Breaking Up Is Hard to Do

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.

Today's office

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.