at the same time, standing out. As a doctoral student, I was used to overachieving, but definitely not accustomed to a "team effort." Now as part of a closely knit team, I design and create research projects for use in academic libraries.
There's a clubby, dormlike atmosphere to the corporate workplace. People sneeze, talk to their wives, or eat an apple. Unlike the quiet solidarity of the researchers in a library, in a private company everything is about relationships: Who do I know? Who can do this for me? And, more important, will that person stab me in the back?
Some of that is also surely true for professors, but the stakes are high in the private sector in an entirely different way.
After only a few months in my job, the company laid off 70 people, including everyone who sat around me. I was left alone in a massive room with no explanation -- ankles trembling in my strappy sandals.
No one is indispensable. Unlike a tenured professor, my position will always be at risk. The salary is twice what I could have hoped for as an assistant professor, but the job security is zero.
When I wrote my thesis, I knew in the back of my mind that I could potentially do research on that subject indefinitely. But in the private sector, projects are short-term. Everything is "results driven." Quarters end, projects have deadlines, and the stock price dictates the company's moves. I sit in my cubicle, otherwise known as my condo, and there is only enough time to make a sale, launch a product, or appease the boss.
During a rare lull last week, I peeked at the most recent issue of French Studies. Some bright young star has written an article about one of "my" authors. Derrida has died and absolutely no one in my office knows who he was. I may be forgetting how to write anything but e-mail messages.
What if I hadn't taken this job? I would probably still be looking, becoming increasingly desperate. I could be teaching French to high-schools students. Maybe if I had stuck it out in the academic market, I could be a rising star in a state university.
The disdain on the face of the professor at the conference stung. I do miss showing my student identification. I miss the access I used to have to libraries. I miss writing. The longer I am away from academe, the more difficult it will be to return.
I probably will grow accustomed to my salary. I probably won't get used to the insecurity. Did I sell out or was I lucky? It's still hard for me to say. My contribution to academic scholarship is gathering dust in a library on the other side of the Atlantic. In the meantime, I've embarked on an entirely new education in survival.
