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Music to My Ears

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By Sophie Ruscello

This is the story of the job offer that almost wasn't.

As readers of my previous columns know, I already have a tenure-track job in music at a community college in the East. But the college doesn't offer a music degree, so my students tend to be less than interested in my subject -- hence my search for a new tenure-track job.

Over the last several months, I sent 22 applications across the country for various faculty positions. One was for a job teaching both performance and some academic subjects at Well-Known U., a large state university close to where I grew up that has a highly respected music program.

I almost didn't apply there, convinced that a university with such a fine program would have its pick of candidates. No doubt my application would soon be breeding dust bunnies in a moldy filing cabinet whose drawers echoed with the ring of derisive laughter from the committee.

What changed my mind? Why, thoughts of you, gentle readers. If nothing else, my guaranteed rejection, with its attendant humiliation, was sure to make a droll little tale for this job diary and give you a laugh or two. So I dropped my application and materials in the mail, furtively made a cross over the mailbox, and went on my merry way.

To my great surprise, I was shortlisted for the position. Around Thanksgiving, the department chairman called to discuss details of the search process and projected dates for a campus visit. He also haltingly confessed that the salary for the positions was only in the mid-$30s, and asked me, rather sheepishly, if I was still interested.

I considered saying "no" right then. While I have no illusions that I'll ever be able to afford a Trump penthouse unless I start peddling something considerably more salacious than mere knowledge, the salary was less than I'm making now (in the low $40s), so it was a concern. But then I realized that an interview at Well-Known U would be good practice, and since I most assuredly was not going to be offered the position anyway, the salary question seemed moot.

Time passed. I had other interviews. The Well-Known U. interview did not take place until early spring, in a week in which I'd also had three telephone interviews. By the time I got on the plane, I was so overwhelmed that I'd almost forgotten where I was going. Had I awakened from my midflight nap to find the plane making an unscheduled stop in Hawaii, I'd have probably just kept my mouth shut and headed for the beach and a couple of fruity drinks with little umbrellas in them, no questions asked.

The interview had all of the standard components: I had to teach two classes, give a short recital, give a master class, read chamber music with other faculty members, and undergo meetings with various members of the administration. An added source of stress was that I did not receive the assigned subjects and texts for the sample classes until a week before the interview; one of those classes I'd never even taken as a student, much less taught.

To make matters worse, the text I was supposed to use for the lesson could not be begged, borrowed, stolen, or traded for first-born children at any store or library within a two-hour drive. Fortunately, one of the committee members agreed to lend me her copy, which meant I had to prep the lesson at the hotel the night I got there so that I could teach it at 8:00 a.m. the next day. Yikes.

In addition to its quality, Well-Known U. stood out from the other institutions on my list in another way: Of all the departments where I have interviewed, either in person or by phone, it was the only one where the search committee did not volunteer negative assessments of their students' interest in learning.

Over the last several months I've heard plenty of great euphemisms for the lack of student curiosity and motivation on a campus, ranging from "our students aren't exactly the sharpest tacks in the drawer" to "they don't really like to learn new things." (Lest anyone think I was deliberately hunting for damning evidence, let me stress that I never went fishing for this information: It was always volunteered by members of the hiring committee.)

I had no idea what to expect from the 8 a.m. class (not a good bet for lively and motivated students under the best of circumstances). But students arrived at both my 8 a.m. and 9 a.m. classes on time, enthusiastic, and cooperative.

Something was clearly wrong. Did someone slip No-Doz into their Krispy Kremes and diet cola? Had they been secretly replaced by robots? Or, by some happy coincidence, had I finally "found my peeps"?

To seal the deal, that afternoon I ran into some students in the ladies' room who remembered me from my morning presentations, addressed me by name, and told me how much they enjoyed my classes and that they hoped I was hired.

To put this in perspective, let me just admit that my current students, who have seen me twice a week for the last 14 weeks, cannot seem to remember my name when it comes time to write it on term papers or drop something off in my office mailbox. I've seen them standing slack-jawed in the mailroom, manila envelope in hand, staring with glazed eyes at the names on the mail slots and hoping one of them will ring a bell.

I felt like Milhouse from The Simpsons, upon tearfully recognizing and embracing his alter ego from rivaling Shelbyville: "So this is what it feels like ... when doves cry."

When I got back on the plane for home, less than 24 hours after my arrival, I was numb with exhaustion. I felt I had made a reasonably good impression, but I also knew there was a strong in-house candidate, and I still assumed I would not be tapped for the position.

Two days later, I was sitting in my office clutching the telephone receiver and trying to grasp the fact that the little voice at the other end of the phone had just made me an offer.

Since I'd done such a good job of not getting my hopes up, I never even considered whether I'd want the job. But after just a few hours of mulling it over, I realized I did want this job. Badly.

Not to wax maudlin, but it was kind of like falling in love with the boy next door -- the one who patiently waited for you while you were chasing off after other opportunities, the one you had known your whole life, the one you never thought you'd end up with. And, when you finally came to your senses, the one you didn't want to let slip away. It was Ross and Rachel, minus the glamorous hairstyles and the ill-fated leather pants.

I had only a few days to think it over, and while I forced myself to use that whole time to really consider all aspects of the job, my decision was pretty much made the day I received the offer. No other position on the table offered what this one did. Turning down the offer would have been career suicide.

Obviously, not all of the students at Well-Known U. will be as motivated as the ones I ran into in the ladies' room. Despite of my starry-eyed enthusiasm, I'm not completely naïve; I know they don't all glide around humming Mozart in the halls.

But I'm optimistic that my baseline chances for a receptive audience will be better at Well-Known U. than where I am now. On a secret reconnaissance mission to the campus about a month ago, I ate at one of the student cafeterias, where I found myself amid a sea of students surrounded by textbooks -- which they were actually reading, not just using to prop up the latest issue of Cosmo.

When a group of students at a nearby table started getting into a shouting match about the finer points of existentialism, I got so excited I almost choked on my mystery-meat casserole. And one of my future instrumental students has already e-mailed me to ask what she should work on over the summer to prepare for her first lesson in the fall.

It probably won't be paradise, but I think I fit there. And after I finish my last semester at my current job, I just might have to schedule a bit of beach time and a few medicinal doses of those fruity umbrella drinks. I've enjoyed all the letters from readers, and if you need to find me, I'll be sleeping in the sun under the third palm tree from the left.