When I Grow Up

Yale opens many doors, but doesn’t help us pick.

A fork in the road on Old Campus. Perhaps I will be a teacher when I grow up. I taught this summer—and it was wonderful. There was Ryder, who’s tiny, and writes with neat handwriting, and Jenna, who walks that fine line between popular and kind. There’s Raheem, who, at eleven years old, is an adorable lump, and Jorge, who doesn’t know how to be cool, who has the most earnest eyes and the most staggering optimism. When you’re a teacher, each day brings rollicking. . . Read more
Kate Selker
Off Track

Graduate students struggle to find meaningful work in a collapsed economy.

Mike O’Hara* is on the academic job market for the second year in a row.  Sitting on a marble slab in Yale’s Beinecke Plaza, he pulls out a single, typed sheet of paper that lists all the open positions in his field.  “Best Bets” includes spots at ten or a dozen universities, “Long Shots” lists places at fifteen. Then, at the bottom of the sheet, there’s a slim category called “Hail Marys.”  These jobs, it seems, might only descend from heaven as a result of. . . Read more
Rachel Caplan