Ms. Mentor

Well, She Looked Pregnant

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Question: "Nervosa," a job candidate at my small liberal-arts college, looked great on paper but gave a mediocre presentation. She was clearly ill at ease. At the end of the day she asked the nonpregnant faculty member who had escorted her around the campus: "When is the baby due?"

Nervosa committed the ultimate social faux pas, but is that sufficient to throw her out of the pool? I am especially sensitive to this particular gaffe, having been asked the same question by one of those socially inept, downright goofy visiting professors that seem to litter our campus. Perhaps I am too sensitive to be objective.

Answer: Ms. Mentor will admit that some academics are not always nice, kind, and generous -- and some enjoy the pratfalls of others. "Faux Pas," a popular game among some academicians, consists of inventing crass scenarios in the spirit of that legendary question from 1865: "Apart from that, Mrs. Lincoln, how did you enjoy the play?"

The game was accidentally inspired by a famous novelist who thought he was being ferociously witty when he described a colleague as "Moses among the Hottentots." Dr. Moses (not his real name) did not speak to the novelist for some 12 years, and new faculty members were warned never to invite the two of them to the same committee meeting or dinner party. It was an awkward time, pregnant with the possibility of endless faux pas, real or imagined. The tenured professors loved it.

But for job and tenure seekers, a faux pas can kill a career. Consider the legend of untenured young Ferdinand, who reportedly found himself in a tavern competition with English department colleagues, all bragging about "the most important literary classic you've never read." The game finally escalated to the win-or-die round: "the biggest-name literary classic you've never read but have taught."

Young Ferdinand named Hamlet, and won the game -- but was soon resoundingly rejected for tenure. His more staid colleagues decided he was just too ignorant to be kept on.

Ms. Mentor hopes there is no real-life original for this mythic tale (which David Lodge adapted in his novel Changing Places, for a game called "Humiliation"). Ferdinand was the victim of hazing, and his real sin was the same as Nervosa's. Both were trying too hard to fit in, to bond with their elders.

Men often bond by boasting and one-upping. Young men are supposed to jockey to find a place in the hierarchy. With seminal publications, eventually the most successful may become the Biggest Elk on Campus (or at least the dean). Women are more apt to bond by sharing domestic or personal details -- yet those can also be treacherous twigs in the groves of academe. At job interviews with female candidates, there is often the dance around couple status (Dare we ask? Is she wearing a ring? Will her partner need a job?). Discussions of children can create bonds or evoke stereotypes ("She's a mommy first, and she'll always love them more than she loves us").

Some women bond with diet talk (a crashing bore, says Ms. Mentor). Women routinely compliment one another, and even at job interviews, it is not uncommon for women to retreat to the bathroom and find themselves looking in the mirror at the same time.

That can be the most dangerous time for a faux pas.

"Good hair day" is safe to say, and so are compliments on scarves or jewelry, which show the wearer's taste. But comments on body size and shape are almost certainly going to offend.

"You're so thin" is not necessarily a compliment, since weight loss can come from cancer, anorexia, or depression. "You're so short" sounds disparaging, and even "You're so tall" is a comment on one's genetics, not one's achievements. Compliments on hair color are also risky, since that shade of red may not be intentional.

Tact and professionalism require not noticing what is readily apparent in the gym, if not on the street. Everyone in a job interview should be considering brains and accomplishments, not bodily configurations.

Yet even polite Americans often lose all their manners when they spot a pregnant woman. They poke, they pry, they recite clichés or horrific tales. A woman who is visibly pregnant suddenly seems to be everyone's property.

Which brings Ms. Mentor back to Nervosa, who was trying to be chummy when she, in effect, said to a possible future colleague, "You're fat."

Among sensitive women, that is the most egregious faux pas of them all, and there is no way to apologize oneself out of that.

What could Nervosa have done differently?

If being flustered led to her blunder, she might have been more prepared for her interview. She should have rehearsed her presentation many times, including in front of her dissertation committee and fellow students, if she could get them to assemble. Even a cat is not a bad audience.

If Nervosa had felt more self-confident about her research, she might not have blurted out her fatal comment to the substantial but not pregnant woman who escorted her.

But is that remark enough to "throw Nervosa out of the pool," as the letter writer wonders? Ms. Mentor would say no, but it seems likely that Nervosa was not hired anyway. Ms. Mentor urges the original letter writer to send an update.

In any case, Faux Pas games are safe for the tenured, who can snicker wickedly in the privacy of their own homes. But public behavior, especially among the untenured, has to be thoughtful behavior -- and perhaps the youngsters will eventually inspire increased civility in these barbarous times.

Ms. Mentor can hope.

Question: Depressed after writing my first book, I yearn to put a proper diagnostic handle on my malady. Will you ask the esteemed classical scholars in your audience to rule on whether I may call my post-book melancholy a post-libris, post-biblios, or post-something else syndrome?

Answer: Yes.

Sage Readers: Ms. Mentor's previous column, on adjuncts, brought forth even more sad news from readers. One reported earning just $1,000 to teach an English composition course that included diligent preparation and mounds of paper grading -- so that the adjunct, Ms. Mentor calculates, may earn as little as $5 an hour.

Another correspondent wrote that health insurance, bought independently, would cost 75 percent of his salary. Still others live in boarding houses, buy secondhand clothes, and eat uncooked ramen noodles. Ms. Mentor knows that we are supposed to admire the dedication of Chaucer's clerk, threadbare by choice because he spends everything on books. But more than 600 years later, forcing teachers to scrimp and starve strikes Ms. Mentor as nothing but shameful.

Books are, at least, available for free in public libraries, and Ms. Mentor's correspondents have sent more summer reading suggestions, which include Welcome to the Terrordome: The Pain, Politics, and Promise of Sports by Dave Zirin; anything by Mil Millington, especially Love and Other Near-Death Experiences; R.M. Koster's The Dissertation; and Marisha Pessl's Special Topics in Calamity Physics.

As always, Ms. Mentor welcomes suggestions, rants, queries, and gossip, and identifying details are always changed. She rarely answers letters personally, but directs eager readers to her archive, to The Chronicle's online forums, and to her first tome, Ms. Mentor's Impeccable Advice for Women in Academia. She also invites contributions for her new volume in progress, "Ms. Mentor's Perfect Wisdom for the Academic Soul."

Ms. Mentor, who never leaves her ivory tower, channels her mail via Emily Toth in the English department of Louisiana State University at Baton Rouge. Her Chronicle address is ms.mentor@chronicle.com

Her views do not necessarily represent those of The Chronicle.