Moving Up

Not the First Lady

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By Teresa Johnston Oden

My husband, a college president for nearly 10 years now, never wears a name tag at campus functions. That's been true even during our first years at new institutions. He figures, quite correctly, that he has been introduced so often, both in person and in official publications complete with photographs, that he is readily recognized.

I, on the other hand, always wear a name tag. I generally eschew the stick-on, clip-on, or hang-around-your-neck type that is available to me at every sizable gathering. Instead I put on one of the permanent name tags that I had made for just such occasions. They all say the same thing: "Teresa Oden, President's Spouse."

I learned in the early days that, although I took my husband's surname when we married, my name alone did not give enough of a clue to some guests at campus functions. When working my way through a party, I found that even introducing myself as "Teresa Oden, your hostess" was occasionally insufficient. Or at least that's what I concluded after repeatedly receiving the response, "And what is your relationship to the college?"

Recently an alumna looked at my name tag and smiled at my choice of wording. "Do you prefer 'spouse' to 'wife'?" she asked. I answered that "spouse" was gender neutral, so it seemed more appropriate as a title.

Afterward I thought about my reply. I had considered "president's partner" as an alternative to "president's spouse," but never "president's wife." Why? I think the answer lies in my gradual recognition that the partnership role will never encompass my full and true identity. Later, I realized what I should have said was, "This is only one of my identities."

Human beings like to put labels on one another. It allows us to make shortcuts and know instantly how to respond to the people we encounter. Our brains signal "store clerk," "co-worker," or "stranger," and we fall into a certain pattern of behavior. We dismiss the individual and deal with the label.

Those of us who are partners of academic leaders, whether we are male or female, are in the same category. However, academe hasn't figured out how to label our category. Because I am a woman I've often been called the "first lady." That's a label I dislike; there's just too much baggage attached.

And what on earth do people do when the spouse is a man? An acquaintance who is married to a college president told me that he had once actually been called "prince consort."

I put "president's spouse" on my name tags so that people will know how to deal with me; we can exchange a few appropriate words and I can move on. In a sense my chosen title invites dismissal. It signals, "I'm ancillary, just the spouse. You don't need to pay much attention to me."

But here's the rub: I don't feel ancillary. Being the "president's spouse" has become a way of life, and I take my role very seriously. So what I experience when wading through strangers at a party, or standing in a receiving line, is a form of gentle abrasion. All partners of academic leaders experience that sort of abrasion in one form or another. Unfortunately, it starts early, before we begin to build up the stores of good experiences that are also part of this way of life.

I truly enjoy being married to a college president, but it was not always thus. It took me years to sort out what was bothering me, why it bothered me, and what I was going to do about it. The corrosion of my identity was an outward problem that was easily parsed, but also an inward problem that was harder to decipher. Deep down, I had a gnawing fear that maybe I wasn't going to be any good in the role of spouse; maybe, in fact, I was going to be a liability.

There are plenty of cautionary tales about spouses who were liabilities in some way, and you begin to hear the ones pertinent to your campus soon after you arrive. You start to wonder what tales will be told about you after you leave.

When my husband accepted his first leadership post as headmaster of a boarding school, the trustees told us that there would be a budget for redecorating the official residence and encouraged us to make it "ours." I had been looking forward to the project; what fun to redecorate a home with someone else footing the bill. But then I heard how an earlier president and his wife had upset the community with some of their decorating decisions. Among other things, they had banished a painting from the official residence because it scared their children. The painting had belonged to a long-gone, much-loved headmaster, and people were still talking about its removal.

I'm willing to bet that that couple was also encouraged to redecorate the house, to make it "theirs." Suddenly my redecorating project appeared in a different light -- a huge opportunity for me to find unmarked boundaries by overstepping them.

I shake my head now, to think how overwrought I became over minor issues. But it is easily explained. Weeks of meeting hundreds of new people had left me exhausted. I had been thrust into a world where everything you do can have ramifications, where anything you say might come back to bite you. I started losing confidence in myself. I just wasn't sure I had the information to do a decent job.

As the Christmas season approached that year, I made my worst blunder; it may well be a cautionary tale that is told about me. Based on advice I received from one of my predecessors, I dropped some retired faculty members from the guest list for the annual holiday party. I didn't stop to consider that some of them actually enjoyed a big, noisy party and weren't afraid to drive at night on slippery roads. I still cringe when I think of the feelings I hurt.

It is an interesting and challenging time for partners of academic leaders. The "two-for-the-price-of-one" expectations have largely disappeared. The president's job, however, remains at least as demanding as it's ever been, and the partner can hardly avoid bearing some of the burden.

In the first place, most of us find ourselves taking over all sorts of family and household tasks that college presidents don't have time for. The president can hardly manage to take clothes to the dry cleaners, much less take the dog to the vet or the car to the mechanic. And then there's the representational role: Anyone who knows you are married to a college president will judge you as a representative of the institution your spouse leads. No matter how uninvolved you plan to be, that's an aspect of the partner role that you cannot escape.

Figuring out how to be an asset rather than a liability is an ongoing job and, I think, the greatest challenge. I have been free to design my own role, and I appreciate that. But it's easy to be knocked off balance.

What can you do? Being forewarned about what you might encounter is certainly part of the battle.

Beyond that, my best advice would be to get some support. It is important to realize that you cannot expect to get all the support you might need from your partner. Friends and family may also fall short, unable to comprehend your experience. Better to look to others who are in the same boat that you are about to board. If there is not a support group for presidents' spouses in your area, start one.

I have made cold calls around my region to others who are married to college presidents, and they jumped at the chance to meet regularly for lunch. It has been good for me to learn how other people cope with the stresses we have in common, and I have picked up tips on how to manage things more efficiently. It reassures me to find that there are smart, capable people out there who concur that being the partner of an academic leader might just be the most complex matter they've ever dealt with.

Those lunches provide a safe place where I can complain when I'm feeling frustrated and, with luck, regain my sense of humor. And I mean my real sense of humor -- not the laughter I force on those occasions when someone says, "Oh, so you're the first lady!"