During my 15-plus years of undergraduate and graduate education, many people have suggested -- delicately or otherwise -- that I would regret indulging my interests so freely. "Sure your studies are fun," they said, "but are they practical? Will they get you a job?" I'm about to find out.
Over the years, I worked as a sleep-research technician; wrote a collection of short stories; flew in a tiny helicopter over the Arctic ocean delivering mail to musk-ox researchers; taught composition, English, and fiction writing; interviewed Arctic and Antarctic workers in a study of heroic exploration; began several novels; produced an ethnographic video of San Diego dog-park communities; studied socialization in a children's after-school computer club; and even spent two years working as a horse groom while doing ethnographic research in a traveling circus across Europe. My dissertation explores the structure, performances, interactions, and imagination in and around the circus ring. Oh yeah, I've had fun.
I ended up with a B.A. in anthropology, a triple set of master's degrees (sociology, fine arts in English, and anthropology), and a soon-to-be doctorate in anthropology. Whether or not I get my dream job -- tenure-track assistant professorship at a research university with the freedom to teach some classes of my own design, leisure to explore various research projects, and maybe even time to finish a novel or two -- I don't regret any of my interests or academic past.
I can make wonderful lists. I look back at my personal statement for admission to the Ph.D. program and I see about 50 different things I said I'd be interested in researching (a few of which I found time to pursue). Although all 50 still seem fascinating, I will admit I might have appeared a bit scattered in my attention.
"Really," my adviser said kindly when I voiced this concern later to her, "the personal statements aren't so important. We just want to make sure you're not a psycho." I suppose I passed, since they let me in. Now, with a dissertation attesting to my continued sanity (or lack thereof?), they're nearly ready to let me out, so I can try my luck making applications and lists for others.
No, I'm not fickle in my interests. My desire and ability to see connections across apparently divergent areas and ideas is a strength I hope to sell to search committees. For instance, it's amazing how much the structure and culture of an Antarctic research station can have in common with a traveling circus. One community has stars who produce research, the other, stars who produce entertainment. Both have a hierarchy of administrators who run the show and technical workers who do the everyday background work. Different languages and cultures bump head to head in an almost claustrophic space, and every season brings population turnover. And both have very few women involved.
It's true that some of my exotic areas of expertise may seem impractical. In the circus, I noticed that while a horse lies down by bending both front and rear legs to lower itself evenly to the ground, a llama will sit down like a dog first. Okay, maybe no one will ever want to employ me for this bit of knowledge, but perhaps they'll find me of interest for my willingness to observe and pay attention to such minutiae. I'm an ethnographer at heart, and that's what we do: observe and analyze. Minutiae ultimately add up to make meanings.
Maybe it won't be so easy to convince a search committee that I'm a serious scholar, or the right serious scholar for the job. But I didn't run off and join a circus; I went to Europe to study one. Then I came home and wrote a dissertation. I'm not a dilettante. I finished every program of study or research I began, and each relates to the others in a coherent fashion (along issues of identity and community). I admit that I like to find and tell interesting stories, and I'm not ashamed of my goal to produce a jargon-free dissertation. Serious scholarship can still be fun.
Last autumn, my dream job came up when I wasn't yet ready for it (oh, but I would have made myself ready if given the chance, I really would have). The search committee's focus was perfectly matched to my own interests, and for years I have been drawn to the sessions prepared by the college's faculty members for the American Anthropological Association's annual meetings. I wanted that position.
My adviser, noting my unfinished dissertation, pronounced that I had a snowball's chance in hell against all the other job-hunting anthropologists -- many with books and several years of postgraduate research and teaching under their belts. I like her for her willingness to give it to me straight; I don't always listen, though.
When I showed her my "I'm going to apply anyway" cover letter, she was thoughtful. "This is actually very good," she marveled, and upgraded my chances to a candle in a hurricane. I made the first short list and surprised us both, but got no further. "That's not bad," she said, "but really, you NEED to finish the dissertation now."
Well, it's a year later and I have finished. Minus a few revisions, my dissertation is done. I only got through it by NOT thinking or worrying about possible job or postdoctoral opportunities. But the academic search season is now well upon us, and deadlines are coming hard and fast.
I've gotten my share of rejection letters before (ever try to make it as a writer?), and I've watched too many friends be squashed in the cogs of some impersonal job-hunting machine. Maybe I'll end up the same, but I'd like to start out optimistic. Maybe it will even be fun.
