On Feeling Awkward and Finding Your People

I was a first-generation college student. My father’s family immigrated to Canada from Italy when he was a child, and my mother's family made the same move a couple of years before she was born. My dad dropped out of high school in the tenth grade to work in a steel fabrication factory to help support his family. While my parents didn’t attend college, they strongly encouraged me to. They worked hard to give my siblings and me educational opportunities they never had.

Here’s how I (somehow) ended up becoming an academic philosopher.

I was an awkward and angsty teenager. I despised high school, but I loved learning. When I was fourteen, I got my first job at a little café attached to the gas station down the street from my parents' house. A few years later, I started a job at the Real Canadian Superstore (roughly the Canadian equivalent of Walmart). I worked at the front end for six years, ringing up groceries and processing returns at the customer service desk.

When I started undergrad at the University of Toronto, I wanted to go to law school and become a lawyer, but that plan didn’t last long. I grew up Roman Catholic, but by the time I reached high school, I was agnostic. My first college-level philosophy class was Philosophy of Religion – and it blew my mind. It opened up a world of ideas and gave me the tools I hadn't even known I was missing, tools that helped me understand my own views.

This is also when I learned that philosophy was a thing – that it was something you could study and maybe even make a career out of. Somehow, I convinced my parents that majoring in philosophy was a good idea. They didn’t really understand what philosophy was or why I would want to spend my time studying it, but they fully supported me regardless.

Throughout college, I continued to work at the Superstore. In between customers, I’d read philosophy. I remember the whiplash of moving from Wittgenstein’s Tractatus in one moment to refunding protein bars the next. And other times, I’d walk across the store to return a carton of milk to the fridge while puzzling over skepticism – sure, the milk feels cold, but why do I trust my senses? It was a disorienting but fascinating time. Once I stumbled into philosophy, I pretty much never looked back.

Despite my fascination with philosophy, I was often too nervous to speak up in class. Being there felt intimidating – I worried I wasn’t quick enough or sharp enough to contribute. But I was lucky. I had supportive professors, and I wouldn’t be doing philosophy today without them. They made philosophy both exciting and challenging, and they made me feel like my ideas mattered.

Applying to graduate programs was a nightmare. I completely bombed the GRE, so much so that one of my professors discouraged me from applying and suggested I try teachers’ college instead. It was harsh advice, but not entirely unwise. I managed to get accepted into a couple of good master’s programs, and the following year, I enrolled at Simon Fraser University (SFU). That’s also when I met my husband, Thomas – not a philosopher or an academic, and I love that for me (and for him).

Living in British Columbia was wonderful, and the philosophy department at SFU turned out to be the perfect place to grow into my identity as a philosopher. During this time, I also discovered my interest in epistemology, due in large part to seminars I took with Endre Begby on the topic. Endre would later become my advisor in the MA program. I learned so much from him – about philosophy and the profession – and his guidance was especially valuable when applying for PhD programs, the second time around. While my math GRE score was still embarrassingly low, I was much more confident in my philosophical work, and I managed to get into a handful of doctoral programs.

I attended Brown University for my PhD. By this time, I knew that I wanted to work on epistemology, and my dissertation was supervised by David Christensen. Talking philosophy with David was easily the highlight of grad school. He’s a brilliant philosopher – and also a funny, friendly, and down-to-earth person. A rare combination, especially to find in an advisor.

When I was finishing up my dissertation and starting to prepare for the (grim and scary) job market, the pandemic was in full force. Things could easily have gone sideways – but somehow, they worked out. I had a solid support system throughout this process, including my professors – who gave me advice on job market materials and guidance on how to approach interviews – as well as my friends and family, who were there to help me calm down when my nerves got the best of me and picked me up when I fumbled and made mistakes in my interviews.

I absolutely love doing philosophy, but I’ve come to dislike many aspects of the profession: the constant rejections, the fixation on prestige and rankings, and the stark power imbalances that shape how people are perceived – including how others perceive me. These dynamics also tend to taint the professional social environments where philosophy happens.

I remember my first APA meeting. I was a master’s student, and I felt anxious and overwhelmed. (And for the record, I still feel this way at APA meetings – and I’m not sure that’ll ever change.) At the reception, I met a more senior graduate student from a fancy, highly ranked – “Leiterific” – PhD program. Once he found out that I was a mere master’s student, I could feel him scanning the room around us, looking for someone else to talk to. It made me feel cheap – like someone he could stand beside, for now, until a more worthy conversation partner appeared. It was gross. It felt like high school all over again.

Of course, not everyone is horrible. Eventually, I found my people – my philosophy community – and that made a world of difference. It’s important to have philosophers who’ll talk shop with you and give you honest and constructive feedback on your work. But I think it’s just as important to have friends in the profession who get you – who’ll be grumpy with you, laugh with you, celebrate with you, and let you vent (and vent right back), all as you ride the stressful, emotionally draining, yet somehow beautiful and fulfilling rollercoaster that is life as an academic philosopher.

Finding a network of supportive friends in the profession was especially valuable for me, given my background as a first-generation student. Being an academic, and especially an academic philosopher, is a unique (and frankly, very odd) way to live one’s life. While my family is incredibly supportive of my career, they often don’t fully understand the ins and outs of this way of life.

I’m very grateful – and happy – to see folks in the profession (including the organizers of this website!) drawing much-needed attention to the topic of class and first-generation status in the discipline. It’s a gift that I get to do what I love for a living. I’ll never take that for granted, nor will I forget my roots, or cease to be thankful to those who have helped and continue to help me along the way – including my professors and mentors, as well as my husband, and above all, my parents.

Arianna Falbo is an Assistant Professor in the Philosophy Department at Toronto Metropolitan University.