Over the years, I have cited two interviews that worked out in my favor. In 1978, I landed a waiting job at Tavern on the Green by telling the manager, Drew Nieporent, that I wouldn’t lie to a customer about the food. A decade later, then–Head of School John Hanly interviewed me at Pingry and asked why I had become a teacher; I told him I loved working with kids. Thirty-seven years later, I’m still here. Based on those experiences, I have always emphasized to my students the importance of interviews, whether you are applying to be a lifeguard or a Supreme Court Justice. I want to amplify that message here by sharing two other occasions when interviews made huge differences at critical points in my life. Collectively, these four interviews played an instrumental role in shaping my life’s journey and making me who I am today. They also featured two of the most unexpected (and unpredicted) moments in my life.
In 1974, I visited Bucknell University with my parents. Like other high school seniors, I had scheduled an interview; in those days, it was a common practice. As luck would have it, I drew the dean of the Admissions Office, a legendary Bucknellian named Richard Skelton. As you can imagine, that prospect intensified an already nerve-racking situation. As I entered Mr. Skelton’s office and found myself surrounded by shelves of books and the standard accoutrements of academic décor, I began to seriously doubt my qualifications for the challenge, not to mention my potential admission to the university. Fortunately, Mr. Skelton put me entirely at ease with a conversation that ranged from my academic interests in school (English and history), to my favorite activity (wrestling), to my thoughts on a possible future (none whatsoever). An hour passed in a flash, and while I would like to think that came from my eloquence and poise, the credit belonged to Mr. Skelton, who had an extremely down-to-earth manner that made me worry less about impressing him and more about simply enjoying his company. As we wrapped up, Mr. Skelton asked what I liked to read for fun. I said I loved political thrillers (still do). Mr. Skelton pulled a paperback from a nearby shelf and handed it to me; it was Dark Horse by Fletcher Knebel. “Try this,” he said. I thanked him, but added warily, “how am I going to return it when I’m finished?” He smiled and said, “you can give it to me in September.” To say that remark caught me off guard is an understatement; truthfully, it was one of the strangest moments of my life. I walked out to the lobby to greet my anxious parents, and they asked me how it had gone. I said, “I think I just got in.” My mom sighed and shook her head. “That’s not how it works,” she said. Maybe so, but three months later, I did get in and happily accepted Bucknell’s offer. I went at summer’s end, stopped by Mr. Skelton’s office, and returned his book. “I told you I would see you in September,” he said.
Four years later, I was finishing up at Bucknell and filling out applications for graduate school. My top choice was Columbia University, which had one of the best English programs in the country and was located in my favorite city, New York. I visited the campus and arranged a meeting with the program’s director, Steven Marcus (an eminent Victorian scholar). It wasn’t a formal interview, but I felt the same anxiety from four years earlier. As I sat down with Professor Marcus in his spacious, sixth-floor office overlooking Morningside Heights, I tried to act as calm and professional as possible. To my relief, the conversation unfolded freely and easily. At one point, Professor Marcus asked what was in the manilla folder I had laid on a nearby table when I sat down. I told him it was a rough draft of my honors thesis on the poetry of William Blake (I had worked on it during the train ride into the city). He asked if he could take a look. What could I say? I handed it to him with a steady hand that belied my underlying trepidation. As he thumbed through the manuscript, I looked on with a mixture of fascination and horror; it reminded me of someone who opts for local anesthesia and watches the orthopedic surgeon operate on their ACL. After what seemed an eternity, Professor Marcus looked up from his reading glasses and said, “this is really quite good.” I tried to react in a way that suggested I was accustomed to that kind of compliment. He followed up, “I don’t see why I shouldn’t offer you a spot in our program right now.” Honestly, I can’t remember what I said in response, but a week later, a confirming letter arrived in the mail, and my acceptance began a two-year odyssey at Columbia (and eight years in New York), which was one of the most exhilarating and rewarding periods of my life.
When I sat down to write this essay, I thought I might offer some helpful advice to my readers on how to pull off a successful interview. But thinking about the four interviews I’ve mentioned, that’s not what comes to mind. What I remember most from all four is the people who conducted them, not my performance. They were quite intimidating to my younger self—highly accomplished gatekeepers to institutions I might or might not be asked to join. But to the last, they treated me with a respect and regard that encouraged me to talk about myself with both enthusiasm and candor, and in ways through which I could really express my ideas, opinions, and beliefs. At four major turning points in my life, these individuals invited me to speak my mind and say my piece. Frankly, I wouldn’t be who I am without them. So I dedicate this essay to Richard Skelton and Steven Marcus, who welcomed me to communities where I fell in love with literature; to Drew Nieporent, who gave me the job that paid for my wonderful life in the City; and especially to John Hanly, who asked me to join a school that has rewarded me with inspiration, purpose, and fulfillment for almost four decades. And to students wondering and worrying about future interviews: may you all be so fortunate.
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To contact the author: Mr. Keating