Being an adjunct (part-time) college instructor is a lot like being an intern. Our pay may be slightly better, but the power dynamic is the same. The “customers” (in our case, students) think we’re on par with the higher-ups because they don’t know any better, but the other staff and faculty knows the truth: we are simply houseflies. Despite our passion and our abilities, we can only make so much noise. A small amount might get us noticed, but too much and someone comes out with a rolled-up newspaper, ready to swat us down. This makes feeling invested in a college campus and feeling like you are a contributing member of the faculty a very complex thing. And God forbid we have any constructive criticism to give! That is very dangerous water, indeed.
Now, I am very passionate about my job and, at the risk of sounding conceited, I think I’m pretty good at it. This can also be a dangerous position. On the one hand, you want to show ‘em what you’ve got; however, this makes people (full time and adjunct alike) a little nervous. I am also an instructor who believes in the humanity of the classroom – and my students – and one who talks to students as people. This can also be dangerous ground because I often find myself a reluctantly willing confidante to students bemoaning their other instructor’s teaching styles. I can sympathize as a student and as an instructor because I understand the complications of instruction and the hardship of having a teacher who simply isn’t a good fit for my learning style. But what do I do with this information?
Often, I find myself with names of instructors who, in my opinion, should be consulted by the higher-ups and coached into more modern styles of teaching. Long gone are the days when Composition instructors are taught to lecture, slap letter grades on work, and bury their noses in books during test time. Yet there are some who still adhere to these practices. Don’t get me wrong. I do not mean that any instructor intentionally uses a teaching method that s/he knows will not benefit the majority of the classroom. For the most part, I believe it’s a matter of time. Those who graduated 10-15 years ago were taught very differently and, therefore, carry those practices into their classrooms. Those of us who graduated more recently and by more progressive teachers (thank God for the CSUF English department) have simply had a different teaching “upbringing” that really honors student knowledge in addition to instructor knowledge. But this does not solve my dilemma. What do I do when I hear of instructors who are not teaching in a way that enables learning?
This is when I have to ask myself... am I Sardine or Salmon? Do I go with the flow like my little silver friends or do I follow the salmon and dive head-on into rushing waters? Do I risk the hatred of a colleague who may discover my “tip-off” to the dean who will, no doubt, miss my intentions to help everyone benefit from a little change? Or perhaps I tell students to do the “tipping” themselves to avoid any finger-pointing in my direction. But either way, I’m a rat, right? Either way, I’m screwing over fellow adjuncts (or, gasp, full-timers) who are struggling to pay the bills and get classes. But how do I justify to myself and to those damn-confessional students that their paying for a class in which they’ll learn only to listen, regurgitate information, and predict instructor expectations is really education? And when I think of how many students filter through (or only make it through part of) each class each semester, it makes being a “tattle-tale” feel more like vindication.
But it’s even more complicated when I think about the bigger picture. Okay, so let’s say I turn Salmon and report an instructor... and the students benefit. That’s a HUGE success. However, what if others catch wind of my “tip-off.” So here are my questions to you. Is my action seen as a good or a bad thing to faculty? Is this spunky little Salmon rewarded for her tenacity and granted respect and maybe even... gasp... a full time position? Or is she a troublesome upstart that gets snatched up by the hungry wading bear, damned to the academic equivalent of death: part-time teaching for eternity. So, what should I be... Salmon or Sardine?
It's unfortunate that you must choose either, that the river flows the way it does and that the notion of professional collaboration and development in so many colleges is an absolute illusion.
ReplyDeleteHere's a core problem, and I'll use your fish analogy to illustrate: salmon do of course fight the current, and many succeed, but what do they achieve? Despite their victory over the current, the river does and will continue to flow in the same direction. The fish lays its eggs and dies, only really succeeding in spawning new salmon who will repeat the torturous process all over again. If we are the salmon, is this also our fate? Will we and our writing programs win just enough converts to allow the movement to survive while really changing nothing else?
Having said this, I doubt you or I (or many of the other good instructors we know) would be happy as sardines. We'd quickly burn out, even after finding full-time work, and become like those hollow and embittered instructors we've all encountered.
Here's the thing: perhaps we need to aim at evolving, at climbing out of the river and into positions where we can change the current's direction.