I've been feeling unemployable these days. I know better, of course. I know that I have plenty of soft and hard skills that would make any employer pleased to have me on board. And, when I've got my foot in the door at any given place in the past, they've been amazed at all the things I've been able to do.
I've seen this pattern time and time again-- I'm grudgingly given a chance in a junior position, even though (as HR or the hiring committee always emphasizes) I'm such an unusual candidate. Then my supervisors seem flabbergasted and delighted when I prove myself to be capable, smart, a quick study, organized, and hard-working. I suppose that it's simply another example of bad PR for grad schools-- why should it be a surprise that post academics are exceptionally good employees?
I suppose that I'm tired of feeling like an unconventional applicant. I'm sick of having to explain and defend and rationalize my academic training. I'm running out patience to do the necessary rhetorical gymnastics to try to show how my academic background does prepare me for a given job-- actually quite well, in fact.
In short, I'd like people to be impressed by my combination of work experience and academic credentials. If I saw that combination in another person's resume, I'd be impressed. In fact, I'd want to snap them right up. How can I get my resume in front of hiring managers who share this (apparently rare) perspective?
Tuesday 15 October 2013
Sunday 1 September 2013
From overachiever to underachiever
I was shopping at a bookstore the other day, and happened to browse through Twentysomething: Why Do Young Adults Seem Stuck?, by Robin Marantz Henig and Samantha Henig (a mother-daughter team). There was one particular story that jumped out at me while I was flipping through, and I wanted to share this familiar story here.
Jean Li completed her PhD in Chemistry at Columbia, but realized that although she excelled at chemistry, she didn't actually enjoy doing it for a living. She smartly decided to pursue corporate consulting work (hurrah for post-academic career paths-- congrats, Jean!) but still feels "burned out and cynical about research and the academic world."
Jean's full story, as related in Twentysomething, is definitely worth reading: you can view her story over two pages at this link. But the part of this book that really grabbed me was a quote from the author after relating her story.
The authors noted that "[Jean] finished her doctorate-- she's thorough that way-- but now she isn't sure what to do next. Whatever it is, she is going to have to deal with the shift from precocious achiever to late bloomer, having lost precious time getting started on her 'real' career." [link]
Perhaps this shift is what stings the most as we transition from academic to post-academic career paths. It hurts to feel like you're moving from overachiever to underachiever in one fell swoop. The majority of us who pursued graduate work were excellent students, consistently at the top of our class. We went on to do higher levels of specialized academic work because we were smart, because we were good at what we did, because we were exceptional. We were in the top 10% (or 5%, or 1%) in our fields. We stood out.
Now? We feel like we're starting all over again, but with the disadvantage of time having passed. We fear that to the outside world we simply look like book-smart nerds who poured time, energy, and resources into useless degrees. We fear, even more, that those outside observers just might be right. We're no longer special, no longer exceptional, no longer high achievers for our age. It stings to lose the advantages for which we've fought so hard and bitterly.
On a more positive note, Julie Clarenbach recently wrote an insightful post over at Escape the Ivory Tower, entitled "You Don't Cease Being Smart." Her conclusion to the post was particularly comforting:
Instead, I feel like I'm no better off than I was at the end of undergrad. Where would I have been if I'd pursued a career path straight out of my bachelor's? Or at least right after my master's? Would I be happier? More fulfilled? Would I be enjoying my life? Or would I ironically regret not having done my PhD?
Jean Li completed her PhD in Chemistry at Columbia, but realized that although she excelled at chemistry, she didn't actually enjoy doing it for a living. She smartly decided to pursue corporate consulting work (hurrah for post-academic career paths-- congrats, Jean!) but still feels "burned out and cynical about research and the academic world."
Jean's full story, as related in Twentysomething, is definitely worth reading: you can view her story over two pages at this link. But the part of this book that really grabbed me was a quote from the author after relating her story.
The authors noted that "[Jean] finished her doctorate-- she's thorough that way-- but now she isn't sure what to do next. Whatever it is, she is going to have to deal with the shift from precocious achiever to late bloomer, having lost precious time getting started on her 'real' career." [link]
Perhaps this shift is what stings the most as we transition from academic to post-academic career paths. It hurts to feel like you're moving from overachiever to underachiever in one fell swoop. The majority of us who pursued graduate work were excellent students, consistently at the top of our class. We went on to do higher levels of specialized academic work because we were smart, because we were good at what we did, because we were exceptional. We were in the top 10% (or 5%, or 1%) in our fields. We stood out.
Now? We feel like we're starting all over again, but with the disadvantage of time having passed. We fear that to the outside world we simply look like book-smart nerds who poured time, energy, and resources into useless degrees. We fear, even more, that those outside observers just might be right. We're no longer special, no longer exceptional, no longer high achievers for our age. It stings to lose the advantages for which we've fought so hard and bitterly.
On a more positive note, Julie Clarenbach recently wrote an insightful post over at Escape the Ivory Tower, entitled "You Don't Cease Being Smart." Her conclusion to the post was particularly comforting:
It’s part of why we resist leaving, even when we know we’d be happier elsewhere. What if leaving means we weren’t really that smart after all?
But you are that smart after all. Leaving or staying has nothing to do with how smart you are. It only has to do with the situation at hand: what jobs are available, how well or ill your values and priorities match up with the market, and what actually makes you happy.
So if that fear is rattling around in your brain, bring it into the light. Look at it. Feel some compassion for the young, scared part of you who is worried it means you’re not special anymore. Sweetie, you are special, and you are that smart. And you will continue to be special and smart wherever you land. [read full post here]I love Julie's perspective, but I confess that I'm not quite there yet. I feel like if I'd been smarter, I would have left sooner. I wouldn't have been suckered into doing the PhD in the first place. I would have pursued a career path that challenged me and rewarded me for my effort in practical terms (meaningful work, salary, benefits, security, seniority).
Instead, I feel like I'm no better off than I was at the end of undergrad. Where would I have been if I'd pursued a career path straight out of my bachelor's? Or at least right after my master's? Would I be happier? More fulfilled? Would I be enjoying my life? Or would I ironically regret not having done my PhD?
Saturday 31 August 2013
The meaninglessness of academic work
For a post-academic, I'm pretty well set up. I've amassed years of professional and diverse work experience while completing my MA and PhD, and am in the very final stages of prepping my dissertation for submission. I should be more pleased with myself. I've managed to keep one foot in the academic universe, and one foot in the professional workplace. This juggling act wasn't easy-- it exhausted me frequently. But the happy consequence is that I have a respectable resume and am nearly on my way to having a PhD from a prestigious research-based institution, as well. I ought to be happier. So why do I feel like I spent the last half decade making a series of dumb professional decisions, instead?
I made the decision long ago to leave academia. I wasn't even sure that I wanted to pursue a PhD at all, but I was (regretfully) swayed by what I thought was the impartial advice of a valued mentor. In retrospect, I see that zhe had hir own reasons for encouraging me to pursue the advanced degree. In defense of my younger self, I asked the right probing questions, I expressed concern over the state of the academic job market, I adopted a practical view. But the glib reassurances of my mentor soothed me (and I didn't want to feel like I was letting hir down) and against my own preferences I applied to two top programs in my field. I secretly assumed I wouldn't get admitted to either program and would be absolved of guilt. Instead, I was admitted to both.
I knew by the end of the first semester of my program that this career path was not for me. And yet I stayed. I'm not entirely sure why I did so. Perhaps it was my lack of other obvious paths, perhaps it was my determination to prove that I was intelligent and could manage to succeed in this challenging program, perhaps it was simply my love for the city in which I was studying. Whatever the reason, I stayed. I worked hard. I excelled. And I hated it.
I love research. And I love teaching, too (though this isn't popular to say in my elitist, snobby, research-focused program). The combination of those two facts means that it pulls at my heartstrings when I realize that I will be saying farewell to academia forever once my dissertation is completed. The sad truth is that a love for teaching and a love for research isn't enough to make me love academia. It should be. I thought it would be.
The sad truth that I've discovered during my time in grad school is that the main thing you need to be able to tolerate in academia is meaninglessness. The theories we study and argue about and shove down the throats of unwilling undergrads? Largely meaningless.* The hardest part of writing a dissertation was the futility of all my effort. I was putting in hours of research, structuring, writing-- for what? A lengthy tome which was of no use to the world which no one would read, nor should they. Heck, I barely wanted to read it.
I had all these research skills, all these persuasive writing skills, all these analytical skills, all these project management skills, and yet I was frittering them away on an utterly meaningless piece of work. What on earth had led me to this? As a child and young adult, I'd imagined that my work would do something of consequence in the world. Nothing too large-- I didn't have the ego to sustain those kinds of dreams-- but something respectable, that made the world slightly better for a least a few people. Work that helped somebody, somewhere, in some small way. Instead, I was locked inside a turret of my own construction, putting in long hours of toil on a project that was a waste of paper and computer space.
When did it become a good idea to take smart, idealistic young minds and put them to work on challenging intellectual projects with absolutely no practical benefit whatsoever? Who thought that would be a good decision?
I can't say any of this in my academic setting, of course. Heaven forbid that I break the illusion that we're all doing Very Important Intellectual Work That The Proletariat Simply Does Not Understand. Instead, I must grit my teeth and compliment the lovely embroidery on the absent clothes of the emperor.
-------------------------
* This situation is particular to my own field of research. I wouldn't want those academics who are working on more meaningful projects to feel included in my somewhat dramatic generalization.
I made the decision long ago to leave academia. I wasn't even sure that I wanted to pursue a PhD at all, but I was (regretfully) swayed by what I thought was the impartial advice of a valued mentor. In retrospect, I see that zhe had hir own reasons for encouraging me to pursue the advanced degree. In defense of my younger self, I asked the right probing questions, I expressed concern over the state of the academic job market, I adopted a practical view. But the glib reassurances of my mentor soothed me (and I didn't want to feel like I was letting hir down) and against my own preferences I applied to two top programs in my field. I secretly assumed I wouldn't get admitted to either program and would be absolved of guilt. Instead, I was admitted to both.
I knew by the end of the first semester of my program that this career path was not for me. And yet I stayed. I'm not entirely sure why I did so. Perhaps it was my lack of other obvious paths, perhaps it was my determination to prove that I was intelligent and could manage to succeed in this challenging program, perhaps it was simply my love for the city in which I was studying. Whatever the reason, I stayed. I worked hard. I excelled. And I hated it.
I love research. And I love teaching, too (though this isn't popular to say in my elitist, snobby, research-focused program). The combination of those two facts means that it pulls at my heartstrings when I realize that I will be saying farewell to academia forever once my dissertation is completed. The sad truth is that a love for teaching and a love for research isn't enough to make me love academia. It should be. I thought it would be.
The sad truth that I've discovered during my time in grad school is that the main thing you need to be able to tolerate in academia is meaninglessness. The theories we study and argue about and shove down the throats of unwilling undergrads? Largely meaningless.* The hardest part of writing a dissertation was the futility of all my effort. I was putting in hours of research, structuring, writing-- for what? A lengthy tome which was of no use to the world which no one would read, nor should they. Heck, I barely wanted to read it.
I had all these research skills, all these persuasive writing skills, all these analytical skills, all these project management skills, and yet I was frittering them away on an utterly meaningless piece of work. What on earth had led me to this? As a child and young adult, I'd imagined that my work would do something of consequence in the world. Nothing too large-- I didn't have the ego to sustain those kinds of dreams-- but something respectable, that made the world slightly better for a least a few people. Work that helped somebody, somewhere, in some small way. Instead, I was locked inside a turret of my own construction, putting in long hours of toil on a project that was a waste of paper and computer space.
When did it become a good idea to take smart, idealistic young minds and put them to work on challenging intellectual projects with absolutely no practical benefit whatsoever? Who thought that would be a good decision?
I can't say any of this in my academic setting, of course. Heaven forbid that I break the illusion that we're all doing Very Important Intellectual Work That The Proletariat Simply Does Not Understand. Instead, I must grit my teeth and compliment the lovely embroidery on the absent clothes of the emperor.
-------------------------
* This situation is particular to my own field of research. I wouldn't want those academics who are working on more meaningful projects to feel included in my somewhat dramatic generalization.
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