This isn't a surprise to people who know me but I was a contestant on “Who Wants to be a Millionaire” five years ago. As a result of my appearance, I wrote a paper and presented it at the Society for American Archaeology annual meeting. I told my story to fit the title of the session, “Perspectives on the Graduate School Experience” and the sponsoring organization, the Women in Archaeology Interest Group. This isn’t the long blog entry that I promised last week but I’ll get it for you, soon. I’m posting this because I talked about the whole experience at a Christmas Eve open house and decided it was still a good story.
“Who Wants To Be a Millionaire? TV game shows, graduate school, and the quest for the American Dream.” Presented at the 2007 Society for American Archaeology annual meetings, Austin, TX, April 26, 2007, in a symposium sponsored by the Women in Archaeology Interest Group, “Perspectives on the Graduate School Experience.” Mary Robison, PhD
For many, acquiring a graduate degree is one step in their quest for the “American Dream”, but graduate school can leave a former student in debt for years. Personal relationships can suffer (or cease) from the financial hardship of this quest. I both gave birth to a child and divorced his father while in graduate school. Despite receiving child support in a timely fashion, completing grad school as a single parent was, for me, a financially difficult time. I used an unusual method to finance my terminal year in graduate school, and so might you, too.
Some graduate students work under professors who routinely obtain large research grants; these students perform assigned tasks and base their theses and dissertations on this work. Other advisors do not obtain such support for their students; these students have more freedom in determining their research topics but must find their own sources of support. In my time, the typical graduate student in anthropology at UMass Amherst supported themselves by teaching or leading discussion sections in large undergraduate courses that fulfilled the university’s liberal arts requirements. It was not possible to support a family on these meager earnings. Every semester, a few students could augment their income by also teaching in the division of continuing education. Off campus jobs also paid poorly but were still desirable in that the work never “came home.” Teaching required substantial preparation and “home work.” This home work took away time from the “real” work of research and writing to complete one's degree.
Some students are able to make progress on their dissertation while teaching; I was not one of these students. In order to write, I inevitably had to spend hours (or days) trying to recover a train of thought that I had been forced to drop in order to prepare lessons, correct student work, or cook dinner for my son. Ultimately, I concluded that I had to bite the bullet and stop all outside work to complete my dissertation. My financial needs were not as great as many of my peers in that I owned my house; I did not have rent or mortgage payments. Nevertheless, I still had property taxes and upkeep. I had carefully budgeted for routine expenses but, early in the year, the unexpected happened; my roof started to leak badly.
When confronted with this challenge to my limited budget, I tried something completely different from seeking the usual student jobs. I tried out to become a contestant on the syndicated television game show, “Who Wants To Be a Millionaire?” I thought the title question was silly - after all, who wouldn't want a million dollars?
Although many game shows run contestant searches throughout the United States, none occurred in western Massachusetts. “Millionaire” tapes in New York City and audience members are encouraged to attempt the qualifying test. I went online and obtained a ticket to a test and taping session, more or less on the spur of the moment. I took a day off and bused to New York, then caught the subway to ABC studios on the Upper West Side.
The qualifying test (thirty multiple-choice questions, timed, in ten minutes) is given before the taping, but the results aren’t announced until after the session is finished (presumably, to keep the audience from leaving when the majority do not pass). Approximately ten percent pass; I passed. Although they will not give out the scores, I knew that I correctly answered twenty-eight questions. Passing the test, though, is only the first step in becoming a contestant. Interviews are immediately held in the studio. At this, I was a miserable failure. Somehow, in my excitement as a member of the studio audience, I had forgotten why I had come. I was exhausted and not terribly interesting in the interview. I got a polite “thanks, but no thanks” post card a week later. With the knowledge that I could pass the test, I tried again.
For my second attempt, it poured, reminding me of my leaky roof. Herded out of the rain and into the ABC cafeteria, I worked on my questionnaire, which was used for the interview. This time, I had prepared by outlining, ahead of time, a number of amusing personal pastiches, a series of one-size-fits-all responses to the type of questions asked on my first foray, which I had only answered sketchily at best. The second test was NOT the same as the first one; it was considerably harder. I had no idea what the correct answers were for about half of the questions (I guessed, probably incorrectly). My only consolation was that everyone seemed as clueless as I felt. One of the “easier” of these questions was, “What is the name of the spiral arm in the Milky Way galaxy where planet earth is located?” (Orion, although I guessed Sagittarius; Perseus and Norma were other incorrect choices). After the test, we were sent back outside. Some of us retreated to the nearby Starbucks, to attempt to stay dry, chat, compare answers, and complain. I took notes (allowing me to write this paper).
After another lineup in the rain, we were finally brought into the studio. This time, the audience bleachers were sparsely populated; many test-takers apparently gave up after the extremely difficult test. The show’s interns were brought in to round out the audience; one sat next to me. I attempted to chat with her about her work, but she didn’t want to talk to a mere audience member.
Although I didn’t score as well as I had the first time, I was again called for an interview. Like the first test, about fifteen names were called. From this, I assume that the tests are scored on a curve.
This time, I tried to sound like the Energizer bunny on speed. I had a quick quip for every question. My interviewer was particularly amused that, in my life before graduate school, I built special effects for the rock band, KISS, and rode a big motorcycle (which I still own). These facts are at odds with my personal appearance; I look like an overweight, white, middle-class, 40-ish mom, an observation that is accurate, but does not include any personal nuances. Still, I really don’t look like the head-banger that my stories imply. I was interviewed, sequentially, by two producers. When the second producer told me, “I hope we'll be seeing you in a couple of weeks,” I took it as a good sign.
There are a substantial number of people who repeatedly try out for TV trivia shows. Of the people with whom I chatted in line, one had taken the Millionaire test at least four times previously and another had just flown to New York after taking the test for Jeopardy in a Florida contestant search. Many others also mentioned taking the Jeopardy and Millionaire tests previously. This was a new phenomenon for me. In order to attempt to get a seat at a Jeopardy test session, it is necessary to register on-line for searches in multiple cities. Jeopardy’s producers use a random selection process; there seems to be a very low probability of selection if one applies for only one city. To try out, you must be willing to fly almost anywhere in the country. Jeopardy’s process does not seem to be a viable option for impoverished grad students.
The possibility of winning a large sum of money was repeatedly mentioned as the single motive for this peculiar obsession. How each person would use the money varied: primarily discussed were major outstanding or upcoming bills. Occasionally, long-postponed vacations, down-payments on houses, new cars, or other semi-exotic “toys” were fantasized. The desire to demonstrate to the watching world exactly how smart each would-be contestant is, was an unspoken, but palpable, motive. The need for this validation speaks volumes about how unrewarding (both monetarily and emotionally) most employment is for (self-defined) “smart” people. Both money and validation are equal parts of the American Dream for most test takers.
A week after I took the second test, I received a call from the contestant coordinator for Millionaire. My name had been pulled for a show that would tape in a little over two weeks. I hadn't even received the postcard that said I had been selected for the contestant pool (that came two days later). With only two weeks until the taping, I had just enough time to get very nervous but I decided that I was going to have fun, no matter what the outcome. I've made a fool of myself enough times previously to not worry about the possibility of doing it on television.
The timing was not ideal. I was in the final stages of writing my dissertation. My university's requirements called for the committee to receive their final draft at least four weeks prior to the defense date - which was scheduled to occur precisely four weeks after my taping! Although I thought I should try to review some information for “Millionaire”, I had to concentrate on writing coherently, now a very difficult task. I bought a few books and spent a single day looking at major events as reported in Time Magazine, but did little else to prepare.
I believe that one of the reasons why TV trivia shows and reality programming are popular is because many people secretly believe they could excel on one. If one is young, muscular, willing to consume disgusting items, and not overwhelmingly intellectual, one might aspire to “Fear Factor.” For the young person who thinks they can sing, there is “American Idol.” Many middle-class, relatively intelligent people (students, professors, or their relatives, the main body of my current acquaintance) tend to think that they could succeed on a trivia show.
Seven contestants, including me, arrived at 8 AM for the taping on November 8. We were each assigned a producer to look after us. The green room was bright and cheerful, full of comfortable furniture, a nice rug, and photographs of previous big winners. A buffet of breakfast pastries was laid out, with fresh coffee brewing, next to a refrigerator full of soft drinks and bottled water. We were encouraged to help ourselves. The buffet was refreshed and changed throughout the day with a hot lunch, salad, afternoon sandwiches, and various desserts. Our bags, cell phones, books, newspapers, and any reading materials were confiscated as soon as we entered. As someone who habitually reads (even a cereal box is better than nothing), this was a major hardship.
We had been instructed to bring proof of identity, citizenship, and social security number, and had received, by mail, contracts to sign. These were taken by the show’s accountant while we had a series of briefings by various program personnel. The show’s lawyer asked us if we had carefully read the contract. He then went over some portions and, among other things, told us that the show would not take any taxes out of our winnings. The producer (as opposed to a producer, this one was THE producer) explained what was explicitly NOT allowed, such as visible logos on anything that might appear on camera, or us mentioning any trade names. Stalling is not making progress toward an answer, and it wasn’t allowed, either. We met the show’s publicist, who asked us about any local TV or radio stations and newspapers that might be interested in covering our appearance. We also practiced entering the studio and sitting in the “hot seat”, but the lights were dimmed so it wasn't the same.
The young producers that were assigned to us were all (obviously) recent college graduates. They had mixed emotions about us; in some ways, they were important television professionals whose primary job was.... babysitting us. From the time we arrived until we left, we were isolated and it was the producers’ job to keep the world at bay. On the other hand, the young producers were in awe of us, respecting our ability to have passed the test and our (comparatively) vast sums of knowledge; one producer said, in a tone that was polite despite the insulting words, “You know, you guys are freaks, you're so smart.” Their job could not have been more contradictory.
Mostly, we chatted with each other and our producers. We had to be escorted to and from the bathroom, but the producers were fairly cheerful about this duty. They fetched whatever we needed. Eventually, show time drew near and we were escorted to various private rooms, to change into on-camera clothing. No one had noticed that the pants I wore were actually black jeans (jeans were banned on camera), so I didn’t change them. In my normal life, I often wear black and I had difficulty locating clothing that met the dress code (no black or white on top, no jeans or T-shirts, no logos, and no close stripes). We had all brought two stage outfits to the studio, in case we appeared in two shows.
Four more contestants, hold-overs from the previous day, arrived. We all got made up. I barely recognized myself in the mirror.
It was show-time. The four hold-overs were called out of the green room, first. One had started his appearance the previous day and went immediately on stage, but the rest were sent to an “on-deck” area. They keep three contestants on-deck - in the studio but offstage, none knowing who would be selected as the next contestant. I was one of the first from our group to be called out of the green room to be on-deck. I was miked and warned against dropping the transmitter, clipped to the back of my pants, into the toilet if I used the restroom.
My producer prepped me on my stories. Then, I waited. And waited. And waited! The producers continued to keep us in a state of frenzy; having us stay on-deck was just one example of how they manipulated our emotions. As each contestant finished, we stood in a row, to be randomly “tapped” - literally, tapped on the shoulder from behind, then thrust out through the stage entrance. First tapped from our group was the newly-wed from Minneapolis, others followed. As one entered the stage, another was brought out of the green room to join the on-deck group. We chatted quietly about the show and continued to be offered drinks by the producers (the studio air was cold and dry). When the third show ended with the contestant giving the incorrect answer, we all knew that the next one to be tapped would begin the last show of the day and would probably be the only one to finish up. Still, they kept us hanging, not telling us who it would be!
All of the liquids finally caught up with me; I asked if I could use the restroom but they wanted to determine the next contestant, first. A little longer, and it was ME! Now, I really needed the restroom! As I marched up the stairs to the facilities, I audibly reminded myself not to drop my transmitter into the toilet. Only later did I think about the sound technician, listening in as I used the restroom, but this is probably not an uncommon experience for TV sound engineers.
My producer, once again, coached me on my stories. Finally alone and awaiting the start of the new show in the studio doorway, I hopped up and down, I was so excited. The comedian who had warmed up the audience was nearby, facing away, making obscene body motions towards an unseen (to me) Meredith Viera. I hadn't realized that his job included keeping her amused, too. I laughed so hard, I was afraid I would fall over the edge of the set; I clutched the stage rigging and giggled uncontrollably.
The music came up, Ms. Viera and I entered the stage together, I sat down in the hot seat, and the rest is almost a dream. We ad-libbed a bit about my having been in the audience a few weeks earlier (I remember waving toward the section where I had been sitting and the audience cheering for me so loudly, I couldn't hear Ms. Viera’s questions). We also talked about how my students would never believe my rock and roll history. At some point, I held my USB drive up to the camera, carefully obscuring the Memorex logo with my index finger, saying it was my dissertation, which I was afraid of losing unless I kept a copy with me at all times (this bit was edited out of the show). At a commercial break, my make-up was retouched. I was never frightened - I was absolutely giddy with euphoria. The experience was surreal.
Afterwards, I was taken to a little booth under another part of the stage to sign papers with the show’s accountant. I kept looking at my fake check, not really sure how I had won $25,000. Even before I entered the “hot seat”, the producers had whipped me into a totally suggestible state, something that I never would have thought possible. I was doing everything they wanted me to do, on cue - sitting down, telling particular stories, even holding up my USB drive. It was as if I had been hypnotized - I was willing to accept anything that someone else said; had the audience suggested an answer that was not even one of the options, I would have agreed with them, even knowing that it was wrong. And it felt SO GOOD. It was an illuminating experience; is this what gambling, drinking, and/or taking drugs do for addicts? The euphoria I experienced is certainly addictive; that I could fall into such a suggestible state is frightening. But I want to do it again. Who ever would have thought that a game show could be analogous to crack?
I have recorded a number of episodes of Millionaire. They are a convenience sample, not an SRS; I taped episodes whenever I remembered to program my recorder. In addition to normal contestant selection such as I experienced, the show has a number of specialty weeks where all contestants are either newlywed couples, or movie buffs, or even audience members selected at random. I have not done a formal study of my sample, but my sense is that there is a bi-modal distribution of winnings - when contestants use up their lifelines quickly, they win very little money. If contestant gets to the $25,000 level, she is guaranteed that amount, so there is no risk in answering the next question, which can net the contestant $50,000. A few contestants are willing to gamble for higher amounts, but most do not if they reach the $50,000 level - less than 20% of contestants reach this level. From my observations, the “typical” contestant is white and college-educated, with relatively equal numbers of men and women chosen for the pool. Almost all contestants have some major debt that they would like to pay with their winnings; many contestants are undergraduate and graduate students from a variety of disciplines, especially law and history.
I corresponded on-line with a couple of my test- session peers. I encouraged them to think about more than passing the test. I had, rather cold-bloodedly, spent some time between my two test dates thinking about what producers look for. The test weeds out those without sufficient general knowledge but a good contestant is more than a walking encyclopedia. Producers want interesting people who can present themselves well on camera - they want someone who has short, funny stories to tell, who has a quick come-back to any question, and who can laugh at themselves. These are not easy skills but they can be obtained with practice. A brilliant person who acts like a jerk will never be chosen as a contestant. In my case, my being an occasional smart-mouth was not a bad thing. In my first attempt, I had only been able to say, “I can't believe I passed the test!” The producers must hear this all of the time, so it did not single me out as interesting. I have genuinely outrageous stories to tell about myself but almost everyone has at least some funny stories, whether about themselves, their family members, or their job. In any case, I succeeded in packaging myself as an attractive candidate in my second attempt to become a contestant, and I shared this information with my test-peers, and now, with you.
There are 175 half-hour segments of "Millionaire" produced every year (according to Meredith Viera, in an appearance on the "Tony Danza Show", May 22, 2006). From my observations, each segment uses between one and four contestants per episode, typically, slightly less than two. Therefore, the annual contestant pool must have at least 350 members. I have developed two major hypotheses about the Millionaire contestant pool from my observations, although I was unable to verify them.
Since the show has so many contestant searches throughout the country, they do not need to select many at the New York City tapings. I think I was the only person selected for the pool during my second attempt; I was the only person who received attention from the second producer. I think that the contestant pool is deliberately kept small and that there are relatively few members who are not eventually selected for a show. It would be infuriating to be chosen for the pool but never selected for a program before the season ended. I believe that most contestants are found in the nation-wide contestant searches in an attempt to obtain what looks like a more diverse pool, but that diversity is an illusion as a result of self-selection by would-be contestants.
Once chosen for a taping of Millionaire, a contestant is guaranteed to sit in the Hot Seat (if they show up), but not necessarily on the day called. Any hold-overs from the previous taping day go on stage before the new cohort. The show tapes on Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday. I believe that there may be two contestant pools, with contestants from the New York area specifically chosen for Thursday tapings, so it is not a hardship for them to return on the following Tuesday. On my taping day, a Tuesday, all of the hold-overs were from the greater New York area, while all of the contestants called with me were from outside the area. In addition, I was the only one who had taken the test in New York, where many would-be contestants are local. On the website for another syndicated television program (The View) taped at ABC studios in New York, there are two separate pools for ticket requests; one if you are from New York, New Jersey, Connecticut, or Pennsylvania; and one if you are from anywhere else. I think "Millionaire" similarly divides the contestant pool.
To recap - I have made two major assumptions about the contestant pool:
1. Although there are more test opportunities in New York, there is a higher chance of being selected for the pool in a search outside the city. Still, there is a chance of being selected from a New York test;
2. The day for which a contestant is called may be influenced by one’s home state. In conclusion, a game show is unlikely to pay for all of one's graduate school expenses, but it can pay for a year or two. I won the average amount, $25,000. Most contestants win either much less, or $50,000. However, do not be intimidated by the bimodal distribution of winnings. You might be luckier than me. In any case, I had a lot of fun. I have a new roof, a unique story to tell, an amusing new hobby, a new topic for further research, and am that much further in my quest for the American Dream!
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