The Unruly PhD

Doubts, Detours, Departures, and Other Success Stories

R. Peabody

• Publisher: Palgrave Macmillan
• Year: 2016
• ISBN:
  9781137319463
• Topic: Education
• Subtopic: Higher Education

This collection features former graduate students who speak frankly about the challenges and decisions they faced along the way to their doctorates. Peabody leaves no doubt that there are as many right ways to get through a PhD, and as many right career tracks on the other side, as there are students willing to forge their own paths.

Part I

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PhDs in Academia

Chapter 1

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Derek

PhD, Art History

Tenure-Track Assistant Professor

This academic path was not even acknowledged where I went to grad school. But it all worked out. Everything I did that I shouldn’t have done, that they told me not to do, it all actually led to me being successful on the job market.

Getting There

Los Angeles has always been a part of who I am. The city, the coast, the surfing; I can’t imagine living anywhere else. Academia is also a big part of my identity, but I didn’t realize that until later on in life. My father was a university professor in the social sciences before he went to law school, so by the time I was born, he was both a lawyer and a professor. As a kid I was always on a college campus. I went to college in LA—the same school my parents had both attended—but I got there on a sports scholarship, not through academics. Up until my sophomore year, I thought I was going to be a professional water polo player. Back then, when I thought about my future, which I didn’t do very often, I imagined a continuation of my sports-centric life. I was happy doing what I was doing: going to workouts twice a day, being a student–athlete. Everything changed when I hurt my shoulder during lifeguard training. At the beginning of my sophomore season I had to stop playing.

With water polo gone, I needed to focus my energies somewhere else and I got very into studying; I’d been doing well in my art history classes, so I declared an art history major. Eventually, it was time to graduate and my dream—playing professional water polo—was long gone. By then my father was working as an attorney, and I knew I didn’t want to do what he was doing. My brother also went to law school and he was miserable. I knew that I didn’t want to do what my then-girlfriend, now wife, was doing—she was a graphic artist with an entry-level job at a magazine where she worked really long hours in a tiny cubicle, which just seemed miserable. I wanted to stay on a college campus because that was where I was most comfortable. I wanted to keep the freedom that I’d had as an undergrad. I wanted to go surfing in the morning, then go to the library, and just get lost in books.

I have really great parents who never put any pressure on me. When I was younger, my mom would sometimes ask my dad, “Is it okay that he’s not reading his books?” My dad would say, “Well, he’s reading the sports page. As long as he’s reading something.” I met my wife when I was 21 years old and a junior in college and it was one of those moments, I knew that this was the person that I was going to spend my life with, and so she also played a role in the decisions I was making. She always supported whatever I wanted to do, whether that meant going to grad school, or being a waiter and surfing all the time. All she asked was that we support ourselves, and for me to contribute a thousand dollars a month toward that goal.

In a way, my nominal contribution to our finances was great preparation for graduate school because for the six to ten years it takes to complete a PhD, you’re in this strange liminal space where everyone else you know is climbing the ladder and making more money and having a career; meanwhile you’re a perpetual student, living on fellowships and part-time stuff, not advancing financially at all.

After undergrad, and before the PhD, I did a Master’s degree in art history. I’d only applied to local universities—both out of consideration for my partner’s fledgling career, and out of naiveté about how to build academic credentials. The one I got into wasn’t especially prestigious, but there was a great young art history professor there and I really wanted to work with her. I was bummed because the school wasn’t on the coast, and it was an hour and a half drive from where my partner and I were living. Oddly enough though, that became a really important part of the experience because I ended up commuting to school with my advisor, a brilliant, unbelievable scholar and really caring mentor.

She was the first professor who took an interest in what I was doing. Of course, I didn’t tell her that I was surfing all the time. But we talked about my projects, about her projects, and it was the first time that I understood what it meant to be a professor. I really got a sense of how to think about all kinds of issues: intellectual issues, professional issues. When it came time to apply to PhD programs her letters of recommendation really made a difference. I applied to schools all across the country, but ultimately chose a program in LA at the same school where I’d been an undergrad because there was a professor in the program whose scholarship had become very influential to how I thought about the discipline.

Arguably, I’d already deviated from the path you’re supposed to take if you’re seriously committed to an academic career, but this was one of the first times that I knowingly broke the rules. Everyone at my Master’s school told me I shouldn’t get my PhD from the same school where I’d been an undergrad. They told me that it would look bad when I went on the job market; it would show a lack of exposure to the forces of art history, and it would indicate that I was very narrow in my focus. Now that I think about it, I am pretty narrow in my focus. They were right, but I decided to do it anyway because it was best for my wife, and it was a very comfortable choice for me. Everything important to us was already in the same city—both of our families, my lifeguarding job, a great professor that I really wanted to work with. Also, I was already thinking that maybe, in spite of conventional wisdom, building a network here might make it easier to get a job in LA when I went on the market, however many years later. I was already thinking, “How can I set myself up to not have to leave?” More rule-breaking, of course, because that’s exactly what everyone says not to do. They all say “No, no, no; you’re a failure unless you take the best possible job at the best possible institution, wherever that requires you to move.” I won’t say that all that advice coming from experts didn’t make me nervous, but I was already planning to stay in LA.

Getting Through

I started graduate school for the second time, this time as a PhD student, and I loved it every bit as much as I thought I would. Those early years of graduate school were some of the happiest times of my life. I’d wake up early, go surfing, head to campus, go home for a bit, and then spend the rest of the day in the library. At the same time, my wife was changing careers—moving from being a graphic designer to working in the entertainment industry for a company that was really taking off. Her salary went up and that was great, but it also affected my view of where I was going to end up building a career. Am I going to take a job in rural Virginia for $35,000 a year and commute on the weekends to see my wife? Or seriously ask her to walk away from her job, which was already paying way more than I’d make as an assistant professor? My wife always said she’d do it; she said, “This is my time, professionally; when you graduate and get a job it’ll be your time. We’ll just pack everything up and go.” Maybe she said that because she knew I could never live in rural Virginia. She’s pretty smart.

When I got to graduate school, I found out that I was quite naïve about art history. I was a good writer and I got good grades, but in terms of being an original thinker, I wasn’t very sophisticated. While I was taking my qualifying exams I felt a lot of academic pettiness and passive aggression from some of the faculty. They were critical of my perspective, and of my methodology—but it was never really clear whether the problem was me, or whether it was more about upper-level politics between the various professors.

My wife would want to hear about what I did during the day, but it’s hard to explain the backstabbing, or the insecurity, to someone who’s not living that experience. I was never really immersed in the grad student experience like some people are, which was both good and bad. On the one hand, at the end of the day I could treat it like a job—go home, have dinner with my wife, and talk about movies. But on the other hand, being able to check out each day didn’t erase the tensions of grad school. The whole time my wife had to remind me: “No, no, no, you’re going to finish your PhD; this is something you can do.” I’d have moments of insecurity, and I’d be depressed and wonder what the hell I was doing. Was my dissertation topic even worth writing on? Why was I trying to translate some article from German into English? Sometimes it all seemed so stupid. There were definitely some dark moments where I thought “I’m not going to finish. I can’t, I won’t, and I don’t even know why I’m here.”

I hated the pettiness of it all; I hated the fact that it moved so slowly. I hated that one of my advisors made me feel stupid. You know, there are those moments where you’re sitting in a seminar and there’s someone who’s just smarter than you and more perceptive in their analysis of texts and they have a lot of really interesting things to say. You’re sitting there going “Shit! That’s a really good point. I wouldn’t have thought of that in a hundred years!” There were a lot of those kinds of people at my grad school. My entire life I’ve always felt a little bit—not stupid, but . . . I got into college through athletics, right? So, I’ve always been a bit insecure about that. There have always been smarter kids than me. Then, you get to graduate school and you’re surrounded by the smartest kids. Every graduate student probably looks across the table and thinks “That person’s really smarter than I am.” I certainly did, and that brought on a lot of insecurity.

But, throughout the whole process I was thinking that if I didn’t finish, if I didn’t get a job, I’d just figure something else out. I’m good at cultivating an attitude of, “Oh well; I’ll see how long I can ride this wave.” I don’t like corny surfing metaphors but the ocean can teach you a lot of lessons. There could be days when it looks calm and then you go out and have a near-death experience. There were times when I was rescuing people and the last thought in my mind was “Shit. I am going to die.” That puts things in perspective.

Of course, surfing had to be kept secret the whole time I was in grad school because I didn’t want to be typecast as a dumb surfer. Also, none of the other graduate students and professors seemed to have any hobbies outside of their work. They were all type A personalities: hard-working, committed to their jobs, no life outside of academia. I didn’t want to be like that. I was also hiding the fact that my marriage was always going to be more important than graduate school. If I had to choose between making sure I had a healthy relationship with my wife, or writing the best one-page response paper to Derrida for tomorrow’s seminar, Derrida was going to slide. Who knows how much posturing goes on in grad school, but it seemed like I was the only one prioritizing family. Every other grad student was reading nonstop, constantly in the library, and completely committed to the academic life. Meanwhile, I was caking on sunscreen and wearing hats while lifeguarding. I didn’t want to have too much of a tan, or look like I was really physically active, because that’s not how graduate students look.

After I advanced to candidacy, my wife and I decided to have a child. By that time I was writing my dissertation and adjunct teaching at a local liberal arts college. I was thinking that if I did a really great job, they might remember me later when openings came along. Our plan was that our daughter would be born, my wife would have four months of maternity leave, then she’d go back to work and I’d take care of our daughter during the day and write and teach my class at night. Of course, that was impossible because having a child is all-encompassing. When my wife went back to work I basically took a year off—I didn’t do any work on my dissertation. Sometimes I’d go to the library planning to work and I’d end up playing solitaire because I just needed that space. Being with a baby all day long, and being the primary care-giver, is a really intense experience. It was just the two of us all day long—I was changing diapers, feeding her, getting her to go to sleep. It was a very lonely, very solitary, but fabulous experience. The first time she rolled over, I was there. Every word, I was the person who was there.

When my daughter was two, she started going to daycare two days a week which freed me up a bit—but leaving her for the first time was harrowing. I’d planned to drop her off and then come onto campus to prep for a lecture, but she cried so much; she didn’t want me to leave and it was just awful. I finally left her, but by then I was a mess. I couldn’t go to the library—I couldn’t do anything. I had to go sit in the car and cry, then try to pull myself together to go teach my lecture. Not only were there times where I was crying before walking into a classroom, there were times when I was lecturing about modern and contemporary art with the theme of Teletubbies going through my head. Seriously, those first two years I watched Teletubbies every day and that’s mind-numbing stuff. I’d find myself talking about Piet Mondrian and theosophy and in the back of my mind I’m actually thinking “Theosophy is like this utopian world, sort of like the Teletubby world. It’s just free and easy, it’s beyond language. It’s universal—like Shangri La; theosophy and Teletubbies.”

Throughout that process I was really sensitive about how people perceived me. I hated it when people called me Mr. Mom—suggesting that I’m not as much of a man because I’m not making the money for the family, or because I’m playing a role traditionally held by a woman. But it didn’t make me bitter, just more sensitive. I see, hear, and read things differently now because of that experience and I think it makes me a better teacher and art historian.

There was a tipping point when my daughter was four and started going to school five days a week. For the first time, I had blocks of time to myself and I started to find that space I’d had before she was born. But those four years before she went to school were four years added on to my PhD that we hadn’t expected. I hadn’t planned on not writing a single page for a year. It just happened that way. It was absolutely terrifying at the time. It’s a lot easier looking back on it than it was going through it.

Those years were tough for me in terms of my professional identity, and even though I wasn’t working on my dissertation, I loved coming to campus one night a week, giving my three-hour lecture, then going home and grading papers. I started to get into the groove of teaching and I was doing well at it—getting asked back, and getting a lot of positive feedback. While I was adjuncting, the modern and contemporary art professor left, and I was hired as a temporary replacement. That meant full-time work with benefits, but a 4/4 teaching load—four classes per semester—which is intense. At that point I was nowhere near finishing my dissertation; I’d only written a chapter or two, and I was still the primary care-giver for our daughter. I’d pretty much stopped surfing and was in survival mode. It was so much work; it was awful, but it was great too. For the first time I had an office and a phone, and voice mail. I had a nametag on the door, and I got to go to faculty meetings. I had an identity, and a purpose. After eight years of graduate school you’re just happy to get out of that liminal phase, even if you aren’t really out.

Meanwhile, people from my cohort were applying for fellowships, TA’ing, and publishing. They were setting themselves up in a different way than I was setting myself up. My grad school was a research university and at places like that, they don’t want their grad students teaching at liberal arts colleges. They want you to focus primarily on your scholarship, on publishing, and to get a job at another research university. I could barely find time to work on my dissertation—much less get publications out on the side. So, on the one hand, my peers were probably a little bit jealous that I already had a job, a salary, and a professional path even though I was still a grad student. But on the other hand, some of my professors just gave up on me, thinking, “Well, he’s obviously a lost cause.”

Putting my dissertation completely on hold while my daughter was young, then mostly on hold while I was teaching was really difficult, psychologically. Writing is already challenging; when you’re trying to make time for it in a schedule that has no time to spare—well, I knew that I had to make a heroic effort or it would never get done. If you don’t make the decision to be uncomfortable—sometimes extraordinarily uncomfortable—day after day, for years, it will never happen.

Somehow I did it, but not without a lot of politics and last-minute drama. I had five committee members, and by the time I was finishing, only one was still on campus. Two had left the country, one had moved to a different part of the state, and one had retired. The one still on campus was the one who had always been the most critical of what I was doing. She had other students who were progressing faster, publishing, doing what I should have been doing—instead, I was becoming that graduate student who took ten years to get his PhD. She didn’t take me seriously. By the time I was ready to file I had a job offer, contingent on having my PhD in hand. I had everyone’s signature except for this one advisor who’d given me up as a lost cause. She said, “Oh no, it’s obvious that you need months, maybe even another year, to work on this.” She was aggressively negative, and she would not sign off on the dissertation.

At that point, my life was in the balance. I had a job offer, and I was going to lose it if she didn’t sign. It was only after other committee members put pressure on her that she reconsidered. Finally, the day before the last day to file, I got a call saying, “Oh, I didn’t know I was th...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title
• Part I   PhDs in Academia
• Part II   PhDs Beyond Academia
• Part III   PhDs Redirected
• Join the Conversation
• Index