I Will Never Look Like a Professor

On the pain—and joys—of professional misrecognition

The other day, I got in an Uber. The driver picked me up from home, and remembered my whole family—we’d driven to the airport together about a year ago. We had a nice chat, and eventually he asked me whether or not my husband was a faculty member at Cornell (we live quite close to campus). “Yes,” I replied, “And so am I.” Silence. I didn’t add that I was the one who brought us here, twelve years ago, or that my husband has a spousal appointment as a lecturer. Meanwhile, I was tenured six years ago, and am no longer junior faculty.

I didn’t even flinch because I’ve never been recognized as, or assumed to be, a professor. Even if I am carrying a satchel and on my way to a lecture hall. At this point, I don’t think it is ever going to happen. True, I am still sometimes mistaken for a student. But, at forty-two, that has been happening less and less often. Frankly, I just don’t look young enough anymore. But I still don’t look sufficiently professorial. I lack gravitas.

I mostly shrug about this and don’t think about it deeply. But an experience yesterday left me feeling some kind of way about it for a minute.

I donned academic regalia—velvet tasseled cap and hood and gown—for the first time ever to attend my department’s commencement ceremony, where I had the honor of presenting graduating PhD students with their diplomas. I also had to give a little address as Director of Graduate Studies. I was as recognizable as I’ll ever be as a professor in our department.

And it still wasn’t enough. I was, again, misrecognized.