FIRST PERSON

A Bona Fide Convert

An associate provost who resisted administrative jobs for years now seeks to move up the ranks

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By ELIZABETH ELSWORTH

I was asked three times to become a campus administrator. I was first approached by my dean, at a time when my oldest son, now 22 years old, was a toddler. At that point in my career, I was publishing regularly, enjoying professional meetings, and getting a real kick out of directing graduate students' dissertations. The perquisites that might accrue in moving from the classroom to administration, aka "the dark side," didn't appeal.

"Besides," I told him, "you'd make me dress up." And that — the hosiery, suits, scarves, and Goldilocks jewelry (not too small, not too gaudy, just right) — didn't cut it for this former college athlete.

The second time, I was asked by my provost, who just happened to be my former dean. At that point, I was zipping along with a book project, and both of my sons were in school, one in high school and one in middle school. I'd been promoted to full professor and was beginning to get that first whiff of post-tenure, post-Little League freedom. It was refreshing and invigorating. When asked about my 10-year plan, I readily offered my hopes of securing an endowed professorship in my field.

The third time, I was asked again by my provost. His staff assistant called one summer day to make an appointment. The provost was in London. He wanted to see me first thing on Monday. I'd been vocally disagreeing with his plans to build new residence halls, and I was sure he had heard. I came to his office prepared to take my lumps.

Instead he offered me a position as special assistant and made clear that this was the last time he would ask.

By that point, I had divorced, and tuition bills were in my future. I took the dive off the three-meter platform not really knowing how the water would feel: whether I'd belly-flop or make a tiny splash and knife through to the surface to the sound of applause.

Thanks to a reservoir of good will I had built over the years, my introduction to administration went smoothly. The faculty members were my colleagues, and we managed to get things done: new policies, major reports to accreditors, etc. As a firstborn child, president of my high-school senior class, and religious-organization president, I should not have been surprised that I really liked working in administration, where one beautiful dive can create a lasting ripple.

I've been working as an associate provost in the academic-affairs office for six years now. My institution has seen some turmoil recently. My youngest son graduated from high school in May. I have remarried, but we have no family in town. So I've decided to embark on a job search. I had a go last year, snagged a handful of airport interviews, and was even a finalist in one search. No job offer, though.

After receiving the bad news, I called the search consultants to be schooled on my missteps. The consultants were reassuring and said I had been rejected only because of that elusive quality that will make or break you for any search: fit. I was a public-university kind of girl applying for positions at private institutions. It was the old round-peg, square-hole thing. I protested: But my bachelor's degree is from an institution just like yours; I understand your world! They responded, "Methinks the lady doth protest too much."

At one interview, when asked what I know about the role of administration in a collective-bargaining environment, I answered honestly and said, "Nothing." Of course, I should have said, "While my campus is not unionized, as a senior administrator I often deal with personnel issues, grievances, and such. As a chief grievance officer, I have had to participate in hearings, render judgments, and reach compromises. That experience is transferable to a collective-bargaining environment."

At that same interview, I mistakenly forgot to take off my white rubber Obama/Hope bracelet. I'm savvy enough to recognize that politics, religion, and marital status have no place in the administrative-courting ritual. My bad.

But if talking about politics, religion, and marital status are off-limits, even potentially illegal, why didn't one high-level administrator realize that he was inching toward quicksand by asking me whether I had ever considered changing my last name?

Taken aback, I couldn't understand what he might have been asking me to do. Change my last name to that of the institution's founding mother? Change my middle name to that of the college mascot? Change my first name to Madonna? (She and I share a birthday — no, not the Detroit-born singer, rather, the one who gave birth in the manger, or so says the Roman Catholic calendar.)

Here I was, in the first decade of the 21st century, interviewing for the position of chief academic officer, and being asked whether I would consider changing my name to my new husband's last name so as not to confuse the campus community. If I were to change it, I was advised to do so before arriving to start work on the campus.

Last year some of my interviews bombed for other reasons, including a dysfunctional search committee. Later, discussing the experience with me, a former administrator from that college admitted that it would be ever so much stronger if everyone just got along. (Wouldn't all of our institutions?)

The last job interview I had — before deciding to go on the market in academic administration — was 23 years ago. The landscape of higher education has altered. I have gotten older, and, I will assert to the interviewing committees, wiser. Now in my 50s, I have a mature vision of my personal and professional goals and what I can offer an institution. (Depending on the day, I believe that more or less.)

It's still early September as I write, and I'm a finalist for two positions and a semifinalist for another. I'm being nominated for other positions, too. A classic ENTJ on the Myers-Briggs scale — extroverted, intuitive, thinking, and judgmental (though not in a bad way) — I bring experience and energy to my work. I have worked as a faculty member and as an administrator. My experiences as a college athlete and as a mother have proved transferable. I'm feeling fairly confident that one of those positions will come through.

Even after 23 years in the same place — longer than I've lived anywhere else — I'm excited by the opportunities of a move. Sure, I realize that finding a new home, new medical professionals, banks, grocery stores (not to mention wine merchants, consignment shops, and a model-train hobby shop for my husband) may be a struggle, but the search could be fun. Because the boys are out of the house, we don't have to worry about schools, thank goodness.

In the next year or so, my own institution will hire new senior leaders who may want to assemble their own administrative team. I could end up back on the faculty, which might be kind of nice. No more 7:30 a.m. meetings, no more "Greetings from the Administration" speeches stretching into the evening. I could work from home, go to the gym midmorning, and in January walk the dogs in the daylight.

Nah. Maybe I have gone to the Dark Side, drunk the Kool-Aid, become a bona fide convert. My fingers are crossed that I will be able to find a good fit and announce a new job before the end of the calendar year.

Elizabeth Elsworth is the pseudonym of an associate provost and professor in the humanities at a public university in the South. She will chronicle her search for a position as chief academic officer.