Chatting over dinner at a recent conference, some colleagues and I revisited an age-old topic that tends to come up whenever flocks of university professors gather: our graduate-advising disasters.
Some of those disasters make for great stories long after the incidents are over, and we tell them as we might tell tales of surviving horror and catastrophe. Graduate-advising disasters are the typhoons, earthquakes, and volcanic eruptions of the academic planet. They are also the ghost stories of academe, intended to scare the audience, while also encouraging others to share their own stories, which will, in turn, make us all feel better about our own frightening failures. It can be very therapeutic to share those stories.
The most spectacular examples of advising calamity typically involve student misbehavior, malingering, and mayhem. Some, of course, also involve elements of adviser ignorance, misunderstanding, and mismanagement; we tell those stories as cautionary tales to remind ourselves and others of advising problems and pitfalls.
During that conversation this summer, I asked a senior professor if she had ever reached the point when she could predict which graduate students would succeed and which ones would flame out. She said no: Even after decades of advising, she found that students who had appeared promising for the first year—or three—could still end up as train wrecks.
That was depressing to hear, as that senior colleague is someone I particularly admire for her long record of graduate-advising success. But the good news is that some students who appear distinctly unpromising at the start may turn things around. (In fact, I count myself in that category, as my adviser did not have much hope for me early, but I ended up doing well.) My colleagues and I, in our recent discussion, agreed that we couldn’t foresee and forestall most of the disasters, but that we had also had pleasant surprises in late-blooming students.
Some of my colleagues have spent a lot of time trying to find ways to predict graduate success at all of the critical early stages: from application to first meeting to the first year or two of the graduate program. No one I know has found a reliable indicator, and hence we all have stories to tell.
What about the preliminary exams, both oral and written? Aren’t they indicators of future success or failure?
Exams are important hoops through which graduate students must jump, even if the hoop is in flames and moving, with hungry tigers on the other side. Unfortunately, the exams are not, in fact, reliable indicators. Certainly there are some students who do not make it past the preliminary exams (for good reason). But many of us have colleagues who failed a preliminary exam on the first try, then retook it, passed, and went on to have a successful academic career.
I’m sure readers are wondering what I mean, specifically, by “disaster,” in the context of graduate advising. Some major problems involve heartbreaking crises for the students (mental illness, family crises), but those situations don’t tend to be retold as war stories around the dinner table at conferences. Graduate-advising horror stories aren’t simply sad tales of bad things that happen to good people.
As a general example of a disaster, consider a situation in which a student does well (or well enough) at first, perhaps even for two to three years, and gets fairly deep into a project. A few years of work represent a significant investment of time by student and adviser, and a significant investment of grant money, typically by the adviser. A few years of work might even represent all or most of the time frame of a grant. And then ... nothing.
If the student simply drops out, takes another job, or otherwise changes course, that can be bad for the project. But to be worthy of consideration as a graduate-advising horror story, some sort of extreme behavior must be involved. Actual examples I’ve seen or heard about: getting arrested for punching a fellow student in the face; stealing research materials; hacking computers or networks; fabricating data; causing major damage to research equipment; disappearing for several months or more (yet still collecting a paycheck); and/or setting a lab on fire.
I often get e-mail from assistant professors in the midst of advising disasters. It seems to be fairly common for them to blame themselves, even if they feel that the student is somehow also responsible. I have felt that way about my own advising problems, particularly early in my career. It’s natural to wonder: If I were a better, more experienced adviser, would this student be more motivated and hard-working, and less prone to bizarre behavior?
Probably not, but it is good to ask yourself that question and think about possible changes in your advising style. It may also be a good idea to discuss the problems with mentors and the department chair rather than pretend that nothing is wrong. If you discuss advising problems, you may get some good advice that is specific to your situation, and you will show that you are concerned about the problem and trying to find a constructive solution for the student and for you.
It is also important that advisers not blame themselves too much. Major disasters are unlikely to be caused by well-meaning but inexperienced faculty members. Even senior professors with decades of successful advising experience can encounter situations that will eventually become war stories.
I think it is also important that we not be proud of our advising disasters, even if we feel the urge to talk about them with others. I recall a conversation years ago with a professor who seemed to be bragging about how many graduate students had fallen by the wayside because of that adviser’s strict “standards.” I found that disturbing, not admirable.
Advising disasters may be humorous in hindsight but are deeply stressful at the time. They may require a huge amount of emotional energy and can be a source of great anxiety and anger. For many of us, major disasters are infrequent, but they are not all that rare. That’s why so many of us have these stories to tell.
My advice: Share your horror stories with colleagues, even if you know that telling the stories (and hearing them) is unlikely to help anyone avert the next disaster. Tell those stories to others so that you, and we, will feel less alone about having advising disasters, and so that we can perhaps learn something from our advising woes.
And then change the subject and talk about your excellent students, past and present. Maybe it seems boring to talk about the ones who are doing well. (To paraphrase Tolstoy: Advising successes tend to be alike, but every advising disaster is horrible in its own way.) It’s important to remember that most students do well in graduate school, and that we need to promote and praise their success and talk about the happy endings, not just the catastrophic ones.
