In my field, Russian studies, it's common to blame the loss of interest and lack of jobs on the fall of the Soviet Union. The evil empire is no more, so why study it?
Meanwhile, one conveniently forgets that a good share of the blame must be shouldered by the mediocrity and favoritism that has taken over the field.
One hears a lot of nostalgia for the Cold War, the heyday of Russian studies, when jobs were plentiful and hiring requirements considerably lower. Now the professors hired then are doing the hiring with what Hannah Arendt once called "the customary academic suspicion of anything that is not guaranteed to be mediocre."
This may explain what puzzles job seekers in Russian studies the most: why the few available positions often go to graduate students without completed doctorates, whereas the seemingly most-qualified candidates -- those who graduated at the top of their classes, and those with Ph.D.'s in hand -- are left holding the bag.
None of the three faculty members most recently hired by my department, for example, had their doctorates (despite the explicit requirement in the job descriptions). At the same time, I can name 10 people with recent doctorates from my department alone who do not have permanent academic jobs.
Strangely enough, my department (which considers itself among the country's best) is surprised when new graduate applicants decline to enroll despite fellowship offers.
Take the case of the search for an assistant professor of Slavic studies two years ago -- a search in which I had no personal involvement. The published announcement called for a specialist in 19th-century Russian literature with native or near-native fluency in at least Russian, possible knowledge of a second Slavic language, and Ph.D. in hand (or expected by fall 1998).
Three of the four finalists were miles from completing their Ph.D.'s. The person hired was a specialist in Poland who does not speak Russian (but promised to take an intensive course) and has still not defended his dissertation.
I have a Ph.D. in Russian literature from a prestigious Ivy League university; my dissertation received distinction; I am fluent in four European languages; and my book was recently accepted by a top publisher. I had always assumed that academic positions were given on the basis of merit and qualifications. After four years on the academic job market, my experience has taught me otherwise.
This year I was lucky. After spending, as usual, more than $1,000 on the job search, I got two campus interviews, most likely because of my forthcoming book. The first was at a small liberal-arts college. The preparations were time-consuming. I was asked to teach two classes, give a faculty talk, and prepare a detailed five-year research plan. They only wanted the best, so they said.
Two days of being shuffled from one interview to the next were exhausting but exhilarating. I was treated with great respect and warmth. The contact was ideal -- or so it seemed. The first warning sign came on parting. The department chair's last words, "Thank you! I learned so much," signaled nothing good. No department head will hire a junior colleague from whom he or she learns a lot in two days.
With the time for a decision having passed, a friend, witnessing my despondency, decided to inquire about the search. Eventually, the truth came out. The department head insisted that I was very smart and that everybody liked me, but unfortunately, she said, I have an accent in Russian. These words sounded strange, especially as pronounced by a non-native speaker with a strong accent of her own (whereas I am frequently considered Russian or Baltic due to my near-native Russian skills).
The official rejection arrived in a three-line e-mail message, but it gave no reason for the decision.
My second interview was at my home institution, where I had received my doctorate. Then I learned that the list of over 100 applicants had been pared down to three finalists: myself and two candidates without doctorates. One was an outside candidate, while the other was a graduate student from our department who, after 11 years, was still working on her dissertation. She was considered the favorite, having been a finalist in the previous year's search as well.
My campus visit consisted of one long day of half-hour interviews with each of the department's 10 faculty members, in addition to a research talk. My first two appointments were with senior professors. The first professor arrived late, immediately asked about the other institution I visited, and, for about 10 minutes, elaborated on the advantages of that position.
When he inquired about my willingness to move to the other institution, I interrupted and asked whether he represented this college or his own university. He apologized and said that since he knew me so well, there was really nothing more to ask. I told him that one can always find out new things about a person, which prompted the question: "How is your dog?" An account of his cat's sickness concluded this interview.
The second professor was talking on the phone when I arrived, and asked me to wait outside his office, which I did for more than 20 minutes. Both professors either came late or left early during my research talk.
Judging from the lively discussion, my talk was received very well. The atmosphere became more positive, and I was treated with the courtesy due a finalist for a professorship.
The structure of the campus visit, however, was rather bizarre. Each professor asked me the same question: "How will you attract new students?" I dutifully answered this question until six o'clock in the evening. Hardly anybody took notes, though, which made me wonder what information these professors would convey at their meeting. I still don't know the salary, benefits, or nature of the position offered. After this visit I certainly did not expect a call (and never received one).
According to the job description, I was the most suitable candidate among the finalists. I was the only 19th-century specialist -- a preference indicated in the job announcement -- and the only one with a Ph.D., described as a "must." The position was offered to the outside candidate, a medievalist, who, moreover, lacked the permit that a foreigner must have to work in the United States.
Such decisions convey an obvious message to students: Don't bother with your dissertation, but hang on, accumulate teaching experience, and make friends.
Sure, universities have turned into businesses, and the widespread practice of hiring A.B.D.'s saves money for the institution, especially since, once hired, these candidates will hardly be able to satisfy the rigorous publishing requirements for tenure. But these hiring practices won't attract students in search of qualified dissertation advisers either.
Moreover, academia will never pass for good business. Which business creates products, and instead of marketing them, rejects and destroys them?
When I mentioned these matters on a recent trip to Europe, my report was met with disbelief. Everybody knows America has the best universities in the world. Against this background one easily forgets that America has never been known for raising and cherishing talents. It is cheaper to buy them.
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For more on Russian studies, see a story from The Chronicle
