"McCoy University" has invited me for an on-campus interview, but the search is obviously rigged to hire somebody else. Instead of the department chair, some secretary called me to set up the visit. Should I cancel the whole charade, or go wearing old, grungy clothes and tell them exactly what I think?
Answer: Ms. Mentor shudders at your rude language ("some secretary"). The working woman who called you was just doing her job, and it is incumbent upon you to be gracious. You should also admire chairs who wisely delegate important chores to trusted employees.
But assuming you've resolved to make nice, Ms. Mentor advises you to act as if McCoy's search is "real" and not a ritual ruse to get Good Ole Joe, a loyal instructor for 12 years, onto the tenure track at last. Some departments, alas, do conduct sham searches, but you must assume there is no Ole Joe. Otherwise you won't do your best, which is all you have to offer.
And besides, Ole Joe could always retire, abscond, be fired for moral turpitude, or die -- leaving a slot for you.
What to wear? Whatever your gender, Ms. Mentor recommends clean, reasonably fashionable, nondescript clothes: your interviewers should little note nor long remember what you wear. Do not be super-chic, for it always makes the hirers feel inadequate. At an elite Baltimore university in the 1960s, "the dude in the Edwardian suit" was talked about for years as the one who didn't get the job. Nowadays, the Ally McBeal little-girlish look is, in real life, a career killer.
Wear a suit, whatever your gender: a jacket symbolizes self-confidence and authority. If you're a creative type, resist the temptation to waltz in with long scarves or strange body piercings. Departments rarely need free spirits; they need people who'll do boring committee work and not whine too much.
No matter what happens: smile, be gracious, shake hands firmly, make eye contact, remember names, write a thank-you letter afterwards. If the interview consists of canned, even pre-printed questions, and committee members merely write down your answers, assume that they're following an exceptionally rigid set of employment rules.
Try to charm the committee as best you can (do not ask, "Are you robots?") and do not emulate other unfortunates Ms. Mentor finds in her files:
- Arthur, wanting to seem spontaneous, did not practice his presentation, which ran 45 minutes over the time limit. When he clicked on the lights after the last slide, half the audience had disappeared.
- Joan, who carefully avoided joking about race, sex, religion, region, politics, or last names, thought it was safe to make a satiric comment about Hooters (which Ms. Mentor agrees is the tackiest restaurant concept in the universe). But the man who might've been Joan's boss turned out to have a soft spot in his heart for that establishment. He'd found his second and third trophy wives there.
- Virginia asked about the poor physical condition of the campus and got frosty responses. Ms. Mentor reminds interviewees to seem upbeat, no matter the provocation. A candidate is a guest, not a critic.
- Eric had to excuse himself several times to smoke a cigarette, leaving the hiring committee twiddling and fuming. More and more buildings and campuses are smoke-free, and smokers -- who cost more in health care and lost work time -- are much less apt to be hired.
Ms. Mentor also warns against hotel bars, which have been the ruin of many a poor candidate:
- Alex, a two-fisted journalist seeking a career change to the calmer shoals of academia, got a big head start at the bar and forgot where he was -- until he grabbed the dean's thigh and was firmly slapped.
- Betty, a new Ph.D. in English, drove into town the night before her interview and slipped down to the hotel bar for a prim, solitary nightcap. A loud, boozy man offered her $100 for certain sexual acts. She refused, furiously. The next day, he turned out to be Durwood, the chair of the department's hiring committee.
- Calvin, offered his dream job at Churchly College while he was still on campus, roared into the hotel bar: "Drinks on the house for everyone!" and billed the bash to his room. When Churchly College got the bill, they canceled the job offer.
Alex and Calvin were history, but Betty salvaged the situation by pretending she did not recognize Durwood. He, in turn, seemed not to remember her. She got the job, and it was only long after tenure -- and after Durwood's retirement -- that she ever told anyone the story.
People are still laughing their heads off, but Betty's best revenge was her long years as a humane, compassionate department chair, especially admired for her hiring skills. Ms. Mentor doubts you will grow up to be Betty -- but it would be good to try.
Question:
My spouse wants to come to my on-campus interview with me, so he can see for himself whether he'd like the place and the people. Since I haven't been offered the job yet, will a hiring committee (a) welcome my husband, or (b) dismiss me as an unprofessional little woman who's the tool of a busybody control freak?
Answer: (b).
Sage Readers:
Ms. Mentor reports that her past columns on troublesome advisers and shooting-oneself-in-the-foot job letters have garnered numerous charming and snarly responses. But alack -- her mailbox now runneth over, and she cannot reply personally to all. In her column, she will endeavor to answer the most intriguing, representative, or plaintive missives, and she urges readers to peruse her tome (listed below) for perspicacious answers to cosmic questions ("What kind of person would want to be an academic?") She also recommends Mary Morris Heiberger and Julie Miller Vick's The Academic Job Search Handbook (how things should go); Christina Boufis and Victoria C. Olsen's On the Market (how they really go); and Constance Coiner and Diana Hume George's The Family Track (can you be an academic and a parent?).
As Ms. Mentor never leaves her ivory tower, her mail is channeled via Emily Toth in the English Department at Louisiana State University, and her Chronicle address is ms.mentor@chronicle.com
