There must be a way to improve the rhetorical appeal of rejection. Should authors consider the response of their readers? I think they should In the courses on Writing and Communication that I teach to first-year Georgia Tech students, I spend a lot of time talking with them about how to phrase criticism in a constructive way. It is important, I tell them, to remember their audience and reception as they write. I work with them on framing observations in ways that will produce results. It is not a question of coddling, or being hyper-sensitive to feelings. It is a question of moving forward.
Years ago, when I worked in the corporate sector and managed a pretty large group of project managers, editors, designers, and programmers, I worked hard to foster an environment in which this collaborative endeavor could be productive and efficient. Part of that fostering involved a lot of contemplation on my part about how I communicated with this diverse team, which in turn was responsible for communicating to a large public audience. I had plenty of experience working for and with what I considered to be *bad* managers – those who appeared not to take into account how best to achieve results, or worse, those that clearly reveled in a mode of behavior that I called “ninja management.” Ninja managers go out of their way to create an atmosphere of negativity, back-biting competition, and paranoia. I wholeheartedly believe that style is counter-intuitive to professional development as well as productivity. I worked very hard to reject that approach in working with others.
Now here I am in academe, and I’m finding that same ninja mentality at work again, perhaps in an even more insidious manner. Now I’m finding that academic professionals who are directly responsible for communicating with those of us on the job market fail to consider – or, to be kinder, forget – that their rhetoric fosters that same type of inefficient, avoidable negativity.
Time and again, the correspondence we receive when applying for jobs does little more than reinforce a crushing sense of self-doubt and worthlessness among a generation of scholars who are aware that the field we have chosen may not have a place for us anymore. I don’t think it necessarily should have a place for everyone – isn’t this the culling process we went through in grad school? – but this correspondence often takes the form of callous, perfunctory boilerplate emails that are barely personalized with a “Dear [full name goes here]. The position has been filled.” If we get a “thank you for your interest in [name of institution, position title]” we’re lucky. What I find curious is that the people who craft these awkward and sometimes ugly messages are often only a few years ahead of us in the process, and it is more than likely that they received the same types of communication. Apparently, pay-forward is a bitch.
I believe it is appropriate for these writers to spend at least a few minutes considering their audience when composing correspondence. I don’t think it is too much to ask that they check to see that applicants are addressed individually (even if it’s through :bcc and is in fact a mass email). Or perhaps that after we go to the wall (extra materials requested, MLA or Skype or phone interview conducted) and we know we’re among the top three or five contenders, that someone on the hiring committee gives us a bit more feedback on why we are not the chosen one. Feedback would make us aware of the process and help us to determine how – or if – we should move forward.
Don’t misunderstand. I know that rejection is part of life. I do not propose, in a world already falling over itself to avoid hurt feelings, that tenured faculty should sugar-coat rejection. I am not expecting personalized, perfumed notepaper with a tenderly worded “it’s not you, it’s me.” Some may challenge my suggestion as being overly solicitous or untenable – especially when there are dozens or hundreds of applicants for a position – but how can we teach communication if we are not good communicators ourselves? I hope that if I ever find myself on a hiring committee, I will remember to treat applicants with at least a modicum of the respect that I know they show to the committee. NB: remind me of this on that day.
My students understand that it is not enough to state a position; they must also articulate how they come by that position. I challenge students when they write, “I don’t like Shakespeare.” That’s fine. I don’t expect universal acclaim over early modern drama. But I push them to think about what went into that dislike, and phrase their position in articulate terms.
I don’t really care if the representatives of a university don’t like me (all right, maybe I do, but I know that’s irrelevant.) My students are learning to use their powers of observation to facilitate productivity. Why should my superiors not be held to the same standards?
This is fantastic – it’s a question of a culture of respect isn’t it? Sometimes I think that committees fail to realize that as much as prospective hires are seeking interviews, that those candidates are also interviewing the academic communities they are seeking to join. I decided not to pursue a job application this year because the interactions I had with all of the faculty and staff at an institution were brusque and rude, not merely unhelpful. Life is stressful enough, I don’t need to knowingly walk into a work place that is bitter – so I decided not to apply. I felt that even if I were offered a job or an interview, that there were strong indicators of a culture that would not be conducive to my own well-being. Perhaps that’s rosey-eyed, but I’d rather work in the private sector with nice people, than have to deal with this kind of negativity on a day to day basis.
Not rosy-eyed, but realistic. If this were any other industry, consideration of compatibility would be foremost in our minds. I had an interview with Field and Stream when I was fresh out of undergrad. The first thing the editor I interviewed with said when I walked in (and saw trophy heads all over his walls) was, “I shoot Bambi.” At the time I was flummoxed – I knew immediately that I couldn’t work in a place like that, and wasn’t sure how to adjust my stance to articulate that without making a fool of myself (also known as bursting into tears). In hindsight I realized that this was a test: his bald statement of fact adjusted the playing-field immediately. We both knew where we stood, and didn’t waste one another’s time. Once that was behind us, we had a pleasant (albeit brief) conversation, shook hands, and went our separate ways. We were both happy with the outcome.