by Jacques Delacroix
I had a post-doc fellowship at Stanford. (“Post-doctoral fellowship” is code for welfare for people with doctorates.) It carried few obligations. I had to attend one lecture a week (which I would have even if I had not been obligated to do so.) There was also a vague expectation that I would help doctoral students anyway I could. I helped several, mostly in a light sort of way.
There was one doctoral student however, a woman, who often sought my help. She was older than most and she pulled at my heartstrings a little bit because she was a recovered alcoholic. She looked the part too. There was something painfully ungainly about her. She was a very hard worker but quite ignorant. She struggled in the doctoral program but you knew she would make it. She was smart. That’s often enough, at least in some disciplines. We will call her A.
Now, I am forced to say something untidy about myself. In those days, I was handsome, well, very handsome, in my early thirties, and athletic. I was also deeply married. (I am glad to say I am still deeply married to the same woman.) My wife is a beautiful woman from India. She is sort of retiring. She never showed up at my place of work in two years.
A. and I became close, with the quaint closeness of co-authors. They often do together the most important thing in their lives but the resulting closeness rarely bleeds into the rest of their existence. Anyway, my post-doc lasted two years. So, I pretty much saw A.’s dissertation from beginning to end. I had many opportunities to help her. She profited well from my advice. She was also quick to exploit any other resources that presented themselves. In spite of her initial ignorance, she produced a good dissertation, not great but commendable. Myself, I came up with two memorable co-authored articles during that period. (I know, this sounds slim but my academic mentor, the man who had gotten me the post-docs to begin with told me tersely: “That’s two more than most post-docs.”)
I remember clearly the last time I saw A. before the episode I shall tell presently. We were at an academic meeting at Waikiki, Hawaii. (Most academic meetings take place in interesting spots; it’s a fringe benefit.) I did not know many people there. In the evening, after attending presentations, I bought A. a drink or two like a senior will normally do with a junior. (I know for a fact it was no more than two drinks.)
I was leaving the next day, early afternoon. Of course, I wanted to take a swim before going. Unthinkingly, idly, I invited A. to accompany me. We met on the beach in the late morning. A. was in a bikini. Suddenly, like in a flash, I saw her in my mind’s eye the way she must have thought I was seeing her. (Read this sentence again.) A body looking much older than her actual age, ravaged by alcohol and God knows what other excesses. Quickly, I realized my mistake and encouraged her to join me beneath the waves. But, I think the harm was done.
Fast forward. Instead of continuing in academia I then tried my luck at business in the middle of a recession. (I am not sure I knew what a recession was then.) I lost my footing at the same time as I was adopting two children. I discovered an urgent need to re-integrate academia with its regular paychecks.
I did serious research and serious thinking at that moment. There was a job opening in a big Midwestern university that was just good enough but not too good for me. (During my business stint, I had accumulated missed opportunities. I could not aim anymore for better schools such as Stanford or University of California at Berkeley.) Anyway, that Midwestern university was sort of in the first ranks of Number 2 schools, nothing to crow about but also nothing to be ashamed of. I had a few very good publications. I just had too few. So, there was even a chance that the relevant people in that school would consider me a (minor) star. A. happened to be at that school, in her second or third year there. Anyway, she did not have tenure. I did not think much of her presence except to see it vaguely as a small advantage. Long story short: I obtained an invitation to interview for the position at that university.
Now, formal recruitment in a good American university follows a precise ritual. I will tell you about it but first, some facts about university hierarchies. It’s the individual department that does the recruiting. Several departments form a school, like this: English Department, Biology Department, Sociology Department, etc. are grouped into a School of Humanities and Sciences which is headed by a Dean. In normal times, the Dean has to countersign the recruitment of a new faculty member by a department but he nearly never says no. (This may change a little in the near future. Having noticed that 24 out of 25 members of the Sociology Department are on the left, the Dean may decide that the 26th ought to be a conservative. Cross my fingers!)
Now the recruitment ritual; it’s pretty inflexible, pretty much the same everywhere. A short time after the candidate arrives, usually by plane, he gives a presentation lasting 50 minutes to an hour-plus on a subject of his choice. The subject is frequently drawn from an article the candidate is working on, a fairly ripe one but one yet unpublished. All the members of the department who are available are supposed to show up for the presentation. Some come in for a symbolic five minutes, to show the flag so to speak. Many come for the duration because it’s the best chance they have to evaluate the candidate. There are questions and answers. Then, the candidate begins a long series of one-on-one interviews with all the members of the department. This ritual sometimes spreads over a day and a half.
In the evening, a subset of department members take the candidate to dinner. There is usually no lack of volunteers because it’s traditionally a very good dinner. (“Would the Dean want me to have lobster?”) There, in almost every case, they try to get the candidate a little drunk, just to see another side of him. The next day, the one-on-one interviews resume. They end with a serious conversation with the chairman where the candidate tries to speak about the salary he pretends too. Finally, there is a courtesy visit to the Dean where the candidate pours out the charm because he believes that that visit will influence his salary offer, if any.
So, at that Midwestern university, I went through the whole ritual. It was fairly tiring because it was a very large department of about twenty members. I spoke to all members, including A., with whom I had a friendly chat full of reminiscences. I had a feeling I had made a good impression on the faculty in general. That is, several were enthusiastic about me, the others were indifferent. (Believe it or not, there are cases where a segment of the faculty is actively hostile. It happened to me during another application for a job. I got a magnificent offer all the same. Another story, obviously.)
If several candidates are applying for the same job, the departmental chairman tries to give the candidate an idea of how much time it will take for the department to come to a decision. I can take a week to two or even three weeks. In this case, I was the last candidate interviewed. So, I expected a decision in one week or two at the very most. Two weeks elapsed, and then three and I did not get a yes or a no. Not wanting to appear unseemly eager I waited another week and then, I called.
The chairman immediately sounded embarrassed. It turned out he was deeply embarrassed. He said to me that there was a strong consensus to offer me the job and no opposition. However, when it came to A., he said she told him the following, “If Jacques comes here, it will make me very uncomfortable.” That was all she said. There was no further explanation and no probing. You understand, said the chairman, she is the only woman in the department; I cannot ignore her. There was no job offer. It was just a job anyway. I had to somehow reconstruct my career along different lines. Comfort!
Jacques Delacroix is a writer who lives in Santa Cruz, California. He used to be a college professor. Send him mail.
Isonomia Quarterly 