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A Sporting Interest

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By Claire Miller

After a long day of sending out applications in religious studies, I printed out a map of the continental United States, taped it to a cardboard box top, and plundered my sewing basket for pins. I stuck a color-coded pin into the map for each potential job or postdoctoral fellowship: white for Roman Catholic colleges (of which there were many), green for fellowships, and so forth.

I sat back and admired my work. As I wrote in my first column, I am on the market for the second year in a row, searching for my first tenure-track job. It was deeply satisfying to see all my applications, not in a list form with deadlines attached, but colorfully scattered throughout the country in surprising clusters. (Why so many good prospects in the Allegheny Mountains this year?) I would add pins as I applied to additional departments and remove them as I received rejection letters.

When my partner "Nina" saw it, she laughed, "You and your maps!" (I had done the same thing with a map of our city as we hunted for an apartment.) "All right," she said, taking the map from me. "Now we will bet. How many conference interviews will you get?"

I squirmed. "I don't know. I don't want to jinx myself. This is a big deal."

Betting? I thought. How could she be so cavalier when not just my future but hers, too, was on the line?

"Betting reminds us that we are not in complete control of the outcome here," she explained. "It allows us to take a sporting interest in how things turn out."

Sometimes Nina's interest in my search has been "sporting" -- detached, bemused, enjoying the show. At other times, she's been much more engaged.

When I kept hitting a brick wall while writing a conference paper that I knew I would be reading in front of potential employers, she finally intervened. I did not welcome her advice at the time; it was 11 p.m. and I was exhausted and frustrated. And I confess to feeling quite humbled by her clear perception and thorough grasp of what is supposed to be my field. Later, I realized her recommendations were exactly what I needed to hear to formulate a more coherent argument.

She also stepped in on the matter of clothing. During another exhausting late-night consultation, I tried on endless combinations of shirts, skirts, suits, scarves, jackets, and jewelry, while she scrutinized each outfit. Last year's experience on the job market had produced many kind gifts from family members, so I had several suits and other nice articles of clothing to choose from (though the centerpiece ensemble we constructed featured a thrift-store suit and a resale shirt, complemented by a handmade scarf).

Nina took photos of me in each outfit with her digital camera, so we could flip back and forth between images to determine which looked best. By the end of the evening, she had constructed a fashion menu for each day of my conference, including the journey there and back. ("You never know who you'll run into on the plane.")

It made the conference much easier, in fact: Each morning, I consulted her list and decked myself out in the prescribed ensemble without having to worry about my choices. It's no exaggeration to say I looked terrific the whole time, better than if I had trusted my own questionable taste in clothing. It boosted my confidence and reminded me of her support from a distance and the interest she had in this process.

Apart from those instances of hands-on involvement, however, Nina has kept her interest in my search a sporting one. Feeling like a jockey betting on my own horse, I finally relented and bet that I would get six interviews at the conference. I also bet on which departments would call, and how quickly I would receive their invitations. In an odd way, it was a much-needed distraction: Instead of worrying about whether I had worded my cover letter the right way, I started wondering what factors I should take into account in placing a bet.

Nina and I devised a series of "prizes" to reward myself, based on how close my bet was to the eventual outcome. The prizes would increase in extravagance with either a very good or a very bad outcome. The idea was for the "consolation prizes" to offer genuine consolation. Most of the prizes also aided in my professional development, such as a journal subscription, a book-shopping spree, and new (interview) shoes.

By the time I departed for the conference, I had lined up exactly six interviews. My prize was to be a book-buying spree, and I looked forward to browsing the publishers' booths in the exhibition hall in between interviews. But when I arrived at the interview center, I discovered a note from a seventh potential employer, asking to set up an interview. I gave up my book-buying plan, which was just as well, since I had no time for shopping at the conference, and shifted my sights to the next prize -- a new pair of shoes to be purchased in anticipation of my campus-visit interviews.

By the end of the third day -- with two papers, seven interviews, and one chat with a publisher behind me -- I felt like a worn-out racehorse, glassy-eyed, panting, knees knocking. The process was grueling, no matter how many energy bars I toted along, how many bathroom prayer-breaks I took, or how much deep breathing I did in the candidates' lounge before each interview.

As my friend Melanie, my roommate during the conference, maintained, "The possibilities are infinite." We were both interviewing for the same jobs, and we enjoyed comparing notes. We tried to keep it sporting but noncompetitive between us, telling ourselves that we each wanted to see the other person succeed. Melanie and I detached from the outcome in our own ways. In between interviews, she did yoga and directed her mind to the future's infinite dimensions. I relied on prayer and focused on surrendering to God.

Unfortunately, the interview at my favorite department, a small college in the Midwest that offered benefits for same-sex partners, went dismally. I called Nina afterward and tried not to weep, "I just flubbed up our future. I sounded like a moron. I'm so sorry."

I felt certain the college would be a perfect fit, and it was one of only two on my list that offered benefits for same-sex partners. But in the interview I froze like a deer in headlights and could hardly answer simple questions about my field. One faculty member seemed predisposed not to like me, and my every attempt to melt his icy demeanor failed.

"Maybe it's not the right place for us, after all," Nina shrugged. "How about the other prospects? Shall we take bets on which ones will invite you for on-campus interviews?"

I laughed and bet high: I would get campus invitations from all of them, except for the interview I bombed.

Not quite. In the weeks after the conference, I received two polite rejection letters, and stony silence from the other departments. I pulled pins out of my map and blinked back tears. It's my fault, I thought: I screwed up and don't merit a job.

In fact, as Nina continues to remind me, this process is not in my control. It's a game where skill meets luck, and the stakes are high. Like many an athlete, I pray, I concentrate on my performance, and I try not to psych myself out.

I ended up with three on-campus interviews (several departments took a month or more to get in touch with me). And so the game goes on, and my hopes and my efforts with it.