My spirit was soaring as I walked through the lobby doors of the Philadelphia Marriott Downtown for the annual meeting of the American Historical Association. I was looking forward to chatting with people that I hadn't seen since I went abroad to take a teaching job. I was already feeling the rush that I get from exchanging ideas with editors and fellow scholars.
I had scheduled a nice handful of interviews, which provide the basis for the latest chapter in my search this year for a tenure-track job back here in the States. More than half of my interviews were with search committees from top research universities, while another couple were with teaching-oriented colleges close to my preferred location. Feeling ready for any question they could throw at me, I told myself, "I am going to light this place on fire."
Just as my ego-stoked brain uttered that thought, the fire alarm went off. After I had stood out on the curb for 10 minutes, the emergency apparently subsided, and I prepared to dive back into the conference, smiling at the cosmic slap on the wrist.
I was still buoyant -- determined not to allow the collective stress of the conference get to me. After all, what's the worst that could happen? I would have to go back to my post at a prestigious research university in Europe?
I unpacked my rumpled suit and went to work on it with an iron, then went to bed fortified with confidence. That night I dreamed I was being attacked by alligators.
The first person I met in the elevator the next morning said she tends to spend most of a conference weekend hiding from people in her hotel room. Maybe, I thought, the stress will get to me, too.
Wandering around the area in front of the book exhibits, I found that the best way to get a sense of the AHA conference was to smell it. Fear, anxiety, and desperation had driven the adrenal glands of job seekers into such a frenzy that even the strongest antiperspirant had surrendered. Everyone was lubricated, dehydrated, and punchy from gallons of coffee and alcohol. The historical profession -- packed into corridors and escalators like a bleating (and doomed) herd of sheep -- was sweaty and gaseous.
I was surprised (or maybe I never noticed it before) to see how many historians were carting babies around. That did nothing to improve the odor, but the innocent, untenured faces of the infants and toddlers garnered the warmest smiles given to anyone at the conference. (I found myself wondering if the job market would ever allow me to settle down and start carting around babies of my own. My significant other's work handcuffs her to our preferred location; for me to land a job near hers may be a long shot.)
Meanwhile, dissatisfaction reared its head at every conference gathering:
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A friend at a small liberal-arts college told me she's tiring of the insular community and the small-town isolation, and is looking to give up her cushy job. (The next day I had to convince a similar Isolated Liberal Arts College that that's exactly the kind of place I'm looking for.)
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Another friend wants to leave his college for a better set of colleagues, yet he can't stomach trying to convince his wife to leave a job that pays twice as much.
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A third friend was proud that her book had just come out, and at the same time, distressed that it was priced at over $40.
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Scholars of 20th-century America were despairing over the mere dozen tenure-track jobs that were on offer this year.
Despite all the agonizing (my own included), I love the AHA conference. This year I never ended up having time for any panels, nor did I get to spend as much time at the book exhibits as I had planned. Instead I spent most of my time talking with people, around interview tables, and in more informal settings.
Until you are asked to come to campus for a second interview, it's almost impossible to tell how well you did in your conference interview. Since I didn't fumble for any answers, say anything embarrassing or inappropriate, or collapse in a puddle of helplessness, I have to assume that the interviewers found me to be relatively cheerful and fluent. At any rate, I resisted the urge to take a page from Jack Black's character in the new King Kong movie and hold a glass up to the door to listen in on "how I did."
My interrogators raved enthusiastically about their institutions, and they were interested to hear about my research and teaching. You wouldn't know there's a crisis in higher education from listening to the search committees of these institutions: graduate programs are expanding, new professors are coming on board, the test scores and GPA's of entering classes are improving. Perhaps those committee members were blowing self-promotional smoke, or perhaps the rich colleges are just getting richer.
One of my last interviews was at my top choice, Large Eastern University. The candidate ahead of me was an acquaintance who studies a rather depressing topic -- let's call it a cultural study of tuberculosis victims in 19th-century Belgium. Waiting outside the interview room five minutes before my own meeting, I heard the committee laughing uproariously. What could possibly be amusing about coughing blood onto a pillow? On his way out, the acquaintance said with a grin, "Good luck. They're a great bunch in there."
Bolstered by that bit of reassurance, I walked into the suite, shook hands, and sat down. Two people from my own field would be interviewing me, along with two other committee members. I was looking forward to a riveting talk about historiography, about the department's future, and about my own.
The head of the committee said (and I paraphrase here, but only slightly), "I've read the introduction and first chapters of your manuscript. But I don't see the scholarly value of your work. Care to comment?"
"Well," I said, after I pried his fangs off my neck, "I think this project is making new arguments in two main areas. ..." Given the vicious tenor of the question, I thought I handled myself rather well.
Then another committee member slid the next question between my ribs: "It seems your work is slightly outside the period of the job advertised. Do you really think you can teach this period?"
We're five minutes into the interview, and I'm wondering why I was invited at all. If only I worked on terminal illnesses, I thought, we could be slapping each other's backs and rolling on the floor with laughter.
I suppose a more prideful man would have just stood up and walked out. A weaker man would probably have run, bawling, to his editor's booth and begged to know, "Tell me again how this is going to be a great manuscript. Tell me again why you love me." No one was less surprised than me when the rejection letter arrived later that week.
Thankfully, my other conference interviews did more than enough to redeem that debacle. I had one interview in the Pit, with a committee representing the smallest (and least prestigious) department on my list, but one that is extremely close to my preferred location.
Leaving my foreign position for the lesser-known department would represent a major shift in my career. When I have mentioned the university's name to my friends, most have said, "Where is that?" And an old friend who teaches at one of the high schools that feeds the university wrinkled her nose.
Still, I was touched by the department's passion for its students and its insightful questions about my research.
Even my former adviser, who previously cautioned me against pursuing an offer from a department like that one, seemed to reconcile himself to my desire to be near my preferred location. Instead of his previous dire prophecies, he gave me a light warning that wherever I moved next, I should stick around.
Meanwhile, other departments -- including one at Swanky Private Research University and another at Isolated Liberal Arts College -- have invited me to campus. So for now, I have climbed back to the modest heights of cautious confidence.
My success rate at landing interviews was better this year than two years ago. Perhaps it was a particularly rosy year for my field. Perhaps my instincts were right about where I directed my applications. Perhaps my previous experience on the market helped. I know the new lines on my CV didn't hurt. Certainly having a Ph.D. in hand, two years later, was key.
Nevertheless, I remind myself that pride goeth before the fall, when it comes to the job market. After all, I had a few campus interviews in the United States two years ago. None of those turned into jobs. Over the coming weeks I'll be wrestling with the next group of alligators: job talks, jet lag, meetings and meals with administrators and department members, and teaching sample classes.
Wish me pleasant dreams.
