I can safely say, having four years’ experience as an adjunct professor of remedial English, that educating is far from easy. The schedule is unpredictable semester to semester and can hinder finding steady work elsewhere, even part-time. Despite your best performances (believe me—the classroom is one of the great unsung theater spaces), students will still allow their cell phones to ring mid-session, forget to use the Oxford Comma, refuse to observe basic narrative structure in essays, and turn in late work scoffing that they won’t receive full (or any) credit. Occasionally, I was belittled in front of my classes or threatened with bodily harm. Once, my car was even vandalized.
It wasn’t all bad. I have had my share of former students stop me to express appreciation and thanks. Although time consuming, grading papers seemed to go more quickly when I relaxed in my underwear while watching Warehouse 13 and eating fatty snacks. And despite a grand general complaint of educators, the pay wasn’t bad. Still, after a couple of particularly trying semesters, I needed a break. I took a full-time spot as a teller in the local bank where I’d been working part-time for years, sat back, and relaxed.
After a month, I was bored beyond belief! Without having those papers to grade, lessons to plan, students to fret about, I didn’t know what to do with myself some nights. It also seemed more difficult to scrape together the money to pay the bills, which was never a problem when I was teaching. The solution was obvious: go back! Shouldn’t be too hard, right? Where I’d been working two or three sections a semester, one would suffice. I could keep busy in the evenings and earn money doing something that I obviously loved and missed: teaching.
If only it were that simple.
In Autumn last year, I contacted Denise Coulter, the English Department Chair of Atlantic Cape Community College (no longer known as ACCC, but now calling itself simply
She also encouraged me creatively. She heard me recite my poetry at adjunct talent shows and readings for the college’s student-published literary journal Rewrites, and she always complimented me on my work, insisting that continuing to write would lead to better things for me. Denise Coulter was someone I trusted implicitly.
Although I offered my services too late for Spring 2011, Denise said to let her know my availability for the summer and fall semesters. Summer wasn’t going to work out, but by May, Denise had given me an assignment for a section in Fall 2011. This was quite a relief. Soon after, she began copying me on important emails to the department, and she also forwarded me the most up-to-date textbooks. I was excited!
As the summer progressed, however, my excitement turned to worry. I kept watch on the number of students registered to the class, which never climbed above five. As the end of August approached, I braced for the bad news. Sure enough, on August 25, an email from Denise appeared in my inbox. To my surprise, however, it wasn’t as bad as I had expected. In fact, although my assigned section was canceled due to low enrollment, she had an alternative section of the same course. All I had to do was email her back confirming I accepted the new section. Win! Less than four hours after her email was sent, I replied and accepted. It was, indeed, good news.
Imagine my surprise, then, the next morning when I received a reply from Denise telling me that the section she offered me—told me was mine if I wanted it—was no longer available. Writing things like, “we had to act quickly,” and “I’m sorry it didn’t work out,” in the message, she reneged on her offer.
I was astonished. I kept rereading the email thinking I’d missed something. I checked Denise’s original message for disclaimers or deadlines; there was none. Incredulous, I emailed her back clearly unhappy. (This was quite a change for me, as I’d never been anything but polite and pleasant for the purpose that I never wanted to sound whiny or unappreciative. We all have enough negativity in our jobs, and I refused to add to hers.) Although I raised a litany of issues with the situation, my biggest beef was undoubtedly the fact that she gave no indication whatsoever that the offer was time-sensitive. Granted, I was aware I didn’t have forever and a day to respond. But less than four hours? That required some sort of note, sentence, anything to demonstrate that time was of the essence. If the matter was that dire, in fact, didn’t it warrant a five-minute phone call? I mean, if teaching in Atlantic City for three years, sections that other professors scorned openly (and often proved to be the first and last class for nascent adjuncts) didn’t warrant the courtesy of a call, what did? I pointed these things out, not thinking it would help restore the hijacked class. All the same, I wanted an explanation more than “we had to act quickly” and an apology beyond “I’m sorry it didn’t work out.”
Denise’s response turned my frustration to anger. The only additional apology she offered was that she was sorry I was upset. She suggested that I didn’t understand the time constraints involved with pre-semester class assignments, but she promised to take to heart my criticism of her scheduling practices. I roiled in disbelief. Had I a lawyer, I thought, I would consult him. Instead, I did the next best thing: I consulted my sole lawyer friend. Drake assured me that I had a legitimate case but suggested I first ask Denise for, as recompense for her faux pas, some scheduling preference over the next semester or two. This wouldn’t be difficult to accomplish, as I would not be looking to teach more than one section per semester for Spring and Fall 2012. I emailed her a polite message detailing our exchange through that point and suggesting what would be the best compromise for the situation: a slight bit of “first pickings.”
Denise’s reply did nothing to assuage my anger, though it certainly was nothing less than comical. It was a rambling, verbose rehash of everything she’d already said, followed by a simple sentence that indicated it was impossible for her to grant my request. After that response, Drake thought it was time for me to indicate, without using the “L” word, that some scheduling preference would be, well, preferable to the alternative, which would be to pay me $2,300, the amount I would have earned over the semester had the class not been withdrawn prior to Denise indicating that the offer had been rescinded (which did not occur). There was no threat; I clearly said I’d rather earn the money teaching future classes.
The day after I sent that message, I logged into my college email account to discover it had been disabled.
Granted, I hadn’t taught a section for a year. It was always available to me, though I did not use it actively. Only after it had been established in May that I would be teaching in the fall did I then use the account for college-related purposes only. Drake assured me it looked very bad for the college to disable my email account in the middle of what might become a legal dispute. He suggested that, since it was obvious Denise was now incommunicative, I should email her superior: the Dean of Instruction, Dr. Ronald McArthur. In said email I should summarize the situation and ask the dean if he had another suggestion for proper resolution, so that all parties—me, the college, and the students—would benefit. According to Drake, I should give him a reasonable amount of time to respond; after that, I should file a suit in small claims court.
My message to Dr. MacArthur was simple and respectful of all parties involved. As directed, I asked him to respond by a certain date, and I also copied the president of
Since then, nearly a month ago, I have wrestled with whether or not to go ahead with a small claims suit. Drake has insisted that I have a strong case for three reasons: 1) I have proof that a class was offered and that offer was rescinded without notice; 2) I attempted multiple times to arrive at a reasonable solution; 3) the college disabled my email account during a time they knew there was a possible legal dispute. The reactions of the close friends with whom I have shared this story have been mixed. Several agree I should sue
Two Sunday nights ago, I reviewed the forms and printed out the copies as per the instructions, intent on bringing them to the courthouse in
I have since decided not to file suit. The stress of even trying to decide whether or not to proceed, along with extenuating circumstances in my current personal life, left me fatigued, suffering from stomach issues, and leaning me toward general illness. The pending suit would doubtless lead to more of that for me, as I try to cope with my other concerns and rectify various problems I’ve been dealing with. Truthfully, I could use $2,300, and I am confident I could get it. But I shouldn’t have to sue for it.
I love teaching for what it did for me. It taught me that the best thing about learning is being able to give others what you’ve gotten, especially those young people who need it, and want it. I get it: a lot of the kids I taught weren’t ready or willing to accept what I had to offer. But knowing I helped even a few of them over the years is the achievement of which I am most proud in my life. This experience doesn’t change that, diminish it in the least.
What of
Now I sit idle, bored and missing the students. I can’t help but think how this was not the way it was supposed to work out. What if the withdrawn class was one of those “a reason for everything” things I should have just accepted? What if Denise had called me in the first place as she should have? What if she had just said, after everything, “Bob, I messed up but I plan to make it up to you next semester”? What if I could make it all better by accepting responsibility for something that is not my fault?
What if…?
Update, October 19,2011 8 p.m.: Atlantic Cape's Facebook page has censored me. They deleted a link to this essay from their page. This is not a surprise. I am contemplating what to do next.* Crossposted from Dreamwidth.org *
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dendren and paterson_si who do), and I do still plan on checking my friends page. But my actual journaling will be now done over at Dreamwidth. I got my actual full username over there, eloquentwithrage. Please feel free to follow me if you have a Dreamwidth account, or stop in and read my most current entries.Ciao.
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nostalgic
- Take a headshot-style or head-and-shoulders area photo of yourself looking concerned, annoyed, or just goofy.
- Try not to look directly into the lens.
Thanks, and have fun with it!
While I was working on a book a few years ago, I came up with a few themes:
- Love
- Sex
- Gay
- Anger/Emotional
- Death/Solitude
- Imbalance/Psychosis
I do this partially for the second reason Holmes discusses, surrender. I know there is no possible way I can hear all of the good music being created today, not to mention catch up with all the good music I’ve missed in the last 50 or more years of popular music. So I have given up. Am I sad about it, as Holmes suggests I might be? Actually, I’m rather ambivalent. As I said, I’m sure I’m missing out on lots of good stuff, but I have such history with my favorite artists like Annie Lennox, the B-52s, Suzanne Vega, Toad the Wet Sprocket, Ben Folds, and P!nk. They make my brain happy when I listen to them, and I don’t think that’s a bad thing.
But there is another medium which, to me, makes surrender seem like murder. Any of you who knows me probably knows that this is poetry. I started writing poetry in high school (if not earlier) and have actually considered myself a poet for the better part of ten years. In the last decade, I have written hundreds of poems. I don’t claim that they’re all spectacular; by far, most of them were (optimistically) practice or (pessimistically) crap. But I have written what I suspect is some decent poetry. You should see my Curriculum Vitae!
But of the nearly seven billion people on the planet, how many have been exposed to my work? Say every person on my Facebook friends list has read at least one of my poems (though I highly doubt this). That’s 400. How many different people have heard me at open mic or feature readings since I actively began participating in the local community in 2004? Taking into account that I find myself often reciting to the same faces, I think it would be generous to say 250. For three years, I participated in an artist/poet collaborative called SightLines, which showed in three southern New Jersey galleries each year. How many folks might have been exposed to my work there? Another 300, perhaps? Let’s be generous and say 450—I’ll pat myself on the back with that one. Then there are folks who’ve stumbled across my published work, either online or in print: another 200, maybe?? (I’m not including any of the previously counted folks who have read such work due to my shameless self-promotion, since those folks would have heard or read my poetry already.) So the number of people who’ve ever read or heard even just one of my poems might be around 1150.
But maybe I’m underestimating. Maybe it’s a lot more! So, just for the heck of it, let me double that number to 2300. After all, I did read in Philadelphia that one time! But even taking into account that a couple thousand folks have read or heard my work at least once, only .00003329% of the people in the world know I have written a poem, any poem, at all. Holmes says this is sad, but also beautiful: “Imagine if you knew about everything you’re ‘supposed to…’ That would imply that all the cultural value the world has managed to produce since a glob of primordial ooze first picked up a violin is so tiny and insignificant that a single human being can gobble all of it in one lifetime. That would make us failures, I think.” Pretty words.
Still, .00003329% is really tiny. And we’re faced with tiny everyday, aren’t we? Just take more than a fleeting glimpse at a clear night’s sky, and think about all that space. The amount of space, in fact, that our planet occupies in all of that emptiness is a whole freaking lot less than .00003329%. Thinking about all of this makes me immediately suppose, “Why do anything?” I’ve often wondered how meaningless anything I do in the name of poetry or artistry really is. Yeah, Shakespeare’s words have transcended history, but ask any teenager on the street these days to name a play or recite a line, and the response will most surely be, “Like, who?” And I’m no Shakespeare, I’ll be the first to admit. So why do I do it at all? What’s the point? In a hundred years, if our species manages to claw its way out of the deeper and deeper hole it’s currently digging itself into on so many levels, will there be a trace of my words left in a Facebook fan page or a LiveJournal? How long will it have been that my physical zine eloquent with rage ceased to exist in any form except matter returning to the soil, poisoning it with chemicals from the paper and ink far more than my naughty poetry ever could?
Of course, by that logic, why brush my teeth? Why eat healthy? Why be nice to my neighbors? In the long run—the whole Why Are We Here?, Monty Python and the Meaning of Life, The Ultimate Answer to the Ultimate Question of Life, the Universe, and Everything kit and caboodle—what does anything matter? We’re living a blink of a life now, and in a few billion years, when the universe collapses, we’ll live it in reverse, so anything done will be undone, anything written will be unwritten, anything lived will be… unlived? That’s stupid. And it got me thinking: “Why do anything?” is a single extreme. So what’s the opposite extreme? “Why not do everything?” Why not bungee jump? Why not eat eggs more than once a week? Why not have unsafe sex? Of course, there are some things we shouldn’t do, if we are doing “everything,” just as there are things we should still do, even if we’re not doing “anything.”
For me, the option of not doing anything is daunting and mind-boggling. because I know how my brain works. I’ll hear a random person say a random thing and immediately start writing verse in my head before I even get to a computer or a piece of paper. On occasion, words have almost magically formed in my head and begun poems that have affected audiences to deafening silence or rousing applause. I even dream in poetry and wake up to race to the PC to type the words and images before they disappear as dreams do through the course of a day. How can I not write poetry when my mind is already doing it before I even think about it? It’s simply not an option.
There's one more thing. I have many friends in the local poetry community who would say I have already done everything: I wrote a poem a day for a year; I’ve repeatedly used visual art as inspiration for my work; I’ve attempted more forms, many of which I can’t even pronounce, than I can remember; I’ve been published and have won contests. And I've inspired others to become better poets. My peers are jealous and complimentary and occasionally awestruck. “How do you do it??” they beg. I’m a poet, I say. It’s what I do.
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