My job and I have a love-hate relationship. I know, I know,
many people feel this way. But mine borders on unhealthy. As an adjunct college
instructor, I get to choose (sort of) my own hours, which allows me to stay
home with my kids. I do most of my work outside of the office, which has its
benefits. (Especially on lovely days like today!) Plus, working with students
makes me feel good. I love to witness students actually learning and progressing because
of my instruction. Students have written to me long after the end of a course
to tell me how I’ve affected their lives in a positive way. It’s a natural
high.
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But then there are the lows. The pay stinks. Most schools
have a cap on how many classes an adjunct can teach, so they don’t have to pay
us benefits, resulting in most adjuncts cobbling together an income from
multiple schools. I wouldn’t be able to support myself, let alone my children,
even if I were able to procure enough courses to equal full-time status. Obviously,
there are no benefits.
But it goes beyond what can be recorded on paper. I’ve
recalled many
personal battles with being an adjunct on this blog. The fact that a class
can get canceled just days before the start date means I often lose out on
potential income. That lead to us having to move in with our in-laws in the
first place.
This past year, I had to teach an online course that began
four days after my second daughter was born. Even before I had the baby, I
was stressing about having to teach the course. I knew even then how it was
affecting my emotional health. In the hospital, I was diagnosed as having borderline
postpartum depression and again at my 6-week OB-GYN visit.
It wasn’t just that I was responsible for instruction,
grading homework and papers, and answering student emails during that time. My boss
also made it more difficult for me because he ordered a different book for the
course than the one with which I had prepared everything. Three days in, I got
an email from a student asking, “Why are all the pages numbers in the syllabus
different? Why don’t I see the chapter you’re referring to?” All the work I had
done prior, before the baby was born, had to be redone. The syllabus, the
reading assignments, the corresponding essays and quizzes all needed to be
revised. My boss, the Dean, had no idea I had had a baby. He has no contact
with me besides assigning me courses. He bought me a bottle of wine as an
apology. It was a week after I gave birth, and I was nursing. I think I had one
bitter glass and then threw the rest out.
Thankfully, the course was 8 only weeks long. Only after,
during winter break, did the fog in my head begin to clear.
The next semester my online course got canceled due to low
enrollment, which meant a good chunk of money with which we intended to pay off
medical expenses didn’t come through. I taught a class at another school on
Wednesday nights, so I was still contributing a little extra.
Then I was all set to teach an online course this summer. I
am required, months in advance, to prepare these online courses with a third
party who handles the web technicalities. I do this without yet receiving my
contract. Without receiving a dime. I do it in the hopes the class will “go”– meaning
enough students will enroll– and I’ll end up getting paid during the term. So
in late April, I got an email from the third party administrator: “Your course
is all set to go!” I had been working on it here and there since January,
meeting every deadline.
The next day, the administrator wrote me back. “Please
disregard my prior email. I have received notice the course is canceled.”
I had no idea.
I forwarded the email to my boss, asking, “Is this true?”
He called me almost immediately, apologizing yet again. He
didn’t cancel the course, nor did the Dean of Online Studies. The course was
sufficiently enrolled, that wasn’t the problem. Instead, it was an error made
by the Registrar, one that couldn’t be rescinded now the students had been told
their class was canceled. My boss claimed he wanted to get me some kind of “recognition”
for the work I did, but he didn’t sound too confident.
I cried after we got off the phone. Here I was again,
letting my family down. Thankfully, we are no longer in a situation where this
would’ve meant not being able to pay our bills, due to Bruce’s new job. But it does
mean not being able to put money away for emergencies. It means scrimping
between paychecks. It means Bruce might have to go without air conditioning in
his car this summer – and he works an hour and a half away. It means we won’t
be able to save for a big trip we wish to take with Bruce’s family next year. I
am scheduled to teach a course at another school, but still, every dollar
counts.
A week later, the Dean of Online Students called me. She
also apologized, and attempted to assure me nothing like this would happen
again. Ha! I’ve been doing this for long enough to know better. As far as
compensation, she said the issued had been raised with the higher ups, but “don’t
count on it.”
She actually said that. She might as well have said, “You
and your time and the work you’ve been required to do for this university are
worthless.”
How did I respond? I
thanked her for her time and let her know I appreciated working for the
university. When I hung up, I was sick to my stomach. Why did I say that? I
said it because I can’t afford to defend myself. I can’t afford to yell, “That’s
not good enough! I deserve to get paid!” Because I can’t burn any bridges; I
need to keep working.
I did mention to her how as an adjunct I am taking a risk by
doing the work in advance without guarantee of pay. That I am isolated from the
full-time faculty and staff, and often have no idea what’s happening on campus.
I did emphasize the time and effort I put into the course. I tried to be clear,
but professional. I believed in doing so, my chances for getting “recognized”
might be better. Regardless, I still felt dirty.
Bruce, for the record, would’ve rather I had stuck up for
myself. He’s fine with me quitting adjunct instructing all together to avoid
these times when I feel like I’ve been kicked in the mud.
Weeks went by. The date of what would’ve been my first
paycheck for the term came and went. I emailed my boss, who wrote back that the
issue had been escalated to the president of the university, and he would let
me know as soon as he heard something. This could be seen as good or bad. If my
case had gone all the way to the top, it meant people were in my corner. It also
meant if the president deemed me worthless and denied me any compensation, I
could no longer keep working for that school in good conscience. I'd have to leave.
My heart raced when I finally saw an email from my boss in my
inbox. The email stated a special contract was being written for me for a
payment of 24% of the original amount. He expressed again his regrets and hoped
this would “help make things right.”
I ran upstairs to tell Bruce. We both stared at each other,
then smiled weakly. This meant that the
university acknowledged I was owed compensation for the preparatory work I was
required to do. It was a little extra money that means a lot to our family.
Overall, though, being an adjunct is like being in an unhappy marriage. Sure,
instructors at some universities are banding together and forming unions for
better pay, benefits, and working conditions. But while I am getting paid
for the university’s mistake this time, there are plenty of other times when
adjuncts are working for free. Every time I write a letter of recommendation
for a former student, I am doing it out of generosity. Preparing for a class in
advance and then finding out it’s canceled due to low enrollment is a waste of
time and a financial blow. I am certain that I will get professionally screwed
over again somehow. What adjuncts are investing, we are not getting in return.
I’m going stay with it, at least while the kids are
little. But my heart’s not in it anymore.
