specialized Oxford and Cambridge entrance examinations. The head teacher at my school washed her hands of the entrance exams, saying that the school could not offer preparation beyond A-level. But as I sent away for sets of past papers and delved in on my own, I got an offer of unofficial help from Miss Gwen Jones, my A-level English teacher. She told me I had special potential and that I reminded her of her sixteen-year-old self. Perhaps she wanted to provide the kind of support she herself had failed to find as a young person? Whatever the reason, Miss Jones offered invaluable help, assigning me challenging essays and giving me detailed feedback during the critical months leading up to A-levels and the Oxbridge entrance examinations. As Miss Jones saw it, she was not providing Oxbridge prep (by her own admission, she knew very little about the specifics of the examinations). Rather, she was trying to turn me into a good writer. She felt that if I learned to write with clarity and style, it might compensate for not being well drilled in other ways. We kept our tutoring sessions under the radar, meeting during lunch break and after classes in a small space under the stairs, away from the hustle and bustle of the school. We would cram two chairs under the stairwell and work away on essay drafts. I was enormously grateful for her practical help, but even more grateful for her belief in me. That someone in authority thought I had academic potential bolstered my resolve enormously.
Raw desire, a huge level of focus, and at least some hands-on help paid off. Four years later, I won admission to Cambridge University. I remember the scene so clearly: the telegram came on January 25—my birthday. My mum was feeling poorly (baby number six, born when she was forty-five-years old, had left her exhausted and depleted), and that Saturday morning she’d asked me to do a little clean up in our front garden (a rather grand word for the coal-dusted square of weeds that separated our semidetached house from the road). So I was tugging away at some soot-covered dandelions when the postman walked through the front gate holding a telltale manila envelope. My heart leaped into my mouth. I knew the drill because I had already been turned down by Oxford. Rejections came by regular post (why waste money on students you’re turning down); acceptances came by telegram. Hands trembling, I grabbed the envelope, ripped it open, and read the magic words: “Offering place at Girton College, Cambridge University. Full scholarship. Letter following. Congratulations.” I let out a piercing shriek, grabbed the amazed postman by the hand, and did a kind of furious stomping dance on the patch of dirt I’d just been digging. Hearing the ruckus, three of my sisters ran out of the house. It took them a moment to figure out what was happening, but a grubby fist waving a manila telegram told the story and they joined in with gusto. I don’t remember a happier day. I knew Cambridge would transform my life chances.
But how exactly did I get into one of the best universities in Europe?
Even at the time, I realized that I didn’t do this on my own. Sure, I took some of the credit (I had, after all, done an enormous amount of work), but I owed much to others. My dad was first on my list. Miss Gwen Jones was second. But I also was dimly aware of the contributions of Sally Alexander, a student activist who led the fight for equal access to education for British women, and Barbara Castle (a Minister in the Labor government who was spearheading new legislation on equal pay and equal opportunity). I didn’t quite appreciate it at the time, but without these larger shifts in social attitudes and political priorities, I would not have gotten in. Oxbridge admissions committees were newly in the business of leaning over backward to see potential in candidates like me.
My years at Cambridge were almost as magical as my father promised. Despite some tough stuff on the social front (my accent and general lack of polish made it extremely difficult to fit into the upper-class student scene), by the middle of my first year I was under the wing of a remarkable woman who loved my spunk and determination and went to bat on my behalf. Dr. Jean Grove was a high-profile academic economist and my supervisor at Girton. Her support was transformative. A mere six months into my time at Cambridge, she chose me as her research assistant and invited me to accompany her on a summer research trip to Africa. She not only invited me to go, she made sure I could afford to take her up on the offer (my family was not in a position to bankroll a trip to Africa). That spring she sat down with me and painstakingly helped me apply for a foundation grant and then wrote the pivotal recommendation that ensured I got it.
Ghana was an extraordinary experience. We spent six weeks working with the Ewe tribe in the Volta Delta collecting agricultural data—crop yields, planting cycles, and so on. By the end of the summer, we’d accumulated enough evidence to demonstrate that the Ewe had developed a sustainable—and highly productive—type of intensive agriculture. They’d done this on their own using indigenous rather than imported methods and materials. It was a breakthrough finding.
My research assistantship in Ghana had huge payoffs for me. It fueled a lifelong interest in economic development and led to a coauthored article (with Jean Grove) that lifted my confidence and greatly improved my prospects for graduate school. Two years later, I won a spot at Harvard University—and a Kennedy Scholarship.
Post-Harvard and post–London University (where I earned my PhD), I landed a sought-after first job: as assistant professor of economics at Barnard College, Columbia University, and began to forge what should have been a promising career in academe. I wish I could say that it was smooth sailing. It was not.
I made the classic female mistake. I thought that it was all about doing my job extraordinarily well. If I put my head down and worked as hard as I knew how, my value to the organization would be self-evident, and, of course, I would be recognized and promoted.
In retrospect, I could kick myself. Why didn’t I understand that at these beginning stages of a serious and super competitive career, I needed a sponsor more than ever? Someone with power who believed in me and was prepared to propel and protect me as I set about climbing the ladder. Why didn’t I get out there and look for a new Jean Grove?
Don’t get me wrong; I did acquire a ton of supporters. Like many women, I was good at friendships, and during my time at Barnard, I developed mentoring relationships with several close female colleagues. One was an older woman—an historian named Annette Baxter—whom I admired for her kindness and her commitment to principle (she was forever on the outs with her chairman because she disagreed with the direction in which he was taking the department). Annette gave me a great deal. I remember with particular gratitude the ways in which she boosted my confidence and soothed my soul when I felt overwhelmed by the demands of a new baby, layered as it was on top of the pressures of a high-octane job. But close as our relationship was, Annette could not be my sponsor. She had little clout at Barnard (her feud with her department chair put her out of play), and her influence in my discipline (economics) was nonexistent.
My lack of sponsors had extremely serious consequences. Crunch time came seven years later, when I was up for tenure. In the months leading up to the decision, I was increasingly confident. I had always been an outstanding teacher—my ratings were off the charts—but I felt newly confident on the research front. My recent book had garnered stellar reviews and the attention of policy makers as well as scholars. As I helped my chairman assemble my dossier, I thought that it looked pretty impressive.
Imagine my shock when, three months later, I was denied tenure. My department supported me (I breezed by with a unanimous vote). The damage was done by the university-wide committee (the APT—Appointments, Promotion, and Tenure committee of Columbia University), which shot me down in a three-to-two vote. It turns out I had no advocates at this critical, final level. No one even knew me. According to a friend of a friend who knew something about the deliberations of the committee, the only thing about my seven-year track record that attracted the committee’s attention was that I’d recently given birth to a premature baby. They feared this would “dilute my focus.”
How did I deal with this massive setback? Not well. I had plowed twelve years of my life into this career of mine and I felt bewildered, betrayed, and brutally cast out. I mourned the waste of time and energy, but more importantly I mourned the loss of a beloved profession—one that I deeply valued and was exceptionally good at. Tenure decisions
