#dissertationwoes

No one prepared me for the worst possible outcome of a dissertation defense: Failure. Yet, after waiting outside in the hallway for over 90 minutes, I was certain of it. My advisor summoned me back into the room with a wave of the arm as he shook his head and glibly said, “You’re going to have to do it again.” The remarks made by the committee sounded to me like Charlie Brown teacher’s voice; I couldn’t quite make out what they were saying. After they left, I recall staring down at the table as I heard my advisor admit, “This was as much my fault…” The tears welled up, but I refused to let a single tear fall in his presence. I took a deep breath and spoke. “I… would… like… to… leave… now.”

When I regained the ability to think lucidly, I began to assemble the events that led up to this debacle. My advisor (let’s call him Dr. X) had taken a laissez-faire approach to my doctoral candidacy. He refused to look at individual chapters of my proposal (“I have to see the whole before I can render judgment.”) and acted similarly with my dissertation. He never read a single page prior to my submitting a full draft. He provided no written feedback to my writing, but offered broad questions and general comments. I attempted to correct the perceived shortcomings, or what I understood them to be, but I never quite knew where I stood. As we drew closer to my chosen last semester, I pressed Dr. X for a defense date. We set one up, yet it was not until two days before that we had a sit-down and he offered some clear questions and concerns. I did not read these remarks as a request for revision; after all, the committee members had this draft. I made a few pages of notes to respond to his remarks and hoped for the best.

Onto the defense: I sat across from the committee. Just me facing the four of them. Everyone had their spiral-bound copies of my dissertation in front of them. Two of the four had Post-It notes marking pages. Too many, if you asked me. Dr. X’s copy, by comparison, looked pristine, like an unread book, with a tell-tale unbroken spine. As the others began posing questions (Dr. X had deferred to them, saying that he’d add his questions and comments at the end), I attempted to answer them, but quickly descended into a “deer in the headlights” panic. My feeble meanderings led me to look across the table at my advisor for clarification or help. He offered little to no eye contact, let alone commentary. As questions drew more and more specific, it became obvious to me that Dr. X had not read the dissertation in its entirety. He could not find sections others on the committee mentioned as they queried me. His random flipping through his copy of my dissertation caused my chest to tighten and the acid to flow in my gut.

I had never failed in any academic endeavor, until this one. It was a broad, powerful slap in the face. It would be three months before I stopped wallowing in my depression and began the process of revision. The first order of business was to stop blaming Dr. X. Surely, he bore a share of the responsibility, but dwelling on that would not get me my degree. As I read the notes provided to me by the other committee members and notes I had nervously scrawled during the doomed defense, I realized the dissertation was not defensible. Wide gaps yawned in the articulation of the methodology and in linkages of theory to my data. Errors of omission screamed from its pages. My face flushed as I internalized the mediocrity I had assumed was ready to pass muster. At that moment, I could finally begin again. I wanted desperately to be a member of that exclusive club, terminally degreed in my discipline; I had to earn it.