That said, I've ironically grown to dislike being in situations where new acquaintances ask me what I do for a living. There's obviously an accurate and concise way to answer to this question ("I'm in an English grad program"), and so my curmudgeonliness is arguably unfounded. But this response often winds up being misleading, because in truth it's pretty difficult to quickly and accurately label the weird quasi-profession of "pursuing a PhD in English" to people not already in academia. For example:
It IS a job. While many people mistakenly believe that I pay to attend my program, my school in fact pays me to be there and provides me health insurance. Just like a real job!
It is also NOT a job. Because American higher education is struggling in general, and because no one likes giving money to the Humanities in particular, my stipend does not constitute a livable salary. As far as I know, everyone in my program either works a part-time job on the side or has their expenses underwritten by a spouse, trust fund, or other means. Were I to discover that someone in the program manages to live on her stipend alone, I would be forced to conclude that she probably sleeps on the T and eats her shoes.
It IS the same as "still being in school." I just spent the last two years taking classes, submitting papers for midterms and finals, and receiving grades. As of now, I am officially done taking classes forever (hooray!), but even as I barrel through the more advanced stages of my program, I will continue to read, study, write, and be tested at structured intervals until I get my degree.
It is also NOT the same as "still being in school." I will be spending the next three to four years teaching undergraduate English classes and working [in psychosis-inducing isolation] on my own academic research. Here on out, my life will more closely resemble the lives of my professors than those of the students who occasionally inadvertently hit me with haky sacks and frisbees on the quad.
It IS accurate to call what I'm currently doing my "career." My ultimate goal is to get paid to read and write about literature and to teach undergraduate English classes. Incredibly, I'm doing that now.
It is also NOT accurate to call what I'm doing now my "career." I'm currently a trainee, a probie. I'm only being paid to read and write about literature and to teach undergraduate English classes because the Powers that Be in my program trust that I will eventually earn a PhD. It's a far more tenuous position than the cushier realm of stable careers and tenured professorships.
It IS wrong (and kind of hurtful) to assume 1) that I went into my program to avoid taking "a real job," 2) that literature scholars are mostly irrelevant blowhards and I've consequently made a questionable life choice, or 3) that the only thing I'll be able to do with my degree is serve coffee, seeing as tenure-track jobs are few and far between.
Those presumptions are also NOT entirely wrong-headed, since each can be argued to contain a kernel of truth (although I would continue to quibble about all of them and particularly #2, since I believe the poor reputation of literature professors is mostly the result of bad marketing and an overall societal undervaluation of the arts). It's worth noting that in conversation no one ever openly accuses me of, say, "avoiding a real job"; rather, attitudes like those usually surface in comments like: "Oh, a grad program? I don't blame you. A lot of young people are hunkering down in graduate programs these days waiting for the economy to recover." There is also an entire library of recent editorial journalism expressing all the above opinions.
Of course, there's no telling what assumptions or associations, correct or incorrect, arise when I tell others I'm in an English grad program, and even as I write this there's a crescendoing voice in my head shouting, "Who even cares?" What does it matter if a person I meet at a party thinks that I pay for my program, or that studying English is a waste of time? What's it to me if a random journalist assumes that I (and all of my ilk) applied to grad school out of unemployed desperation, or that what we do doesn't count as a "real job"? Also, precisely how narcissistic do I have to be to believe that anyone would ever give more than an indifferent, passing thought to the connotative valences of my employment?
Any Freudian theorist in my department would likely respond that I feel compelled to outwardly express this irritation as a means of working through my own doubts and insecurities. I stew over the lack of definition in my professional life because I'm at an unstable age where having a defined, grown-up, professional identity has suddenly become a significant and desirable marker of status. (I find it likely, for example, that in a couple more years none of these things will nag at me anymore.) I worry that other people will view me as professionally stunted and stuck in a more immature school-centric era, perhaps, because I myself don't yet feel as though I have a real or legitimate job. I react poorly to those who remind me that pursuing a job in the Humanities in this market is crazy because okay maybe but shut up don't remind me I'll deal with that later.
So for the time being, I'll just have to accept that my chosen line of quasi-work leaves me feeling weird and ill-defined. But I also find it gloriously enjoyable, profoundly satisfying, such that I often feel like I'm pulling off some sort of con. I suppose it's a fair trade.
