When I entered graduate school, my English department (unlike many others) readily disabused its students of the notion that we would all secure academic jobs. We knew, early on, that finding a job was the exception, not the rule. I was prepared, therefore, for the various professional challenges that accompanied my first foray onto the job market last year. What I had not anticipated, however, was how thoroughly personal the process would be.
On the surface, my search has all the trappings of a success story. From the 30 or so applications I sent out, I received a number of conference interviews. From these, I was invited to a handful of campus visits -- one of which resulted in a very attractive job offer.
I was stunned at my good fortune, and my home department was ecstatic. By all accounts, this seemed a match made in academic heaven. The hiring department liked me and my research, and I had genuinely enjoyed meeting its faculty members and students. The process had gone so well, in fact, that I began wondering when the proverbial other shoe would drop. I am not an inherently pessimistic person, but given the many job-search horror stories I'd heard over the years, I felt certain there had to be a hitch somewhere in my recruitment. And, of course, there was.
After receiving the official contract in the mail, I pored over the terms. The university guaranteed me an office, a new computer, and research assistance. They provided a generous pension plan and money for travel to professional meetings. All aspects of the offer seemed ideal -- until I reached the page outlining the university's health benefits. I would be able to select a health plan from a range of providers, a benefit that also extended to my spouse and dependent children. I assumed (naively) that the neutral term "spouse" signaled the university's linguistic sensitivity not only to employees of both genders but also to faculty members with same-sex partnerships.
When I requested clarification, the chairwoman of the department explained, apologetically, that the university did not extend benefits to domestic partners. She hoped this fact wouldn't jeopardize my interest in the job offer, but her hands were tied.
My heart sank. My long-term partner is not an academic, and we were not seeking a two-career offer. Domestic-partner benefits were a necessity, however, because the university's relatively rural location meant fewer employment opportunities for him. I was caught in a no-win situation: Either we would be scraping by on my salary (since the university also was not able to offer an increase in my salary to offset the cost of providing separate benefits for my partner), or we would be separated for an indeterminate length of time.
The situation had an especially ironic twist. Part of what had made me an attractive candidate, the department told me early on, was my work in gay and lesbian studies. Yet it was precisely because the university had hired a real live gay person that it was unable to offer me its full range of benefits.
I'm pragmatic enough to know that you can't afford to stand on principle when facing a tight job market, but this struck me as pragmatic at its core: What would we do, for instance, if my partner was in a car accident before he secured employment?
Because I was not willing to gamble with his future well-being, our separation seemed inevitable. Many advisers and colleagues said to me, "Well, that's just the way it goes. Everyone makes sacrifices in this career, especially at the junior level."
At first, I agreed. If I wanted this job (and I did) I had to abide by its terms and exclusions. Upon further reflection, though (and with input from other friends and mentors), I began to see problems with the ways that folks kept comparing my situation to that of other couples separated in academe.
My partner is able to move with my job, so theoretically we should be able to live together. This potential separation, however, was imposed by forces outside our control and was not, therefore, a strictly personal decision. We realized that this scenario would be a nonissue for straight couples..
I was facing a situation unique to gay and lesbian faculty members. The terms of this particular job required a kind of return to the closet -- a disavowal of my relationship (and even identity) that held not just ideological but also very practical consequences.
So what did I do? I turned down the job. My partner and I simply did not want to be separated. We have been together for a long time and our relationship is strong. We probably could have endured separation for a certain amount of time, but we kept wondering why we should have to do so. We based our decision on several factors that we realized might shift with other offers. No benefits, but in a location with greater job prospects for him? Sounds good. Remote location but with domestic-partner benefits? Also fine. But a neither-nor situation just wasn't feasible for us.
As is probably to be expected, I faced some fallout from my decision. While the hiring department seemed to understand my reasons, some colleagues and advisers dismissed me as an academic diva with no ambition. Others were incredibly supportive, urging me to keep in mind that I was still a desirable candidate and that things might work out better for us this year.
I hope they're right. After all, stranger things have happened in the intervening months. The Supreme Court decriminalized sodomy, Episcopalians elected their first official gay bishop, and five gay guys scored boffo television ratings by remaking their hapless straight counterparts.
In one of those rare twists of fate, the usually liberal academy may need to catch up with the culture at large.
