To grad or not to grad

There’s been a lot of handwringing lately among academics interested in the academic job market over the question of whether one should advise anyone to go to grad school in humanistic disciplines (presumably including the humanistic social sciences like anthropology). To be sure, the job market has been terrible for the past 40 years and this year’s offerings have been mediocre at best, as the financial crunch has (at minimum) decimated endowments and produced an extremely wary attitude among state legislators responsible for public funding. There have been a couple of rather mediocre, although not entirely wrong, articles in the New York Times of late, bemoaning the academic job market and the prospects for graduate students.

But I want to talk about a couple of articles entitled ‘Just Don’t Go’ by Thomas Benton, a regular columnist in the fantastic Chronicle of Higher Education Careers section, which are of interest to me because they are written by a working, tenured academic in the humanities (links here and here). Benton argues that the only honest thing for faculty to tell prospective graduate students in the humanities is not to go to grad school; the prospects are simply too dim, and the waste of effort and of human productivity so immense, that the best thing to do is to give blanket advice not to go. He knows, of course, that many (most?) students who receive this advice will still apply to grad school, because they are drawn to intellectual life.

It’s unsurprising that such advice would become more pertinent in a down job market, where grad school might seem like a safe haven to ride out the economic maelstrom. Benton nevertheless notes that this is not just about this year, but about a general trend in academic employment over many decades. He’s absolutely right: academic employment is sparse and not about to improve dramatically anytime soon, possibly ever. Many people who complete a PhD will never work full-time as tenure-track faculty. And so he is also quite right that discouragement is a rational strategy for faculty confronted with multiple students interested in pursuing the doctorate.

Nevertheless, I find it intellectually dishonest and generally unwise to advise interested students, ‘Don’t go to grad school’. First, because to do so would be the height of hypocrisy, and would be perceived by many as a statement that I (as someone who ‘made it’) don’t think that my students have what it takes to make it. Second, because I think that if you gave every student that advice, some students would take it who shouldn’t, and others wouldn’t who should, with the potential result that the next generation of scholars would consist of those too foolish not to listen to their professor’s good advice. Third, because telling someone anything is less desirable than giving them good information and allowing them to make their own decision.

I do think that there are far too many PhDs in anthropology, and indeed in most of the humanities and social sciences. At the very least, there are too many degree-holders on the job market in comparison to the number of jobs available. While the number of jobs available in academia fluctuates, in most disciplines it has increased modestly over the past 20 years, while the number of candidates has increased dramatically. This Malthusian logic dictates that one’s chances of getting a job are not that great.

The reality is that approximately 50% of PhD graduates in anthropology will eventually end up on the tenure track somewhere (most often within five years of obtaining the degree, after which your chances decrease as you are perceived rightly or wrongly as ‘damaged goods’). Another 25% will end up in professionally-appropriate positions in the public or private sector (this is particularly relevant for anthropologists, for which there are well-defined non-academic yet professional jobs), while the rest end up somewhere else – but very few end up unemployed altogether. Are these chances good enough for you?

They might be. Of course, up to 50% of people who start the degree do not finish, and so saying that 50% of PhDs will hold a tenure-track job eventually is incomplete, because it does not account for the many students who never finish the degree. Now, virtually no one admitted to a doctoral program ‘fails out’ in the sense that they lack the intellect to complete the degree. By far the most common reasons, in my experience, for people not finishing the PhD are a lack of money or a lack of motivation.

Motivation is not just about ‘having the will to persist’, although that’s important. It’s about developing a network of social relationships, especially with mentors but also with peers, that allow you to feel good about continuing in the program, to be intellectually rewarded and validated, and to remain on track. I was particularly blessed, as a student, to have some top-notch mentorship, but I regret to this day that my peer group was neither as large nor as close as I would have liked it to be. And I know plenty of people who had or have situations less congenial than mine, and who found themselves stranded without any meaningful support. This problem only gets worse if you are underfunded. The reality is that while persistence is the key, persistence can only be realistic when you have a lot of support. So I think it’s worth telling students to research programs as thoroughly as possible, and to find schools where they can plausibly work with multiple people.

Similarly, money really is central, and is one of the reasons why, even though I don’t advise students, “Don’t go to grad school” outright, I do advise them not to go to grad school if it means taking on substantial debt, and realistically, only to go where they have funding. For some students who can achieve admission to a top PhD program right out of a BA, or for others who can find a funded MA program, they are in good shape to move forward. For others, though, an MA means taking on tens of thousands of dollars of debt only to go into a PhD that may only be poorly or partially funded. To finish the PhD you may need to take on a lot of extra non-professional work or go even deeper in debt, possibly taking longer than your peers because of demands on your time. If you have sources of income to allow you to do an unfunded MA, more power to you.

And what happens when you’re done? For an indeterminate period, you will likely be underpaid and underemployed, while paying back student loans and trying to find a job. If I had had any substantial student debt at all, I simply could not have afforded to work in academia for the four years following the completion of my degree. I could not have supported my family, and I would have left the discipline, not out of a lack of ability, but simply out of a lack of funds to continue the search in a tight job market. And the market is ALWAYS tight.

Another factor influencing post-degree success on the market is institutional prestige. It is a sad fact that academic disciplines are, and always have been, hierarchical in a way that is rarely recognized by most undergraduates. To demonstrate this, you need only go to a faculty list from a department and see where the faculty got their PhDs. You will find that the vast majority of tenured and tenure-track faculty got their degrees from the top 50 or so institutions in the world (for that discipline), with the top 10-20 schools being very well represented indeed. Not coincidentally, these institutions have the highest degree of student financial support for PhDs (although not always the highest degree of emotional, psychological, and other forms of support). It may be true that only 50% of PhDs in humanistic disciplines ever hold TT jobs, but nevertheless, if you attended a high-ranked institution, your individual odds may be much better.

So, if you have the good fortune and ability to attend one of those programs, then you will find that your chances of employment after completion are very great. If not, well, your chances will be less. What’s more, you should prepare for the fact that even if you do get a PhD, you will probably work at a less prestigious institution than the one you graduated from. Everyone can think of exceptions, but that’s just what they are – exceptions to an overwhelming statistical probability. And because many smaller and less prestigious institutions don’t even have anthropology departments (as opposed to, say, biology or psychology), attending a less well-known institution can harm your opportunities for finding academic employment at all. Unfortunately, few departments provide detailed information about where their graduates end up after completion, and those with poor records have the least incentive to do so.

Now Benton wants to argue that the solution to this is to develop/train/find/invent/construct graduate students who do a PhD with no expectation of an academic career. And I think at some level it’s good advice to students that they need to prepare for the possibility of a non-academic career, not only psychologically but also in terms of the skills they obtain. This is particularly true in disciplines like anthropology which do have significant (although not always obvious) professional outlets where PhDs earn a decent living outside of academia.

But more to the point, I think that the sorts of people who should be considering graduate school are those for whom the actual process of going to grad school is enjoyable and rewarding for its own sake (despite its struggles). One thing I do tell my students is to ask themselves, “If I spend six years in grad school, even if I never get a job, will it still have been worth it?” If they can honestly answer yes, that the process of learning and intellectual exploration is worth it for its own sake, then they should do it; if not, then they shouldn’t. And again the money comes into play – if one has to go into massive debt to do it, then it’s certainly less likely to be worth it.

And even further, I worry that while Benton is right about the job market, and right about the need to inform students of the realities of the market, he’s asking more of academics than anyone would ask of other professionals. We don’t tell artists not to do art, and the chances of financial success as an artist are far, far dimmer than the prospects for an academic. We don’t tell baseball players not to try out for the minor leagues just because the chances of them ever playing major league ball are minuscule. (The baseball analogy is one that a friend of mine mentioned to me some years ago and that I have been using ever since to talk to non-academics about the model under which academic employment works.)

And finally, I despair that Benton, while laudably promoting the vision of the grad student who doesn’t have the least expectation of a tenure-track job and expects to work outside academia, unrealistically imagines a world where anybody cares about the PhD outside of academia. It is a sad reality that PhDs who work outside of their fields completely (not just outside academia, but outside any profession where their disciplinary training is relevant) often have to conceal the fact that they hold an advanced degree in order to find work – the PhD actually serves as a deterrent to employers. Without denying that there can be a role for a ‘public intellectual’, I do deny that there is room for public intellectuals who are divorced entirely from the academic world and its own peculiar economy. Benton is imagining a world that simply does not exist, never has existed, and for which no plausible means exists by which we might bring it into existence.

My feeling is that of course we should apprise our undergraduates that their chances of success are not 100% or perhaps not even 50%, and then we should take every possible step necessary to ensure that the best and brightest students who are going to go to grad school anyway, regardless of what we say, have the maximum chance possible to have the sort of productive career that we ourselves enjoy.

Reference letters: a letter-writer’s views

I’m now nearing the end of what has been a very busy reference-letter-writing season for graduate and medical schools. I’ve been writing letters both for McGill students (some of whom I know extremely well) and for Wayne students (who I’ve known for four months, tops) and also serving on my department’s graduate committee reading admissions applications and the reference letters that come with them. For me, writing reference letters is, if not actually enjoyable, a part of my job that is more than just a duty, but something I care about doing well, and the (hopeful) result is something I care about a hell of a lot. I also (humbly?) think I’m damn good at it.

A recent conversation with a friend has got me thinking about different practices and traditions with regards to the practice of letter-writing. We don’t talk enough about the nuts and bolts of the process, particularly not in public venues. Obviously, I am not at liberty to discuss any specific contents of any of these letters, but I think a general discussion of some of the issues might be helpful to students who may find this post, and to my colleagues for whom this should be a fairly enjoyable part of the job: helping their students move forward in their chosen professions. Please bear in mind that everything below reflects my practice, but others may well behave differently.

The Talk: Firstly, everyone who wants me to write them a reference letter for grad school gets to hear from me about the harsh realities of grad school. I even have a workshop that I give on that subject. The one thing I don’t do is give a blanket ‘Don’t go to grad’, although some of my colleagues follow that plan. I can’t fault their intentions, but my view is that ‘Do as I say not as I do’ is pretty much always hypocritical and that in any case, these students are adults and are more likely to be influenced by information than blanket moral pronouncements. But even so, no one gets away without hearing that academia is a tough gig. I also do try to mention that they aren’t crazy for wanting to go, and that intellectual life can be very rewarding – I personally found grad school to be a very relaxing period of my life – but I don’t hide the downsides of penury, anxiety and uncertainty.

Saying No: I sometimes say no to a student who asks for a letter, usually under one of three conditions:
a) Students who come to me very shortly before the due date. Guys, I usually do make an effort for, but realistically I want a minimum of a week’s notice, with two to four weeks preferred. If I have a letter already written for you and you know that, then obviously a short turnaround is possible, but otherwise, don’t expect me to be happy.
b) Students I just don’t remember at all. Usually the student knows I may not know them well and mentions that in their email or in person, giving me a way out. I don’t even know why they bother, although most commonly it’s students who major in some other, larger field and for whom my anthro seminar was one of the only classes where they interacted with a faculty member.
c) The third category is the hardest: students who I don’t think are cut out for grad school. Usually rather than saying no outright, I will say something to the effect that I wouldn’t be able to write them a strong letter, or suggest programs that may be more suitable for the student.

Information: I want as much information as the student is able to give me to allow me to write the best letter possible. At minimum I want a transcript, letter of intent, and CV, with a writing sample if I don’t already know the student’s writing well, and GRE/test scores if relevant. If some aspect of a student’s record is substandard, I can (and will) ‘write around’ that issue: not ignore it, but frame it in its context. Also, a student may have experiences that I may not know about, but which can be used to really beef up my letter. I can’t think of any case where a student has provided information that has made my letter worse than it otherwise would be.

Content: I always try to be as specific as possible in every aspect of the letter. I believe that the genre of reference letters (and that’s what it is -a literary genre) is tricky because so many letters are nearly-identically praise-filled, as everyone tries to get their students in the best places possible. Specificity is my solution to this problem: the more facts I can include, the better. Basically, I write on the assumption that the reader needs something memorable which could be used in the student’s favour in a committee meeting, to separate the student from the pack of mediocrities out there.

Superlatives: Although I despise the casual superlative, combined with specificity, superlatives can be used to great effect. Here’s where my anal-retentiveness comes into play. While there may only be one ‘best student in her class’ or ‘best student I’ve ever taught’, there are more ‘best in X course’ and even more ‘best essay out of X essays’. Or, if a student works full-time in addition to high intellectual performance, ‘most industrious’ might be brought into play (with supporting evidence, of course). Here we get back to the information issue

Length: Most of my letters are one single-spaced page for undergraduates. There have been a couple of exceptions for students I know especially well or whose records demand a fuller accounting, but realistically, one page is usually going to be enough. Given the limits of a committee’s time, long letters can conceal relevant information rather than highlighting it.

Customization: I would be lying if I said that I wrote a different letter for each student for each school, but I customize the school name and program that the person is applying to. Also, if the student is applying to two very different programs (e.g. in different disciplines), I will have two variants to encompass that fact. If a student has given me specific information as to the people they might want to work with, it only takes me a moment to add a sentence with specific names to my letter.

Writing My Own Letters: The other day, a friend remarked to me that it was customary in her department for referees to ask students to write their own letters and bring them to be signed. What the bloody hell kind of practice is that? While I understand that letter-writing can be a chore, I consider it to be profoundly unethical for students to be asked to write their own letters (not that I blame students who agree to do this – they are obviously not free to say no). Am I really strange to find this practice so disturbing?

Student Input: I will say, however, that I welcome student input into letters, particularly with regard to correcting errors or mentioning specific facts they would like me to have in the letter. After all, I don’t know every aspect of every student’s life, or why exactly this program is important to them. While I won’t censor my opinions or feel bound by a particular request, I do take suggestions very seriously.

Seeing Letters: I have a standing and explicit policy that before I send any letter (or after, or whenever), I will show any student the letter I have written for them. This not only ensures that I don’t make any stupid errors, but also (I hope) gives people peace of mind as to what is being said. So much of the grad admissions process is opaque, and my policy is intended to alleviate any fears – and of course, if the student doesn’t care to use my letter, they know exactly on what basis they make that decision.

Online Forms: I love the fact that many institutions now allow me to upload a PDF of my letter directly to the institution, bypassing the old ‘signed over the seal’ snail-mail method. I even have an electronic letterhead and signature to make it all fancy and official-looking. And they mostly send confirmation emails afterwards so I know it got there. And I certainly don’t mind having to fill out online check-boxes of the ‘top 5% – top 10% – top 25% – top 50% – oh god don’t admit this one’ variety. What I do object to is institutions that force you to rewrite your comments to fit a set of online questions (often with character limits). The process is annoying enough already without making faculty spend more time dividing up a perfectly good letter into little chunks, then getting anxious about whether we did it right.

Results: I was commenting to a friend the other day that if students knew how anxious and nervous we, as faculty, get about our students getting into grad school, they would either react with disbelief or laughter. And I suppose maybe some faculty just don’t care, but I’m young and idealistic and dammit, I do care a hell of a lot. So when I write a letter and then I don’t even hear where a student has been accepted, much less where they’re going, I get a little peeved. I don’t need a hand-written thank you note – email or Facebook or whatever will do quite fine. But I do think it’s rude not to let me know what the results of my efforts (and theirs) were.

So that’s it! Any issues I have missed? Any pet peeves or quirks? Am I way off base on some of these points?

Textbooks redux

Welcome to all the new readers who have arrived here from Savage Minds, where my anti-textbook rant was linked yesterday. For further (non-anthropological) evidence for my case, my wife has provided some choice gems from her graduate-level library science text. Prepare to be shocked.

In the spirit of immediate but generalized reciprocity, I should note that Savage Minds discusses a very interesting report on where PhDs in anthropology work five years or more after their degree. I was surprised at the high percentage (over 60%) who are in tenure-track jobs, given the new prevalence of non-academic (but still professional) work in the field. The report has more good news than bad for those thinking about an academic career. It’s worth noting, however, that anthropology PhDs who drop out of professional life entirely are unlikely to respond at high rates to such surveys, producing a significant potential source of bias.

Follow-ups (follows-up?)

I don’t know how the weather is wherever you are, but here in chilly Detroit the roads are atrocious and there are accidents everywhere. So stay safe. In the department of Great Minds Cogitating on Similar Subjects, two posts from the blogosphere this morning:

Over at Language Log, Mark Liberman, in ‘No word for fair?’, discusses whether the words fair and unfair are translatable to languages other than English, and what this implies for concepts of fairness cross-culturally. The post focuses particularly on the work of Anna Wierzbicka, whose claim that fair has historically been contrasted with foul rather than unfair shares some conceptual ground with my recent post, ‘An unshort answer to an unsimple question‘.

At Confessions of a Community College Dean, which is one of the most interesting and well-written blogs on the nuts and bolts of academic life, The Bookstore Conundrum is a post discussing the campus bookstore industry and its relationship to academic textbook choices. In my post, Textbooks, schmextbooks, I had focused primarily on the pedagogical issues, and secondarily on the cost to students. But the issue can also be conceptualized in the broader economic framework of institutional economic well-being.

Textbooks, schmextbooks

Let me be forthright: I loathe the academic textbook industry. I loathe it with a fiery passion that burns in the depths of my soul. I loathe everything about it, and here’s why:

I actually care about pedagogy. My father was an educator and somewhere along the line I picked up the astonishing notion that a teacher ought to engage students and demand that they work to improve their thinking. This morning I was in a meeting and a colleague remarked to me that he didn’t understand how anyone needed time to prepare for lectures; after all, you prepare the course once and then just teach it over and over again! I just stood there, blinking, unsure whether I had really heard what I had just heard. You see, I’m a damn good teacher – it’s probably the thing I’m the best at, of all the things I do, and I’m a damn good researcher and administrator too – and I actually give a damn about my students, and their lives, and whether I am serving them well with the course material I am presenting. Pretty much every course I run these days has both a knowledge component and a skills component (particularly writing, but also bibliographic research, critical thinking, reading, quantitative methods … you get the idea). And I think that the most valuable thing I can do, as a professor mentoring junior scholars (whether grad students or undergrads) is to model academic behaviour for them: to show them how we reason, how we work, and how we interact with one another.

And so, yeah, textbooks. I get the temptation. Pick one book that covers some body of material in enormous detail, go through it chapter by chapter, structure your course to follow the book. You don’t need to be an expert on every part of the field, because the text will cover recent developments of importance for you, and as long as you can keep a chapter or two ahead of the class, you’re set. If you’re especially lazy, you can use the instructional CD that came with the instructor’s copy to develop quizzes and exam questions. But my only relationship with the academic textbook industry these days is to sellers whatever copies may end up in my hands to the various book buyers who troll the hallowed halls of Wayne.

It’s not the price that bugs me about textbooks, or not primarily. I can easily see assigning six or eight ethnographies in a graduate seminar, which could easily put you at $200 or more. I’ll admit part of it is a value thing: I find that textbooks are so overpriced as books, that you’re shelling out $100 or more for a glossy book with a CD insert (usually) that you’re never going to use and that isn’t a classic, and that isn’t even going to be resellable for anything like its original price, since they’re just going to come out with a new edition next year anyway, rendering the old one obsolete. But the money is only the beginning.

My wife, who is studying library science, currently has the misfortune to have been assigned what I can only describe as the most inane textbook I have ever read. It’s as if the authors were being paid by the cliché. It seems also that they failed to employ the services of even a modestly competent fact-checker, instead relegating that task to some sort of small nocturnal goblin. The intended audience for this pathetic text cannot possibly have been students in a graduate professional program. I suppose I should count my blessings that it only cost $60 for a softbound 250-page text.

In the vast majority of my classes over the past few years, I use only PDF articles, downloadable for free at my institution and most others. Why on earth would I ask students to pay money for a textbook when a better option is available at no cost (or rather, embedded in the tuition they have already paid)? Not only that, but using PDFs allows me to be much more flexible in planning my course, and changing it midstream if I so desire. I do use books (but not textbooks, you see): in Evolutionary Anthropology, they read Darwin’s The Descent of Man; in Methods, they read On Bullshit and How to Lie with Statistics (yeah, good times). But I see these basically as ‘big articles’, and I assign them because they are meant to challenge, rather than to inform.

When it comes down to it, what bugs me most about textbooks is that they are designed to convey information efficiently to students. Because I don’t want my students to idly absorb some set of facts presented just so, cookie-cutter format, because I don’t think they learn anything that way. I don’t want them to look at the discussion questions at the end of a chapter; I want them to think up their own discussion questions. I want to give them academic articles that are intended for professional anthropologists, and see what they make of them. I want to make them think about why an argument was constructed this way, rather than that way. I want them to read articles from 40 years ago, and think about the historical context of the information they are working with – that last phrase is carefully chosen. I want them to learn the skill of wrestling with information for which they are not the intended or immediate audience. And when they’re done, I want them to be better anthropologists for having done it.