Free All about Skin by Jina Ortiz Page B

are identical in their black, gray, navy, and brown pantsuits, their hair pulled away from their faces, their mouths devoid of lipstick. She has been trained not to call attention to herself during the interview process, not to give the search committee any opportunity to think of her as less than equal. She knows the drill. She will greet each search committee member with a firm handshake and sincere eye contact. She will not expect anyone to take her coat or pull out her chair. She will accept a cup of water if offered; if not, she will not ask.
    Don’t ask, don’t drink.
    Prior to her afternoon interview, she’d visited the book exhibit room and attempted to interest publishers in her fledgling book project. In the area just before the exhibit room, makeshift walls had been erected to list conference changes and candidates had clustered around them, young men and women in somber suits standing on tiptoe, scanning to see if a last-minute interview had come through. She eyed those candidates with pity, taking comfort in not being one of them. Like her, they had taken a chance on coming to the convention. In the crowded elevator, she pushes thoughts of the unlucky out of her head.
    It is all a gamble, she tells herself.
    The search committee consists of only two members. The two men greet her and usher her in. One shakes her hand and the other follows suit. They direct her to the hot seat, a chair placed at an angle that allows her to face them both across the coffee table. They offer her a choice of water or coffee; they ask about her flight and her overall trip.
    The man seated to her right then says, “Tell us a little about your dissertation,” the academic counterpart to the corporate “Tell us a little about yourself,” signaling that—niceties over—the interview can begin.
    She describes her dissertation succinctly, in under two minutes flat, delivering the rehearsed recitation she has been trained to memorize. She answers every follow-up question admirably. The two men take turns asking about her teaching, her courses, her research. It is all going very well.
    In the middle of discussing the unique advising system implemented at their university, which has now become a model for many other research universities with a focus on undergraduate education, she is asked, “Do you have any questions about opportunities for partners?”
    â€œI’m sorry, I don’t understand,” she says. When the placement chair brought in the former grads, they’d advised the hopefuls to be honest during interviews and not try to bluff one’s way through any questions one failed to understand. Bluffing, they said, would only make it worse.
    Silence fills the awkwardness and she sees the exchange of glances over her head. She has not read anything on the department’s web page or in the university’s mission statement mentioning a program called Opportunities for Partners. She suspects it is a program in which the university partners with the local community. Perhaps it is a new micro lending project. Opportunities for Partners. How has she missed reading about this? It is obviously important enough for them to change the direction of the interview and interject a question about it. Opportunities for … partners. Partners: their politically correct way of alluding to a significant other without making presumptions about one’s sexual orientation. “Oh,” she says. “You mean ‘partners’ with a little ‘p.’ I understand now.”
    â€œAnd do you have any questions?” she is asked.
    â€œNo, thank you.”
    As one, the two men stand and extend their hands. The one to her left says, “Thank you for coming. We intend to be in touch with all of our candidates early next semester to arrange campus visits.” The one to her right says, “Enjoy the rest of the convention.”
    At the conclusion of the interview, she