We Regret to Inform You; Or, Life in The Rejection Section

Last May, I finished my second go-round with graduate school, earning an MFA from Southern Illinois University Carbondale. I loved my program; half because I was able to spend three funded* years writing poetry and teaching, and half because of the people I was lucky enough to work with over the years--students and faculty alike. Not that I'm shilling for SIUC, but it was an awesome experience because Rodney, Allison, Judy and Jon felt more like poetry godparents than "faculty" at times. I've always looked down on the big-name programs because I'm not a name-brand kind of girl, and I've read about how students in big-name programs are neglected, that the atmosphere is hopelessly haughty, that the "literary star" faculty members are never there, etc. I'd take a kiss on the cheek from Rodney Jones over possibly, maybe, catching a glimpse of super-famous poet X any day. And Rodney likes my banana bread.

So I entered the world last spring with an MFA diploma to hang next to my MA from Central Michigan University. I had really developed my passion for teaching, and won an award (with a cash prize!) recognizing my efforts. I wanted to keep teaching. I loved teaching. It was the only place I really felt at home. The world was my oyster!

Well, no. As it turns out, the world (as far as teaching positions are concerned) is a rotten oyster. One of those mutated Gulf oysters suffering the adverse effects of the BP oil spill. I was released into a job market flooded with many, many qualified applicants, many of whom also have PhDs, in addition to one or more master's-level degrees.

Universities and colleges have openings, but I'm often disqualified from the beginning because I don't have a PhD. I'm further disqualified by the amount of specialization they're looking for in potential applicants, because they want the most bang for their (sometimes agonizingly paltry) buck, to the point where an applicant needs to be able to teach composition and/or ethnic literature and/or drama and/or gender studies and/or American literature and/or use technology in the classroom (pick three or four of these, and you get the idea). I can do some of this. I cannot do all of this. I'd wager that very, very few people actually can do all of this.

It keeps me up at night, that nagging yet cartoonish voice that says "Maybe you need to go back to school. Maybe you need a PhD to even things up." But I don't want to get a PhD right now. I may never want to return to graduate school, since I've already spent five years of my life as a graduate student.

So I apply. I broaden my search to include admissions and academic advising positions. I look for jobs in a huge general geographic region, but I'm still limiting myself because Aaron and I have this crazy plan that involves starting our real lives and having children, and we'd like to live a little closer to home so that our parents don't have to be long-distance grandparents. I know that's probably stupid, because it really does limit us, but I tear up every time I think of my unborn children only seeing their grandparents on holidays and trying to get my parents to figure out Skype.

And as I apply, and enter my personal information and education background and employment history, and upload cover letters, and submit resumes and CVs, and try to communicate with nameless faceless automated systems, I desperately hope for a break from a Human Resources representative or hiring committee. Often, there's no one to address the letters to, no name associated with the job search, no way to look them in the proverbial eye with a steady gaze and give them a firm handshake that says hire me.

And then I wait.

Recently, I had a telephone interview for a job I really, really wanted. It was a position as an academic advisor for the liberal arts college at a large university in the state of Michigan. Upon seeing the posting, I had rejoiced, because I went to a liberal arts college, I had not one but two master's degrees, I had a connection to the area. The interview went well.

But they still rejected me, saying they wanted someone with more experience and a broader education background. That it was an honor to be chosen for a phone interview. That there had been 221 applicants for the position. That I should take solace in all of this. And yet, it still felt like a punch in the gut. Or a brick hurled through my bedroom window in the dead of night, rubber-banded with a note that read Guess what? You're just not good enough.

I know that my self-worth is not tied to this one job. Or any job. And that being rejected for this position really doesn't mean I won't be good enough for a different position down the road. Or that, with a different applicant pool, my credentials would have buoyed me higher. If you look at in a strictly mathematical sense, though, I'm a penny-slot gambler thrust into the high-stakes table games.

The house wins.

Today, another rejection: a letter mailed to my house, rather than an impersonal e-mail. The ink on this one was smudged, my letter being just one among many rejections printed, signed, folded, and mailed out that day. Having a tangible letter feels slightly better than the hollow rejection e-mails, but only just.

So I keep applying. I write and rewrite cover letters. I whisper "Hire me, please" to unseen committees when I hit those submit buttons. And I push down the voice that tells me I should have majored in business or marketing or economics, anything but English, because I don't trust that voice to have the answer to what my soul has needed all along.

*The funding at SIUC was the biggest shock to me, kind of like a bait-and-switch from a shady used car salesman. Sure, you get your tuition waived and you get a monthly stipend. You also have to surrender an entire paycheck each semester to cover exorbitant student fees; you might get funding for one summer, but you also might not. And don't even get me started on the library without any books in it.