I Just Wish You Wrote Better

Since I started this blog, I have received several compliments on my writing. Those compliments are more appreciated than you may realize.

When people find out I was a professor at Wharton for a time (untenured, assistant), they are usually impressed. When they find out I left Wharton voluntarily, they are usually surprised. When I explain why I left, they are usually appalled.

When I joined the faculty at Wharton, I knew that it would be challenging. I had never taught before. I was no longer in the insulated cocoon of graduate school. My research was unusual to say the least. It would take a long time to explain it, except to note that it applied graph-grammars (huh?) to the problem of formally specifying graphical user interfaces. I started at Wharton in 1985. The Macintosh was just a year old, and graphical user interfaces were in their infancy.

Not only was my research outside the mainstream, it required writing a ton of computer programs to demonstrate the concepts. Computer programming takes a long time, requires lots of resources, and for a while, I had no idea how to implement the ideas in my research. After a lot of effort (over 2 years of programming), I had built a prototype system, and had submitted the fundamental paper to a well-respected journal for possible publication.

Since it was taking so long to write the code so that I could write a paper, I had received worried yearly reviews from the more senior faculty. They had noted the small number of publications to date and the unusual nature of my work. I told them that I was working hard on the key part of my research, which I believed would pay off. I suggested, wait until you read the paper. 

I would have had a safer, simpler time in academia if I had simply pursued more traditional research. Naively, I clung to the ideal that academia would welcome the pursuit of novel, non-traditional ideas. 

One faculty member---let's call him "Rod"---would play a key role. When I was an undergrad at Cornell, he was a visiting professor, and I enjoyed his class. Rod and I both had the same PhD advisor, though he had earned his doctorate many years earlier. He was likely instrumental in my being offered a position at Wharton. He was a very colorful character, funny, articulate. 

Before I walked into the review, I had some very positive feedback under my belt. The editor of the journal to which I submitted the paper said that he felt the work was "seminal." Another academic, extremely well respected, former president of the professional society of my field, called the work "pioneering." I pointed all this out to my colleagues, but it didn't seem to matter.

Rod's comment on my paper? "Well, it reads like a great survey paper, but we can't see the contribution." In other words, the kiss of death.

I was frustrated and angry, since this paper represented my absolute best, and had received glowing reviews. I was younger then, I suppose, and stubbornly proud of the work, so I directly informed the committee that if they could not understand the work, given that others had, there was little I could do. Not the most effective strategy, in retrospect.

This pissed them off, of course, especially Rod. He pleaded, "Work with me. I'll help you get a grant from the National Science Foundation. I'll teach you how to write."

I had seen him "work" with others; although he is a wildly entertaining and effective teacher, as a faculty member, he was widely known as a jerk, horribly insecure, taking out his insecurities out on colleagues and graduate students often in ways that were publicly humiliating (e.g., "great survey paper"). When he "worked" with others, he also added his name to the papers as co-author. That was credit that I felt he didn't deserve.

Declining his offer of help, of course, just insulted him. Perhaps I was too proud, but I had evidence to support my position.

At the same time, unbeknownst to the rest of the review committee, but known to Rod, I was also dealing with the aftermath of Stewart's death from AIDS. Such personal struggles carried no weight at Wharton. Another untenured assistant professor was dying of cancer. After they denied her tenure, Rod came to me very pleased that at least they had decided to extend health benefits to her until she died. But they still had to deny her tenure. She died a few months later. How generous.

Six months later, I presented a shorter version of the "survey" paper at a well-recognized conference. The paper tied for best paper in its area, among over 70 papers presented in that area.

When I got back to Wharton from the conference, Rod stopped by my office.

"Congratulations. The faculty are going to think that's great."

"Thanks, Rod."

He was not quite done. "Of course it doesn't mean very much."

"I just wish you wrote better."

Huh? I just was awarded irrefutable outside evidence that I wrote very well, thank you, but Rod was not buying any of it.

Actually, I apologize. I took Rod's comments out of context. It turns out that Rod presented a paper at the same conference that I did. His paper was in a different area than mine, but, of course, Rod's paper didn't win. Moreover, papers are presented in sessions of two to three other papers. At that conference, the chair of each session is responsible for submitting a nomination of one of the papers in their session for the best paper award. Rod's paper was the paper nominated from the session he chaired.

Before I went to that conference, the much longer paper I submitted had been accepted for publication. Actually, I was asked to expand the paper into 2 parts, since they felt there was so much useful material. I was informed during the conference where I won best paper that my NSF grant was funded---the grant that I wrote all by myself.

Given the handwriting on the wall, however, I found another job. It was at Simon Fraser University in beautiful Vancouver, British Columbia. Not nearly as prestigious at Wharton---most people I knew had never heard of it---but I had always wanted to live in the Pacific northwest, I liked the faculty, and I knew I would succeed there. I eventually got tenure, was awarded a teaching award one year, and became an area editor of that excellent journal.

Before I decided to leave, I met with each of the members of my review committee for one last chance. They knew about the award-winning paper, the acceptance (and expansion) of the "survey" paper, the NSF grant, and the fact that I had an active job offer. Here is what they said:

Rod: "Don't buy a house."

Member 1: "The committee was pleased that after our negative feedback, you seemed to turn things around." I calmly replied, "I had completed and submitted all those positively received papers before the committee even met."

Member 2: I mentioned to him that I didn't believe the faculty paid much attention to Rod's opinions (I wanted to say, "since he is such a jerk," but didn't). This faculty member replied quite simply, "don't make that assumption."

Lots of enthusiasm there for having me stay.  Rather than wait around for the inevitable, I chose to leave, a year before the tenure decision was going to be made.

In retrospect, I realize first that I don't deal well with bullies like Rod. Although I have had a successful career as a professor (tenure at two universities, wrote a book, many publications), and a successful career as a software developer (now at Amazon), when a bully has power over me, I have to move on to another position.

Second, Rod was regularly put down by the rest of the faculty in the department. He seemed to transfer all that hurt onto others, including me. We were at a standoff, but he and his colleagues had the power.

Except that I could pick myself up and leave.

My low tolerance for bullies arises perhaps from being a geeky gay kid, like lots of other gay kids, I was picked on pretty often. not beaten up, humiliated, which is more like being beaten up mentally. When someone tries to bully me or others, therefore, I become enraged. Perhaps if I had accepted Rod's offer of help (I felt it would be sucking up), I would now be a respected member of the faculty of the Wharton School of the University of Pennsylvania. On the other hand, my dear, recently departed Dad, was a man of strong opinions, who stood up for principle, even at his own expense. I am proud to have taken my Dad's example to heart.

Two years later, I was back at the same conference where I had won the award. A new paper of mine was again nominated for best paper (I didn't win). 

Of course, I ran into Rod. He complained about the tone in my old department at Wharton, how the rest of the faculty did not respect his research. I guess it's not uncommon for people to project the pain they have endured onto others. I think he tried to patch up any bad feelings by saying, "you would not have been happy there." 

If he was trying to make some form of peace with me, I didn't realize it at the time. When he asked me how I liked my new institution, I had a response well prepared, one that I had practiced many times in my head. It was great to finally let it out. "Well, Rod, Simon Fraser University does not have the resources or reputation of the Wharton School, but at least when a paper of mine wins an award, nobody on the faculty congratulates me by saying, 'I just wish you wrote better.'"

About a year later, Steve, a good friend and colleague of mine in my old department at Wharton, told me there was a position open. I responded, "I have grave doubts as to whether I would ever want to return." He urged me to reconsider, as he would push strongly to bring me back. OK, I would keep an open mind.

I saw Steve soon thereafter at another conference. He was embarrassed.

"Chris, it doesn't look like we'll move forward with bringing you in for an interview." 

"No worries, Steve.  I think I'm probably more relieved than disappointed."

Then Steve added, "you can probably guess who killed your chances." 

"Ummm...yes I can. " 

Thinking back on all of this, however, I think I can appreciate at least some of Rod's hurt and anger. I felt hurt and angry too. Although he was a major cause of those painful feelings, I would hope that I would now be better able to rise above it. I don't know if I really could, but I'd like to think so.

In the end, I hope I was able to explain effectively why I left Wharton voluntarily. If I haven't, all I can say is, I just wish I wrote better.