A “Dr.” in the House

It dawned on me even then that teaching might be a good way to transition out of the daily deadline-driven madness of journalism once I had children. But a Ph.D.? Unthinkable. I had just spent three years killing myself to work full time and get a master’s degree, and I knew in my heart of hearts that my father’s doubts so long ago had been understandable. I had been a mediocre student. Even though I had overcome major doubts about my intelligence to get a master’s degree, a Ph.D. was altogether different. But, how to teach without one and not feel like a poseur in the academy?
I then did something that I have done throughout my life. Despite the sometimes painful consequences, this thing has always meant some sort of personal growth. I decided to “sign up” and then, show up. I think this is something I started doing after I heard Woody Allen’s saying that half the battle of life was just showing up.
I had done this to myself repeatedly through the years, including once when I actually gave up my apartment before going off for a week to look for a reporting job in a much bigger city. In retrospect, it was an insane thing to do, but I landed a position at a major wire service, forever changing my direction in life.
Grad school at Georgetown was another example, and a later trip to Israel, and then a leap to a job in New York City. I had the habit of just making the request, the reservation, filling out the form, and/or paying the deposit — whatever happened to be required — and I would end up following through on my commitment, usually hoping the assigned showing-up day would never come because of my intense fear of, well, success, I suppose.
So, thinking I’d never fit in without a Ph.D., I applied to the doctoral program at the only school that offered one in journalism in my area – the University of Maryland. I remember going to see the director of the program, whom I now understand was one of those predictable pompous asses of academia. As I sat across from his desk, he put his feet up, pushed his upper torso back in his office chair, hands interlocked behind his head, elbows out, and asked me what made me want to live the life of an intellectual. It had the desired effect. I was intimidated. But I did what I did and put in the application.
What were the chances I’d get in? But with my much-improved master’s grades, the generous recommendations I had from professional journalists with whom I had worked (like Helen Thomas), I had gotten in. My daughter was 18 months old and I was three months pregnant with my son. But because the paperwork was such a pain to do and I didn’t want to have to go through that meeting again, I enrolled.
How I got through that decade of graduate school while working part-time as a journalist and raising a family, I may never know. But, it might have been an extreme example of my “showing up” philosophy at work. Every semester, I would sign up for a class and just go. I had a part-time sitter and a husband who was a dedicated father. My son sometimes colored pictures while sitting on the floor in the hallway while I went to professors’ office hours. I once carried him in a backpack to the Library of Congress to conduct research. More than a few times I caught 20-minute naps in my car behind the CBS News Washington bureau on work days. Once I reported to the bureau for my night shift without having taken a shower for three days.

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