Peter Iverson,
Regents’ Professor of History

Opportunities and Obligations: The Mentoring of Ph.D. Students

It is always a long journey. It may take two years to finish the MBA and three to finish law school, but to complete a Ph.D. in history requires at least six years. It thus necessitates a greater investment, financially and otherwise, than many students (and nearly all members of their families) anticipate.

Even if pursuing a Ph.D. in history seems a risky undertaking, I always remind students that no career path is without risk or uncertainty. "Look at all the people being let go by major corporations," I observe. "Some of them made what they thought were safe career choices twenty to thirty years ago and now they are looking for work. You might as well try to do what you truly want to do," I conclude. As silence envelopes the seminar table, one student smiles and then asks, "Would you call my mother?"

Teaching is taking people from where they are rather than from where you imagine they should be. When you enter the academy you must come to terms with a particular and, especially to the uninitiated, a peculiar culture. At ASU I have directed or co-directed thirty-one Ph.D. students to completion of their doctoral programs. Many are the first person in their family to graduate from college, let alone finish a Ph.D. Part of my job as a mentor involves demystifying this culture. That does not always mean agreeing with traditional ways of proceeding within the academy. It does mean knowing the country and understanding what you need to do—initially to survive and eventually to prosper. Nearly all of my students have gained full-time jobs in academic institutions.

It had taken a long time but she had finished her dissertation. She had become the third person from her American Indian nation to earn a Ph.D. in any field. As she walked across the stage to receive that long awaited diploma, she carried her grandmother's cane. Many members of her extended family had traveled to Tempe in August to attend the commencement ceremony. "It IS hot," they kept saying. "All this time we thought you were just whining." She demonstrated the value of her training by gaining a tenure-track position and by purchasing a pickup truck only slightly smaller than Rhode Island. She demonstrated her continuing ties to home by returning frequently to hunt.

You must use your head and your heart. Choose a topic that engages you. Choose a subject that allows you to write a dissertation that will be as interesting as it is innovative. Choose something that affirms what history is all about: the power of memory, the significance of stories, the richness of language, the creation of tradition, the importance of place, the value of families, the meanings of speech and silence, and the employment of imagination and emotion.

He had finished his dissertation, a pathbreaking study of the history of an Indian nation in northern Arizona, and now he looked forward to his defense. He informed me that some people from this community had decided to make the long drive down to Tempe to witness this event. "Great," I said. "Let's take them to the University Club beforehand to make them welcome. My treat." "Uh," he said the next day, "it looks like A LOT of folks are coming." "It's OK," I replied. On the appointed day about twenty people did make that long drive, and we all did have lunch in the University Club. At the defense, after committee members had asked questions, I turned to our guests and said, "We are honored by your presence. Is there anything you'd like to ask or say?" They held forth for perhaps forty minutes, praising this student and addressing, as one phrased it "the pride and pain of our history." It was the best defense I had ever attended. I will always remember it.

I say the four words over and over again. "You can do it," I reiterate. You can complete that seminar paper. You can pass your comprehensive exams. You can give a paper at an important professional meeting. You can get that article published in a significant journal. You can finish that dissertation. You can get a good job.

I received telephone calls this week from three of my Ph.D. students. "I have a job," each exclaimed. "I'm going to get to teach what I want to teach, and the position is tenure track." There is a pause. Each then said, "I can't believe it."

We have top-ranked programs in my fields (American Indian history and western American history), but our overall doctoral program is still relatively new. Our students cannot simply say, "Hire me because I came out of ASU." They need to demonstrate they can teach. They need to prove they can give a good paper. They need to show their work is being published in first-rate journals. And they need to believe they can compete successfully for good jobs. Especially during the past decade, many have obtained excellent positions at fine colleges and universities. But no one is exempt from anxiety.

"I have to admit it has been a lot tougher than I anticipated," he conceded. He had spent the past two years teaching at a first-rate college in Massachusetts on a prestigious Woodrow Wilson postdoctoral fellowship. "I have the one interview coming up, but I don't know how that will go. Maybe I should apply for some of these one-year fellowships or visiting professorships. The trouble is-they are all due right away." I counseled him to concentrate on the place where he had that interview. "You are a great fit for this university," I emphasized. "Go out there and make them realize that you're the person they have to hire." Two days later he did just that.

Students who enroll in a Ph.D. program in history often assume they are good writers. I did. It did not take too long, however, for my major professor to begin to disabuse me of this quaint notion. I did not realize how much red ink a manuscript page could hold. But after a few months I began to understand why I had been criticized. After a few more months I started to learn, really learn, how to write. I began to appreciate the role of criticism in the overall process.

After I completed a first draft of "We Are Still Here": American Indians in the Twentieth Century, I invited a dozen of my Ph.D. students to critique it. "I mean it," I said. They took me at my word and provided many significant suggestions that improved the book a great deal. For example, one student criticized the initial ending of the book. I added the epilogue she had proposed. They then observed a manuscript move forward to publication. They read the outside reviewers' reports and the editors' evaluations, agreeing with some suggested alterations, but by no means all of them. They especially enjoyed seeing my work copyedited. Then they examined the page proofs and watched the index be created. I acknowledged their assistance in the book and when the volume finally emerged, I signed a copy of it to each of them, and we celebrated its publication.

If my counsel is to have meaning, I must practice what I preach. In addition to critiquing the work of my students, I must demonstrate how I teach, how I present a paper, how I do research, how I begin an article, and how I complete a book. If I encourage my students to work hard then I must do so as well. But I also must be sure to take time to celebrate the completion of a project. I must also be sure to acknowledge all of my teachers, not just the ones who have capital letters after their names.

"I have been honored to write this book, and I am pleased to dedicate it, with respect and gratitude, to all who have taught me. My mother's parents.and my parents.first instructed me about the power of memory, the meaning of place, the value of listening, and the potential of storytelling."

"We Are Still Here": American Indians in the Twentieth Century

Students often have strong preferences about where they want to live or the kind of institution at which they hope to work. Some wish to never spot another saguaro; others can't imagine wielding a snow shovel. Some seek a small liberal arts college in a small town; others much prefer a large university in an urban setting. My task is to help each try to realize individual particular goals.

He had always dreamed of teaching at a small university at the edge of the Great Plains. He had family ties to the area, and he knew its heritage. We had assumed a position in western American history would never surface here. However, fate and good fortune determined otherwise. I wrote one of the strongest letters I have ever written for any of my students. The search committee chair called me prior to his interview on campus just to be sure I had meant what I had written. The chair said, "You make this guy sound like he can walk on water." "Well," I replied, "I believe during the winter in your country he can do just that." A few weeks later the university hired him.

This is my thirty-second year as a teacher. I still believe I have the best job in the world.