After decades of teaching, advising, directing, writing, and serving the university and department in many ways, my time has come. I have reached the point where I can no longer work. My reasons are diverse, but one rules them all: I am no longer emotionally capable of condoning the treatment I receive as a "non-traditional," "non-tenure-track," "adjunct," or "career-track" university faculty.
Workers like me are, more and more, the face of university teaching. According to the American Association of University Professors, tenure-track positions are now the minority rather than the rule, only about a quarter of all faculty positions, and we "non-tenure-track" faculty are having to find a way to make what we do more visible, better paid, better benefits, more job security. It has been a hard road.
I have worked well, for the most part, teaching thousands of students, getting excellent course evaluations, earning high scores on annual reviews, directing a branch of the National Writing Project, designing a course for at-risk students, directing a prison writing project that published a literary magazine annually, and publishing a book with the local university press. I chose to make non-tenure-track teaching my career because I did not want to uproot children and spouse by re-locating for the tenure track job. Being a lecturer was my life. And the work has not been all bad. I have been lucky enough to have worked full-time with benefits. There have been some good moments, and I am grateful for those.
I also carry the scars of being the "invisible" faculty member for most of that time. (Very recently, some enlightened colleagues have gone the distance to improve non-traditional faculty contracts, pay, and work loads. Thank you for that.) My path to promotion was blocked by administrators (heads, deans, program directors) who wanted to keep employees like me "in our place," that is, low-paid, over-worked, with little of no job security, "expendable."
I have been told by these administrators that I do what they consider to be "onerous" work, that my position was never intended to be a livelihood but rather a stepping stone to more secure, tenure-track positions, positions which are becoming very rare. When my students have mentioned me to my tenure-track colleagues, referring to me as "professor," these colleagues have been quick to correct them, telling them that, no, he is not a professor, he's a lecturer, or instructor, or, that horrible sounding title, "adjunct."
These administrators have made it their business to increase my workload in times of crisis (like the current COVID-19 downturn), to decrease my job security by reducing my contract from a multi-year renewable contract to one that is yearly and for which I have to re-apply every term. They push to increase the caps of students in courses. They want more from us for less pay, less security, less professional support.
The lack of political clout opens the door for a wide range of academic slights and insults.
I once asked for subrogation for a book that I was publishing with a university press and was told by the head and provost that I wasn't eligible for that kind of support because my job description did not include publication.
When a course I designed earned national recognition for innovation, I was not invited to the ceremony. The director received the award in my absence. She received applause at the following department meeting. No one said anything to me.
On the bulletin boards with book jackets of faculty, you won't find my book, even though it was published by a respected press, nominated for several awards, and well-reviewed, because I am not tenure track ranked.
The list goes on, and the point here is that the lack of recognition for non-tenure eligible university faculty stings. It gets under your skin as the years go by and no matter how much you pour yourself into your work, you will never be seen unless you organize, make yourself visible, force the governing elites to acknowledge you.
Many of my non-tenure eligible colleagues are stepping into service in faculty governance, serving on hiring committees, taking on administrative duties, getting some power, making us less dispensable. Good on them I say. But my time is up, and I don't have the fight to carry on.
Much of this is what you don't say at your retirement ceremony, if you are even given a ceremony. You keep it yourself, because that's the nature of the dirty little secret that universities keep. They celebrate the stars, the university presidents, the coaches, the high-profile programs that bring in the grant money, but in the trenches, where much of the teaching goes on, these faculty are made expendable, nameless, are living paycheck to paycheck, trying to get by, trying to withstand the pressure of all that is holding them back, doing the best work they can.
You don't say this. You don't say that the university, mimicking the corporate structures around it, is top-heavy with pampered bosses, overpaid coaches, and a need to brand itself so out-of-state students will enroll for the fun. You don't say that much of the production is done by low-paid workers who hold the whole house of cards in place. It makes people uncomfortable, makes them squirm. So you write it. Put it down so the truth is there somewhere in case anyone wants to look for it.
