To be honest, I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing. I’ve just submitted the first draft of my dissertation and I’m sitting at my computer, staring into space, looking at a list of jobs for which I am simultaneously overqualified and underqualified.
The deep nagging sense I feel in my chest reminds me of when I freaked out, in the middle of my graduation ceremony, about the major I had chosen. What was I going to do with a B.A. in history? Except at that point, I had a former weaving major sitting next to me who was able to calm me down and suggest the possibility of graduate school.
Now, as I sit at my computer, I wonder why I went into an even more unemployable field in the humanities with a specialization that makes me sound marketable and interesting when, in reality, I am only qualified to create more people like me. (Of course my dissertation research may be able to change the entire way the medical system perceives “noncompliant” patients — i.e., those who decline to follow an accepted course of treatment — assuming anyone actually reads it.)
And I’m so specialized that I probably just outed myself with the above paragraph. Between this column and the picture on Facebook of me pretending that chopsticks are vampire teeth, I’ll never find a job.
The thing is, I am really competent. I would make a great addition to any faculty or place of work. I’m an excellent speaker, my research is interesting, and I’m a pleasure to be around. I was on every committee imaginable, I published, I presented, I taught. I have awards! Fellowships! I did everything right.
So why am I not being swooped up by employers? Why do I have the awful feeling that the only person who is going to read my dissertation is my mom?
And speaking of Mom, well, how do I explain my career challenges to her and the rest of the nonacademic world? “Um, Mom? Remember how you sacrificed everything to make sure I turned out to be a decent person? Well, really, you should have seen this coming when I switched majors from pre-physical therapy back in ’95. I hope you secretly cashed some of the saving bonds I got for first communion and put them into a retirement fund. Don’t get sick!”
I should have tried to lower people’s expectations years ago. If you’ve always been a Golden Girl, it’s much worse to end up working at Starbucks than if you’ve been a constant screw-up. At least then the Starbucks job would look pretty sweet compared with the years spent in rehab.
The academic world is hard to explain to anyone who isn’t living in it with us. And I don’t mean that in any sort of “I’m smarter than you” way. Academic culture is just hard to explain. A friend and fellow doctoral student once said something about the profession that really resonated with me: She said that explaining a Ph.D. to someone with a professional degree is like saying to a parent that you understand what it’s like to raise a child because you have a puppy. Again, not to sound pompous, but the two are apples and oranges. They’re still both fruits, but you don’t want to go biting into the orange like you would the apple.
Does anyone else out there feel completely unprepared? I read job descriptions and wonder what they mean and whether anyone out there can actually do all the things listed. While I’m sure there’s some room for interpretation in “The successful candidate will have an active program of research,” I wonder if throwing a research topic into Google Scholar qualifies as an “active program of research.”
The real world scares me, too. While I probably work around 16 hours a day, the idea of being at an office for an eight-hour shift sounds terrifying, especially when I think about doing it in dress clothes and heels. If I were to consider nonacademic jobs, I would have to acquire an entirely new wardrobe and attitude. I’d rather keep my jeans and hang out in the ivory tower just a little longer. It’s the devil I know.
I’m also facing the classic problem of having a partner who makes much more than I ever will. Sure, there were those two glorious months — between his years in medical school and his residency — where I made more than he did. (OK, so he was making nothing, but I still made more!) That’s over now. I’m facing a lifetime of always making less than him, no matter how successful I am.
And if you ever want to feel even worse about the practical applications of your research, date a surgeon. “Hey baby, I finally worked out that complex theoretical construct that no one cares about but me. What? You cured someone’s cancer again today?” Don’t get me wrong, he’s supportive and actually thinks my research is useful. I know my insecurity on this issue is self-inflicted, but that doesn’t make me feel better most days.
Deep down inside, we all want to do something that matters, right? Asking ourselves if what we do matters is one of the hardest questions out there, if we’re being honest. It bothers me to think that I might take a job somewhere just to have a job. I thought seven years of graduate school would have prevented that.
I am tripping over my own success. I’ve done so many things right that I’m terrified of doing something wrong. Can’t I just take one more class? One more semester?
At some level, I know I belong in academe, but do I belong here right now? Maybe I do need to see the real world for a while. But then I have this vision: It’s me in a long, flowy dress and a necklace big enough to have its own story. I’m sitting in this funky, yet comfortable office, surrounded by books. It’s fall, and students are popping in to ask questions. A colleague and I go to get coffee and on the way there, the air is crisp and cool. We have charming discussions about books and bad television shows, we complain about our students and the administration. And I am so happy. The thought of it just makes me want to run out and buy school supplies.
I am at a crossroads. I could apply for faculty positions or go the nonacademic route. I could look at postdocs or think about getting a master’s in public health. I could give it all up, continue to teach the dance classes that have helped pay the bills, finally plan my wedding, become a trophy wife, and be the most interesting person at every cocktail party.
My life is my own Choose Your Own Adventure! book. And I really just want to read ahead to make sure I’m not on the path that leads to me tripping in the abandoned mansion and falling into the never-ending pit.
