Joshua: Our fifth year apart was the hardest. For the previous four years, Kathleen had successfully navigated the tenure track at a regional state university while I made my way through graduate school at a research university 600 miles away. Although the distance was difficult, we had established a strategy to cope with our long-distance relationship -- nightly calls, daily e-mail messages, weekends together once every three weeks, and the knowledge that our four-year separation would end once I completed my Ph.D.
Unfortunately, as chronicled in our last column, once I had my degree in hand, our dual job search met with mixed success. We did not find a pair of tenure-track jobs at adjoining universities. Instead, I accepted my one offer at a regional state university in the Midwest, and Kathleen remained at her current position in the West. We were now separated by 1,500 miles.
Visits now entailed six hours and a stopover in each direction, and the separation felt completely unfair. We had put in our time. We had made our sacrifices. This was the year we were supposed to be together. To make matters worse, I feared our separation would last at least two years, since I was hesitant to go back on the market in my first year of a new job.
Then, the psychology department at Kathleen's university announced an opening in my area.
Kathleen: I was thrilled. Well, mostly. In some ways, this was the break I had been dreaming of. Two jobs at the same institution -- one where I had recently received early tenure by the good graces of a review committee and the provost. For my career, and for our future plans to have children in a few years, I could hardly imagine a better situation. Some questions loomed darkly on the horizon, however. Would Joshua be willing to apply? If offered the job, would he take it? If he took the job, would he be happy?
You see, my university does not have Ph.D. programs, a fact that would mean a significant change in Joshua's career path. Was I willing to let him make that sacrifice in his research career? On the other hand, wasn't a position at my institution "good enough" for him? Should I have to give up tenure? Isn't teaching just as important as research? I might even be tempted to argue it is more so -- I've never truly bought into the tiered system that places research above teaching. But the system exists, whether I like it or not. So, I would be asking Joshua to compromise and consider an institution lower in the academic hierarchy. Perhaps the thing I was most worried about was what would happen to our relationship if he were unwilling to apply for the job at all.
Joshua: The truth is, I felt ambivalent about the job. I enjoy teaching, but I was drawn to psychology by research. Kathleen's university had a higher teaching load, and the lack of doctoral students would slow my program of research considerably. Then again, the psychology department had some productive researchers with areas of interest that overlapped my own. Perhaps collaboration with faculty colleagues could compensate for the lack of graduate students.
My mentors from graduate school offered a range of opinions. A few pointed out the numerous quality-of-life advantages such a position would provide. Indeed, these were the main benefits I saw. Others expressed concern that I would be frustrated, bored, and understimulated intellectually. One even offered to write a letter of recommendation sufficiently negative to ensure I would never be interviewed. I politely declined. But, to be honest, I was concerned about the future of my vita. I had my professional reputation to consider, after all! Would my talents not be wasted with such a heavy teaching load?
These were strange thoughts for a person who truly loved and respected teaching. I come from a long line of teachers. My parents were teachers, as was my grandfather. When had I bought in so deeply to the perspective that research is all that matters?
With an effort of will, I tried to let go of my graduate-school indoctrination and picture a career with a bit more teaching and a bit less research. It didn't look that bad. So, I applied for the job.
A few months later, I got an interview.
The day went great. My job talk was well attended, and the audience asked many questions. During the reception afterward, one faculty member commented on how wonderful it was to see the faculty gather to discuss research. Another agreed and suggested that my talk might inspire the department to start a seminar series.
I considered these comments encouraging. I found the professors to be intelligent and interesting with active programs of research. One had recently received a multiyear grant, and others had very respectable lists of publications. I was becoming quite excited by the prospect of collaborating with them.
At the end of the day we went out for dinner. Over tasty Asian cuisine, I was asked if I ever thought I'd be moving there. When Kathleen arrived for dessert, one professor asked excitedly if she had heard my job talk. I left feeling good about the job and quite optimistic that the offer would be mine.
A few weeks later I received a call from the chair. They had offered the job to someone else, and the other candidate had accepted the position. Most frustrating was the chair's explanation that the department needed someone to manage its computer lab, and the other candidate had experience in this area. With as much politeness as I could muster, I said it was unfortunate that this job requirement had not been discussed during my interview, as I could have reminded the search committee that my undergraduate degree was in computer science, and that I had worked in the software industry before going to graduate school. The chair mumbled something about their concern that I might have been frustrated by the teaching load, and we said our goodbyes.
I was dumbfounded. I was humiliated. And I was dreading the call I would have to make to tell Kathleen.
Kathleen: I don't remember ever being so disappointed. I was also very angry. My close friends and colleagues were disappointed as well. Others were less sympathetic. I won't go into the details, but most academic couples are familiar with the rhetoric: "Why doesn't he take a part-time position here and maybe eventually that will turn into a tenure-track position?" and "Well, a couple has to expect to make compromises." At least I was spared the insulting comments that a male friend of mine in another department had to endure, the worst of them being: "Are you sure your marriage is worth it?" He and his wife also had a dual-career marriage but they were both in the same field. Their quest to get her a job at our institution ended with his department establishing an anti-nepotism rule in the middle of the search -- after his wife had made the shortlist. Given his situation, I should hardly have expected mine to turn out any better. But my hopes had been raised, and I was devastated.
I picked up an advertisement I had seen several weeks before. It was for an administrative position at a top-ranked institution near the same metropolitan area as Joshua's university. Tired of other people making decisions about my life, I made one of my own. Even though it was past the deadline, I applied for the job. Three months later, I packed up my apartment, took a leave of absence from my institution, and went off to live with my husband and start that administrative job.
Next: Awkward moments.
