Academe, for me, has always been the family business. Both of my parents were English professors whom I regarded with unfashionable admiration; they balanced successful careers and parenting beautifully, made ample if not staggering salaries, and had a genuine love for what they did. My older brother fell some ways from the tree, becoming a political-science professor -- we love and accept him in spite of this inexplicable wild streak -- but nevertheless provided another academic role model.
Since high school, I had little doubt that I was bound for the same future my parents had chosen. I loved literature, relished the prospect of teaching, and found myself temperamentally suited to the rhythms of academic life. Academe was what I knew; when I pictured working in the adult world, being a professor is what I envisioned.
In fact, in high school and even college, as I toyed with various pipe dreams of being a musician or an actor, I came to regard an academic career as a kind of fallback: a career that, like a position in a family-owned company, would always be there for the prodigal dreamer when he returned to earth. When youthful exploration ended, academe would be my safety net. It would be the place to which I would ultimately "settle down."
As it turned out, I never strayed far, entering graduate school immediately after college and finishing in five years, at the age of 27. At this end of the boot camp of disillusionment that is graduate school, though, I find myself wondering if I might have a stronger sense of security if I had stayed with my high-school band, Blue Light Special, and poured my energies into moving beyond our Wednesday-night gigs at the Holiday Inn lounge.
The prevailing attitude among graduate students about the job search, even at the relatively prestigious university that I have been fortunate enough to attend, is similar to the way that high-school athletes talk about the prospect of the pros, or high-school musicians talk about scoring a record deal. Assuming that one will ultimately find a tenure-track job seems blatantly hubristic. Expressing a desire to stay in a certain region, to work at a certain kind of college, or to be selective at all in accepting a position seems presumptuous in the extreme.
Talk of the job market with fellow students and professors always takes on a self-effacing, almost apologetic air, as if every statement a graduate student makes bears the unspoken codicil: Of course, this talk of my preferences and hopes is sheer vanity. If I'm offered a one-year appointment in Antarctica at minimum wage, I will, as Bogart advised, take it and like it.
Some of this is, of course, deferential convention. A certain code of politesse has emerged in discussing job prospects, and it is as studiously inoffensive as one might expect of academe's products. There are always former graduate students, many of them very talented and accomplished, who don't land jobs in their first or second years on the market. To speak too optimistically of one's own chances risks insulting them.
Many professors, as well, have held a series of less-than-ideal positions before achieving their current status, and overabundant optimism about the market might alienate them. The new crop of doctoral candidates, then, tends to speak gloomily of their chances while maintaining at least some degree of inward optimism. Otherwise, why would we have endured the monastic poverty of graduate school for upwards of five years?
Our quiet hope is not without foundation. The market has shown signs of opening up, as our more supportive colleagues tell us: A generation is retiring, making way for the new. Professors we meet at conferences tell us encouragingly of how many new people their departments plan to hire. And yet, the general tone of job-market discussions is, at best, cautious and, at worst, grimly humorous.
However the market fares this year, it is clear that my position in the family business is by no means secure. Instead of a corner office and executive perks, I may well have to settle for the academic equivalent of the mailroom.
As my brother launched his brief and successful search for a tenure-track job in political science three years ago, he laughingly told me of a job offering that he and his friends had identified as the worst tenure-track position they had ever seen. It was a very low-paying position at a small college in a very, very cold state. The teaching load was 5-5 (five courses each semester). The college asked for proficiency in an array of disciplines that, in English, would be equivalent in range to medieval, romantic, African-American, modern poetry, and the Russian novel. And the capper: "Ability to coach women's basketball a big plus."
Now, I have nothing against women's basketball, or any college sport, for that matter; nevertheless, a powerful image emerges as I recall this opening and contemplate the possibility of having to accept its equivalent.
I see myself driving a decrepit team van late at night, at the end of an unsuccessful weekend road trip. We're 300 miles from campus, and possibly lost. The interior is redolent with unwashed athletes, packed in uncomfortable and sweaty proximity and arguing loudly about the night's loss. Snow falls as we creep along on frozen roads, occasionally fishtailing on bald tires. And through it all, I'm planning the four classes I'll be teaching tomorrow on the Venerable Bede, Alice Walker, Euripides, and William Carlos Williams.
Hopefully, I will be able to be a little more selective than this nightmare vision suggests. Hopefully, the unofficial tone of cynicism that governs discussions of the job market is more a product of convention than a reflection of reality. Hopefully, the family business will eventually embrace me as it did my parents and my brother. Still, I haven't abandoned the idea of polishing my jump shot and studying up on b-ball. Somebody has to drive the van.
