Like Dating After a Divorce

By Jean Scott

Leaving a tenure-track position and going back on the job market is a bit like dating after a divorce.

Perhaps you prepare yourself by getting a makeover. Maybe you get your hair cut and colored with a dye that doesn't come from a box in the grocery store. Maybe you ask your friends for advice, hoping they will tell you you are still desirable, despite evidence to the contrary.

You also prepare yourself mentally -- to laugh at jokes that aren't funny; to listen attentively to long, boring stories; to overlook inadequacies of stature, status, and the occasional absence of aesthetics -- because, a romantic to the end, you believe that out there somewhere you will find it, your perfect fit, your true love, the "one."

Unfortunately, just as divorce can sour you on the prospect of romantic love so, too, can the not-quite-mutual decision of college and scholar to part ways sour you on the prospect of the perfect academic fit.

Perhaps it should have been obvious to me that my college and I were not the best match. After all, I have always been a vocal feminist, a California girl to the core. I was educated at large research universities on the West Coast, where I studied English literature and film, writing copious essays about sex and gender.

In contrast, the small college where I accepted a position was on the East Coast, conservative, and founded by nuns. In the beginning, I was the "breath of fresh air" in which everyone delighted. As a replacement hire for a retiring professor, I brought the promise of new ideas and the theatrical enthusiasm of someone bent on reviving a defunct drama program.

The quirks of the college were exotic and interesting to me; for instance, the practice of rearranging classes for mass or voicing group prayers at the start of faculty senate meetings. The lush lawns and endless flower beds promised an ever-welcoming Eden.

After a few months the sheen and newness wore off. I began to find offensive the repeated questioning, from faculty members and students alike, as to whether I was a Catholic. I bridled when one young woman, in complete seriousness, explained: "Well, you don't have to believe in hell to go there."

I was astonished when students were purportedly offended by my reference to "hell" while teaching Dante's Inferno and Hamlet. I was incensed that the textbooks for survey and writing courses were chosen by department agreement, not by individual faculty members. I was annoyed to discover that the budget for landscaping was larger than the budget for library acquisitions.

Soon, college administrators became just as uncomfortable with me. They worried about my use of unconventional pedagogical practices -- performance-related exercises -- in the classroom. They questioned whether my use of film as a topic to teach research methods was academic enough.

They were horrified to find that I was not only jovial but occasionally brash: I was prone to using salty language, even in front of students. I was frank about my political beliefs, even though they didn't follow church doctrine. I was not, I was informed, "behaving with decorum as befits a woman following in the footsteps of the Sisters."

Although my status as a newly divorced single mother offered ample evidence that I was not, in fact, a nun, apparently I was expected to behave like one.

Just as in a failing marriage, sometimes we cling to the hope that if we work harder and make our dedication more obvious, our relationship will survive. So I worked longer hours, took every opportunity to do service, and did my best to ask for advice.

Administrators, deans, and department chairs, like helpful marriage counselors, started sending letters and memos to one another, and to me, explaining my progress or lack thereof, wondering if I had ever really "embraced" the college. While I thought the notion of a "good fit" was archaic, I did my best to fit into the college culture. I buckled down; I bit my lip.

I had arrived on the campus three years earlier with a newly minted Ph.D. and a store of good will. But no one at my doctoral university had prepared me for the very real possibility that accepting a tenure-track position could be a mistake.

People kept asking if I was "happy" at the college. It was a question I couldn't answer easily.

While the stress of a heavy teaching load exhausted me, the creative freedom I was allowed to direct plays on the campus led to the most fulfilling professional experiences of my career. While I found a number of willing and wonderful mentors on the campus, I was nonetheless frustrated by the constant turnover in the administration.

On the personal front, since signing a contract with the college, I had moved 3,000 miles across the country, bought a suddenly crumbling Victorian house, witnessed the complete devastation of my finances, survived a miserable divorce, and was left raising a child alone. The strain was evident. Whether I was "happy" didn't seem relevant.

One afternoon, I learned the college had decided not to invest any money in theater, regardless of the year I had been asked to spend writing a strategic plan for reviving the drama minor. That same afternoon, college officials informed me that my chances of surviving the tenure process were slim. The marriage was over.

But what's the biggest difference between dating after a divorce and leaving a tenure-track job to go on the job market?

Well, I didn't have to rely on my ex-husband to write letters of recommendation to potential boyfriends. Asking your department head, dean, or vice president for a letter -- after you've been summarily rejected -- is perhaps one of the most humiliating and humbling experiences of academic life.

But people might surprise you; they surprised me.

When I mentioned I would need letters of recommendation for my job search, the reactions of my chair, dean, and even the vice president gave me faith in kindness and integrity, and in the remarkable human ability to overlook personal differences and seek the best for one another.

To a person, they have all expressed an earnest desire to write on my behalf and to support my search. They complimented my talents. They expressed interest in my success. They wanted me to be happy.

They might not have wanted me (by mutual agreement, we've acknowledged that we really weren't right for each other), but they seem certain that a college eager for my talents is waiting for me. Romantics to the end, they believe I'll find a better position. And, not coincidentally, they believe somewhere out there is the right scholar -- so unlike me as to make the comparison humorous -- for them.

Six months ago, about the time the college and I signed a terminal contract, I would have decried the notion of a perfect fit as a ludicrous fiction. After all, I'd spent a decade married to someone I didn't love, relying on the practicality of a strong work ethic and the gravity of vows and a signed license to make the relationship functional. I was prepared to argue, with verve, that the concept of "true love" was nothing more than a remnant of medieval courtly traditions.

But then I stumbled upon him -- the perfect fit, the "one" true love -- and my rational convictions crumbled. I've even found myself contemplating marriage again. If I am lucky enough to find the right fit in my personal life, what is to keep me from finding it in my professional career?