Lessons in marshmallow-hunting
Why I'm stepping away from academia
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Beginnings
The term “occupational surname” refers to the Medieval practice of naming people for their profession. Common examples of occupational surnames include “Smith,” “Fletcher,” and “Mason.” Less common ones include “Stoddard” (horse stud keeper), “Kemp” (wrestler), and “Travis” (tollbooth worker).
If my family had an occupational surname, it would be “Professor.” My family tree is littered with academics, from my grandfather, a nutritionist who was one of the first to sound the alarm on the dangers of sugar (and was later ostracized for it!), to my uncle, a microbiologist who helped develop the field of Systems Biology, to my father, a musicologist who has studied everything from Gregorian chants to the Beatles.
Given this history, it surprised precisely no one when, after college, I decided to join the “family business” and seek my fortune in the illustrious academy.
I chose to study social psychology because I was fascinated by the ways social psychologists used scientific methods to answer basic questions about human nature, including how we succumb to peer pressure, whether we can ever truly know ourselves, and when we choose to help others. And so, in the fall of 2011, I enrolled in the doctoral program at New York University.
The Ultimate Marshmallow Experiment
Graduate school is a grueling affair. People often compare it to the famous marshmallow experiment, where kids are asked to delay gratification in exchange for a second marshmallow. Here, though, instead of having to wait ten minutes, you have to wait for years, and instead of a second marshmallow, you get what many consider a pretty sweet gig.
The experience lived up to its reputation. As days turned into months and years, I painstakingly learned how to design experiments, collect data, run statistical tests, and write scientific papers. I wrote twenty-seven drafts of my dissertation.
Finally, after six years, I successfully defended my thesis. I was ready to claim my second marshmallow.
Academia, however, had other plans.
Below is a transcript of the conversation that took place between me, the newly minted PhD, and “Academia,” the experimenter in my personal marshmallow experiment.
ME: Phew! Glad that’s over with.
ACADEMIA: Congratulations!
ME: When do I start?
ACADEMIA: Start what?
ME: Being a professor?
ACADEMIA: Oh, that’ll be [checks notes] a couple more years.
ME: I thought the deal was, finish grad school, then, professor.
ACADEMIA: Sorry, yeah, your info’s a little out of date. Sure, people used to become professors right after grad school. But then we realized that accepting more students into PhD programs was a nifty way for existing professors to boost their research output. Problem is, we’ve now accepted so many students that there aren’t enough jobs to go around. So we’re asking people to spend just a couple more years in a postdoctoral position before applying to faculty jobs.
ME: Wait, you’ve been accepting all these new students in your programs knowing that some of them will never be professors?
ACADEMIA: Right.
ME: Doesn’t that sound a little…Ponzi-ish?
ACADEMIA: We prefer to think of it as “distributing opportunity.”
[pause]
ME: Anyway. Tell me about the postdoc thing.
ACADEMIA: It’s like grad school, but with more freedom.
ME: That doesn’t sound too bad...
ACADEMIA: Oh, it’s great! Postdoc for a couple years, publish some papers, win some grant money, maybe get some attention for your work—then we’ll see about that professor job.
Pandemia
So postdoc I did. I published papers. I won grants. I even had some of my work featured in Big Outlets like the New York Times.
At the end of these three years, I returned to Academia.
ME: I did it! I did the paper-publishing and the grant-winning and the attention-getting.
ACADEMIA: Well done good sir!
ME: Can I get that professor job now?
ACADEMIA: Ehrm, well...
ME: Yes?
ACADEMIA: Oh, it’s just this little thing we’re dealing with right now. The global pandemic?
ME: I’ve heard of it.
ACADEMIA: Yeah, it’s causing all sorts of issues. Our endowments are shaky from decreased enrollment. We’re struggling to pay the professors we do have, let alone hire new ones.
ME: I see.
ACADEMIA: Yeah, really sorry bud. Bad timing.
ME: So, now what?
ACADEMIA: Tell you what. Come back next year. Hopefully this whole thing will have blown over by then, and I promise we’ll have a professor job for you.
Strike Three
So I waited some more. One year went by, then another. During this time, my personal life marched onward. I got married. I got a dog. My wife and I started thinking about having kids. Meanwhile, my modest postdoc salary was becoming increasingly unsustainable.
But I continued my research, trusting that I would soon begin the next chapter of my academic career.
Then, like the receding waters of a flood, the pandemic slowly eased its grip on the world. People started returning to their offices. Restaurants reopened indoor seating. And the academic job market returned in full force.
When it did, I was ready. I had been burnishing my credentials, perfecting my research statement, and polishing my job talk. I could practically taste that second marshmallow.
Yet once again, Academia had other plans.
ME: I’m back! Miss me?
ACADEMIA: Absolutely! How did the ol’ panny treat you?
ME: Tough times, tough times…but we’re here, aren’t we?
ACADEMIA: Hundred percent.
ME: So! Not to be a pest, but I’m still really interested in being a professor.
ACADEMIA: I haven’t forgotten. And I think you’re going to be very pleased with what I have to offer.
ME: Sounds great! What you got?
ACADEMIA: Let’s see…I have this great-looking tenure-track gig at a university in South Dakota1.
ME: You know, I think I was looking for something a little more urban?
ACADEMIA: Okay, urban, urban, let’s see…How about a job in Madrid?
ME: We’ve got to stay in the States so my wife can keep her law job.
ACADEMIA: Gotcha. Well in that case, I’ve got an adjunct position at a college in Philadelphia. Great city. East coast and everything!
ME: Yes, I do like Philadelphia. But I’m really looking for something tenure-track.
ACADEMIA (rifles through notes): I’m sorry, but that’s really all I’ve got right now.
ME: Really? Surely there are more options.
ACADEMIA (increasingly frustrated): I’m sorry. You don’t want the South Dakota job. You don’t want the Madrid job. And you don’t want to adjunct? I’d say you’re being pretty unreasonable.
ME: How is that unreasonable? I’ve waited half my life for this. I just can’t believe there aren’t more options. Let me see that list of yours.
Grabs list out of academia’s hand.
ME (scanning list): Columbia? NYU? Berkeley? What are these?
ACADEMIA: Oh, those? Those aren’t for you.
ME: What do you mean, “Not for me?”
ACADEMIA: It means you just don’t fit what we’re looking for right now.
A pause.
ME (quietly): Oh. I think I see.
ACADEMIA: Do you?
ME: I do! I really do. It’s 2023.
ACADEMIA: If you could wait just a couple more years…?
ME: I don’t know…It’s just….
ACADEMIA: Yes?
ME: It sucks.
ACADEMIA: Not to put too fine a point on it, but history’s full of people who’d know exactly what you’re talking about.
ME: Another case of bad timing, I suppose.
Quitting the experiment
Over the next few months, I experienced a whirlwind of emotions. My professional life had been built around the pursuit of certain core values: curiosity, education, and intellectual freedom. I was terrified that leaving academia would mean that I would have to abandon these values and, as a result, cease being true to myself.
I considered waiting it out for another year or two. But the march of time in my personal life rendered that option all but impossible.
And then, something happened. I reflected again on the marshmallow experiment. In this experiment, the subjects—children in a classroom—were at the mercy of the experimenter. They had to delay gratification because doing so represented their only chance of obtaining that second marshmallow.
But my situation was different. I didn’t need to wait for the experimenter. The world is full of marshmallows. To get them, all I needed to do was stand up and leave the experiment.
And that, dear reader, is exactly what I have done. Three months ago, in September of this year, I decided to stop applying to academic jobs. I accepted a role starting a new research initiative at the think tank More in Common (more on that in subsequent posts). And my wife and I (and our new baby!) fulfilled a very different dream: moving to New Orleans, our favorite city in North America.
And I’ve started this blog. The Partial Spectator will serve as my way to communicate new ideas and stories about morality, mind, and society to you, my wonderful community.
In short, the subject has left the building. He’ll be seeking his marshmallows elsewhere.
Names have been changed. Or have have they? 🤔
Great stuff! I admire your important work on political psychology, and wish the best for you in your career. Academia missed out!
What a startling, beautiful moment it is when we realize that we don't have to wait for the experimenter!
Thank you for sharing this, Daniel. I suspect you will have vastly more impact in the world this way -- and your pick of marshmallows. Can't wait to read the next newsletter!