The Ticket is Punched

Today I have officially received my Ph.D. from the University of Michigan. What follows are some snippets from my graduate school experience:

Week Negative Thirty-Three
Respected professor after class: "Tony, what are you going to do next year?"

Me: "I'm trying to decide between law school and the FBI."

Professor: "You wouldn't be happy doing either of those. Have you thought about graduate school?"

I have not yet learned that academics have notoriously bad judgment. Outside of high school guidance counselors, the average professor may be the least qualified to give career advice.

Week One
Dr. Roy P. sees us two at a time in order to welcome us to graduate school, chat us up, and assign us each an advisor based on our interests. I go in with classmate Lowell B., with whom I've been talking in the hallway. Lowell is horrified by my support for school vouchers.

Dr. P: "So (looks at name on folder), Tony, let's start with you. What are your interests?"

Me: "Public policy, mostly. Housing, economic development..."

Dr. P: (Scowling) "Well, public policy is to political science what accounting is to mathematics." (Turning away) "So, Lowell, what are your interests?"

Lowell: "Economic growth in the Soviet Union."

This is followed by a thirty-minute discussion between Dr. P and Lowell about the economic strength and development of the Soviet Union, while I try not to feel like the red-headed bastard at the family reunion.

Dr. P: "Well, Lowell, your advisor will be Dr. L. And Tony, your advisor will be Dr. M. He's over in the (scowling again) Policy School. You'll want to speak with them soon, so they can help you select your first semester's classes. I think you'll both find that we have an open-door policy here, so don't be shy about introducing yourselves to the faculty; they're all eager to help."

So I make my way to the Policy School, to learn that Dr. M will be out of town until after classes start. As I wander down the hall, I notice that the door to world-renowned scholar Robert A. is slightly ajar. Remembering Dr. P's advice about getting chatty with the faculty, I tap on the door.

Dr. A: "What?"

Me: "Hi, I'm Tony [insert blather about being new, being glad to be here, having read Dr. A's book, wondering what classes to take]."

Dr. A: "Good. Good."

Me: "So I just thought I'd introduce myself." He hasn't taken his hands off his keyboard since I came in. He really wants me to leave.

Dr. A: "Good."

Me: "So I guess I'll see you around."

Dr. A: (Over his shoulder, as he turns back to his computer) "Good."

Week Fifty-Three
I meet Joan S., who will henceforth become my anti-voting guide. I no longer need to evaluate candidates or issues, I simply ask myself which candidate will be most likely to induce cerebral thrombosis in Joan, and vote accordingly. I've recently written an economic analysis of the local Kroger strike, in which employees demand a "living wage" for work that doesn't merit such pay. Joan has been leading the graduate contingent that is working the picket lines with the employees. We are at an afternoon cook-out, and Joan denounces me. We argue for a while, and then I turn to a different conversation. I hear one of the children of a classmate ask Joan what a union is.

Joan: "Well, honey, a union is what working mommies and daddies need so they can feed their children."

Another child: "Is my daddy in a union?"

Joan: "Yes, that's why he can afford to feed you."

Then Joan teaches them a cheer: "Yay Unions!"

I'm not making this up. As they walk around the party, shouting their little slogan, she gives me a smug look. That's when I decide to devote the rest of my life to building a political and social system that will cause her to commit suicide at an early and embittered age.

Week Eleven Thousand Three Hundred and Forty-Seven
I have a sweet offer from the University of C., my dream job. I inexplicably accept an invitation to visit Mega-Corporation X, where the CEO meets with me personally and asks me to help him develop and implement his innovative management philosophy. I decide, on the flight back, that it might be good to get some experience in an organization before teaching about them for the rest of my life. I accept the job. A colleague where I am teaching, upon learning of my decision, cries out in a bitter voice: "And to think, you could have been at the University of C.!" She never speaks to me again for the remainder of my time there. This convinces me that I have made the right decision.

Week Eleven Thousand Three Hundred and Sixty-Three
A week before I fly back to Michigan to defend my dissertation, I send an email to my committee members, asking them to tell me if they've noticed any problems, so I can correct them before plunking down the semester's tuition (you have to enroll the semester you defend). I get no response, except from my favorite professor John K., who tells me how much he enjoyed reading my work.

Week Eleven Thousand Three Hundred and Sixty-Four
10:15 AM: I hand over a check for $3,300 to the University of Michigan for my semester's tuition.

10:30 AM: My defense begins.

Dr. J: "I've noticed some profound problems in your methodological chapter."

Me: "Oh." You mean the methods chapter I finished three years ago? The one I gave you forty-five drafts of? The one that was published last year in one of the top journals in my sub-field? The one that's the centerpiece of the dissertation that I emailed you about last freaking week to see if there were problems?

Dr. J: "You specify an equation that has . . . error terms aren't independent . . . variance measure doesn't take into account . . . eigenvector . . . vector auto-regression . . ."

Me: "Oh." I think I can kill him before they drag me off of his body.

Dr. J: ". . . and the way you account for the interaction of time and causality isn't properly specified . . ."

Me: "Oh." If I kill him, I will definitely fail. Must stay calm. Do not throw up. Do not throw up.

Dr. J: ". . . so there's no way your empirical results can be meaningful, given this specification."

Me: "Oh." Thirty-Three Hundred Dollars. Thirty-Three Hundred Freaking Dollars.

Dr. J: "I'm sorry, but this will require substantial revisions."

Me: "Oh."

Week Eleven Thousand Three Hundred and Sixty-Five
A former classmate [name deleted to protect him] calls me up to hear the horror story first-hand.

Friend: "That f***. That f****** f***. That m************ f***. . . [insert various tenses and grammatical forms of the F-bomb]"

He knows just what to say to make me feel better. Some people are just gifted that way.

Week Forty-Seven Thousand Nine Hundred and Eight-Three
After approximately 900 revisions involving Monte Carlo simulations and numerous econometric re-specifications, which aren't so easy to produce when one is working full-time, Dr. J relents. My dissertation is much better, by the way. It would have been good to get his input when I was, say, still in graduate school, but I'm thankful nonetheless.

Week Forty-Seven Thousand Nine Hundred and Eight-Six
I write a $3,600 check to the University of Michigan.

Today
I'm a doctor, though I won't let anyone call me that, because you shouldn't put "Dr." in front of your name unless you know what to do when Joan S. keels over in front of you with cerebral thrombosis. Sadly, should that happen on my watch, I'm afraid I'll be unable to help her. I've noticed, by the way, that outside of the academy, there is a negative correlation between the quality of one's degree and one's propensity to insist on being called "Doctor." But that's a topic for another time.

So here's the thing: I don't feel any smarter. I do feel wiser, and like I've matured and acquired some self-discipline, but the Marines could have produced the same result, and they would have paid me. As my colleague and fellow Ph.D. Art H. points out, however, I've gotten my "ticket punched." Maybe so.

Posted by Woodlief on April 26, 2002 at 07:38 AM