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On the Market: A Sociology Ph.D. Takes His Second Shot

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By Ryan Moore

At this time last year, I was anxiously putting together hefty packages of cover letters, C.V.'s, and writing samples, and methodically mailing them off to each and every job for which I was even remotely qualified.

It sounds absurd now, but at the time I was overwhelmed by unwarranted optimism and foolish naiveté. Would I end up at the first-rate university in New York City or the trendy interdisciplinary program in California? Which one would I choose if I got both? Could my native California blood survive the winters in the Midwest if the Big Ten came calling? I eagerly announced to my friends, family, and a few indifferent postal clerks that this was my year to win big in the job market.

I was just finishing my Ph.D. in sociology, but I had been talking, thinking, and worrying about the job market since I started graduate school. Other graduate students had warned me that the whole experience was a royal pain in the ass, even if they couldn't exactly articulate why.

I also knew that several factors would make me an unconventional candidate for many, maybe even most, sociology programs. But overall I thought I was in a pretty good position. I had a publication with a university press, three strong letters from renowned and well-connected professors, a prestigious University of California fellowship, and half of an innovative, if somewhat unusual, dissertation completed.

My big year actually started off OK. Last October, I received a call from an excellent interdisciplinary department at an East Coast university, and we arranged for a phone interview in November. The chairwoman of the search admired the work of one of my advisers, and we seemed to hit it off pretty well. She told me the questions they would ask about my research and teaching, and I prepared extensively.

I was nervous on the morning of the interview, and I figured I might be more relaxed if I did the interview in my T-shirt and boxer shorts. I know you're usually supposed to imagine that the other people you're speaking to are in their underwear, but let me explain my thinking. I figured that if I did the interview in a trusty pair of boxers, as opposed to some clumsy suit from the Men's Wearhouse that I've never worn before, I might be able to convince my body, if not my mind, that this is really nothing to worry about.

Unfortunately, this only works for phone interviews. I have always hated presenting conference papers for the opposite reason -- my mind knows this is a mostly worthless exercise, but the minute I put on a tie my entire body starts sweating.

I don't know if the boxers trick helped or hurt me, but I wasn't invited for a job talk. Maybe I needed that extra rush of adrenaline touched off by the feel of an unfamiliar fabric. I talked for almost an hour during the interview, reading from notes I had compiled and organized over the weekend. The search committee sighed and breathed on the other line, and at one point I thought I heard a groan of disapproval, but that might just be my imagination. They told me a little about their department and that it would be another month before they made a decision about on-campus interviews. The month passed without word, and I received the standard rejection letter sometime in late January.

The rejection letters started pouring in during December. An especially crushing one came from a program I had lusted for and thought to be within my reach. That summer I had written a special cover letter exposing my heart and soul to them, detailing all the reasons I was perfect for the job. Their rejection letter was three sentences long and informed me that they received hundreds of applications, some of which were from "exceptionally qualified candidates" (unlike myself?).

Then people I know -- eight of them in all -- started getting jobs. A couple of these were acquaintances whom I consider to be of dubious intellect and questionable integrity. I wasn't in competition with these people, but their success never ceased to infuriate me during my lowest moments.

But most of those who got jobs are good friends, people with whom I have taken seminars, graded papers, done a fair share of partying, and walked picket lines. All of them are smart, hard-working, and decent individuals who are on their way to becoming great professors.

In some ways their success was an even more bitter pill to swallow. I tried as best I could to appear happy for my friends, but in the privacy of my thoughts I was overcome with petty resentment, duly accompanied by pestering guilt.

Things got really weird when they and other friends started consoling me, saying they had "heard I was upset" and assuring me that there was no question I would get a job eventually. I think I gave them the vibe that I didn't want to talk about "it" anymore, because after awhile no one said anything. For most of the remaining year I withdrew from our circle of collegial celebrations and stayed off campus as much as possible.

Meanwhile, I kept waiting for the phone to ring, but the only people who called were behemoth corporations trying to sell me long-distance services and credit-card insurance. I had a two-part root canal in January and February, only to discover that I also needed to have a wisdom tooth removed, which I did in April. I did some serious time doped up on Vicodin, sprawled on the couch in my own drool, and the rest of my days were spent writing a dissertation (you decide which is worse).

Fortunately I was able to find some humor in the steady stream of rejection letters I received, some of which were so delinquent that they arrived in my mailbox as recently as last August. (Note to search committees everywhere: If it's been a full year and the fall semester is about to begin, a letter is no longer necessary.)

It turns out there is remarkable uniformity in the structure of rejection letters across the university system. First, they tell you they have filled the position and that the chosen one isn't you. Some of them even have the nerve to brag about the lucky candidate, who is apparently the greatest thing since Max Weber himself.

Then comes the part I like best. This is where they tell you that several hundred people, some of them "exceptionally qualified," applied for the position, and then they ask you to be sympathetic with their plight. One of them actually said, "You can imagine that we felt like a kid in a candy store with only one item to choose." Right.

The funny thing is that they actually think they're letting you down easy by giving you this information. "I know this is bad news for you, but the bright side is that this is perhaps the finest class of sociologists in recent memory." If rejection letters actually told the truth and sincerely wanted to make you feel better, this is what I think they would say:

Dear X:
After glancing at the first two paragraphs of your cover letter, our Search Committee has determined that you do not augment our existing niche of trivial specialization. Your work reflects intellectual developments that have taken place since we left graduate school, and frankly we do not understand it. Your file was immediately tossed into the paper shredder along with hundreds of other losers. The good news is that your rejection is actually a blessing in disguise, because this is an incredibly boring place to work and we would have made your life a living hell during the tenure process. You can try again next year, but we already have someone in mind.

Yours Truly,
Three Petty Academics

A new academic year is under way and I'm ready to face Round Two. This time I have my Ph.D. in hand so at least A.B.D. status won't be held against me.

The only good thing about the search for a tenure-track job is that it only takes one. Not everyone and not even most people have to agree that you are an exceptionally qualified candidate in order for you to be successful on the market. You need just one program to recognize the significance and potential of your ideas. I know they're out there, somewhere, and I think some of them might like me if they just gave me a chance.

We'll see.