Columbia, Barnard, and Me

“You’ll never get tenure here at Columbia.” Those were the words of my department chair. He wasn’t being unkind. He simply didn’t want me to harbor any false expectations.

I was just then completing my doctoral studies at Princeton, and I had been on the job market for two years. But it was not a propitious time for a white male to be looking for an academic appointment—for very good reasons that I supported at the time and still support. During those two years, I applied for 55 jobs and fellowships, which netted me precisely two interviews and one job offer—Columbia University.

But the appointment at Columbia offered no prospect of long-term security. In the mid-1980s, Columbia had a cynical policy of hiring assistant professors on what were ostensibly tenure-track lines. At the same time, the University was unequivocal about the fact that it had no intention of bringing these assistant professors up for tenure. The plan, as my department chair made abundantly clear, was that I would teach here for four or five years and then look elsewhere.

To be fair, I had some misgivings about the appointment and about New York City itself. Having spent most of my childhood west of the Mississippi, I was not especially enamored of Manhattan. I had visited New York many times while a graduate student, and I liked it well enough, but I was always happy to return to Princeton at day’s end. The prospect of working, much less living, in New York had never really crossed my mind when I fantasized about my brilliant career. I had envisioned teaching in a small, liberal-arts college somewhere—Davidson, perhaps, or Haverford or Macalester.

I favored such schools, I’m sure, because I had been profoundly shaped by my undergraduate professors at a small liberal-arts college (though one not nearly so distinguished as the ones I’ve listed). I still count several of those professors among my closest friends, and I wanted to teach in an environment where I would be able to forge meaningful relationships with my students. So when I headed off to graduate school in the summer of 1980, I viewed the Ph.D. degree as a kind of union card that would allow me to teach in a small college somewhere.

At some point, however, I fell in love with the life of the mind. I especially enjoyed the detective work of historical inquiry, trying to pry secrets from the past. And I found that, perhaps because of a previous stint as a magazine editor, I had some facility with words and could render fairly complex ideas accessible to the general reader.
So, lacking any other prospects, I packed up my family and moved to the alien environs of Manhattan, an apartment at the corner of 116th Street and Amsterdam. My first classroom experience was not encouraging—I showed up and found no students. I was utterly demoralized and wondered if I should start searching immediately for another line of work. (These days, when students are sitting on the floor and spilling out into the hallway, I confess to a tinge of satisfaction, although I feel badly about their inconvenience.)

I’ve rarely been—nor have I ever claimed to be—the smartest guy in the room, but one of the things I picked up early in life is the value of hard work. I threw myself into teaching and writing, all the while caring for two young sons—one of them now a Columbia College alumnus and the other a junior—while their mother was at work. We hired a woman to help out five hours a day, four days a week, but otherwise I was able to spend time with my sons that I will always treasure. Afternoon naps helped when I was preparing for the next day’s class, and Fridays were our day to explore the marvels of the city—the Bronx Zoo, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, the Staten Island ferry, and that huge, wondrous blue whale suspended from the ceiling at of the Museum of Natural History.

I came closest to realizing my vision of close ties to students during a three-year stint as Faculty-in-Residence in Hartley Hall. Apart from the nocturnal fire alarms—nine floors down and nine floors up, a child in each arm—we had a rich life full of events in the lounge, meals with students, and conversations with other faculty members. But too soon the three years were over. I was prepared to sign on for another term, but a faculty member who outranked me (which was nearly everyone!) wanted the position.

About this time, however, and very much to my surprise, members of the department were working to find a tenure line for me at Columbia. The folks at Barnard took the bait, and here I am, 24 years after the chair assured me I would never be tenured.
I wouldn’t trade my line of work for anything. I love research and writing, and I love teaching. I can think of few satisfactions greater than having a former student tell me that he loved my class or that my influence was a factor in her decision to pursue graduate studies. I’m one of the few remaining male professors who wears a coat and tie to work—it’s a daily reminder that I’m a professional, and I take my duties as a teacher seriously.

There are moments, however, when I look out the window and contemplate the big skies and the open spaces of the American West, my spiritual home. That day will come soon enough.

But for now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to class.

The author is a professor of American religious history at Barnard College and a member of the Graduate School of Arts and Sciences faculty. He has also taught in the Graduate School of Journalism. He is the author of a dozen books and producer of three PBS documentaries. His most recent book is God in the White House: How Faith Shaped the Presidency From John F. Kennedy to George W. Bush.”