Moving Up

The First Gentleman

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By Teresa Johnston Oden

I dropped by the conference's cocktail reception to get a drink and a bite to eat, and I would have been content to simply watch the crowd. But the nametag on the man sitting alone at a large table signaled an opportunity that was too good to pass up.

His nametag read "First Gentleman." Mine -- because I don't like the title of "First Lady" -- read "President's Spouse."

"I'm sitting here because I have a bad back," he said, as I took a seat across from him.

"Ah," I nodded. "I'm an invited speaker, and I don't think I know anyone here. I see we have something in common," I said, pointing to my nametag.

I explained that I was to be part of a panel discussion the next day about the role of presidential spouses. We started to talk about the labels people place on us. The first gentleman didn't mind his title, because unlike its complement, it carries little baggage. His title helps people at the official events he attends to understand why he's there.

Of course, he said, it's always difficult to figure out how many events to attend -- to get the balance right. If he doesn't show up often enough, a rumor starts that he and his wife are getting divorced. But if he shows up too often . . .

"You're seen as the power behind the throne," I said, finishing his sentence. I had heard that before from other men in his situation. As a female partner of a college president, I haven't had that problem. If I don't show up at enough campus events, I risk making constituents feel I am rejecting them. But if I show up too often, I risk being seen as too available, too ready to take on any task that might be considered appropriate for the leader's wife -- sometimes tasks that I don't want to do.

The way that men behave can be self-defeating, the first gentleman said. He was once part of a support session for the male partners of college presidents. When the host asked whether the participants would like to have another meeting, to a man they indicated that it wasn't necessary: "I'm fine." "Nope." "Guess not." The meetings were not continued, but afterward, the facilitator was told by several members of the group that further sessions would have been welcome. It's that kind of behavior that keeps the men among us from making useful connections. We women often go out of our way to meet with others in similar situations.

While our conversation centered on the differences in our experiences as presidential spouses, I know that the first gentleman and I have a number of issues in common.

The role of the president's partner on any campus is complicated by the many constituencies served by the academic leader: professors, staff members, students and their parents, alumni, trustees, local citizens. Those groups may have conflicting hopes and expectations. Academic leaders are generally well prepared to handle the tricky situations that arise, but we partners typically start out with little experience to guide us.

Almost daily, we find ourselves in situations in which something we inadvertently say or do can make trouble for the president or the institution. We have to learn to navigate in unfamiliar social terrain; none of us want to be a net liability.

In fact, we hope to be assets. We want to help our partners with their demanding careers. But it is not at all obvious how best to support someone who is in a leadership role. That is a skill, like dealing with constituents, that most partners learn by trial and error. We teach ourselves, in isolation.

Sometimes the stress renders us needy; we intended to be the ones who would offer encouragement, but we end up being the ones who need it most.

In other employment sectors, it is easier for the partners of leaders to find preparation and support. For example, in a book called Realities of Foreign Service Life, edited by Patricia Linderman and Melissa Brayer-Heff (Writers Club Press, 2002), spouses of diplomats offer candid accounts of what was good, what was bad, and what was simply different about the experience. It's an invaluable resource for partners or families who are just starting out in the Foreign Service.

Why have there been so few books of comparable content in the academic sector?

Part of the answer is that such books must spring from personal experience. Unlike diplomats, who can move from post to post in societies that are continents apart, academics move in a relatively small world. The partners of college and university presidents worry that candor might lead to misunderstandings or unpleasant repercussions.

Few people understand much about the pressures inherent in the lives of academic leaders and their families, although lots of people are familiar with the perks. Partners share some of those perks -- like the elegant residences and the travel opportunities -- while shouldering little of the burden that justifies them. That means that any presidential partners who raise valid questions about their situation are easily misunderstood as spoiled whiners.

Ask us, off the record, about our lives, and you'll get an earful. But few of us have been willing to go on the record with accounts of the spousal experience.

The weakness of the support system for the families of college presidents has been a problem for decades, but it is especially regrettable now, when the number of first gentlemen is on the increase. Those men have no role models at all, even discarded ones against which they might define themselves. That is why I am particularly interested to hear the stories of men like the one I met at that table.

When that first gentleman told me that he had put his career aside to move with his wife, I thought of a remark I had heard from another male presidential partner: "If you don't move with her, you'll be considered a selfish cad who doesn't support his wife."

Perhaps that concern had influenced my new acquaintance. He told me it had not been easy to restart his career in a new location. I remembered comments from other conversations: One male presidential partner had said the loss of income was a problem, and another reported that someone had actually asked him what it felt like to be a kept man.

Back at the conference, the first gentleman told me he had hoped to be invited to join some boards in his new community. He wasn't. I thought then of my own complaint -- the many invitations I had to tactfully deflect, because I hadn't even had a chance to settle in and look around.

After casting about for a while, the first gentleman recalled, he started working to help children in the foster-care system find their way to college. He secured a small grant for the program and hopes to build it. "How terrific!" I said.

As he prepared to give me his card, I realized that he had already given me the gift of his story. I see in that man someone who successfully turned what could have been a gaping hole in his personal life into something good and useful. I would have liked to learn more from him, but our conversation was cut off. The president came to collect her husband; there were friends who wanted to see him.

"I'll see you at the panel discussion tomorrow," he said.

"Great!" I replied. I didn't flatter myself that he planned to attend because of anything I had said, but because the life of the leader's spouse is a solitary one, and opportunities to connect with others who live it are few.

I expected some contacts would be made the next day, and some useful information exchanged. Afterward, I would go home and continue my familiar routine. And the first gentleman would go back to blazing his trail, because that is what first gentlemen have to do.