I’m lucky in that I work in a department that is kid-friendly, at a university that’s making a concerted effort to support women on the faculty and families (including with a new parental-leave policy).
As a novelist whose personal bio exists on the back of every one of my books, I don’t have the luxury of pretending not to have kids. At my job interviews at the Modern Language Association convention a few years ago, it was obvious to anyone who knew my work and could count on their fingers that I was immensely pregnant with my fourth child. In academe that is much like growing a fourth head—though growing a fourth head would be more attractive because academics prize the mind over the body.
I’ve been treated extremely well on job interviews when I was hugely pregnant—so large I once had to ask for a golf cart for the campus tour. And I was offered the job.
However, it was when I was not pregnant that I was asked the big illegal question during a campus visit at an institution that shall remain nameless.
I wasn’t pregnant during that interview but I did have four kids at home. In the college’s defense, I asked a lot of questions about area schools and programs for kids. (I was interviewing the area as much as being interviewed for the job.) And so, kids were kind of on the table—though not professionally speaking.
The illegal question I was asked had been posed in legal terms many times over the course of the 48-hour visit: “You’re so busy. Do you have the energy to invest in this job?” The “so busy” could be about my writing life or about the nonprofit group that I founded with my husband, and not necessarily about the kids, so I always answered in practical terms. The question surfaced so many times under different guises, however, that at one point, I finally said, “Well, I would be quitting the job I currently have to take this one on. That will help.”
Then the big illegal question was asked, point blank, and, oddly enough, it was during a meeting with the entire search committee—six or so professors. It was put to me like this: “With juggling the demands of your writing and your very busy family life, how do you intend to do this job?”
I think I paused and looked around the room, waiting for someone to throw a yellow flag, call the foul, and restart the question back at the line of scrimmage.
Everyone looked at me patiently, as if to say, “Well?”
And so I answered the question. It’s a blur. I don’t recall what I said, frankly. I might have gone on a short spiel about how my husband is a stay-at-home dad and that our household is actually weirdly retro—a 1950s household where the gender roles are simply reversed. But if I did, I hate myself for it. Answering a question that the search committee would never have asked my husband, if roles had truly been reversed, undermines the positive steps women have made in the workplace.
I might have said that I’ve obviously proven that I can work in academe, continue to publish (in fact, outpublish everyone in that room; that would have been the frustrated subtext), and manage a household with four kids in it.
I might have simply said something cryptic, vaguely Buddhist, “I have abundant energy, and it’s easier to let the horses go than to hold them back.”
Truth is, I’ve got an arsenal of answers to that question. It comes up in every single media interview I do. While my male literary counterparts with kids in the home are asked about their work and process, I’m asked again and again one question: How do you do it?
Honestly, I don’t mind talking about it. It’s an important subject, and for those of you who are swinging families and work, my answer is simple: I do it messily, imperfectly, sometimes wearily. But I was compelled to have a writing career and have kids at the same time. If I’d sacrificed writing for the kids, I’d resent the kids. If I’d sacrificed the kids for writing, I’d resent the writing. To support both of those endeavors and because I’m dedicated to teaching the craft, I’ve found a home in academe. To avoid bitterness, I bully on with all of it.
But regardless of the makeup of my family, I work hard and have a proven track record. I love the work, and I love the kids.
And, truth be told, I probably answered the illegal question with a bit of attitude. In retrospect, I wish I’d had more attitude and said something like, “You know people ask me all the time how I manage to get so much done. Sometimes I feel like answering back: How do you manage to get so very little done?”
The person who asked the illegal question? Maybe you’re imagining some older professor who holds firm to a 1950s mentality.
Wrong.
It was a woman, almost exactly my age. She is married and has no children. (Why do women do this to each other again? I forget.)
The statistics on female faculty members having kids are interesting. Women in academe have fewer children than female lawyers and doctors. That surprised me, especially since professors can make their schedules somewhat more flexible—teaching night courses or piling up courses on certain days, if their departments allow for flexibility—making academe a seemingly nice fit for faculty members who want to raise a family.
So how do we explain those stats? My hunch is that in academe there still exists an old stubborn divide between the high ground of the mind and the swamps of the body. Maybe women in academe are simply not as interested in having children, especially not more than one. Or maybe having a big family sends the message that one couldn’t possibly prize the intellect if one chooses to spend one’s time wiping bottoms. In other words, if you want to be taken seriously, keep the kids to a minimum.
One of my greatest survival instincts as a professor is this: I’ve long since stopped caring what my colleagues think of my intellect.
Still, I didn’t get a job offer from the college that asked the illegal question, and I was left guessing why. Was it that the department thought that I prized the body over the mind and would be too busy raising kids to do a good job, despite a body of evidence to the contrary? Was it that I’d proven that it was possible to prize the body and the mind and still do a good job—in fact, publishing prolifically—which gave the impression that I was snubbing my nose at their sacrifices? Was my impatience with their illegal line of questioning obvious enough that I came off as uppity?
The truth is it may have been none of those issues. But I still had to process the experience, which left me demoralized and, at the same time, driven to prove them wrong once again. It all felt very familiar.
I’m no longer on the market and have no intentions of taking another job elsewhere. One of the main reasons is my institution’s growing support of women and families. That means a lot to me.
Lately, I’ve felt guilty for not taking the time to talk about these issues with my students, both male and female. I have fumbled the Feminist Torch, on a very personal level. I should say to my students, “Here, take this, and keep running.” But, seriously, sometimes I don’t even know if we’re still running on a track. If we are, some are sprinting forward and others back. And, personally, I’ve lost my bearings.
