in which I awkwardly tackle the awkward analogues of dating and academic job-hunting

Anyone who has found themselves in the befuddlement of dating a new person knows the sentiments too well: a racing mind, loss of verbal dexterity, awkward small gestures that seem to be ill-timed. We are at our most vulnerable, in a way: we are anxious to please, to impress, to flatter and be flattered. We put ourselves on display, unlike we would in everyday life. We speak either haphazardly or in gaseous bursts of verbosity, out of synchrony with the cadence of normal verbal relationships with everyone else in the universe. We festoon ourselves (metaphorically, one hopes) with every award and merit we have earned, and shrink and recoil in horror once the chink in the armour is found – when that happens (note that I did not say “if”), we launch into damage-control overdrive: deflection, denial, denunciation. We have to be the best. We tell ourselves so. We want to believe it. We neither want to be lugubrious nor overly garrulous on the date. We want to somehow, if things seem like they would work out well, continue this relationship. If we really covet the potential relationship, it makes interactions with others who share our interest in the objet d’amour difficult, if not awkward.

Some things happen before we get to that point, before we get to the BBQ restaurant only to learn they’re a vegetarian – or, worse, from Lexington. We try to learn about the person as much as possible from friends, family, Facebook, other web presences. The diaphanously fine line between “Stalking” and “Earnest Interest” haunts us. We want to know with whom we’re dealing, with whom we’re speaking, at this momentous (or, typically, not-so-much) event. We ask around. We submit ourselves for approval, beseeching all mutual acquaintances to promote us as fine candidates, as wonderful picks, as someone whose interests will match theirs.

When we encounter an announcement for a faculty position, we automatically start reading everything the institution displays about itself through its propaganda machine: FTE counts, mission, values, history, vision, master plans, sanitized student experiences. We also seek out – something we seem to rarely do leading up to a date, but should – the accounts of students and personnel who have a less rosy view of things, or, anyhow, a much more substantially thorough experience. We craft, or attempt to if this is the 90th letter of the cycle, a cover letter painting us in vibrant, glowing hues, lavishing praise upon the college or university and finding ways to paint, in subtle tints, our ways into the hearts of the search committee through how our mutual interests meet up. We create a CV specific to the position, highlighting as many successes as possible without looking like a peacock without feathers attempting colorful braggadocio. We try to strike a balance between looking like we have potential (if we aim for junior faculty positions), and showing some maturity and modesty (if we have 5 or more years of teaching behind us and are aiming more toward tenure-track). We submit samples of our work as a means to talk ourselves up to the committee – which, while it should be liberating, is often the most frustrating and panic-inducing part: our creative work reflects the deepest traits of ourselves, and to face rejection based upon that is a feeling none of us ever wants to experience (again) (for the 73rd time). We do not readily see our own faults unless we ardently seek them; those objective committee members – our courtship guardians – see the flaws immediately.

And, we do this multiple times a season if we are actively seeking a faculty position. At current, I have applied to 37 positions since September 2010. Thirty-seven times I have opened myself up to complete and total criticism, where, as in a crowded bar or rock show, the guy to my left has a just-slightly-nicer lantern jaw, and the guy to my right has slightly-more-piercing blue eyes. The guy behind me makes no secret of his love affair with his Bowflex and wastrel P90 workout videos; the guy in front of me has a just-so-slightly more loveable laugh and more richly modulated voice. I stand no chance with the adorable Tina Fey lookalike next to me. And, like the desperado for work that I am, I submit myself to the approval of dozens rather than one, with hopes that, honestly, one of them has some semblance of pity in me, or some sort of psychic connection takes hold before reality sets in.

This is not to say I personally am without merits. My vita sports some high marks, both academically and professionally. My teaching record is solid and I can produce course evaluations, both quantitative and qualitative, that prove to some measure that I largely know my way around pedagogy. While in grad school and undergrad, I was a highly-decorated student. I’ve had unsolicited performances in three continents. My vita continues to expand, albeit slowly. But – and I can say this with certainty as this was the case with at least one position – there is always that one person just slightly more advanced in some way than I am, that one person who either exudes perfect confidence without besmirching decorum, or has just a little something more on their vita that makes them a little more attractive. Aviator glasses versus stylish RayBan frames; a pullover versus a cashmere sweater; two articles published versus three; someone without a firm dissertation defense date versus an ABD applicant with a defense looming near. One position for which I applied saw me rejected on the basis of having, precisely, one fewer publication than the ultimate candidate – other than that, our vitas at the time were identical.¹

Then there is awkwardness that comes from the elephant in the room: you and everyone else in your discipline, if they are end-stage PhD candidates or fresh doctors or unhappy in their current adjunct position, are applying for all the same positions. At the very least, the same 90% of them. Accosting this in conversation is delicate and recalls the discomfited stammering chat with a close friend on Monday morning: “Oh, so… you dated her, too? Are… are you going on a … you know, another? Because, well… you know…” We all know it. I completed my doctorate in the Spring of 2010, along with a host of colleagues and acquaintances. There are ABD students nipping at my heels who will leave the combine either this May or next December. Yet we act as though we all are applying for separate positions. The same Southern Ohio College position I apply for just can’t be the same one Bill or Jack is applying for. Just. Can’t. It is indeed a weird position of denial in which to find oneself, but it’s a very-much-true position. We don’t discuss it, either out of respect harvested from the fields of our own misgivings and notions of inferiority, or out of disinterest in yielding to a head-on onslaught of competition. I breathe a sigh of relief when I find out a colleague isn’t applying for the same position I am; I start muttering and figuring out how I’m going to survive the cut if a friend states they applied for a position I really covet. The worst awkwardness comes when one party reveals they’ve been advanced to the next round – a second date, another chance to wow and impress and charm – and the other party received a form letter wishing them well in their job search. It feels akin to betrayal, yet is a necessary betrayal, and, it goes without saying, not a betrayal upon which that person had any direct influence.

Then there’s the interview – if we get lucky. Without resorting to crassness, the interview is a chance at a form of intimacy, of being invited to the inner sanctum, the professional form of being invited up for coffee: seeing up close and personally the foibles, quirks, and inner workings of the institution, to really demonstrate one’s own individual talents and personality, and a chance to see just how dysfunctional and in need of therapy the institution, the department, and the other faculty are. One interview I had was, retrospectively, awful. It was as though Tina Fey’s Liz Lemon character was shepherding me through the department and meetings, neuroses and all – that is to say, I learned directly and indirectly far too many tiny flaws and oddities in the program, things that could have been prevented or better left unsaid or undone or rethought. I did not receive the full interview itinerary until the evening before the interview. My meetings with the department head kept getting rescheduled the day of the interview. My tour of the campus grounds was not led by a music faculty or staff or student, but by an adjunct Art professor. The department head could not have been less interested in my artistic vision. The division head – the department head’s dean – was outgoing at the end of the year (retiring, that is) and made no effort to mince his words about it, or about the realities and practicalities of the Tier 3 school. The position called for designing a new major and creating curriculum, but I learned in the interview that they already had curriculum created and a few courses in place. About the only thing that was done well on their end was the speedy travel reimbursement.

This is not to say I was without fault. I asked repeated questions about interdisciplinarity when the position was clearly a narrow-focus one. I misspelled a common word in a PowerPoint slide. My laptop lost battery charge partway through another presentation. My cat destroyed my valise a few days before the interview, so instead of looking dapper, I looked like a bedazzled hipster: a messenger bag and a Geoffrey Beene pinstripe suit. I had no handouts for the teaching portion of the interview (but, to be fair, I learned the night before that I’d be teaching). Even beforehand, the telephone interview was stock and lull, not shock and awe. From both sides.

Those lucky enough – or those with enough job-landing skills or friends in high places who can talk us up really well – eventually settle in to tenure-track positions. I’ve been on the hunt for three years, one post-doctorate. I’m slowly approaching 100 rejections since mid-2008. As a matter of course, I haven’t had an interview since May, 2010 – right around the same time, oddly, that I went on my last date. On my last date, the woman I was with thought that when I was referring to Michael Eric Dyson² I was talking about “the vacuum-cleaner guy.” Thus endeth my quest for love. Around the same time, I was hired verbally by a small college but a few weeks later given the grim budget news that no one at said college would be hired for the ’10-’11 term, and, in fact, positions were going to be lost. But those who stick with it, so I’m told, find love in the form of another human being, and find happiness in the form of job security, patronage, academic freedom, and the joy of teaching. Furthermore, from what I’ve been told, when either and/or both happen, the likelihood of a lasting, productive, well-matched relationship is at least 50%.

For the ages, I can state unequivocally that I’m not much to look at right now, but if we really like each other, and if we think mutually there’s a lot of potential for greatness, then I’ll be damned if I’m going to purposefully muck it up or leave unless things are completely unsalvageable or dysfunctional beyond any repair. So, colleges and universities: I am still available. Call me.

I'm desperate.³

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1: I'm happy to report that my vita is now slightly more impressive than the other candidate's. Too late to help me now, though.
2: The first time it happened with a different significant other, I forgave it. The second time it happened, with an avowed civil rights activist, I couldn't forgive myself.
3: Relatively speaking. For instance, I still expect a paycheck and overtime for teaching an overload.