The First Time I Said, "Please Think About It"

She was one of my better students, but surely not a genius.  Some would have said she was geeky, but she wasn't asocial or antisocial.  She was just one of those young people--which many of us were, and some of us still are--who loved to read and write about what she read, and cared about those things more than other things that mattered to most people her age.


After taking two classes with me, she asked for a letter of recommendation.  I wrote her a general letter, and two letters specifically for programs to which she was applying.  One day, I saw her beaming from the other end of the corridor.  "I got in! I got in!"


We planned to sit down at a later date and discuss a few things related to her future.  That day came a few weeks later, just after her graduation.  In the meantime, I found myself worrying about this young woman.  At first, it didn't make sense to me:  Even though she wasn't going to be the next Harold Bloom (as if we need another!), I was confident she could survive graduate school.  However, when the day came, I had a prolonged moment of clarity. 


"What do you plan to do after graduate school?"


"Oh, I don't know..."


"Do you want to be a professor?"


"I don't know...maybe not...I'm not so sure..."


Then, I said something I never before said to anybody:  "Well, don't go to graduate school unless you can answer that for yourself."


"But I love to read and write..."


"I understand how you feel.  But you need to think about why you're going to spend more time in school.  You don't need it if you want to read and write..."


"But what else can I do?"


I thought for a moment and suggested mentioned some of the usual ideas:  law school (I can see Nando and Painterguy grimacing now, but what did I know back then?), journalism, joining AmeriCorps or the Peace Corps, among others.   


Her eyes widened, and her face tightened, with fear.


"But...Didn't you say I'm one of your best students?"


"Indeed I did.  And I mean that.  But that's the reason why you should be opening yourself up to more possibilities."


"But you love what you do."


"Yes."  I paused.  "But now I'm going to tell you something I've never told a student before: I'm not so sure that I would do it again."


Her fear turned to hurt.  "W-What do you mean?"


"Well, I spent lots of years stringing together part-time teaching jobs.  And there were people who graduated from even better schools, with better grades, and who had scholarly publications, who were doing the same thing.  This is my first full-time job, and it's going to end next year.  Some of those people have never had, and never will have, a full-time faculty position."


I stopped when I was about to say that the program to which she was accepted was considered, at best, second-tier by those who hire for the few tenure-track positions available in English, Literature and related subjects.  That could have been another, and much longer conversation unto itself.


"So why have all the other professors been telling me I should go to graduate school?"


"Well, they are right in seeing your potential.  I don't deny that you have it.  And you're as hard a worker as any of us has seen.  But they have their reasons why they're egging you on."


Another long pause.  "Can you tell me some of those reasons?"


I paused, and started an explanation that, to this day, I'm not sure was entirely cogent.  I started with the recent re-organization of the college into schools of Arts and Sciences, Professional Studies and Business. For years, the numbers of business majors and students in "professional studies" (which included, among other things, the health professions and social work) far outnumbered those in any of the liberal arts or pure sciences (math, chemistry and such).  And the new administration said they were allocating funds according to, not only the enrollments, but the "successes" of the department.


The sciences and professional studies could "prove" their worth with grants, which are far more readily available to them than they are for, say, English, History or Philosophy.  So, what are some of the other ways those departments can show they're successful?  One of them, it turns out, is the number of students they send on to graduate schools, particularly those that are on a "direct" PhD (no Master's) track.


One of the rationales given by the English Department (in which I was teaching) and other departments was that they were encouraging more "minority" students to become scholars and professors.  


The student stared blankly--something I'd never seen her do before--for what seemed like an eternity.  Then, she wondered, "So I'm being used?"


"If that is the conclusion you come to, you won't get any disagreement from me."  I don't know where that came from, but, yes, I said it.


"So..What should I do?"


"Go and find a space--within yourself--where you have only that calm voice within yourself to listen to.  That's when you'll start getting the answers."


Another pause.  "Whatever you decide, I'll support it.  If you want to apply for other, better, PhD programs, I'll write letters for you.  But think about this conversation."


She has remained in touch with me.  I have returned to stringing together adjunct gigs since my non-tenure-track position expired a year ago.  She's tutoring in the college's Writing Center and working part-time with a non-profit organization.  She still hasn't decided what she wants to do yet, but she feels now that she's better off than she would have been had she gone to graduate school.  And, she said, her parents have been surprisingly supportive. 


After all, she says, they want her to get married and give them grandchildren.  And they'd like to see her own a home, whether by herself or with someone else. They now realize, she says, that they might not live to see her do those things if she goes for her PhD.