“That’s really great. Thank you.”
“Well, we’re trying to convince you that you could be happy here.”
Happy sounded nice. And as we pulled up to the handsome hotel, buttery yellow clapboard and stately brick, grand, exuberant trees framing the cobblestone driveway, I thought it might even be possible.
In the profession, the academic job interview is referred to as a “campus visit”—as in (whispered with a mix of envy and skepticism),She got four campus visits before even filing her dissertation. While it sounds pastoral, in fact the campus visit is a treacherous terrain of land mines and booby traps: a day or two of nonstop meetings, with department chairs and the search committee, with various deans of bizarrely specific subdivisions of bureaucratizedauthority (none of whom, if you land the job, you will ever see again). Teaching demos, lunch with students. The so-called “job talk,” the presentation of your research—you must appear smart but not intimidatingly so; nothing to threaten any fragile egos. Dinner with faculty at which you order a meal you barely touch, since you are performing and don’t want to talk with your mouth full or splash curry down the front of your interview shirt. The advice given to terrified grad students prepping for their first campus visit is “Be yourself,” which is, of course, the opposite of what you should do.
I woke quite early, wired and alert, and went for a quick run, just a few miles, to burn off some energy. Back at the hotel, I showered and dressed; I’d laid out and ironed my clothes the night before. Because of the tight timeline—I was the third of three candidates they were seeing in just a few weeks—they had compressed the schedule down to a single day. I double-checked I had my notes and my backup file and followed Gabrielle’s directions to my first appointment, a breakfast meeting with the dean of the college at eight-thirty. It was fine, really, a pleasant enough start. From there I met with the search committee, and then two more deans. As the day went on—really, just a series of conversations—a strange feeling grew inside me. Not a bad one, but something I couldn’t quite place. In the afternoon, I did a teaching demo. They had me visit a Comp class, which many programs treat as grunt work. But the new department chair, Sam—an affable guy with a mop of wild curly hair and bright blue eyes that actually sparkled—explained they were trying to reinvigorate the curriculum, encouraging faculty to experiment. The students were humble and engaged, the conversation easy, and I felt a tremendous gratitude—they were making this easy. As they set up lunch for me to chat with themajors, I waited with Sam in his office. It was hoarder-level packed with books and papers and boxes. I said the students seemed really smart, and he concurred. “You did a great job in there,” he said. “That’s what education should be. A way to play.”
And then I understood the odd and unsettling feeling: I was enjoying myself. The realization that things were going well made the rest of the day go even better. The department was, as Gabrielle had promised, a warm and friendly bunch, free of the typical academic pathologies of narcissistic self-loathing. This seemed to be a group that genuinely, impossibly, liked what they were doing. The day would end with the job talk and then dinner. Before the talk, they gave me a half hour of solo time, stationed in a side room. I spent it looking out a window at the lawn beyond, watching the patterns of Southern light shimmer and shift. When the time drew close, Gabrielle came to fetch me.
“How are we feeling?”
“I think okay, actually,” I said. “This has been weirdly enjoyable.”
She smiled. “Everyone is buzzing about you.”
“Really?”
“I shouldn’t say any of this. Famous last words, right? But things are not looking great for the other two candidates. The first guy we brought out, people liked, but no one was obsessed with him. We knew he’d be solid and he was. But word is he’s up for a job at Northwestern and is probably looking for a counteroffer for leverage. And I don’t think anyone wants to waste our time getting drawn into that. The second candidate was great, really smart, but she blew the visit and just kind of fell apart. She’s green. She’ll be ready in another year or two. Please do not tell anyone I said any of this,” she laughed, “or I’ll be looking for a job. But things are going exceptionally well for you. I think this last part will be fun.”
And it was. The lecture went off without a hiccup. The questions were generous and interested, none of that performative nonsense from the audience. I’d been so deeply immersed in the book project it was easy to discuss. I could feel it, the way I used to be about this work, I was getting it back. Knowledge that would have ordinarily sent me into terrified hiding—I wanted this job, I really did—even that felt good. It felt good to want something that was right to want, and that could truly be mine.
Dinner wrapped and I thanked the committee members, all vigorous handshakes and big smiles. Sam said they would be meeting soon and he’d be in touch. He reminded me to send him receipts for cabs or anything else. Desiree, who was as brilliant as Gabrielle had said—I’d asked about her book at dinner and could have listened to her talk all night—said she’d get me back to the hotel. Once in her car, though, she said, “Gabrielle did warn you that we’re kidnapping you for the night?”
“She did.”
“Fabulous. We’re getting together at her place. I know you must be wiped out, but you can relax. This part is just for hanging out. A group did this for me when I interviewed.”
“Sounds great,” I said. “I’m all yours.”
“Careful,” she said, and then gunned it through the light.
Gabrielle lived with her boyfriend, an architect named Eric from Minneapolis who Desiree described as a “creamy vanilla milkshake.” We were on the northern edge of the French Quarter; Desiree lived just around the corner. She parked on a narrow cobbled street, sliding into a space that seemed impossibly tight. An inch maybe on either side. It was a Friday night and the streetsteemed with crowds shouting and laughing, drinks in hand. We entered a gate from the sidewalk and squeezed down a narrow passageway, the brick wall to our side laced in vines. We emerged into a courtyard, dozens of potted plants and votive candles crowding the ground. Strings of soft lights crisscrossed overhead.
“You made it!” Gabrielle clapped her hands together. “Welcome!” She waved us into a circle of low chairs where the rest of the group was already assembled. “Eric!” she yelled into the house; the door was propped open. “Grab that next bottle.”
“We got a head start,” Tommy said. I’d chatted with him and Claire, siting to his left, after the talk.
“This is where you live?” I said. “This is incredible.”
“The place is really small, and it’s kind of falling apart. But it’s dreamy. The owners live in the front house. The wife’s family has been here for generations. Amazing characters.”
“Every time we’re here,” Claire said, “her landlord claims some other lineage. Who was it last time?”
“Something about Wynton Marsalis?” Tommy said.
“Right,” Gabrielle said. “That her mother was a cousin of Wynton Marsalis’s mother. Or her mother’s cousin was?”
Eric emerged from the doorway—he was tall and thick, vanilla milkshake was right—a bottle of red in one hand and a pizza box in the other.
“You must be the guest of honor. Gabrielle says today went great.”
“Don’t embarrass him, Eric. You know academics can’t handle praise.”
“I think all we want is validation,” Claire said. “But we picked a miserly profession that metes out the tiniest portions of affirmation,just one thimble-full every few years. So we’re desperate for it, but ashamed of the need.”
“Please,” Tommy whined, “tell me I’m worthy.”
