The CEA Forum

Summer/Fall 2007: 36.2

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MAKING LEMONADE: AN ASSISTANT ENGLISH PROFESSOR'S

PERSPECTIVE ON THE PROFESSION

Colin Irvine

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Tenure Review and the Scary Snort

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To outsiders, and perhaps even to those associate professors who, for the sake of their sanity, have sublimated or repressed the trauma they experienced when under the microscope, it is difficult to imagine what it's like trying to earn tenure. It is also, I have found when talking to friends who work in the “real world” outside of academics, difficult to describe what this ordeal is like.

Still, there are analogies and metaphors that we can use to shed light on our odd six-year odyssey. We could liken it, for instance, to participating in a reality show with hidden cameras, concealed microphones, and clandestine meetings where people vote one another out of the house or off of the island (of course TV bigwigs would never produce such a show because most of us look better in turtlenecks, tweed, and penny loafers than we do in flip flops and string bikinis). Or, we could invoke the Christian parable which suggests one is wise to welcome into his home all who knock, even the poorest, because we never know who our true boss is going to be and because God seems to prefer wearing old clothing to new. For my part, however, I prefer comparing our situation to that of the naïve and vulnerable bird in P.D. Eastman's Cat-in-the-Hat story Are You My Mother?. (Sure, one might argue that the seriousness of this issue calls for a more cerebral metaphor, but I like the Cat-in-the-Hat comparison because I'm not real familiar with the other ones and because it gives me a chance to practice writing book reviews.)

As you may recall from your childhood or from your child's childhood, Are You My Mother? chronicles the poignant tale of a hatchling that, upon breaking out of his shell, finds his mother missing and bravely opts to fly off in search of her. He can't fly, however, and, after falling out of his nest and down, down, down to the ground, plop, he perambulates about and presumes nearly everything he encounters—from a cat to a chicken and from a boat to a plane—is his mother. Eventually, the raw but doggedly determined little bird finally and fatefully approaches a crane (the mechanical kind and not the feathered one, though I suspect the baby bird wouldn't know the difference), to which, not surprisingly, he poses the titular question, “Are you my mother?” In response, the machine belches out a red-lettered S N O R T. Then, much to the bird's dismay, the crane lifts him up, up, up, before carefully dropping him back in his nest, where he is met by his mother, who, I presume, gives him a stern talk about discipline and leaving the nest without permission. In short, Are You My Mother? is a tour-de-force in that select variety of children's literature that braids together the timeless themes of the loss of innocence, the search for self, and abandonment, each of which is leavened by a hint of the Electra complex. And, brilliant book review aside, this parable aptly illustrates an untenured professor's tenuous situation in his or her respective community.

Like the bird, those of us who have recently arrived on campus know relatively little of our new environs, and we are often forced to guess who is with us (who is our mother) and who is against us (who is the Scary Snort). Of course some of you more perceptive critics may be saying to yourself, “But didn't the Snort turn out to be a friend to the baby bird?” And, “Doesn't this, in turn, suggest that the problem lies with the bird and not with the other animals and the things he mistakes for his mother?” Well, that may be true. But it kills the metaphor before it ever gets off of the ground, and it ruins the surprising-reversal twist I was saving for later; so, I'll have to ask you to save your questions until I'm done lecturing. Thank you.

Returning then to the incredibly apropos metaphor, the Scary Snort takes many forms and its presence contributes to a number of problems, not the least of which—I'm sure you have noticed—include hypersensitivity and paranoia. I fear, for instance, that Scary Snort could be the person sitting next to me at the faculty meeting keeping track of my yea's and nay's (so, of course, I murmur a few yeanays and nayeahs just to keep her guessing). It could likewise be the person with whom I'm currently team-teaching a course, the guy who recently earned tenure and now gets a chance to register his professional opinion about my teaching. It could also be that student I haven't seen since the third week of the semester, the one who will show up on the last day of class, just in time to fill out a teacher-evaluation form—“And you are?” I will ask him smugly, before he snatches the form from my hand and rejoins, “Fletch F. Fletch. I'm a shepherd. And you are?” Screwed.

Under these circumstances wherein we must always be savvy about who is with us and who may very well be against us, I have found that even playing sports with my peers (or superiors?) can be more than a little unnerving. For instance, just recently, while up 10-0 in a game of racquetball with a mathematics professor who might just be reviewing my c.v. soon, I thought better of skunking him. So, I began letting him score a few points here and there, though, at the same time, I worried he might figure out that I was letting him score a few points here and there. However, as it turned out, my worries were unwarranted. Using an effective backhand and a creative approach to score keeping, he eventually beat me 15-9. (He's in math, I'm in English, he's tenured, I'm not…who am I to question how he keeps track of the points? Besides, he was as happy to win as I was relieved to lose.)

This pervasive paranoia-producing situation has made me so anxious that I don't even feel safe to speak my mind behind closed doors, especially when the door that's closed is the one linking my office to the rest of the academic community of which I am a temporarily a part. Hence, on those occasions when a colleague leans in to the office and asks quietly with one hand on the doorway and one on the knob, “Do you have a minute?” I know that I don't want to know what he has to say. Still, in he comes, closing the door behind him. He takes a seat and, in his estimation, begins to talk quietly about this person or that policy. In these instances, while the room feels as though it's getting smaller and smaller, I want to interrupt my guest and ask the adjunct whose office is next to mine if she can hear us talking. Of course, because the wall that separates our offices is made not of wood or brick but of fabric and similar to the ones used to make cubicles, and because I have listened on occasion to her talk on the phone about how much she dislikes the woman one door down the hall from her, I suspect that she can. I also suspect, in light of the fact that she applied for the tenure-track position I was awarded, she doesn't like me much either. Who can blame her? Meanwhile, my guest is complaining (in detail for crying out loud!) about this or that, and I'm smiling and nodding and, oddly enough, wishing I were grading papers. In this situation, of course, one might muse, “If these walls could talk…, who would lose his job?” For my part, however, I must admit that I mostly just wonder, “Are these walls even strong enough to bear the weight of the floors above me?”

And the problems with paranoia don't end there. Even when we do know certain members of the committee, we don't necessarily know where they will get all of their information from when making their decisions. As a case in point, at my college I know that the Academic Dean as well my department chair will be giving a thumbs-up or thumbs-down vote; however, what remains unclear here is the role their assistants will play in the process. Nonetheless, it is not terribly difficult to imagine a casual conversation that begins with the Dean asking his secretary, “What do you know about the new guy in the English Department?” and ends with her reporting, “Not much, though my daughter Jennifer's friend Clair, who was in one of his classes last spring, said that he favors the athletes and that he never returns papers.” “Really? Interesting.” (For what it's worth, I think both assistants are extraordinarily professional people and each deserves a raise and a paid day off.)

There is also the numbers game and the potential way in which statistics might negatively influence one's chances of earning tenure. If, by chance, you happened to be hired at a time when a large number of other assistant professors came on board, there is, it would appear, the risk that at least one or two of you will be become sacrificial lambs on the alter of tenure's integrity. This is especially true in a small department, and because this survival-of-the-fittest situation is so prevalent in academic culture, one would be naïve to think otherwise. Consider if you will those wonderful Lake-Wobegon-type classes of which you have as student or teacher been a part (obviously, one can tell by the torturous way in which I so dutifully avoided ending that sentence with a preposition that I was, as a student, inclined to think—standardized test scores to the contrary—I belonged in that group). In these rare cases where all of the children are truly above average, we find that at least a couple of hardworking, talented souls must earn B's and maybe even C's; otherwise, everyone earns an A and grades thus have no meaning and the punitive system on which it is based no teeth (at least that seems to be theory, though I'm inclined to give all A's if all involved earned them). In fact, the very idea of a grading curve seems to be a pretty good indication that the academic community has only so much room (and tolerance for) greatness in any one class, course, or college—this goes for professors as well as students. So, word to the wise, if you're going into the wilderness, be faster than at least one in your party; and, if you're going into academics in search of tenure, be sure to work that much harder than at least one of your colleagues/competitors. Otherwise, that fellow initiate with whom you're sharing an office until the Prof. E. Meritus finally calls it quits might turn out to be The Snort.

In short, we don't always know who will be on the review committee when it comes our turn to be evaluated nor do we know precisely what it is in us or our curricula vitae that they will or will not value. We don't know, in reality, who might help us out in our time of need and who might simply help us out the door. Consequently, we must work hard, incredibly hard, from day to day and, in the meantime, we must invariably treat everyone, from students to Deans and from colleagues to cafeteria workers, respectfully.

Nonetheless—and this is where the surprising-reversal comes in that I promised above—even if we are, at some level, acting in our own best interests, working hard and being nice are not necessarily bad habits to cultivate when one is trying to become a professor.

Finally, for what it's worth, there are on Amazon.com sixty-one customer reviews of P.D. Eastman's Are You My Mother? and only six of Toni Morrison's Beloved .