A warning: This article is not for the faint of heart. It asks you to endure my recounting of four unsuccessful years spent searching for a tenure-track position in the humanities. For those of you in need of a happy ending, be advised: I don't get a job in the end. I don't give reasons for why I'm sure to get a job this year. And I don't realize that I'm better off outside of the ivory tower.
Nevertheless, I promise to offer you more peace and hope than those stereotypically happy endings ever could.
My story begins in 1997, when I applied for my first academic job. Young and naïve, I felt in control of my destiny. When I scored my first conference interview, I felt I had earned it. Sure, I only had one chapter of my dissertation written, but I was a hard worker. The hours I had spent sweating over conference papers, drafting fellowship applications, reading endless piles of books and articles were finally paying off. This job would be my reward.
Or not. The rejection was mild disappointment. After all, I reminded myself, I really only had one chapter of my dissertation written. And my adviser assured me I had come in fourth, just barely missing an on-campus interview. I patted myself on the back.
The next year was harder. Three conference interviews at top-notch research universities yielded nothing. One on-campus interview at a poor rural state college gave me a nightmare vision of my future: Stuck in the middle of nowhere, not a movie theater or Thai restaurant in sight. No way was I going there, and as it turned out, they didn't want me either. So I accepted a one-year visiting professorship at a well-respected (and surprisingly flush) liberal-arts college.
Next year would be my year, I thought. With my Ph.D. finally in hand, I would be unstoppable. (How many poor souls have uttered this deceptive refrain?) And my future certainly looked promising after I landed nine conference interviews. Surely this would be my year. But then, only one of them led to an on-campus interview, and it never went anywhere. On the bright side, I was able to eke out another year at my current position.
When I looked around for somewhere to place my blame, for some explanation, I found nothing. I had a Ph.D. I had teaching experience. I had publications -- that's right, in the plural. Somehow, I got up the strength to try again. But after my fourth year on the market produced a measly two conference interviews and no on-campus visits, I was furious -- and distraught. I had put in my time. I had worked hard. And I had still failed.
In the last few months, however, I've had a major epiphany. And it's one I want to share with you. Are you ready? Here it is: It's not my fault.
That's right, it's not my fault. In fact, it has nothing to do with me. Nothing at all. The old adage my mom preached -- "if you just work hard enough, you can do anything" -- well, it's only true up to a point. I mean, hard work is important. Without my Ph.D., teaching experience, and publications, I wouldn't have gotten any interviews. But hard work does not guarantee success. Along with hard work and academic qualifications there's luck, timing, and a million other variables that no one can control.
Just think about the random nature of the academic job market. Can you control the number of jobs that are listed in a given year? The specializations a committee requests? Can you control who retires or switches jobs? Who your competition is? And that is just the tip of the iceberg. Can you control whether prospective colleagues think you're funny or enjoy your company? Whether they want to hire a man or a woman? Whether someone at the college you're applying to attended your alma mater? Whether the department chairman wrecks his car picking you up from the hotel for your campus visit? (Something like this happened to me.) The answer is clearly, No. The world is chaos -- and it's not your fault.
For those of you who aren't convinced and think this is silly rationalizing or some sort of excuse, look around. Look at the wonderful and smart individuals you know who don't have tenure-track jobs. Consider some of the mediocre academics who do. Observe job searches in departments where you are an adjunct -- particularly when you need a good laugh. I can't believe some of the ridiculous criteria that have come up in assessing applicants in the searches I have witnessed. In one case, a professor I know admitted to me that he had chosen the less-qualified finalist for the job. His reason? He didn't want the added pressure on him that the top candidate's presence in the department might produce.
But is the idea that you have no control over your job prospects really comforting? Not entirely. At times, it can make you feel powerless; all of your efforts, useless. But there's a better way to look at it. For me, it has been one of the most liberating realizations of my life. I can stop beating myself up and regain a bit of my lost confidence. I can stop thinking I'm a total idiot, a complete failure.
For some of you, my epiphany may seem naïve. You've understood the irrationality of the job market for ages. Consider yourself a sage. If you never, ever thought it was your fault, consider yourself arrogant. This label can also apply to folks who hold tenure-track jobs and don't recognize the luck involved in their success.
Take, for example, one of my graduate-school professors I spoke with the other day. We were discussing a brilliant article that just came out. As an aside, I remarked, "I can't believe Dr. X (the author of said article) doesn't have a permanent position." Now, you should know that Dr. X is an articulate, intelligent, and well-respected scholar. And her CV could put many full professors I know to shame. Yet her many national job searches have failed to turn up a tenure-track position. My professor's response? "She must not interview well."
Inside, I screamed. My professor had gotten a position right out of graduate school. Naturally, she felt there must be something wrong with those who couldn't secure a job themselves.
That's right, throughout academe, there are haughty individuals who think their achievements are totally based on their own merit. They are fools. They forget the importance of luck and timing -- but don't let them get to you. As you lick the stamps on this year's applications, repeat my mantra, "It has nothing to do with me."
