“Break a Leg.” That’s the pep talk when you go on stage, right?

Wish it had been only been a leg. I felt like my whole body was going to shatter, that I might even vomit right there in front of the entire search committee.

My stage? A smelly, claustrophobic classroom.

My performance? A job talk.

It’s not an experience I’ll ever forget. Certainly not one I care to repeat. But it is a memory I can recount in all its gory detail now, knowing we get to a happy ending.

It was winter 1990.

I was at a turning point. My marriage was collapsing. I could stay in Japan, where I was very happy teaching at International Christian University in Western Tokyo, or I could return to the United States.

Intuitively, I understood that if I was ever going to find academic employment in America, it had to be now. Any longer in Japan and the window to return would close.

As much as I loved Japan, I needed to be back in the States. I had worked hard to earn a PhD in order to teach Japanese literature to Americans. I wanted others to make the discoveries I had made. I wanted to share, to help others open doors to a world beyond their imaginations.

The possibilities looked good that year. The job market for Japanese literature was booming.

Back then you started the job hunt by looking for openings in the Association for Asian Studies newsletter—print, of course—and sent off letters of inquiry. I duly circled the positions I thought I was qualified for, mailed out letters of application, and anxiously awaited answers.

I applied to six or seven positions that year and secured five interviews.

A good sign for sure.

Even so, it would be a tough trip back home, emotionally fraught with both home-coming and home-leaving.

My first stop was the easy one. I flew back to North Carolina, enjoyed the Christmas holidays with my parents, sinking back into the familiarity of being a child—decorating the little “Charlie Brown Christmas tree” my father would bring back from the Tennessee land, singing Christmas carols, making cookies with Mother.

Still, the interviews loomed in the offing. All were scheduled in January, one right after the other.

I’d spent the last year in Japan training for and running triathlons. The five interviews awaiting me seemed similar. As I stared at the schedule for the month, I felt I was looking down a racecourse. Here’s where I’ll transition from swim to bike, and here from bike to run.

What of all the hidden hurdles, though?

The first hurdle was one I had been anticipating, and it had little to do with the interviews. At least, not directly.

I had the home-leaving to face.

My father and I drove to Pennsylvania to collect all the boxes of things I had left with my husband’s family while we lived in Japan.

It was stressful.

And emotional.

I had always liked my in-laws. It was sad to think that I likely would never see them again.

Daddy and I drove the 450 miles back to Raleigh mostly in silence.

I had too much to say.

Then came the interviews.

The University of Virginia was first.

The campus was beautiful, and I loved the surrounding Shenandoah area. After years in Tokyo, western Virginia felt close to home.

Maybe too close?

Next came Ohio State University. The campus was huge, and the department was emerging as a powerhouse in Japanese Studies. Still, I felt no affinity for the program, no sense that this was the right choice for me.

On my way back to Raleigh from Columbus, the little Embraer jet hit some of the worst turbulence I have ever experienced—and I’ve been flying since I was just one month old! I felt as though all the anxiety of my job talks was striking the little jet with every clap of thunder.

We bounced and rolled through the clouds and the woman in the seat next to me screamed the whole way.

When we safely landed her little boy said, “That’s was fun! Can we do it again!”

I couldn’t help but smile.

I wanted to channel his innocent sense of adventure, the way he enjoyed the bumps with no awareness of the danger.

And then it was time to interview at Washington University in St. Louis.

I had been waiting for this interview.

Somehow, I knew WashU was the position I wanted.

Would wanting something this badly help or hurt my performance?

I wore a sleek, grey knit sweater suit for the first day. It was comfortable enough to travel in and wouldn’t wrinkle, so once I reached Lambert airfield in St. Louis, I was ready to go.

And I dove straight into the schedule. The first day was packed with activities: meeting the chair, meeting other faculty, guest teaching in a Japanese language course.

I remember sitting in the administrative office waiting for my interview with the chair to start.

I was nervous.

A lovely woman with dark sparkly eyes stopped in front of me.

“Hi, I’m Nancy. Welcome to WashU.”

She held out her hand but gestured for me to stay seated. “Unfortunately, I have to go out of town tonight and will miss your job talk,” she told me. “I’m really interested in the topic, though.”

Her smile was radiant and instantly set me at ease.

Nancy was soon followed by the instructor in charge of the Japanese class where I’d be teaching for my demonstration.

I hadn’t taught Japanese language for over five years, and I was nervous. To offset my anxiety, and in an attempt to bond with the instructor, I asked a question.

“I just want to clarify a point,” I told her, scanning over the chapter from the textbook that I had printed out ahead of time.

I can’t remember what I asked her. It had to do with the ‘te’-form.

“Well, you’re the teacher, aren’t you?” She replied dismissively in Japanese.

For the first time on the trip, my guard went up.

My throat felt tight. That night, I kept going over and over that exchange in my head until I finally fell asleep.

And then it was morning.

I wore my tobacco-colored suit. Just as Mother anticipated, it made me feel strong and lucky. Talisman for the career woman.

This day was even more crammed with activities: a meeting with the dean and my job talk among them. Back to the triathlon training!

The building where most of the activities were scheduled was stately and old, but the room for the job talk was cramped, barely seating 30. The ceiling was low, the acoustics tinny, and the space smelled like carpet glue.

My stomach tightened.

I launched into my job talk on “Uno Chiyo: The Woman and the Writer.” I adored this topic, and I was practiced at giving it.

Somehow, though, I didn’t get that usual bounce of enthusiasm that talking about Uno Chiyo gave me. Everything seemed mechanical, like I was just going through the motions. Hanging on, hanging in there. “Breaking a leg.”

Or breaking something!

The dismissive Japanese lecturer sat right in the middle of the room and frowned. Another woman sat next to her with the same grimace. “The Grumpy Sisters”—I thought to myself, then tried to focus on Uno.

They couldn’t wait to ask questions once I finished.

The gist of their questions were of the “so what” variety.

So, why is any of this even important?

Isn’t literary scholarship about weighty questions, esteemed classics, thorny linguistic concerns?

I found myself fighting back—arguing for the significance of women’s writing—and explaining again the way Uno Chiyo, in her embrace of scandal, was subversive.

Soon, I found myself fighting back nausea.

Was it the glue smell?

I found it hard to focus. The faces before me began to swim together—the frowning duo morphing into a massive two-headed dragon.

For a second I was afraid I would faint.

As soon as I could, I excused myself to the restroom and threw up.

Something was wrong.

I knew I was nervous, but nerves alone had never made me sick.

At this rate, I didn’t think I’d be able to sit through the dinner that had been planned—the important post-job-talk dinner.
When the chair turned to direct me to his office, I explained—fighting back tears—that I was sick.

“I’m so sorry, but I am afraid I need to skip dinner.”

Reluctantly, he took me back to the hotel—the Danielle Hilton in Clayton—and I dove under the covers fully clothed, shivering so strongly my teeth rattled.

I was miserable.

The following morning I was to travel to Texas for another interview. The idea of leaving the bed (or its proximity to the bathroom) was impossible. I would have to cancel the interview.

That night, as I tossed from one fevered dream to another, the chair called my room.

“Congratulations, we would like to offer you the job!”

Was I hallucinating?
“So soon?” I practically argued.

“We’ve discussed it and have agreed, you’re our top candidate.”

He didn’t expect an answer right then—though in my delirium I may have burbled something about my delight.
He told me he was going to prepare an offer letter for me and would leave it at the front desk.

That was it. That was all I needed.

The stress of the interviews, the travel, the emotional work of saying goodbye to my Pennsylvania in-laws, the televising of Desert Storm, and the shock of seeing the United States entering another war, I was worn thin. No talismanic power, no cool, calm, collected young professional. I was spent.

I didn’t want to continue with the job search.

The WashU job was the one I had wanted all along.

With the energy I had left, I called my contact person in Texas and canceled my interview.

She was dismayed.

“Just come,” she pled.

“I’m sorry, I am just too sick.”

“We can postpone, if that will help.”

“I don’t want to waste your time,” I tried to explain tactfully.

My mind was made up.

I spent at least two extra nights in the Danielle Hilton, hosted by the Asian and Near Eastern Languages and Literatures Department at Washington University.

I offered to pay for the additional time I took to convalesce, but I was never charged.

It’s all a bit of a blur now, but at some point—either before I fell ill or after I was feeling a bit stronger—my soon-to-be colleagues Ginger and Marvin Marcus took me out to see a play! I’m pretty sure it was about an adventure to the North Pole.

When I returned to Raleigh, I called off the last interview I had scheduled in Massachusetts. The person in charge sounded pretty put out that I had already accepted a job without even visiting her university.

I thought I was saving her time and money.

My mind was made up.

I just knew.

And I was right.

Now I’m getting ready to retire. My luck has held. Not that my path was a smooth one, but it has been a good one. And even my translation of Uno Chiyo’s Single Woman is back in print.

Break a leg.

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