I will never be likable.
I learned this several years ago at a dinner party celebrating the publication of a senior scholar’s magnum opus. The guest list included four male scholars and their wives, plus my husband and me. I was keenly aware of being the only female scholar present at the party, as well as the youngest person in the room.
After dinner, when all the other wives went into the kitchen to clear up, my husband winked at me as he joined them and I retired to the living room with the men. I was having fun, and perhaps a bit too much wine, and after a while, I turned to the distinguished elder scholar next to me and asked why a peer of mine at another institution had gotten tenure with so few publications.
“What was that about?” I asked.
The white-haired gentleman smiled amiably and answered, “He’s just so damn likable!”
Suddenly I was stone-cold sober. I was grateful, in a way, that my colleague had said it out loud. There is no pure academic meritocracy, and even philosophical thinkers resort to fuzzy concepts such as likability to tip the scales in favor of some over others. The young, white, straight cisgender man we were discussing could be charming indeed. But in this context, likability meant that my older, white, straight, cisgender male colleague felt comfortable in his presence. The young man was presumably likable, in part, because he reminded the old man of himself, which made the world seem stable, the norm normal and the future a steady stream forward from the past. Promoting one affirmed the other.
