Unfortunately, my major advisor, Dr. Clive Butler, was not a positive influence. Victoria Perez blessed me with her guidance as a master’s student. Her example encouraged me to continue toward a doctoral degree with the ultimate goal of become a university professor after graduation. Since leaving Dr. Perez’ fold, Butler exposed me to another facet of academia, occupied by self-serving ambitious people who were not necessarily interested in educating their students, but using them as low-cost laborers. Initially I faced this problem by vowing never to become part of it. I would be the virtuous professor who treated her students as colleagues.
I should have thanked Dr. Butler for providing me with both sides of the story and allowing me a clearer picture of the profession I considered entering. It may have been the first time in my life that I viewed one of my decisions with a realistic perspective of its good and bad aspects. With Dr. Perez’s rosy attitude and motherly compassion at my side, I felt loved and able to overcome all obstacles, which was precisely what I needed at the time. Had I continued to work with a professor like Victoria Perez, I may have remained shielded or oblivious to reality’s other dimensions. While it was not his intention to provide this service, Clive Butler made me wary and observant. I saw situations for what they really were rather than how I wanted them to be.
In the spring, Butler sent me and my textile science associate, Chen Xue, to a conference in North Carolina to make a poster presentation of our cooperative efforts on the children’s flame retardant clothing study. Butler could not escort us due to a more important commitment trying to secure funding for another project. We were the only representatives from the Carolina Tech graduate student body attending this particular function. While this was not my first experience with a professional convention, it was my first without a faculty chaperone or the support of several fellow students. I would have panicked had Chen Xue not been able to accompany me. Still a shy person, I dreaded walking into a room alone, especially a room filled with older adults sipping cocktails.
Xue and I stood dutifully beside our presentation and answered questions politely and intelligently. Students usually grab the opportunity to attend conferences and other meetings. They provide experience, exposure, and resume recipients. Graduate students hand out resumes shamelessly at professional functions hoping to locate employment possibilities in their specific research area. Although I would not graduate for at least another year, I handed out resumes to anyone who appeared receptive. I was not the shy disaster I perceived, but I never felt comfortable interacting with all of these highly educated and accomplished people who were old enough to be my parents or grandparents. The youngest of the contingent was about ten years older than Xue and me.
Chen Xue did not suffer from isolation at the North Carolina conference. She interacted comfortably with Chinese students from other universities. She seemed to know everyone, and those whom she did not know, she met. Foreign students formed networks of countrymen that offered academic, professional and personal support. If Chen Xue had a problem or concern about her research, career, or finding an inexpensive long distance calling plan; someone within the network of Chinese scholars could suggest meaningful advice. I admired the sincerity and kindness of this group. Without understanding their language, I did not sense the cutthroat competitiveness that emanated from people like Dr. Butler. Of course, Xue’s friends were still students, struggling to graduate. They have may become considerably more individualistic once vying for the same limited pool of grant funding, but I doubted it.
After hours in the laboratories together, Xue and I formed a strong friendship. While we spent little social time together outside of school, we developed mutual respect and worked well together. Chen Xue readily introduced me to members of her Chinese circle both on campus and at the conference. In her caring and generous way, Xue attempted to share her network with me. Aside from Talbert, Gregory and a few others, I did not belong to a larger circle of American graduate students. These groups may have existed for more gregarious types or for students in larger departments, but they did not exist for me.
Upon her insistence, I accompanied Xue to a cocktail social where attendees could exchange ideas and business cards. I had already passed out my quota of resumes while manning our booth, so I spared myself the chore of trying to unload a few more. Entering the hotel’s ballroom, I immediately felt conscious of my homemade pantsuit and youthful appearance. Graying and baldheaded men mixed with each other and several mature women. Xue quickly found a group of Asian students and led me in their direction. A courteous gathering, they spoke English for my benefit, but I sensed that they would have rather laughed and joked in their own language. How I wished Talbert could have attended this conference!
Small clusters of older adults nursed or inhaled their drinks becoming increasingly boisterous. No one paid attention to the pockets of graduate students, not even those people who said they wanted to ask us more questions later at the cocktail party. Those questions paled in comparison to renewing old acquaintances and forging new alliances. Business was happening all around me. I could almost sense grant money changing hands and research proposals taking shape. I saw a woman with whom I had an interesting conversation about bridal apparel when she stopped at our display. I had wanted to sit down with her and continue the discussion. She nodded seriously to another man and woman while holding a small glass dripping with condensation. They appeared to be engrossed in serious negotiations. I dared not approach the fascinating woman. Meanwhile, my companions had lapsed into Chinese conversation leaving me standing awkwardly and looking around the room. I did not belong there. The hors d’oeuvres table beckoned, but the likelihood of standing beside it like a wallflower shoving toothpicked wieners into my mouth paralyzed me.
Not only did I feel alienated among the Chinese graduate students who had been so polite to me, I did not belong at that social hour. I knew no one, and introducing myself to another group of students made my gut burn with nervousness. Petrified, I began to feel sick to my stomach. I had to get out of there! Touching Xue’s arm, I told her that I was going back to our room. Xue barely interrupted her dialogue to acknowledge my departure. Without breaking into a sprint, I escaped the ballroom, into the lobby and disappeared into a waiting elevator. Back in the room, I collapsed on my bed, displaced, intimidated and alone. My heart pounded trying to rid my metabolism of cocktail party anxiety. I picked up the phone book, and thumbed through it to the “skating rinks” section. I found a potential outlet for my stress and dialed the number.
Xue and I had driven to the conference in my car, therefore the hotel did not hold me hostage. I left the parking lot in the dark for a rink I had never seen to seek shelter from my fear.
Socially inept in a professional context, I made friends immediately in the strange new skating facility. Here I had something to say and reason to interact with others. I felt comfortable on the ice and readily shared my passion with other skaters, particularly fellow adults. I liked ice skating better than my academic pursuits and was probably a better skater than a consumer scientist, though I still was not an exceptional skater. However, both adults and children approached me to comment on my layback, which had consumed a significant fraction of my practice sessions for the last few months. I experimented with side-by-side spins with a man who also skated clockwise. We had a fabulous time pretending to be pair skaters. Neither of us held much hope for a permanent partner, due to a universal shortage of lefties. We tried a pair spin and collapsed in a heap together. I had a wonderful time at the rink; an impossibility at the conference. If I wanted to succeed as an academian, maybe I had to treat the world like a big freestyle session.
I did not decide my future based on one uncomfortable evening, but it did make me aware of the possible mismatch between my personality and the modern academic environment. As an undergraduate student at a state college, my professors focused on classroom teaching. Few were involved in research, and even fewer emphasized research over interaction with students. Victoria Perez taught during a different era, an era before industry farmed out its research to universities, and university administration expected academic departments to act as financially self-supporting entities. I did not notice this development as an undergraduate student, though it may have been underway for decades. As I neared graduation, downsizing became the corporate trend and outsourcing changed the face of university protocol. I wanted to be a professor like Dr. Perez, a teacher and scholar, not a businesswoman. Perez may have been more entrepreneurial earlier in her career. I either did not know or failed to ask the right questions. The university sphere seemed to be evolving rapidly and I found myself facing a profession that no longer appealed to me. After more than three years of doctoral study, I questioned my ambition to become a professor and began to contemplate a future in the private sector.
When the time came to send out resumes on a serious quest for employment, I applied for several academic positions, in spite of these misgivings. With an interdisciplinary doctorate, many departments in core fields; such as psychology, statistics and business; did not even acknowledge receipt of my resume with a thin envelope politely telling me to pound sand. Consumer specific departments either ignored my application in a pile that may have contained dozens or hundreds of candidates or arranged a telephone interview that never led to an in-person meeting. Many doctoral students pursue their course of study precisely because they aspire to professorship. My unremarkable academic record and lack of relevant employment did not make my resume glitter among the multitude. Still holding out for a teaching position, I discovered that even small, private liberal arts colleges expected new faculty members to establish “rigorous externally funded research programs”. All of the schools wanted an outline of the applicant’s research ideas. I wrote a stellar description of bridal apparel and skating costume projects. This document garnered a few telephone calls from curious selection committee chairmen. My unique ideas demonstrated creativity and inventiveness, but not practicality. The few true teaching professorships that I identified probably attracted resumes from countless industry professionals with years of experience who wanted a change or were forced into retirement. My resumes disappeared into a void, not even meriting a pre-formatted rejection letter. My final academic option involved adjunct professorships; teaching a few classes and being paid for piecework. Semi-retired people or those who earned their living primarily from another source usually held these positions. Teaching a couple of classes would not generate enough income by itself to pay the rent, much less for private skating lessons.
I left the conference with its uncomfortable social situations fresh in my mind. Chen Xue decided to stay with friends in North Carolina for the weekend, so I drove home without her company. Alone in the car, I had nothing to do but listen to the radio and contemplate my narrow and uninviting array of career options, hopeful for a teaching professorship. Once the trepidation of the cocktail party diminished, I did not necessarily doubt my ability to become a research professor and establish a “rigorous externally funded program”, I merely doubted my desire to do so. I wanted to be an educator, not an administrator constantly rooting around for the next grant dollar. I wanted to be involved in my research projects rather than overseeing them from a proverbial ivory tower. Dr. Butler and his colleagues spent so much time writing proposals, brown-nosing and traveling that they had no time to work with us in the laboratory. Graduate students became pairs of hands rather than intelligent and capable associates. Maybe Butler preferred this arrangement, but I did not.
Confused and distracted, I stopped at a fabric store I had seen from the highway while driving to the conference. Without Chen Xue, I could explore the place for as long as I wished. The store was enormous and contained a bridal department larger than most fabric shops and wedding dress salons. Bolts, rolls and displays of exquisite bridal textiles covered every shelf and rounder. Cases sparkled with laces, trims and rhinestones. Applique samples papered the walls. As a former bridal consultant who dreamed of a career in wedding fashion design, the magnitude of this place caused my heart to palpitate.
By the time I left the amazing fabric store, the afternoon had passed and I had selected lace and satin to construct my very own wedding dress. Among the materials of nuptial mystique, I forgot my paranoia and took refuge in my engagement to Neil. I would need a gown for our wedding; regardless of which profession I pursued after graduation. The yardgoods cost more than I could afford, but working on the gown whenever I had a free hour or two would provide a pleasant diversion from my research. I also expected the Martinsville rink to close for the summer, allowing extra time for a major sewing commitment.
I dealt with misgivings about becoming a professor in the same manner that I dealt with other problems; by skating and finding sanctuary in a comfortable, old relationship. The first method was healthy and productive, the second was not. Even though Neil and I planned to marry, I could not hide from my concerns behind a diamond ring. Instead of silk satin and alençon lace, I would have been better served by purchasing a length of
Learning the layback spin gave me new perspective as an adult figure skater. It demonstrated that I had the potential to conquer more difficult maneuvers and that quality coaching played an important part in my development. In this way, a coach could have as profound an effect on a skating student as a university professor could have on a college student.
Chapter 28 posted 4/2/01
The content of this site is copyright by K. J. N., 1999 - 2001