Most careers, I believe, have setbacks. And many people go
through jobs that at some point seem to require compromises
they don't like. In my case these problems were relatively
brief, and, in any case, highly educational.
In 1969, I got my first "real" job, assistant professor at a
state university. My PhD was in pure mathematics, and the
post-Sputnik push of government in the sciences meant there
was still growing enrollment in mathematics; the department
was hiring several young people a year.
But when I was considered for tenure in 1974, the situation
was very different. Enrollment was shrinking, the department
faculty was shrinking, and several young faculty, including
me, were denied tenure and would have to find other jobs.
The job market was starting to look better in computer
science than in mathematics. I'd had some summer jobs
working with computers. Was it possible to make the change?
I asked the chairman of our newly formed computer science
department if one could become a computer science professor
without ever having taken a computer science class. His
answer was short: "I did."
Computer classes were rare when he and I were students.
As I started job hunting, the computer science chairman had
a call from the university's College of Business: Could he
suggest someone for the job of computer jockey in the
College of Business? I took the job, at some cut in pay and
status.
My main task there was unexpected. The College of Business
had a contract from the state government to provide services
for the State Council of Economic Advisors. We made revenue
forecasts for the state budget process, economic tables to
help recruit industry to the state, and tables for state
agency annual reports.
Computer programming was needed, but there was a much
broader opportunity to use my mathematical and statistical
knowledge, as well as any stray side interests I could bring
to bear.
The notion of a "database management system" was brand new
to the state government, and asking people to think in those
terms was a hard job even for an experienced teacher. I
spent a month, early on, walking around state agency offices
asking "What numbers do you produce here? What numbers do
you get from elsewhere?" and "What numbers do you wish you
had, but can't get?" I then tried to organize as many of
those numbers as I could in some rational fashion.
The numbers that governments use often have much more
complex definitions than one might expect, however.
I once asked the appropriate official in Washington, D.C.,
what the unemployment rate was that week.
"Just under 6 percent, nationally," he said, "but don't ask
which states have a rate under 6 percent, because there
aren't any." He said there was political benefit in keeping
the national rate low, but the states received more federal
aid if they had a higher rate. So the definitions were
different at the federal and state levels. Members of the
United States military counted as "employed," nationally,
but not within any state. Persons unemployed more than six
months might be considered "unemployable" nationally (and
hence no longer counted as unemployed), but might be counted
as unemployed in a state if they were still drawing
unemployment pay.
This was not a case of twisting the statistics to come out
the way one wanted. Firm rules had to be followed, it was
just that those rules had evolved by taking into account
differing goals and purposes. It took time for me to
understand those systems, and even more time to figure out
how to work with them.
I became very popular with some local officials, because I
was very good at figuring out which numbers made their towns
look good - or, sometimes, bad. They could get extra federal
aid if their town was in the poorest 10 percent, something
that could be established in a variety of ways: If they were
not among the poorest towns on the Department of Labor list,
they might be low on the Department of Commerce list, or
high in what percentage of income was from welfare payments.
But I was very unpopular with other officials, because the
professor in me usually wouldn't sign off on a number until
I'd made an honest effort to understand what it meant.
Someone had to say to me, "I need the number Tuesday, and I
don't care if it is right. I just care if it is Tuesday," as
well as "I asked what time it is, I didn't ask how the watch
works."
I worked on an important state report for months. I expected
my name to appear as its author. But I felt too much
pressure from my superiors: They wanted the numbers come out
a certain way. Finally, I issued the report - with no author
listed. To a budding professor, giving up credit for a
publication seemed a high price.
After two years, I was ready to find another job. I returned
to teaching and won tenure as a computer science teacher in
a comparable university. For many years in my classes
afterward, I used the experience and examples I'd gathered
in my two years working with state government. My students
have come back after graduation to say how valuable those
examples were.
In hindsight, the university that denied me tenure did me,
and my later students, a considerable favor.
