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Waiting for the 'Big One'

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By John S. Brady

Much like politicians, landlords have a well-developed sense for the elasticity of language. Politicians stretch the truth for power. Landlords do it for an equally venerable goal: rent. And as my partner Sarah and I scoured the Los Angeles basin for housing recently, we ran into some truly stunning feats of linguistic gymnastics.

In the able and utterly shameless hands of one property owner seeking to lure prospective renters, a rundown bungalow fronted by a lumpy, sun-scorched patch of dirt through which, by the looks of it, the entire population of Southern California's moles had at one time or another passed, became a "quaint Craftsman-style house with spacious yard." An equally creative landlord advertised a place with a "sunny garden." There was only one problem. This particular garden consisted of a lone rose pushing its way valiantly, but ultimately vainly, through the cracks in the concrete pad off the kitchen.

Needless to say, learning to parse the exaggerations and metaphors of misdirection employed by the rentier class had not been in our original plans when we decided to make the move from San Francisco to Los Angeles. Our decision had been primarily a quality-of-life one. After a well-financed, two-year postdoc in the political-science department at the University of California at Berkeley -- one that did not, however, result in a tenure-track position -- I chose to take a one-year visiting lecturership at a college in the Los Angeles area, rationalizing the cut in pay and the nagging feeling of career stasis with the fact that I had the opportunity to enjoy a new and exciting city with my partner and to take one more crack at the academic job market in the fall.

Oh yeah, and the surf is better, too.

I surf. I study political theory. The two activities call to mind two very different types of people: the laid-back, flip-flop-wearing beach bum, on the one hand, and the scrawny, decidedly pale bookworm on the other. And yet the traits necessary to succeed in either of them are surprisingly similar.

Take patience, for example. So exhilarating is the experience of dropping over the lip of a breaking wave to speed down its face, that the temptation is to paddle indiscriminately for every ripple, small or large, that rolls toward the beach, a practice which quickly leads to exhaustion and invariably gets on the nerves of one's fellow wave riders. No, the smart surfer learns to wait. In each set of waves are one or two that are the best because they are the biggest, have the most ideal shape and, as a result, offer the fastest, longest rides. The trick is to have the patience, the forbearance to wait and scan the horizon for the "big one."

Certainly job candidates in political theory seeking the "big one" -- a tenure-track position -- must possess a healthy amount of patience, too. The job market in my subfield is one of the most intensely competitive in all of political science, with comparatively more candidates vying for fewer jobs than in other areas of the discipline. Those political theorists who don't find a permanent position quickly have to be in it for the long haul.

In my case, this will be my fourth foray onto the market after one attempt as an A.B.D. and two as a postdoc. I have had enough nibbles and on-campus interviews, and I have made enough progress in the teaching and publication aspects of my career, that I still feel confident about my chances of finally landing a permanent position.

I continue, in other words, to have that sustaining feeling of moving forward. Yet every once in a while I notice, as is also wont to happen on those days when good waves are few and far between, that my patience is starting to wear a little thin.

But when, exactly, to stop searching? That has been the question that vexes me most; its capacity for setting my mind spinning unproductively is almost limitless.

By now, I have taken the appropriate job seminars and read enough columns and articles on alternatives to academe to know that my years of research, writing, and teaching have provided me with a skill set attractive to employers outside the academy. Having survived and even thrived in the face of the usual trials and tribulations of graduate school, I am also confident enough in my capacity to generate the conditions of my own happiness to believe that, if I do have to give up what I love doing, I will be able structure any alternative career along equally satisfying lines. Still, the question -- When to let go? -- gives me considerable pause.

My fellow academics, it must be said, have not been much help here. Indeed, a disconnect seems to exist between the message offered by job counselors, career-placement officers, and other career advisers and the one advanced by professors and lecturers.

Those in the former category take a resolutely practical tack, stressing the need to be flexible, highlighting the multiple career paths that are open to Ph.D.'s, and even noting the desirable results of seeking nonacademic employment.

The latter group's advice, in my experience, has been oriented much more to the norms of persistence and self-sacrifice. When musing about the potential end of my academic job search with colleagues, I have more often than not been advised to stick with it and take the costs of financial insecurity and delayed professional gratification in stride because the payoff -- a permanent position -- is more than worth it. Exceedingly rare have been those fellow academics who have openly discussed searching outside of the academy as a viable option with its own attendant set of advantages and disadvantages.

While I can only speculate about my colleagues' reasons for shying away from an open discussion of the job world outside the university, I know that my own reluctance to face squarely the question of when to make the break is grounded in the sense of finality that attends leaving university life.

And here is a decisive difference with my other passion. A similar sense of finality is absent in surfing; sooner or later, there will always be waves. Any number of times I have come to edge of the bluff overlooking my favorite surf spot to peer down on seas as flat as Central Valley blacktop or on an ocean angry with wind. However great the disappointment, I can always comfort myself with the thought that, besides having some extra time for that chapter, which, truth be told, does need some more work, the winds are bound to die sometime and a storm spinning somewhere thousands of miles away will send lines of swell marching toward the coast, and I will be able to return to find waves once again peeling up and down the beach.

Given the fact that closing the door on academe often means closing the door for good, I can find no such analogous comfort when I think about abandoning my pursuit of political theory. And since, unlike in previous years, this thought seems more and more a distinct possibility, wrestling with this lack of comfort is certain to be a defining feature of the coming job search.

But for right now, I'm determined to enjoy the waves and our new digs. Because in the end, Sarah and I stumbled across one of the few landlords who, when she said she had a bright, airy apartment with views of the Santa Monica mountains, meant exactly that. With gorgeous views of mountain sunsets and a job, however temporary it may be, moving to L.A. for a better quality of life has suddenly seemed like exactly the right move to make.