Abstract
Consciously uncoupled from the career, Bill Falk considers the self.
For nearly 40 years, I was a member of what a colleague called a “privileged occupation”—university professor. Forty years, plus graduate school, yield a huge fraction of one’s lifetime engaged in a career. So for nearly my entire adult life, I knew who I was. But I retired, so…who am I now?
I decided that I would retire when I turned 70. I loved being a college professor. I spent half of my career as a professor/administrator, chairing the sociology department at Maryland for nearly 17 years and African American Studies for another 3, but I never stopped being a researcher and teacher. And even though I have now retired, I suspect (and hope) that I will never stop being a sociologist. I’m sure this holds true for most retiring academics: work is a fundamental part of our self-concept. We are what we’ve done. Work equals self.
In a self-reflexive way, I think this is especially true for social scientists. We cannot easily turn our academic selves off and on. They pop up when reading the morning paper or having a conversation with a spouse or partner or neighbor or friend or children or at the grocery store…well, in nearly any social situation.
Work is a fundamental part of our self-concept. We are what we’ve done. Work equals self.
I find this is also how other people see sociologists—maybe all professionals. At a dinner party, a new acquaintance had heard that I was a sociologist: “I’ll bet you’d find my family really interesting!” Your existential self is there—as public persona, like it or not. Even if I wanted to, it’s unlikely I’d flip a switch at retirement and become not-a-sociologist.
In sociological parlance, there is a lot of both human capital (the skills people have acquired) and social capital (the professional relationships they have developed) among retirees. To be honest, I’m not sure the “capitalization” that might occur is happening as well as it might. My impression is that when people retire from a university, it is more of a divorce than trial separation. Once fully disengaged, they are gone and mostly forgotten. A former (quite famous) colleague told me he thought when he retired it would only take six months before he’d come to the office and not be recognized. It happened.
For many Americans, retirement is a kind of abstract concept. Retirement may be less well defined when your life’s work is more a series of jobs than a “career.” Further, it may mean an unplanned exit, living off unemployment or, eventually, Social Security. In Florida, I see such “retirees” behind the counter at fast food restaurants, as greeters in big-box stores, as security guards in gated communities, as starters at golf courses, and even bagging groceries. For some, this may be a way out of the house (and a break from one’s partner), but for others it is likely a necessity.
For professors, fortunate souls, work has constituted a career and involves a question about when to retire. We consider our passion for the work, economic comfort or necessity, our desire to remain “relevant” (it’s who we are!), our physical ability to get to and from work and move around campus. But it’s also a kind of moral dilemma (especially for sociologists with an interest in inequality and social justice)—when is it someone else’s turn? When should we exit the stage to make way for someone “more contemporary”? Yes, there is such a thing as ageism, but when is it time to go?
So “who am I?” is very much a fluid issue when you retire. For decades, you were a certain someone. I’m sure some newly retired folks have planned and planned for their “freedom,” and giving up the job was a choice they made long ago. For others, if prompted by illness or other unforeseen circumstances, I’m sure that their former job is not their greatest worry.
In my own case, I have been very fortunate in retirement. In fact, I am still employed part-time, assisting the university with external relations. I also help mentor students and young faculty. I have become very engaged in church activities.
Who am I? To answer Jesse Jackson, who, nearly half a century ago, would engage African Americans in a call-and-response: I am somebody! I’m just not entirely sure who.