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No Place Like Home

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By Harvey Blum

For three years, I was on the prowl for a "better" job than my present one in the fine-arts department of a midtier regional university. Sure, I was on the tenure track, with a growing list of performances -- the equivalent of publications in my area. I had a great reputation on my campus, with excellent teaching evaluations and an active service record.

But I wanted more. I wanted to be where the action was, not hung out to dry making cold calls to concert presenters, new music ensembles, and soloists from the upper Midwest, trying to get my career as a composer and organist rolling. I wanted to escape what I viewed as the vast emptiness that surrounds many of the semi-metropolitan areas of the Midwest. I wanted to teach graduate students in my field, and to be at a place similar to the one where I earned my own doctorate -- a major research institute with an international reputation for its graduate music program.

I heard all kinds of laments from full professors who wished they had tried harder to move before getting tenure, which they all agreed was difficult to do once the stigma of "associate professor" -- translation: "hard to hire" and "would want higher salary" -- was attached to their CV's.

I thought my chances of at least landing an interview were fairly good. But as it turned out, I heard not a word back from the first dozen or so applications I sent out. Still, I was only in my fourth year, I still had time. As year four turned into five, and five into six, I found myself suddenly facing the double whammy of applying for tenure at my current university (did anyone else hear the clanking of shackles?) and searching for job openings elsewhere.

Step by step I moved through the tenure process: External reviews? Check. Departmental approval? Check. Dean approval? Check. (By that point, I was biting my nails: Was I actually going to get tenure without even a chance to prove my worth at another university?) Vice chancellor approval? Check. It was like being in a 007 movie where the evil doer takes his time pressing all the switches that will seal Bond's fate. I know most academics would kill to earn tenure at 32, but I was fretting at the idea. I was too young to die.

Then a job opening appeared in March -- a much better job at a much better university located in an actual city on the West Coast. It seemed perfect for me. I finished my application just as I got word that I had received tenure. I had the gumption, or perhaps gall, to put the tenure letter in my job application.

I hastily wrote something in my cover letter like, "Although I have just been tenured, I am eager to take on a new challenge at this stage of my career, and can bring to your department a faculty member experienced in all aspects of higher education." I was ready to take a pay cut and lose my tenure, certain that I could get on an accelerated tenure track and work my way back up to the top salarywise.

Two weeks later, I got the call. The institution on the left coast wanted me to submit more background materials, which I did in a flash. A few days after that, I learned that I had made it to the conference-call round.

I boned up on every aspect of the university, went over ideas again and again, lost sleep, and, finally, at the appointed time, the phone rang. The voice on the other end was the same faculty member who had set up the interview. He expressed his regrets that he was the only one on his end of the line, but said it was a "busy time of year" and we could still hold the interview.

That was it, I thought. I'm done for. If the rest of the faculty members didn't even think it was worth their time to participate in a telephone interview, then I shouldn't hold out any hopes of landing an actual in-person interview.

But lo and behold, a week later, I learned that I was one of three finalists being brought to campus for interviews. I was told that the department would purchase a plane ticket for me and send an itinerary. I went to three stores looking for a new suit.

Two days before I was scheduled to leave for the interview, I had yet to hear back from the university. No itinerary, no plane ticket, nothing. I didn't want to seem pushy, but this was cutting it a little close. I left a message with the faculty member who had interviewed me and, shortly after, received an e-mail from him, apologizing for the delay, saying that it was a "busy time of year" and that I would get an e-ticket later that afternoon with an itinerary, including directions to the hotel from my plane.

Wait a minute. Directions from the plane? Wasn't it customary for a member of the department to pick up a finalist at the airport? Maybe that was just something my quaint little Midwestern university did.

At least that's what I convinced myself. Yes. They were busy, and this was a test of my independence. (I set aside the nagging thought about a friend of mine who had gone on a recent job interview in which the head of the department had driven more than an hour to pick him up at the airport.)

The day came, I flew out, found the correct train into the city, and arrived at my quasi-seedy motel, located across the street from a very seedy motel. This wasn't looking good, folks.

After a day of walking about town (no one on the faculty offered any advice on what to see or do), I was pooped. The noise, dirt, and congestion of my New York days all came back to me. So, maybe city life wasn't as charmed as I had remembered. My main concern was the quality of the university, right? Arriving on campus I was dumbfounded at the dilapidated state of the building in which I would work if hired. The facilities were in terrible shape and the atmosphere was beyond depressing.

Returning to my motel, I called the head of the search committee, as instructed, to set up everything for the next day. I left two messages, one with his wife and one on his cellphone. Finally, at 11 p.m., he returned my call. "Can you use public transportation to get to campus like you did today?" Rather than say what I was thinking, I replied, "Sure, no problem."

The next morning, I boarded the bus -- no seats, of course -- and arrived on the campus, sweaty and already tired from hauling all of the materials that I needed to teach a practice class and present my work.

I met first with the dean, who informed me that, in the past, when the university had hired tenured academics, he had always recommended that they start from scratch on the tenure track, without any accelerated consideration. Was he kidding?

Next it was time to demonstrate my teaching skills. I walked into a classroom that looked like it hadn't been repaired, and barely cleaned, since Roosevelt was president (I'm not going to specify which one). At least a few professors had taken a break from this "busy time of year" to come hear me. The lesson went well, and I headed off to another interview. Only three people showed up, two of them from the hiring committee. Still, I kept a smile on my face and tried to interact with them as potential future colleagues.

After a brief lunch came the crux of my interview: the presentation of my work. As a composer and a performer, I had brought CD's, and, per the department's request, three copies of each of the scores. I had rehearsed the sequence of how I'd present my ideas numerous times in my head in the week leading up to the interview and practiced two difficult piano works to show my versatility.

Who showed up? Not a faculty member on the search committee, not a student, not even the head of the committee. The only other person in the sad, paint-peeling room besides me was a soon-to-retire faculty member.

I looked outside. Spring had come early to this part of the country as opposed to the still-cold Midwest -- to which, by that point, I had begun to seriously yearn to return.

I played a couple pieces for the professor, just for fun. The most insulting part of those insulting few days (I was baffled as to why the department had even bothered to bring me in) was when the chairman finally came in and said, "Well, it's hard this time of year with what all is going on."

Was this a situation I would want to bring myself and my wife into? Would I give up tenure, move across the country, and pay to live in a more-expensive place with a faculty I could not count on even reviewing my tenure materials? I could just imagine, another six years from now, getting a letter in the mail: "We regret to inform you that you have not been granted tenure as it was a busy time of year."

Dinner, which I admit was the high point for me since it took place in a sushi restaurant, was attended by just one faculty member. By the end of that strange day, I hadn't even met all the members of the search committee.

I was never so glad to see home. Yes, home. I don't plan on applying anywhere in the near future. I have friends here, and my wife's family is close. I thought of all the time I spent poring over my CV and making every packet I sent out as perfect as possible. For what? To learn the hard lesson of how lucky I am to have what I have, and where I have it.

I've been thinking about moving into administration, although my rather cushy job of teaching only morning classes, leaving me the rest of the day to pursue my own artistic concerns, would be hard to beat.

I never heard anything more from that West Coast university. Even the end of the year must be a "busy time of year" too. Oh, and the new suit? I wore it to the banquet that my university hosted for all newly tenured faculty members.