At a recent conference, I met up with a friend from graduate school. While swapping stories about our new jobs, she told me that before her first department meeting, the chairman had called her aside and given her some advice.
"You might want to keep quiet until you get your bearings," he counseled. "Many in the department are of the opinion that junior faculty are to be seen, not heard."
I laughed at the old-fashioned stodginess of it all, relieved that my new colleagues weren't quite so crabby. "Maybe that's the rule at your elite research university," I replied, "but at my middle-of-the-pack private school we're considerably more egalitarian."
My friend arched her eyebrow and asked if I was sure. And all of a sudden, I wasn't. With a mounting sense of anxiety, I began to review my comportment at department meetings.
At my very first department meeting, a famously cranky full professor waved me over to take a seat at his side. I was flattered. Even though Dr. Misanthrope didn't seem to like anyone, he had occasionally exhibited toward me what I interpreted as "gruff affection." He had teased me about my alma mater, my research agenda, and my political leanings. I was certain Dr. Misanthrope had decided that, in a world full of fools, imbeciles, and boobs, I was an exception.
During that meeting, my cantankerous colleague nudged me quite often, encouraging me to weigh in on various issues. At the time, I thought he wanted the department at large to reap the benefits of my fresh perspective, my incisive intellect, and my intuitive, common-sense approach. Now, I've begun to wonder. Was he simply urging me on to stir the pot? Or -- even worse -- was he sadistically inviting me to commit career suicide?
Truth be told, I probably would have leaped into the departmental debate even without anyone egging me on. What can I say? I'm the kid who was always raising his hand in class, the student who always wanted to give the right answer.
To make matters worse, my graduate training has given me a heightened appreciation for good oratory -- especially my own. On occasion, I have set out to share my two cents in a departmental setting and ended up delivering an all-out exhortation. Even I felt like my tone had turned strident.
After meekly stepping off my soapbox, I sought assurance in the fact that my colleagues and I are all academics. We are each personally and professionally committed to the free exchange of ideas, the communal production of knowledge, and the pursuit of excellence. Nobody would begrudge me my participation in the process, right? Moreover, those particular academics are the very ones who voted to hire me. They offered me a position because they thought I was smart. Surely they would want me to bring my brain to bear on the issues we face as a department. Er, right?
In the aftermath of my conversation with my graduate-school friend, I feared that the answer on all fronts might be "no." The colleagues whom I had imagined to be appreciative of my insight and eloquence could just as easily be offended by my arrogance. What if everyone in the department is seething at the upstart who thinks he can solve problems or set policy on the basis of a few semesters on the job?
I resolved to be more reticent. But I've found it hard to rein myself in. As a professor in the humanities, the only thing I have to offer the world is my mind and my ideas. How do I persuade myself to keep them under wraps every other Friday from 1 to 2:30 p.m.? And even if I can keep quiet, what good does it do to play dumb whenever I meet with department members who will eventually evaluate my intellectual worth?
Although it doesn't make a whole lot of sense for junior faculty members to swallow their tongues at department meetings, it's probably advisable for us to restrain them a bit. In the interests of navigating between the Scylla and Charybdis of "abrasive" and "utterly silent," I have established a few ground rules for myself. By adhering to them in our department meetings, I expect to be able to contribute without killing all hope for tenure.
First, I am planning to acknowledge my newness by prefacing my remarks with qualifiers or caveats. "I realize that I don't have the sense of institutional history that many of you do, but what strikes me in the short time I've been here is . . ."
Second, I will make a conscious effort to soften my statements. Avoiding inflexible assertions along the lines of "we must" or "we can't," I am going to embrace the interrogative: "Would there be any value in considering . . .?"
Third, I intend to approve every budget request that comes around. I can't imagine a quicker way to make an enemy than to take away someone's money. Budget be damned! My rubber stamp is inked and ready to go. Fiscal responsibility can wait until after tenure.
Fourth, I am going to stay away from humor. Witty jests might be just the thing for informal encounters in the hallways, but they're a huge gamble in the environment of a department meeting. You never know when good-natured ribbing will rub the wrong way. Being courteous is much safer than being clever.
And, lastly, I plan to sit a safe distance away from the department's rabble-rousing misanthrope.
All of this might be overkill, a misguided paroxysm of pretenure paranoia. Perhaps the department really does value my forthrightness and candor. Perhaps my colleagues will notice my new circumspection and urge me to resume my energetic rhetoric. I'm not holding my breath. Instead, I'm holding my peace.
