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By John S. Brady

"So, what do you do?"

Such a simple, socially indispensable question. Without it, and the conversational vistas opened up by its natural follow-ups -- "How did you become interested in that field?" "How long have been at your job?" "Do you like it?" -- many a party would never get off the ground. Unable to talk careers and shying away from religion and politics out of respect for civility and decorum, guests would be mired in endless discussions about the weather, or they would be forced to satisfy themselves with speculations about where the host got the recipe for the bean dip.

But over the past six months, the employment question has ceased to seem so harmless. It's even started to be a source of low-level dread for me. When confronted with it in social situations, I'll give a little wince. Or, if it's been a long evening and I'm tired, my shoulders will droop slightly, as I think to myself, "Oh please, not again."

Not that this question has ever been that easy or straightforward for a Ph.D. in political science to answer, especially one who is only temporarily employed. In my experience, I can usually reckon with one of two responses to my self-identification as a political scientist: the practical-political and the opinion-seeking.

With the first type, upon learning of my chosen profession, people will query me about my future job prospects, wondering whether I am planning to run for office some day. Members from the second group of potential conversation partners are less interested in future career paths and more interested in my expert opinion about current events; thus they will quiz me about the latest political scandal or policy initiative scrolling across the bottom of the screen on CNN.

It never bodes well for a conversation when I have to disappoint the expectations of my interlocutor by noting that political scientists rarely actually practice politics or that when looking for a professional interpretation of current events, a journalist or a television pundit would be a better bet.

Believe me, in making an effort to explain the relative lack of political scientists in the public realm, nothing will bring a more sudden end to pleasant cocktail patter than describing how increasing disciplinary specialization, accompanied by a shift in methodological approach, characterized by the dominance of formal modeling, built upon the assumption that political events are best rendered understandable in complex mathematical formulae, has contributed to the marked inability of practitioners in the field to comment meaningfully and with a minimum of specialized language on political events and phenomena that the general populace cares most about. (See, even you aren't paying that much attention anymore.)

In other words, unlike with other professions where naming one's career actually facilitates further conversation -- "What sort of law do you do?" or "That's interesting; are you in private practice?" -- identifying as a political scientist brings with it the distinct possibility of quick conversational breakdown.

But tricky as it normally is, my attempts to discuss the career question have seemed even more frustrating because of the liminal and temporary nature of my present position. Officially, I am a visiting lecturer of political science. It's a designation I find dissatisfying.

I care about social status. Not unduly so, I suppose. But I take enough pride in my accomplishments and my profession to desire a certain amount of respect and recognition from others. The pecuniary rewards of academe being what they are, I have, since my earliest grad-school days, known that the source of any social prestige I might eventually possess would not spring from the bling-bling I could buy on a scholar's salary.

But I have banked on the recognition that comes with having a Ph.D. and being able to call myself a professor. Which is why I don't particularly like the label "lecturer." It doesn't immediately convey the fact that I have, in fact, earned a Ph.D. Nor is it clear, as it would be with the designation "assistant professor," that I've written an initial book-length study to get my position, and that I do much more than simply lecture. I research. I write. I advise. I teach.

For similar reasons, the adjective "visiting" galls me as well. I'm 34. Not particularly old, but certainly an age when, the insouciance of the 20s having worn well off, one becomes more self-reflective about life goals and the career and personal thresholds crossed or not crossed.

An added impetus comes from the fact that many of my friends and acquaintances have begun to mark the major milestones on the way to respectability. First babies have been born, and some of them have been stumbling through toddlerhood for quite some time now. There are second and even third babies in the works. Downpayments on houses have been made. Major promotions are in the pipeline.

Even as I note all that, I don't regret the comparatively late start that I have gotten. But I would like to start. Yet in the instant of describing myself as a visiting lecturer during a conversation, I'm reminded of the limited character (financial, temporal) of my appointment and of the necessity of once again not starting exactly, of delaying gratification, and of ratcheting down expectations for my larger life plans in order to fit the exigencies of a temporary job.

Weary of all this, I have, of late, been experimenting with replying, when asked about my job, that I teach political philosophy. It diverts attention away from the marginality of my current status and toward my scholarly passion: political theory. Early results have been good.

My partner, Sarah, and I were recently in Carmel by the Sea for a wedding, and while at the reception, I chatted amiably with a woman firmly ensconced in Carmel's upper crust. Her husband had been an international financier and she regaled me with tales of living the high life in this and that financial capital over the last 30 years. Finishing her stories, she asked, "And what do you do?

I didn't wince. My shoulders didn't droop. I simply debuted my new answer.

"I teach political philosophy.

"Oh," she said, pausing. And then in that disarming way that the affluent have of being impolite and charming at the same time, she wrinkled her nose a bit and continued, "That sounds awfully abstract."

I appreciated the candor. It gave me a chance to really talk about what I do. Political theory can be very abstract, I admitted. But meeting the challenge of presenting, explaining, and interpreting complex concepts in ways that are understandable to other political scientists, students, and, at times, even members of the general public is one of the things that actually excites me about the field. Thus, I told her about introducing my students to fundamental questions in political ethics through the study of citizenship. I explained how in my own research I approach the issue of political participation by examining the political activities of immigrants.

She sounded interested in my course on citizenship and, being from California, she naturally had some thoughts on the immigration issue. In the end, I'm not sure I convinced her that political philosophy was a worthwhile pursuit, but we did have a nice conversation.