[Paleopsych] CHE: Should a Mentor Be a Friend?
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Fri Feb 4 14:55:22 UTC 2005
Should a Mentor Be a Friend?
The Chronicle of Higher Education, 5.1.21
A tenured professor fears that he is too emotionally invested in his
relationship with a young colleague
By FRANK MIDLER
I am trying very hard not to screw up a relationship that feels like
the most substantial and professionally important of my career to this
point. That relationship also feels like one of the most satisfying
personal connections I have made in the past several years, and I find
myself not knowing how to be a mentor and a friend at the same time.
The literature on serving as a mentor to junior colleagues is
extensive, and departments and universities use a number of official
means to encourage professional guidance for new faculty members.
Official programs can help, but even when done well, they aren't
And so new assistant professors, searching for the key to professional
success, often make informal appeals to slightly older colleagues. Or
newcomers turn to the distance-education form of mentoring, consulting
columns like this one and Web sources on academic careers. And of
course, the new faculty member can always turn to his or her
dissertation director for advice, but those of us who have experienced
the natural, if disappointing, postgraduate lapse of intimacy with our
advisers know that it's not a good idea to go to that well too often.
Having recently received tenure -- and having participated on a search
committee in my department last year -- I am in a good position to be
a mentor for at least one of my new junior colleagues. I am
professionally secure, still ambitious, and still myself interested in
negotiating our various institutional structures.
And since my own experience as a new assistant professor benefited
more than I can say from the guidance of two recently tenured
colleagues, I have felt all along that helping new faculty members
adjust to the campus and to the larger pressures of academic life was
a duty that came along with tenure.
My career as teacher, scholar, and administrator is a direct result of
the care that my two mentors took to introduce me to faculty life.
Their efforts ranged from the formal (introducing me to important
colleagues and administrators, putting me in touch with relevant
librarians, reading my scholarly work, observing my teaching,
providing advice on publication venues, writing letters of
recommendation for fellowships) to the informal (mostly involving long
conversations facilitated by substances like coffee, beer, and
I have moved on to another job, but my two mentors are now cherished
friends and professional collaborators. I miss their daily presence in
my life. I wouldn't be successful -- I wouldn't even be tenured
-- without the time, care, and love they offered me, and I'm proud to
think of myself as their protégé even if they would (probably)
pooh-pooh the extent of their contribution.
Wishing to emulate my own mentors, I have become a mentor, but I find
myself stumbling badly and I fear that I won't be able to help my new
I have no sinister motives, but unfortunately our relationship has
been complicated by the friendly affection I feel for her. Wanting her
to like me as a friend, I find myself violating the structure of a
good mentoring relationship. Instead of presenting a consistent,
strong, and confident manner, I find myself lapsing into confession
and gossip -- two of the fatal Cleopatras of any professional
My new colleague is fresh out of graduate school. We had chosen Karen
over a number of highly experienced and well-published assistant
professors at other institutions. We weren't the only ones interested
in her, and I attribute some of her decision to accept our offer to a
flurry of e-mail messages I sent to her last spring explaining some of
the great things for junior faculty members at our university and
extolling the high quality of life in Midwestern college towns.
At the same time, I committed myself to spending the time and energy
to help her gain full access to the resources of our university. Even
though our fields are not identical, they're close enough for us to
talk about scholarship. I resolved to do for my new colleague what my
own mentors had done for me. Although I knew my time this year would
be threatened by administrative duties, I would be on the campus daily
and therefore would be available to provide advice and listen to
A kink emerged in my grand scheme when I took an immediate liking to
Karen and her husband, Bill. They had been here a mere two weeks when
my wife and I decided they would be our best friends in town. Even
when our conversation focused on professional issues, it felt fully
personal. And when our families got together, I forgot that there was
anything institutional about our relationship.
I desperately wanted Karen and Bill to like us as much as we liked
them, and at the same time I felt a pit growing in my stomach as I
contemplated a time -- three or four years down the line, maybe
-- when the two East Coasters would ride early scholarly success to
another university, probably in a "blue" state.
Trying not to think too deeply about it, I went on a charm offensive.
Unfortunately, my self-perceived "charm" became immediately
"offensive." I told Karen all about myself. And the more I felt myself
overreaching, the more I pulled out everything in my arsenal: Within a
month, my new colleague knew more about me than any colleague should
be obliged to know.
Even worse, I told her what I think -- what I really think -- about
many of our colleagues in the department.
I answered her e-mail messages immediately, ignoring more important
communications from students and editors, and I practically brimmed
over with enthusiasm when she ducked her head into my office.
I'm sure that some of my efforts have been useful: Karen hasn't
hesitated to ask me about how our institution works, and I have been
able to steer her toward reliable administrators as well as inform her
of the written and unwritten rules of teaching here.
But I turned our relationship upside down, too. Karen and Bill have a
son a year older than ours, and I began to go to her for child-rearing
advice, putting myself in the role of protégé to her parental mentor.
My wife looked on with sympathy, registering the disappointment on my
face when I would learn that Karen and Bill were spending Friday night
with some of her fellow first-year assistant professors and their
partners rather than with us. I think you get the picture: I was
I knew all along that my behavior was wrong. The protégé owes the
mentor nothing in a personal sense. Furthermore, it is crucial for the
life of a department that all new faculty members develop independent
lives in town and across campus. I didn't really mean to interfere,
but my own insecurities -- and perhaps my envy of her youth, her fresh
intelligence, and the long, unpredictably open future she will have as
scholar and teacher -- drove me to butt in when I should have made
myself back off.
A few weeks ago, I took them a small housewarming gift. Karen and Bill
met us in the doorway. "We wanted to talk to both of you," Bill said,
going on to deliver a bombshell.
When I got home, I said to my wife, "Karen and Bill wanted to talk to
us. They have some news. Guess."
"They're leaving!" she said, in a horrified tone. I had been hoping
that would be my wife's response, since it revealed I was not the only
one besotted with our new friends.
"Nope," I said, "Karen's pregnant."
The joy I feel for my new colleague is a bit too much. I really do
believe this is a good time in her career for her to have a second
child, as she'll be able to spend a solid stretch of years doing the
work required to get tenure without further interruption and with a
steady (if action-packed) home situation. I also feel good that I can
help her negotiate our university's byzantine procedures for dealing
with parental leave. But it's neither morally right nor
psychologically healthy for me to be as emotionally invested in our
relationship as I am.
I can't help myself! Despite repeated promises to reform my behavior,
I continue to provide way too much information, compounding the
problem by delivering extensive apologies after dropping especially
juicy bits of inappropriate opinion. "It's OK," Karen said to me
wearily over lunch last week. "I figure that's just Frank."
Becoming a truly good mentor will require me to divest myself of
emotion -- or at least to separate friendship from the dispassionate
role of a mentor. A good mentor should talk little and listen lots,
providing an example of professionalism while dispensing useful
information. I'm not sure I could be accused of malpractice, but
neither have I done the job properly.
Frank Midler is the pseudonym of a newly tenured associate professor
at a large Midwestern research university. He writes an occasional
column on life as a newly tenured faculty member. For an archive of
his previous columns, see
E-mail me if you have problems getting the referenced articles.
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