Last semester, I attended a meeting in a room of my institution's university center that had this door that fascinated me far more than it should have, considering I was in a meeting. (Don't worry: I paid attention and stared foolishly at a door. Then I felt even more foolish as I took a picture of the door when the meeting was over.)
The decisions we make about how we spend our time have multiple consequences. When I started serving as writing program coordinator last July (or, if we're being realistic, last March or April), I opened a door with multiple designations. When I applied to be a book review editor for a journal, I opened a door with multiple designations. When I agree to serve on different committees, I open such doors again. Each contributes to the shape of my career, sometimes profoundly and sometimes in more mundane ways.
I think about nearly every work-related decision through a particular screen: How is this shaping my career and my professional persona?
There's a little clock always hovering over my head. When I started my first day at my current institution, it started counting down. "Welcome! You now have 5 years, 364 days, 23 hours, and 59 minutes to earn tenure. Good luck!" It didn't add sucker, but I assume that was implied.
I don't really know the precise moment that letter will come from on high that finally grants me tenure--presumably accompanied by a stock note from my chancellor that says "Now get back to work, chump." I just assume that's what getting tenure looks like--so my clock isn't that precise. But I am a year and a half in, so tenure is roughly four and a half years away. That sure does seem like a lot of time/no time at all!
Over six years, pretenured faculty members have to demonstrate excellence (or at least competence) in multiple areas, including research and publication, teaching, and service to one's department, institution, profession, and basically the universe. So every decision actually does have an impact on what a person's tenure and promotion profile will look like. And even if we remove my own immediate context of the tenure clock, our careers are still inevitably impacted by what committees we serve on, what conferences we attend, what journals we review for, what programs we run, and so forth.
A commonplace in academia is that junior faculty need to learn how to say no. It's an interesting phenomenon, really. Junior faculty, who have to work to build relationships on their campuses and in their fields, are encouraged to learn how to say no.
The most typical reason offered for saying no is to guard one's time. In graduate school, I used to threaten to get "Protect Your Time" tattooed on my chest because it was the main piece of advice I offered to newer graduate students. But I don't really like needles, and I don't really like exposing my chest to people all the time--it's just not my thing. It's actually just easier to say the words.
And yes, there is no doubt that junior faculty must decide carefully how to allocate what time they have for their work. For instance, every time I write one of these posts, I am consciously choosing not to use my writing time for another project. My posts have become sporadic over the past few months because I've been dedicating my writing time to other projects that quite frankly matter a great deal more than this project does.
But saying no isn't just about protecting your time. Deciding what obligations to take on direct the persona a faculty member constructs. So while I understand the necessity and value of saying no, I like to think of it a little differently. Choose your doors carefully. Any door metaphor inevitably leads us to the point that we don't always know where doorways lead, and that's true. But making careful, conscious decisions about what obligations we accept contribute to the shapes of our careers.
But maybe there are better uses for your time than taking photos of weird doors in conference rooms.
