Making Lemonade

As I sit down to write this, my wife is in labor. Actually, apparently, it's “pre-labor,” and there is as yet no need to rush to the hospital (I am not a “real doctor,” of course, and so I will take her physician's word for it); nonetheless, I am a bit uneasy. I am worried about what's to come—about my wife's wellbeing, about that of our unborn baby, about how well our 4-year-old son will handle the changes, about parallel structure, and, admittedly, I am worried about how convincingly I will be able to play the part of the “Birthing Coach,” “Birthing Coach” being a title that presumes entirely too much about my qualifications and one that reminds me of how I have felt at times these past two years when acting like an “Assistant Professor of English.”

What I am experiencing, of course, is what is referred to in pop psychology as the imposter phenomenon, a situation wherein individuals feel as though they are not quite qualified to handle the tasks they have been assigned, or, more accurately, the responsibilities they have been awarded (fittingly, I'm not sure I have what it takes to write this column, but I'll give it a shot). Granted, it is not a new phenomenon, nor is it unique to academics. I suspect, for instance, that somewhere in the air above a rather young pilot is sporting a shiny new set of gold wings on his chest and announcing for first time, “This is your Captain speaking”; and, likewise, I would venture to guess that somewhere out there in the world beyond the edges of campus a climbing instructor is looking up a rock face at her students and wondering about the accuracy of her advice and the tenacity of her knots.

Still, though hardly new or novel, the phenomenon plays a particularly powerful role in the day-to-day lives of those us in higher education who have not yet been granted tenure, which is to say those in the jumpseat who are well-advised to keep our hands off the captain's microphone, thank you very much. We are assistants, after all, and yet we are also, simultaneously, professors, meaning people who supposedly, allegedly, reputedly, apparently, possess so much knowledge about certain topics that we are qualified to profess that knowledge to others.

This strange situation wherein we have been granted not only “the rights and privileges thereto pertaining to the degree of Doctor of Philosophy” but also those that accompany a tenure-track contract—tempered as these privileges are by the term “assistant” and all that it implies—leaves us less than brash about our abilities; add to these circumstances the adage “the more I learn the less I know,” and you have a recipe for real uneasiness and genuine insecurity.

To begin our investigation into this phenomenon—its sources, its problems, and its potential upside—let us consider what it means exactly to be an imposter in this profession or, more accurately, to feel as though you are one.

To be sure, the sense of being a fake at some level informs and infects nearly every facet of our young professional lives. It means that we meet with our students before, during, and after our office hours because we want them to succeed and because we believe, perhaps mistakenly, that they must. We know we shouldn't be slaves to the open door policy; we know we should be firm when it comes to getting our other work done, but that's not the reality we face (or so it seems). When a student knocks on the door and asks if you're there, you open it; and then—without hesitating—you get to work on their work with them. The reason we do so, I suspect, is because working with them on their work is real, it's immediate, and it's often very rewarding.

Feeling like an imposter means that you grade and return essays almost immediately, and it means that you cringe whenever you have to tell a class that you haven't yet finished grading their papers or exams, in which case you will likely go home that evening and get the job done. In my case, it also means that I provide entirely too much feedback on papers, and it means I grade everything. I pass out points as though it's Halloween and I'm handing out the goods.

It means that you think a little too hard and too long about that one negative student evaluation, and it means that you will likely work too hard and too long the next semester to prevent such a comment from again finding its way into your permanent file.

And, finally, feeling like a charlatan means that you spend entirely too much time trying to compose emails to your superiors as well as your students (it also means that you use antiquated, pedantic words such as “charlatan” and “pedantic”). When sitting down at your desk in order to dash off a quick bit of correspondence, you often feel mentally and physically handcuffed, your brain second-guessing your every word. Attempting to explain to the Chair that you will be unable to attend the Homecoming event sponsored by the department because your spouse has developed typhoid fever, you qualify, hedge, and hesitate, using too many dashes, semicolons, and colons; you begin in jest and then begin again more seriously, more professionally. At last, exhausted, you sign off with Sincerely, try again with Best Wishes, and elect to go with nothing but your name, wondering if you should include the last with the first. You then reread it closely, meticulously, before pushing Send. Seconds later, you go the SENT box, reread the message and discover to your shock and dismay two typos and a heavy use of passive voice construction; meanwhile, the Chair has responded succinctly and appropriately, “No problem, Colin.” That's easy for her to say.

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Colin Irvine is not an expert on any topic related to composition, literature, pedagogy, or tenure. He is, however, an assistant professor of English at Augsberg College, where he specializes in American literature, ecocriticism, and English/education methods. He says, "I am interested in talking in and through a column to other professors about various issues related to teaching freshman and sophomore-level courses. I'm also interested in exploring issues related to what it means to be a non-tenured assistant professor of English. My hope is that I could touch on serious, significant topics pertinent to these subjects in a sincere, insightful, and, perhaps, original manner."

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