In most professions there's a relatively sharp line between those who teach the learned art and those who practice it. Those who teach the profession stand for something "higher" or at least apart from those subjects to the demands of practice. Teachers, unlike practitioners are supposed to be dedicated to the pursuit and dissemination of knowledge. The change that comes when one "enters the real world" of practice comes as no surprise in these professions (though it may still come as something of a shock).

So, it may seem, entering the profession I practice should be different. To be a philosopher is to be a teacher of philosophy, and to be a teacher is to be someone not subject to the demands of practice. That, however, was not my experience. Taking up my profession was not like getting up from a seat in the classroom, walking up to the front, and taking over. It was, well, more like "entering the real world." So, perhaps we need to revise our general conception of what distinguishes those who teach a profession from those who practice it. Furthermore, perhaps we ought to prepare our students for "the real world of philosophy" as teachers of other professions try, whether successfully or not, to prepare their students for a different world of practice.

Among my first lessons in the real world of philosophy was that the classroom is not the center of academic life for faculty. Faculty do not often talk about what they do in class because they have no classes together. What they have together is their department. That is the center of their common life. One's relation to the department is not simply a relation with a series of individual faculty. Such relations exist, of course, but in addition to them there is the relation with the department as a whole. In a department of, say, two or three members, the distinction between individual faculty and department is small. But, in a department of even eight or ten, it can be enormous. One can, for example be getting along well with most members of the department and still not be getting along well with "the department".

That is possible because departments are organizations, organizations the central feature of which is "academic rank," something to which students need not give much thought. For a graduate student, all professors are more or less equal. The distinction between, say, "assistant" and "full" professor does not mean much. The distinction between "untenured" and "tenured" means even less (since it does not, like "assistant" or "full," even appear in the catalogue). Some of the best philosophers maybe young "assistants," while others are older "associates" or "funs." One "assistant" may treat you like dirt, while another makes you feel like a longtime friend. Full professors are much the same.

Only with my first job did I realize how important rank is, however democratic the department tries to be. A tenured philosopher has "made it," whatever his or her contribution to philosophy or eminence as a teacher. An untenured philosopher is, on the other hand, still "on probation," subject to being turned out for almost any reason the department thinks appropriate. Rank decides who gets to sit in judgment of whom, whose sense of profession takes precedence.

There is a story illustrating this. I do not know whether it is true. But if it is not, I know some others which, while too complicated for retelling here, would illustrate the same point. So, for my purposes, the truth of this story does not matter.

Here is the story: There was once a young philosopher teaching at a famous eastern university. He was clever, hard working, a good teacher, and helpful critic. He was, in short, everything a graduate student is taught he should be. But he was not perfect. He often made a nuisance of himself at departmental colloquia. As soon as the speaker had finished, he would raise his hand and, being called upon would start asking questions. His questions might take up a good part of the question period. But, he would press on until the speaker had satisfied him on the point or, as happened more often, he had revealed a serious flaw in the speaker's work. Everyone agreed his performance on these occasions was often brilliant and valuable. Certainly, it showed just that single-minded pursuit of the truth for which philosophy students are regularly rewarded in graduate school as if that were the chief value of a philosopher. No one ever told our young philosopher that he should give his colleagues more opportunity to talk. No one ever suggested instituting a moderator to structure discussion more. But, when our young philosopher's probationary period came to an end, he was denied tenure because he did not "fit in."

Unlike most such stories, this one has a relatively happy ending. Our young philosopher soon afterward received an offer from another famous eastern university. When the department heard, it repented and offered him tenure. He left anyway and eventually became about as famous as philosophers become these days. But he left a quieter man.

I could tell similar stories about reading papers at colloquia (beware of reading unpolished work even though the tenured people do it all the time), how much to publish (publishing too much can make you look "superficial" to those who cannot appreciate your work and may also hurt the feelings of the department's non-publishers), choice of journals to publish in (better to publish in journals your colleagues know than in journals those in your field are most likely to read), how to lobby colleagues (very discreetly, much as a Victorian might discuss sex), "campaigning" for office (don't, since it suggests you think your colleagues can't tell who deserves the job), whom to confide your insecurities in (no one in the department above you in rank, especially not someone on the tenure committee), how to receive criticism (it's better to agree with it all than to appear argumentative), and so on.
Once tenured, our young philosopher could, of course, have done just what he did with relative impunity. Academics generally, and perhaps philosophers in particular, have a high tolerance of eccentricity among tenured colleagues. But, until tenured, a philosopher's career depends upon understanding how much "politics" can take precedence over research and teaching, something of which graduate school gives the student no warning.

I do not, of course, mean to suggest that all philosophy departments are as far from the ideal as the one in my story. Nor is it necessarily my view that that department did something wrong. All I mean to suggest here is how great the discontinuity between the ideals of graduate school and the real world of philosophy can be. It would, I think, be helpful if we openly discussed such matters with graduate students before sending them out. Indeed, it would be helpful if we openly discussed such questions among ourselves. Perhaps our ideals are wrong. Perhaps being able to "fit in" is more important than brilliant and valuable questioning. Perhaps more philosophers should evaluate graduate students the way medical schools seem to evaluate their students, taking into account character as -well as learning.

If such possibilities strike my fellow philosophers are strange, how much stranger is it that philosophers, who have so much to say about philosophy as an intellectual pursuit, have had so little to say about philosophy as a way of life.