My Eight-Year Journey to a PhD

After eight years in France, I returned with three PhDs and was invited onto a popular reality TV job-seeking show. Sitting in the audience, a female boss examined my resume, then smiled confidently.

I also studied in France, she announced. What a coincidence. Shall I test you?

Without waiting for a reply, she switched to fluent French and asked a brief question. Her words left me speechless.

In the silence, whispers spread through the audience. The woman, introduced as Victoria, laughed first. She turned to the camera with a theatrical sigh.

"It seems some overseas students arent quite what they claim to be. But its understandablebuying a foreign degree is trendy these days. Theres a world of difference between that and a true top student like me, who studied under the great Professor Olivier."

The host joined in, mocking, "Ms. Scott, you didnt even understand? We may have to question your credentials."

Amid the laughter, I stared at the smug boss, completely baffled. It wasnt that I didnt understand. Her French was a grammatical disaster.

And the professor shed just named? He was my mentor, who supervised my research for eight years. Id never once heard him mention a student named Victoria.

The host's face was a mask of undisguised glee as he waited for me to crumble.

I couldn't let this farce continue, and I certainly wasn't going to let my eight years of hard work be questioned by someone who could barely string together a coherent sentence in French.

Taking a calming breath, I ignored the host's predatory grin and addressed Victoria directly, speaking in the flawless, standard French I had used for nearly a decade.

"My apologies, but I'm afraid I didn't understand your question."

"However, if you wish to discuss my professional background, I am a graduate of the Sorbonne University in Paris. My academic history, research focus, and publications are detailed in my resume. I welcome any specific questions you may have regarding them."

I thought that would, at the very least, steer the conversation back to the actual purpose of the show: finding a job.

Instead, the moment the words left my mouth, Victoria let out a short, sharp laugh.

"Ms. Scott, forgive my bluntness, but your French has a very heavy accent. If you try to communicate like that in Paris, I'm afraid you'll be a laughingstock."

"Furthermore," she continued, warming to her theme, "your sentence structure and word choice are completely stilted. Honestly, there were parts of that I couldn't even decipher."

Standing on that stage, I almost laughed out of sheer disbelief.

A heavy accent? Stilted?

In my eight years in France, from my bachelor's to my doctorates, not a single person had ever commented on my accent. French had become a second native tongue to me. And even if my French were the most awkward, textbook-recited version imaginable, it was still leagues better than the word salad she had just produced.

I opened my mouth to retort, but the host eagerly cut me off, casting a look of pity in my direction.

"Alright, alright, let's put the language debate aside for now."

"Ms. Scott, let's talk about your field of study, shall we? As a media professional myself, I'm practically a colleague. I'm especially curious about how one earns a PhD in Film Directing."

I frowned, confused. My resume was crystal clear, my objective stated in black and white: "Venture Capital and Strategic Analysis." Film directing was completely irrelevant. Was the host illiterate, or was this a deliberate trap?

Though the question was a bizarre pivot, I nodded politely, intending to briefly explain that the directing degree was a personal passion project.

The moment I nodded, however, the host pounced like a shark that smells blood.

"Excellent! Since you're such an expert in directing, why don't you tell us about a cinematic masterpiece!" He leaned forward, his eyes gleaming. "For example, tell us about Jean-Luc Godard's classic, The 400 Blows."

I froze again, this time genuinely stunned. Had French film history been rewritten in the short time I'd been away? The sheer absurdity of the moment temporarily eclipsed my anger.

After a moment's hesitation, I decided to answer honestly.

"I'm not familiar with a version of The 400 Blows directed by Godard. I have, however, seen his film Breathless, which I could discuss"

My words were cut off by the host's exaggerated gasp. He stared at me, his eyes wide with theatrical shock.

"You have a PhD in directing, and you haven't seen it? How is that possible?"

He turned to the audience, spreading his hands in a gesture of profound disappointment.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I hate to be the one to call someone out on this stage, but Ms. Scott's performance forces me to question just how much of her expertise is real!"

"In fact," he declared, his voice rising, "I'm beginning to question the authenticity of her degrees altogether!"

Before I could defend myself, he signaled excitedly to a stagehand, who brought out the certified copies of my diplomas I had submitted. He passed them down to Victoria.

"Victoria, you're our resident authority on French education. Please, take a look at these and tell us what you make of Ms. Scott's so-called doctorates!"

Victoria accepted the documents, making a show of scrutinizing them for a long moment. A look of dawning comprehension spread across her face.

"I don't believe these can be considered graduation certificates," she announced gravely.

"The French higher education system is complex, you see. There are many short-term training courses. In my professional opinion, out of all these documents, perhaps only this one, the International Economics and Trade certificate, could be considered a real degree."

"The others," she finished with a dismissive wave, "look more like certificates of completion from some vocational training program."

I couldn't believe my ears. My official doctoral diplomas from the Sorbonne, one of the most prestigious universities in the world, were being dismissed as worthless pieces of paper from a trade school?

The host fanned the flames, asking loudly and deliberately, "So, Victoria, in your view, what would Ms. Scott's education be equivalent to here in our country? A bachelor's degree, perhaps?"

Victoria chuckled, the sound dripping with contempt.

"A bachelor's? Oh, no. I doubt it would even qualify as a proper community college degree. At best a technical school certificate."

She fixed her gaze on me. "Ms. Scott, I have to ask, why would you bring these here to try and deceive us? You're lucky I was here today. If none of the other bosses understood French education, you might have actually gotten away with it."

Her pronouncement sent a ripple of outrage through the other bosses on the panel.

I could no longer contain my anger. "Victoria, you have absolutely no evidence to make such a malicious and defamatory claim about my education!" I shot back, my voice shaking with fury. "If you stand by that statement, I have no problem contacting my supervisor, Professor Olivier, and the administration at the Sorbonne right now. We can call them, live on camera, and verify my credentials!"

At my forceful response, a flicker of unease crossed Victoria's face.

But the host saw it as a new opening. "Ms. Scott," he said, his voice laced with condemnation, "you may not have learned much in the way of skills, but you certainly picked up the foreign habit of arguing senselessly. If you think Europe is so wonderful, why didn't you stay there and get a high-paying job? Why come running back home to appear on our show?"

His words struck me like a physical blow. He was trying to brand me as unpatriotic. If that label stuck, my job prospects wouldn't just be damaged; my entire future in this country could be jeopardized.

I forced myself to remain calm, meeting his malicious gaze head-on. "Where is that accusation coming from? I have never believed that things are better abroad. On the contrary, I chose to return precisely because I saw the incredible growth and energy here, a vitality that far surpasses what I saw in France."

"I believe my skills and knowledge can be of far greater value in my own country. That is how I choose to serve it."

I tried to keep my tone professional, but the host's sneer was undisguised.

"Is that so? Then why is it that throughout this entire conversation, I've felt a distinct chill coming from you?"

He adopted a pained expression. "I rarely say things like, 'I think our country is...' It's our home. Does it need such a formal, emphasized title? Your deliberate phrasing makes me question where your true loyalties lie."

A wave of helplessness washed over me. I gave up trying to follow his twisted logic and went straight for the flaw in his argument.

"I'm not sure I follow. In a formal setting, isn't using the country's official name a sign of respect? It's a common courtesy, just as I use formal titles when addressing you."

"Do you really refer to it as 'my motherland' in every single conversation? By your logic, is everyone who uses polite and formal language unpatriotic?"

The host's face tightened. He was clearly unprepared for me to turn his own absurd reasoning against him. He was momentarily speechless.

After an awkward silence, he simply bulldozed past the point, shifting his attack to my attitude.

"Ms. Scott, that tone you just usedthere's that chill again."

"From the moment you stepped onto this stage, you've approached every question with a kind of hostility. This is a job interview, not a debate competition!"

I stared at him, incredulous. He was completely rewriting reality. From the very beginning, he and Victoria had been the ones setting traps, hurling insults, and dripping with aggression.

"I honestly don't know how to respond to that," I said, my voice strained. "Perhaps you could enlighten me. Since I've been on this stage, how many of the questions you and Victoria have asked have had anything to do with my qualifications for a job?"

"Aren't you the ones who have been constantly interrupting me, questioning me, and trying to slander my name?"

Seeing me challenge the show's integrity, a flash of fury crossed the host's eyes. He would not be questioned by a mere applicant.

He suddenly raised his voice, drowning me out. "Alright! Ms. Scott, we have given you more than enough time! Your personal feelings are not the focus of this program! We have many other talented candidates waiting!"

He turned to the panel. "And now, I ask our esteemed bosses to make their final choice for this... unprofessional overseas graduate!"

Almost before he finished speaking, the lights on the bosses' panels went out. One by one, with brutal, decisive clicks.

The host turned back to me, a triumphant smirk plastered on his face.

"What a shame, Ms. Scott. It seems no one is willing to make you an offer. Please exit the stage."

I left the studio in a daze, wondering if I had been insane to ever trust such a sham of a program.

Fortunately, my actual qualifications and expertise spoke for themselves. I was soon hired by a top-tier international trade firm that dealt primarily with French markets. Within weeks, I had secured several major contracts, proving my worth with tangible results. The unpleasant memory of the show began to fade.

Just as I thought the whole affair was behind me, a friendly colleague approached me, her face etched with concern.

"Sophie," she said, her voice full of sympathy. "You need to go online. Right now. I think I think you've gone viral."