career
on education: a day in the life of a humanities major
On a typical Wednesday afternoon, I’m in the adjunct office after class. I brought my lunch–a romaine salad with carrots, cucumbers, celery, and a lentil patty that my roommate made–and am contentedly eating it. I have my work laptop open and am answering questions via instant messenger from the marketing associate and new editor. This is a slow week at the scientific journal, as my current project has just been delayed a few weeks due to lack of content from my author. The previous project that I managed the past few months brought in unprecedented amounts for the company. I’m proud but exhausted. I pulled 80-hour work weeks to juggle my workload.
To my right, I have papers from my Tuesday/Thursday class, which I need to grade. I have a copy of my syllabus and am thinking about how to approach my next few class sessions on media studies and then shifting to our humanities unit. I’ve had to restructure a lot this semester, as expected when building a course from scratch. I have the pressure of a class observation soon.
When I arrived this morning, another adjunct was holding a conference with a student at my station. I unloaded the things I carried from home: a yoga mat, a laptop bag, a tote bag filled with essentials–food, travel mug, yoga clothes, books, heels, and overnight pouch with toiletries. I can survive a couple of days if I happen to get stranded somewhere.
I change from my red flats to my black heels and head to the kitchenette to boil water for my green tea. I make my way to class–one of three classrooms. Earlier this semester, I had trouble getting into the routine and actually walked into the wrong one.
The anthropology professor, with whom I’ve had discussions as we switched classrooms, warned me that the projector appears to be broken because he was unable to turn it off. He had forgotten that it was a touch screen command, and we both laugh about technology. He’s an older gentleman, and some of these gadgets are not user-friendly. He proceeds to ask another question about what kinds of writing the English department is requiring out of its students, as an anthropological “critique” he recently assigned is not going so well in his classes.
I respond, a bit hesitantly: “Why yes, I suppose so; the objectives of my course now is to prepare them to be able to analyze texts across multiple disciplines, but how this is implemented in each course obviously varies.”
Our current assignment–a rhetorical analysis–focuses on analyzing strategies in multiple kinds of texts (i.e., journal article, news article, video presentation, documentary, song) but not necessarily evaluating the efficacy of the content of anthropological research. We touch on perhaps how the data was presented, what the purpose of this text was, how to identify what the author was trying to argue, but we cannot know the nuances of whether this is significant or flawed within the field of anthropology or what specific elements students need to cover in order to satisfy the assignment. We are not anthropologists.
Even in an interdisciplinary Writing Across the Curriculum course, the disconnect exists between composition/rhetoric pedagogy and the specific needs of multiple disciplines. We have to cover all bases–teach to improve writing and critical thinking skills–which is generalized and cannot possibly cover nuance. Not all students are going to be prepared to accomplish discipline-specific tasks, but we’re trying to improve their abilities to grapple with these texts and synthesize information.
This exchange was thought-provoking and affirming that really, composition teachers have challenging jobs. Writing is so closely connected to the idea of learning that when students show an inability to process information in other disciplines, the blame falls on the English department. Learning is a cumulative effort; it involves, collectively, our abilities as educators to build on students’ knowledge, along with the students’ motivations to apply skills and knowledge. Additionally, writing isn’t just about grasping mechanics but also improving skills that are not easily assessed by standardized measures. How well students write, in short, is not the the sole product or fault of the English department.
During class, we hold a peer review workshop on their rhetorical analysis. I’m relieved that the majority of them were prepared with a 5-page draft. Some had trouble in shifting from a typical expository essay, in which they configure some thesis and support it with relevant sources, to an analysis of purpose and strategy. I gave them the extra challenge of determining their own “text” to analyze (i.e., anything from a photo, advertisement, video, song, essay, short story, poem, film, tv show episode, novel, etc.). In this instance, freedom of choice gave my students anxiety. Most come from educational backgrounds in which they are told exactly what to do. They are not usually encouraged to think and expand their approaches with independent critical thinking. A couple of weeks into this assignment, I’m glad that most have caught on.
After class, I eat my lunch back at my station while simultaneously answering emails from both jobs, posting Facebook commentaries about the education bubble, the Student Loan Forgiveness Act of 2012, and a recent panel/presentation on Asian-American experiences post-9/11 in NYC. I’m processing experiences and getting ideas for class lessons. I’m thinking about the push for utilitarian approaches to education; I’m thinking about my humanist ideals within this space.
A few minutes into my lunch, the department administrator and a full-time faculty member hover at the door. I turn around–mid-chew with some lettuce hanging from the side of my mouth. They do not say anything, after I smile and greet them. They confer for half a minute.
“Hey, would you mind if I brought a student in here to take a test?” Of course not. It’s a shared space, which I happen to like, despite the lower rung on the “hierarchy of importance” that it indicates in the department. I am assigned a computer and a desk (“C”) out of four stations. I’m grateful that I have a station at all.
In the past, I’ve been so lucky to do the majority of my work at student computer labs because it was more convenient than a dusty, cold office where they were drilling into the wall for a period of two months. In contrast, I’ve also had my own office at an honors college, complete with a shared bathroom and view of a chapel and a secret garden. At this college in NYC, I have the choice of three shared spaces, one of which has a spectacular view of the city (pictured above). (I don’t go in there often because I sit and stare instead of do work.)
I return to the kitchenette to get more hot water for tea and to wash my salad container (a takeout container that most people dispose). I’m thinking about waste and sustainability and simplicity. I’m thinking about how much freedom I have that I’m not motivated by money or prestige or security. As I leave the kitchenette, I see the decorated doors and offices of full-timers. I’m thinking about the future, about my next step.
I recently had discussions with friends and other adjuncts about being a full-time lecturer. I commented that I don’t believe it’s the best use of my energies, that I’d be able to deal with the politics. I like being on the periphery. I question my ability to conform. I love teaching and believe in the transformative power of education, but all institutions have agendas I can’t wholeheartedly promote. Sure, it’d be comfortable, but if I were ever concerned with that, I’d be a different person now, embodying a much different space.
updates from the city of dreams in action
As the Year of the Dragon progresses, lots exciting changes have arose for me in this city of dreams. This semester, I will be teaching again–this time at the City University of New York. I’m immensely grateful for the opportunity to do so and even more grateful for the freedom in being able to teach a course without a textbook! It’s a Writing Across the Curriculum course that emphasizes rhetorical analysis (or the ability for students to understand a piece of writing for its craft—how it was put together). Initially, I thought that I would use theme of social inequality, as I did a year ago in St. Louis, but there were a few limiting factors: 1.) that course had three textbooks, which I didn’t bring with me, 2.) I only have two weeks to design the course this semester, 3.) the curriculum was somewhat repetitive and didn’t fully execute the potential of a solution- or action-based approach.
This semester, I’ve decided to explore the cultural relevancy of happiness within the fields of social sciences, media studies, literature, and philosophy. I’m incredibly excited to teach, learn, and interact with students again. As in the past, I’ll be using this space to write and process my thoughts and experiences regarding pedagogy and ideas that are relevant to our lives as humans.
As if this news isn’t exciting enough, I also had an opportunity to connect with a young, world-renowned, New York Times-bestseller novelist, who encouraged me to “write books that people will read,” (i.e., non-literary). I’m not sure the direction of my craft, yet—I haven’t seriously considered the commercial fiction route—but I’m grateful to have been able to witness this genius at work so far. Creativity at its peak, transcends genre–in all art forms.
Furthermore, I’m excited to be involved with global tolerance, which promotes communication with a conscience. I am amazed, every single day, to discover the amount of ground-level and high-impact work that is being done to promote global consciousness and humanitarian efforts. Please consider joining gtconnect to share with individuals doing incredible, powerful, work. We are all agents of change, even if we are currently not in a place of freedom to be able to do exactly what we want. As long as the intent is there and followed by action, we can progress toward our ideal sense of self and community, which impacts the world, little by little, and eventually changes our current “reality”—that is, a world in which not every creature is happy or free. When our internal values are in synch with our external actions, change continues to happen. Our dreams and ideals are nothing, if we don’t follow through with action.
In the four months I’ve lived in this city, I’ve met incredible people who are promoting GLBT rights (Q-Wave) and establishing literacy programs in the Congo (The Mama Project). There are also teachers and artists and writers and dreamers who are part of the solution. And prior to moving to this city, I’ve come to know countless spirits who are doing the same. I’m continually amazed and inspired. It seems clear that our current state of consciousness involves full awareness of the inequities in the world, and our young minds and souls are getting to work to eliminate them globally.
–O. Ayes
Full Disclosures on Freedom and the Storms that Brew in Offices
INTRODUCTION
Prior to arriving in New York City, I’d made decisions that once again limited my freedom—that is, maintaining a relationship for which I was the sole financial supporter during the five months abroad in Southeast Asia and the first month in New York City. This happens in life, occasionally. Perhaps your partner gets laid off. Perhaps your spouse becomes temporarily disabled. One breadwinner in a two-person relationship is an acceptable heterosexual model, although it is less frequent in society now, as the idealized American “middle class” gets replaced by “working poor.” (You know the story—occupy everything because the flow of money has been uni-directional towards the 1%–an integral component of capitalism, but I digress.)
In any case, it is clear that when we value something as individuals, we try to keep it by whatever means necessary. During most of my adolescent and adult life, my philosophy had been that money is merely material—that is, it’s replaceable. Love—true, unconditional, compassionate love—however, is not. Of course, this leaves me as a prime target for a plethora of debacles. How can you know what is true up front? I just believe so and let the rest unfold.
What unfolded in those final few months abroad and my first month in New York City was that my then-partner and I needed to part ways. I was depleted and could no longer continue to limit my freedom for the sake of a fragile relationship. But I would help her transition in the city—one that she detested before meeting me—until she found employment. I did so on the premise that our friendship was true and valuable, but subsequent unfolding indicated otherwise.
I didn’t realize then, that when you limit one kind of freedom, you consequently limit other freedoms, such as being able to choose a job that actually coincides with your own values. While I’m not exactly against medicine, I don’t entirely value its agendas. To me, the body is finite, but ideas, culture, literature, meaning—those actually resonate with my soul.
Of course, as a naturally curious person, I enjoyed science enough. I even finished a minor in biology, thinking that I would be a conservationist of some type. I knew I would enjoy the co-editor position at a medical journal, at least for the next year until I was able to get settled in New York City, a city I’d dreamed of living in since my first visit.
In fact, I was extremely happy and grateful. Not many people can find jobs now, especially not through Skype ten thousand miles away with Hurricane Irene in the Atlantic and Typhoon Mina in the Pacific.
Read the rest on scribd: here.
–O. Ayes
Prior to arriving in New York City, I’d made decisions that once again limited my freedom—that is, maintaining a relationship for which I was the sole financial supporter during the five months abroad in Southeast Asia and the first month in New York City. This happens in life, occasionally. Perhaps your partner gets laid off. Perhaps your spouse becomes temporarily disabled. One breadwinner in a two-person relationship is an acceptable heterosexual model, although it is less frequent in society now, as the idealized American “middle class” gets replaced by “working poor.” (You know the story—occupy everything because the flow of money has been uni-directional towards the 1%–an integral component of capitalism, but I digress.)
In any case, it is clear that when we value something as individuals, we try to keep it by whatever means necessary. During most of my adolescent and adult life, my philosophy had been that money is merely material—that is, it’s replaceable. Love—true, unconditional, compassionate love—however, is not. Of course, this leaves me as a prime target for a plethora of debacles. How can you know what is true up front? I just believe so and let the rest unfold.
What unfolded in those final few months abroad and my first month in New York City was that my then-partner and I needed to part ways. I was depleted and could no longer continue to limit my freedom for the sake of a fragile relationship. But I would help her transition in the city—one that she detested before meeting me—until she found employment. I did so on the premise that our friendship was true and valuable, but subsequent unfolding indicated otherwise.
I didn’t realize then, that when you limit one kind of freedom, you consequently limit other freedoms, such as not being able to choose a job that actually coincides with your own values. While I’m not exactly against medicine, I didn’t value its agendas. To me, the body is finite, but ideas, culture, literature, meaning—those actually resonate with my soul.
Of course, as a naturally curious person, I enjoyed science enough. I even finished a minor in biology, thinking that I would be a conservationist of some type. I knew I would enjoy the co-editor position at a medical journal, at least for the next year until I was able to get settled in New York City, a city I’d dreamed of living in.
In fact, I was extremely happy and grateful. Not many people can find jobs now, especially not through Skype ten thousand miles away with Hurricane Irene in the Atlantic and Typhoon Mina in the Pacific.
Two Weeks in a City That Never Sleeps
After a whirlwind 4-day visit to St. Louis from Southeast Asia, I arrived in New York City. I didn’t have time to absorb the shock my body and mind was experiencing after several months abroad, traveling. I would start my new position as co-editor at a peer-reviewed, scientific journal almost immediately.
My life in circles: I return to publishing, more appreciative of its purpose and thus my approach. Having had a hell of a time trying to survive as an adjunct, I’m more than glad to be doing something that fairly compensates my time and effort. As much as I enjoyed teaching, I also value my time off. I may teach a class, once my schedule settles a bit, but perhaps I’ll use that time to enjoy New York a little more.
Two years ago, during my first visit to NYC, I fell in love. I wrote in my notes:
I’m not moving to the city to say I’ve lived there as a writer, as so many writers do. I’m in love, really, only with her water, all of her streets. I want to study her and more than dream of her seasons. People say, I might never come back, never leave because they know me, how I sometimes disappear into everyone and cannot be reached. There, I would be free.
My second visit last summer, when I circumnavigated the country by train, I continued to fall.
This time, I’m definitely deep. It’s difficult, enlivening, everything I imagined. Some days after working too many hours, I don’t want to walk through crowded, grimy, urine-infused subway terminals. Most days, though, all I need as a reminder is a walk down the street where I can catch glimpses of humanity and our connected lives. Of course there is disconnectedness, too, but we coexist here in a way that’s unlike any other place I’ve been. I’ve heard many versions of this summary from other people. Everyone seems to be from everywhere else.
New York City is a place where people from all over the world come “at the pinnacle of their careers,” as an acoustic engineer said over drinks at The Frying Pan. It’s intense. Indeed, today, I attended a meeting in The Corinthians with a panoramic view of New York City and was chauffeured back to work in a 100K Benz sedan. Juxtapose that with a day volunteering with my co-workers at the Bowery Mission where we sorted through and lifted crates of donated food, cooked, and served meals for the less fortunate. The stories and conversations I had with community members were tremendously enlightening, heartbreaking, uplifting. Imagine this contrast in one day, one minute, one second. It’s a lot to sort through. See why I’m in love?
Viral Animation for a Snow Day: So you Want to Get a PhD in the Humanities
Nothing new but funny, nonetheless.
Last Weekend before the Fiasco Starts
I’m somewhat ready. Last week, I had to meet with the Writing Director at campus #1 to go over my syllabus for Honors Freshman Composition. This is the class that I had to redesign based on my sub-par evaluations. I spent a few days re-working it–adding a blog component to initiate more discussion, working in some designated “instructor input” sessions, even typing up some formal lesson plans with time marks.
The feedback that I received was that I was heading in the wrong direction. That is, the blog component was propagating the “decentralized” nature of this class, and we want to go the opposite direction (which I thought the “instructor input” sessions would do). It seemed that I was also attempting to cover too many concepts in one session. The Writing Director said that I should try to stick to one or two things (for a 75 min session) that the students can walk away with. (I wish I’d known this earlier.) My concern with this is not having enough content to go over, but I believe it’ll give us the opportunity to thoroughly cover the nuances of these concepts.
Another advice was that I needed to directly tie concepts with practice (their essays). Duh, right? What I had trouble with was the order in which I presented material. Previously, I’d covered a unit on “Academic Writing”–complete with integrating sources, when their next assignment was a personal narrative. (I blame the textbook on this one–academic writing is Ch. 3, while narrative writing is Ch. 4.) Although I’m aware that I can and should deconstruct the book to fit my lessons, I did not particularly think skipping a chapter was a good idea. We’d covered the first two on “Critical Reading” and “The Writing Process”–which is pretty much review–so “Academic Writing” was grouped with that. But I do see the benefit now. This semester, we’ll cover “Academic Writing” with their persuasive essay unit, which does require them to apply the concepts therein.
Lastly, the Writing Director emphasized three things that “professors from other disciplines” want students to learn from composition instructors: 1.) how to formulate a thesis, 2.) how to evaluate text, 3.) how to integrate research. Sounds very simple, and while it’s only about 10% of what I actually do have to cover, this piece of advice will help me focus my lessons.
Learning pedagogy is like learning how to write. Unlike occupations that objectively train you how to do something by following a certain number of prescribed steps, pedagogy and writing urge us to learn through our own process, by trial and error. The Writing Director simply could have given me her tried and true syllabus or sat with mine, pen in hand, to tell me how to structure it, but she didn’t. She asked questions and helped me see my own mistakes. No wonder why she consistently receives great evaluations, per the Associate Dean. I’m appreciative, and I only wish we could have met earlier–like last summer.
Because of having to completely redesign my syllabus (for the second time) for this Honors Comp course, I’m a little behind on my other three syllabi. The semester starts for two classes next week, so the only other one I had to focus on this week was the Comp II at campus #4, which–thank the universe–provided a course plan. I love specificity. And while the course plan can seem rigid to some, it completely lessens the burden of having to pull pedagogy out of my ass within a short period. (I did just get hired a couple of weeks ago.)
The second great thing about this course is that it’s themed: social status and inequality. I’d wanted to redesign the Honors Comp class based on something thematic, but I didn’t have enough time to gather materials. Sometime last semester, I’d looked at the writing programs at the six colleges at UCSD and thought how neat that would be to learn writing concepts based on interesting topics: culture, technology, arts, social justice. At times, it felt as though my composition courses lacked relevance because the content was really repetitive. These students have heard these before. The themes, then, seemed to fill the missing link between “relevance” and “content.”
I have two more syllabi to make from scratch: Comp II (different textbooks) and Technical Writing. But I have until next Monday. Today: much needed play time with my nephews, and then Lauryn Hill, live in concert.
—–
Post-script 1:
Another university called to ask if I wanted to teach some courses. This is the second semester that the coordinator called way after I’d already filled my schedule. Last summer, after I quit my job and begun my around-the-country train trip, she called while I was around the Fisherman’s Wharf in San Francisco. I’m sure she appreciated the live music and screaming children in the background. She asked me to consider her again for the future. It’s somewhat validating to be in demand. It gives me hope that eventually the demand will be for full-time positions. And I’ll take non-tenure track.
Post-script 2:
Speaking of, for another post, I’m looking at New Orleans for next school year, if a job pulls through. Details later.
Post-script 3:
Two poems from my first manuscript were accepted for Lavender Review (#3).
Very happy minus a life issue or two.
Make Waves and Conquer
Like most people, I am perpetually looking for my next move–upward mobility, the sign of success in our culture. The past two years, because I was unhappy with my career at the publisher, I considered various avenues for change: a 1-year post-bacc BSN program, a 2-year Associate’s in Nursing program (since graduates incur less debt and are paid similar wages as BSNs), 1-2 year post-bacc program for medical school, officer training school for the military, film studies programs, and of course, PhD programs in humanities.
All of these choices represent my internal conflicts between needing job security/reasonable wages and my ideals. I wanted, for instance, to go into nursing because of the potential for options: I could work contractually and be a traveling nurse making $60/hr. Or I could pursue medicine on an expert level and be an MD. (Endocrinology and neuroscience interest me the most.) There is also the military who would pay for my loans if I enlist (as a non-officer), or provide job security and a way out of this city. Film school would be a dream with no job security, but an opportunity for creativity. PhD programs in humanities represents my intent to continue along the path I chose for myself during my junior year in college, when I decided that science, with its reductionist motives, were in conflict with my core values. Lately, I’ve been thinking that a PhD in media/cultural studies would be a perfect confluence of my interests and perhaps offer more job security than a PhD in English, although I’m sure the difference is minimal.
Last night, at a cafe in the city (I reside about 40 mins away), I heard young urbanites who attend MA/PhD programs in social work discuss their troubles. They were all under 30, so no doubt they’ve never tried to survive without the construct of academia. One took photos and remarked on the cafe’s ambiance–her outlet from being anxious about the results of her survey/research. They were all brilliant, filled with ideas and doubt. They talked about the system, how they wanted so much to change it, but then got lost along the way. Now they are unsure about the “next step.” They do not want to be social workers. They want to teach and research, except there are very few opportunities–like in English, hundreds of applicants for one position.
Through my experiences in graduate school for my MFA, I’ve come to realize that academia is not sustainable, and here is another case, more evidence. Academia needs brilliant minds, but it cannot offer jobs because there are none, unless more universities pop up. According to The Chronicle, roughly half of all doctoral graduates get jobs in their field. Slightly less than a Ponzi scheme, but pretty close.
Recently, I read through some emails between my AP Lit teacher (who has since passed from a brain tumor) and me. I had just switched majors from Biology to English, and I was so excited about this new path into the humanities. I knew then, in 2003, that teaching and writing would be my goals:
O the possibilities!! 
I’m excited but terribly afraid…At least I know life will not be mundane, huh?
Seven years later, I’ve achieved those goals: teaching and and writing, but I have a long way to go. Doubt gets to me, especially when I see those from my high school cohort, who’ve pursue medicine or some other practical route, do very well and present themselves with much more glee and confident purpose. Most have families now and are accomplishing those “emerging adulthood” milestones, while I’ve regressed a bit. (I did have a mortgage once and a series of partners, although none of it worked out.) I have difficulty at times in feeling secure about my life decisions–not just pursuing a career in the humanities, but life in general.
My 10-year high school reunion is coming up this summer. I was co-valedictorian and had very high expectations for myself. (The other valedictorian is now in her residency as a family physician.) Perhaps, I feel some measure of failure. I did take the path less traveled, but what do I have to show for it besides an overdeveloped consciousness and three towering bookshelves filled with ideas? I’ve acquired very little in the same terms that “accomplishment” is usually measured in the world (ie, wealth, prestige, security).
Regardless, I do feel good about my life’s progress. I’m somewhat accomplished. I’m self-aware. I’ve assessed what happiness means to me: freedom, love, meaning. I have lived without the security of the box. I have enjoyed life as opposed to be burdened by it.
My AP Lit teacher also wrote on my senior book: “Make waves and conquer.” The message was to not subsume the ways of the system but to be one step ahead.
Indeed. I’m trying.
Two Weeks into Winter Vacation
I wish I had the money and wont carelessness to have planned a nice vacation over winter break. But, alas, I have two goals that are more important to achieve this year: have zero credit card debt (done) and amass half a year’s worth of living expenses for NYC before May (not even close).
So during my staycation thus far, I’ve done a semester’s worth of sleeping, which quickly changed from midnight to 6 am (during the semester) to 3 am to noon. I’ve also caught up on seasons of Lie to Me on Netflix and Fringe on Hulu.
I have written only two poems. (I did, though, submit my work to several journals that take electronic submissions. Ink, paper, and stamps are too costly.) My body does not know what to do with itself. It’s not used to “rest.” Last year, I toured southeast Asia for three weeks and the entire country for a month. My staycation just feels like a bust. I haven’t even maintained my exercise regimen (running, pilates). (In my defense, the holidays shut down my free gym at the cc, and it’s been a blustery below-freezing week.)
I’m getting antsy, yet I cannot seem to get myself out of pajamas and do something productive. I’ve put in zero hours on my course prep for next semester. I have four preps. As alluded to in my previous post, I did, in fact get the fifth class at campus #4 (Comp II). I’ll be whoring myself at four campuses next semester instead of two. I have a shit ton of work to do.
Today, I attempted to wake up before noon and get started on prep work, but I ended up reading poetry and getting trapped in the cyberlinks to chapbook publishing. I also spent a couple of hours on Facebook and subsequent external links. I did check off one to-do item: signing up for Interfolio, a dossier service and emailing references.
Around midnight or so, my brain decided to focus on tasks: adding published articles to my CV, which led me to updating my Goodreads bookshelves (because of a book review I wrote) for another couple of hours. Tomorrow, I need to re-instate my LinkedIn account. I guess getting my cyberworld in order is productive?
A Valuable Lesson about Contracts before Declining Other Offers
Last week, I was geeked about being offered Business Writing and Technical Writing at campus #3, the nearby community college (through email, contingent on an interview). During the interview, both the chair (who will be teaching in London in the spring) and the co-chair greeted me with enthusiasm. As I sat on the couch, they casually asked about my experience teaching at a community college in another state (I loved it, except the hour long drive), if I knew so-and-so in Sociology who died (I did not), what I’m doing now (teaching at campuses #1 and #2), who the dean is at campus #1 (Yes, Bob is still there), who the other one is who deals with transfers (The Associate Dean), me being a poet (why, yes, I am), if I had heard of their journal (I had and am impressed with its quality), and would I be interested in teaching both Technical Writing and Business Writing (of course).
“We will have a better idea of the schedule next week. There has been some recent changes regarding faculty members.”
They casually mentioned that a third class might be available, which I hoped to be a creative writing course. I went home and checked the course schedule, and indeed, there was an unstaffed Introduction to Creative Writing course.
Upon finding this out, I emailed the woman at the pharmacy school to decline my interview, which was scheduled at 1:30p the following day. There were two candidates, she had stated, and there is a possibility of a second section of the researched argumentation class opening. I wrote that I did not want to take the opportunity away from candidate #2, in case he or she has room to cover 2 sections. She wished me luck.
The following Tuesday, I was emailed by the co-chair with an offer for one class (Technical Writing) only. I was confused.
“That is all we can offer at this time.”
I checked the schedule again, and sure enough, the Business Writing course had been offered to someone else, an adjunct faculty with seniority. The creative writing course and a couple of developmental writing courses were still unstaffed, so I emailed the co-chair and chair, indicating how thrilled I was to be offered the Technical Writing course (evening class), that I would be by the next day to pick up the materials and to fill out my new-hire paperwork. I also reiterated my availabilities during the day and asked to be considered for any other open courses.
“There is a section of developmental writing on TR 11:30-12:50p. I assume this is too early for you.”
“No, my class at campus #1 ends an hour before. I’ll have plenty of time to get to your campus for this class.” (Truly, it’s 45 minutes in between and about 20 minutes away without traffic.)
If I ever need an example of desperation to look back upon, here it is. I half-way blame myself for trusting the verbal offer, but I’m livid about their lack of consideration. Why build up my expectations for two, possibly three classes? True, they did not know I was considering another offer, but they wouldn’t have cared. I am disposable, after all.
I considered emailing the woman at the pharmacy school again. She had sent an urgent plea on Wednesday to my MFA program director for applications to fill the position I turned down. I decided against it for my sanity. I cannot put myself through teaching at 3 colleges at faraway locations (north, west, and south of a sprawling metropolitan) with 4 class preps and 5 classes AND expect to job search and prepare for an out-of-state relocation by summer 2011.
I’m only one human.
3/4ths into the First Semester of Immersion
I haven’t quite checked-out yet, but I’m approaching my limit. I knew 5 classes would consume my life. Already knowing my tendency to over-work myself, I really thought it would be manageable. Besides, lots of adjuncts juggle five courses. Some even have families to maintain.
I calculated how many pages of essays I will have read (bonus points for usage of future perfect tense, lol) by the end of this semester: 55 English Composition I students at 9x(3-pg) papers, 18 Honors Freshman Composition students at 24 pgs, 7 Feature Writing students at 20 pgs. That’s roughly 2,050 pages. This number does not include first drafts and subsequent revisions, in-class freewrites, reader responses, and quizzes. Then there are textbooks (1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7) and countless other resource materials. There is also that minor thing called prep work, office hours, writing consultations, email communication, and various additional accommodations for students with perpetual time-management issues.
While I’m more optimistic about my career now compared to last year, it’s hard not to look at these numbers and deem the whole thing ridiculous. What’s the return, really? Besides feeling “useful” and having some relative impact in the world, there’s not much to hold on to. The wage is low, and there is no health-insurance. There’s also no semblance of job security: due to scheduling conflicts with campus #1 (and campus #2 having 15 sections less of Eng. Comp.), I was not given any courses at campus #2. Being the “last one hired,” I lost.
I’m not sure if I completely buy this excuse, however. The day before I was informed by the English Chair, I had tried to help a student who was looking for her professor. Not knowing who this professor was, I asked the Dean of Humanities whose office was a few doors down. It being an unseasonably warm day, I neglected to realize that I did not have my jacket on. I was already walking in front of the Dean before I thought about my tattoos at the nape of my neck (Venus symbol and Kanji for the four elements). This campus is relatively conservative, so I had attempted to conceal my body art throughout the semester. The only thing visible is my nose ring (common enough), and at times, my Baybayin wrist tattoo.
Nonetheless, I’ve been told that adjuncts getting dropped in the spring semester happens all too frequently as enrollment decreases. I had high hopes of being given at least one section, though.
It’s too bad for campus #2, too, because my students inquired about signing up for my class next semester if I was going to teach English Composition II. (A few joked about following me to campus #1.) Additionally, I just received a great review from a full-time faculty member who was required to observe one of my classes: “Dynamic teacher…students were engaged…and clearly enjoyed class.” He was just as clueless as I was about the purpose of the observation and why it was now being implemented half-way through the semester, especially now that I wasn’t going to be teaching there next semester. I did understand, though, the reason behind this assessment from an administrative standpoint. Being familiar with Higher Ed administration politics from my previous stint in Student Affairs during graduate school, I understand that the trickle of commands is not usually accompanied by explanations. It’s in their best interest to keep the minions in the dark.
As such, I had to scramble, mid-semester, to find another position elsewhere. Thankfully, I was able to land two interviews: one at a 0-6 pharmacy school and another at a nearby community college. I decided to decline to teach researched argumentation at the pharmacy school because of the distance (33 miles away) and frequency (MWF) after the nearby cc offered one section of Business Writing (already full, capped at 25) and one section of Technical Writing (almost at 20). I’m completely enthralled: it’s 2 miles away and the department is amazingly receptive. Maybe such perks will be enough to make up for an increase in number of students and a slight decrease in pay. I’m hoping that they offer a third class, which was hinted at during my interview.
A second blow to my job security is that I will not know if both of my Honors Comp sections at campus #1 will be filled until a couple of weeks before the semester begins. It helps, I suppose, that I’ve worked in several capacities outside of academia (in order of occurrence): dental assistant (story for another time), fast food server, retail clerk, book/music seller, barista, freelance journalist, tutor, special-events coordinator, grant writer, editor, research facility guinea pig, etc.
I picked an opportune time to be an adjunct. There are millions of people without jobs. I willingly quit a job with health-insurance and relative security in exchange for a certain kind of freedom. I’m still confident that I made the right decision. What keeps me going are my students, the potential for growth, and everything I’m learning about myself and the world.
St. Louis to Mackinac Island, Michigan by Automobile
After I resigned from my job at the publisher, I was asked to do a contract gig to help exhibit at a conference (Minimally Invasive Neurological Society) in Mackinac Island, Michigan. What an opportunity!
I wanted to see Michigan because I hadn’t been there since 2007, when I got my Filipino tribal tattoo done by the famous Leo Zulueta who owns Spiral Tattoo in Ann Arbor. Prior to that, I was in Grand Rapids at Camp Miniwanca by the American Youth Foundation in high school. I love that place.
I decided to drive up there because flying would be too costly, and I would have to leave her in St. Louis. Since she would be returning to San Diego soon, leaving her would have been silly.
Also, due to the strict “no extra guests” rules at the Grand Hotel in Mackinac, I booked a room in St. Ignace instead, very close to the water and just as beautiful. I would take the ferry over to the island in the morning.
The first night, we eat at Mackinac Grille, where I have awesome fish boil. I finished that plate!
When we arrive at Mackinac Island, via the Star Line Ferry, we’re not immediately impressed. It smells like horse piss and shit.
We take a horse-drawn carriage (ie, taxi) over to the Grand Hotel, and I understand what all the fuss is about. That place is magnificent, albeit over the top.
I’m stuck in the exhibit for most of the morning and afternoon, but after, we explore the vicinity of the Grand Hotel, which has its own labyrinth, as well as the circumference of the island via a tandem bike.
The sights are indeed breathtaking. This is definitely a place to return to.
To try the famous fudge, I get ice cream on the way back to St. Ignace. We have dinner at Driftwood Restaurant and Sports Bar. I go for the seafood pasta, which was delicious.
The next day, after exhibiting, we find the sand dunes on Lake Michigan. We get lost initially, but we are told to keep driving until we see cars on the side of the road. There are no signs. There’s something so freeing about an unofficial beach. The tides were low, so we walked pretty far out into the water. We thoroughly enjoy the afternoon there.
That night, we go shopping for picnic food at a local grocery store. There are fireworks at St. Ignace tonight. At dusk, we take one of our hotel comforters and our food and drinks to the nearest open area by the water. We wait and laugh at our countless adventures.
We head back to St. Louis on Sunday afternoon, after the exhibit gets taken down. I consider a career in sales so I can travel like that. Many of the exhibitors bring their families along and prepare to vacation after work.
Alas, the semester begins in a week. I’m excited and nervous.
Chicago to New York: Lake Shore Limited
Aboard, a middle-aged Asian lady chooses the aisle seat next to me. We both get situated. She has 3 bags and a carry-on sized green suitcase that she places at her feet. She fiddles with her foot rest, as she sees mine is raised. I help adjust hers. She nods but does not say “thank you.”
She smells faintly like weed or something more pungent than herbs. At times, I catch a whiff of cocoa butter. She has no socks on, and she displays her feet with plenty of bunions.
She is restless when we leave Chicago. Like most of us, travel makes one anxious. We sleep and do not speak to each other, except when I stood up to go use the restroom. I must wake her with a tap on the shoulder: “Excuse me.” She retracts her feet so that I can jump over her. I wonder if it is age or culture that keeps us from holding a conversation.
For breakfast the next day, I eat a peanut butter tortilla I had packed the previous day. She eats a boiled egg, which I did two days ago before leaving St. Louis. I recalled staying at a hostel in Vietnam where transients packed free boiled eggs in plastic bags.
She arrives at her destination somewhere in Ohio, and the seat is empty for the remainder of the trip.
In Buffalo, we exit the train for a smoke/leg-stretch break. Border Patrol comes on board, and while I take my seat, there is commotion.
Two officers are interrogating an older man. “What country are you from? Where is your passport? When did you come to the U.S.?”
“I’m from Turkey. I do not know where my passport is. I came last year.”
A young female artist, photographer takes pictures or video with a Nikkon E60. Border Patrol detains him.
“Was it random?” I ask. Yes. “Were they looking for someone specific?” No.
“I’ve got most of that on film,” she confirms.
Alert citizens are watching you, watching us. It makes me feel hopeful about my generation.
The rest of the ride is peaceful. Power goes out near Albany, and I lose some work I had been doing on my syllabi. The route was by water–rivers and lakes–for several hours: an office I would gladly be stuck in for 8 hours.
Escaping the Desk for Another Type of Indentured Servitude
Underneath my computer monitor is a 2-year-old acorn. I picked it up on the day I began this desk job as an assistant editor at a medical publisher. I’m not sure why. I don’t have any special attachment to acorns or squirrels. Besides my antibacterial gel, a box of tissue, and snacks, there are no other personal items around my half-cubicle.
I keep it for no particular reason. It has since turned brown, taking only a week. The nut is separated from its base, and whenever I accidentally knock my monitor, the acorn rolls, not unlike how I imagine my head would if I let the tedium of the days get to me.
Perhaps, it’s one reminder to stay calm when my co-workers, who are not at all bad or obnoxious at every moment, seem to congregate around the printer by my desk and divulge every banal detail of their weekend, including but not limited to how the rain flooded the basement—clearly a hyperbole, how the doggies just looked so cute playing at the park, or what financial mishap now further ruined her life.
I could be an acorn, dead with no means of escape or chances of propagating my legacy, my seed, or even quell the perpetual hunger of some transient squirrel. I serve no other purpose but to sit beneath a computer monitor on some dusty desk, next to a stapler.
Maybe that is what a 9-to-5 feels like. Dead or dying. A poet colleague recently sent an email: “I started to die a little each day,” as she tells me about her 9-to-5 before she opted for a life of adjuncting.
I’d been teaching part-time at a community college for a year while working at the publisher, intending to eventually teach full-time so I could escape the silent subversion of the office.
All day, my co-workers toggle back and forth between complaints about how things aren’t done properly at the company and their personal lives, neither of which I’m hardly ever interested. Because I usually try to stay out of office politics and seldom ask questions about goings-on in their lives, my co-workers have described my nature as “detached.” It’s my way of coping and not getting eaten up by the environment while I devise plans to escape.
And my escape plans were gradual: a five-day weekend here and there, three weeks in Southeast Asia in March. Then, upon confirming five classes to teach at two universities in the upcoming fall semester, I wrote my resignation letter, indicating my intention to leave in two weeks. My immediate supervisor was initially flustered as we now have to quickly transition all of my responsibilities to other team members, but she is supportive about pursuing my dreams. She and I had sporadic conversations about having the guts to make such a decision. Being the overworked daughter-in-law of the CEO, she’s felt the same dilemma of staying at a place for the sake of security.
The CEO indicates that my resignation letter was the best one she’s ever received. Once a teacher herself, she is genuinely sad to see me go but supports my decision. Last year, when I began to teach part-time at the community college, I had to drastically change my schedule at the office. I worked 7a-6p M/W and 7a-12p T/R, 8-4 on F. My boss said then, “If it was anybody else, I would have just let [him/her] go or reduced [his/her] status to part-time.” She had, just a month before, fired a project manager. Perhaps it is my work ethic, diversity of skills, or courage that helped me receive such an accommodation. Perhaps it was my low pay.
Regardless, my plan is set. My final escape includes a month-long plan to circumnavigate the country by train (Amtrak).
The goodbyes are bittersweet. I am humbled by a going-away party. My bosses, who hardly ever participate, bought gifts: maps of the US and the Pacific Northwest, a photo album, journals. There are bags of other thoughtful gifts from the rest: traveling paraphernalia, books, more maps, cookies, a lavish cake with evergreen trees and a train.
I will, despite my curmudgeon-like demeanor at times, miss their company. We had a lot of laughs and memories built around camaraderie and team work. There was a certain feeling of warmth in being able to see their faces every morning. Even in routine, I did find comfort, security, and some version of happiness. They had seen me through some rough times, as I had gone through a rather emotionally-jarring break-up the previous year. I received hugs, flowers, and mini-consoling sessions in our kitchenette. They had even seen me transition into the next whirlwind of a relationship. I did, then, also divulge plenty of inane details about my life, in which they seemed interested to hear. I’m eternally grateful.
While I may have more freedom and responsibility in the fall, I will essentially be alone. I’ll have an immensely challenging workload with 5 classes (with 3 preps) and 80 writing students. As I submit myself to an unglamorous life of low pay and no health insurance, I’ll perhaps turn more into that decaying acorn, now placed in my back-pack, which I am taking with me through my travels this summer. Maybe I’ll plant the acorn somewhere and see if life begins somehow.