Adjunct
by Travis Turner
Autor’s Note: This story is a manual for the beaten down adjunct instructor who just won't give up the damn dream.
“When can you start?"
"As soon as I'm needed."
"Classes begin in 2 weeks. We have orientation sessions this week for new faculty. Most of them are for incoming tenure track, full-timers, and GTAs but they're very informative and can help you get a handle on course expectations and the ins and outs of campus. I can print you out a copy of the schedule.”
"Sounds great."
There are many things you're left to find out on your own when signing on as an adjunct instructor. You will need a parking pass that costs $350 to park anywhere within a mile of campus. You won’t get a full paycheck for 2 months. You will share an office with 8 other people. You won’t get a code for the printer. You will encounter full-time instructors and professors that look right past you once they realize you're a part-timer. You won’t understand the social dynamics. You will teach whatever courses you're offered. You won't have health insurance. You will ask yourself if it's all worth it at the end of each day. You won't feel very human.
My first semester schedule was similar to a patchwork quilt. 8am Freshman Comp 101, 1pm Introduction to Argument 102, 3pm Freshman Comp 101, 4 pm American Literature II, and 6pm Freshman Comp. 3 preps spread over the course of a 10 hour day, 3 times a week. A long day, but it beat the 12-16hr shifts at the paper mill I'd worked at back home right after high school.
The mill was really the only way to make a decent living back home if you didn’t have a safety net. My grandfather worked there as did my father and my uncle. It was tough work, but it was stable, good pay with benefits. You will see it break down the bodies of the people you love who work there. You won’t see it robbing them of time and memories with their loved ones. You will enjoy the camaraderie with your coworkers. You won’t enjoy the smell. Anything within a 5 mile radius was saturated with the acrid smell of industry. The old-timers always joked that it “smelled like money.” Most of them died before they ever got a chance to enjoy what they’d saved.
Fall semester starts in the middle of August. Alabama summers are brutally unforgiving. Once the students arrive back in town, the town is past capacity, just tens of thousands of people simmering in a stew of humidity. My classes are spread from one side of campus to the other. 10,000 steps by noon. You will wonder why you wore a dress shirt and tie. You won’t be able to wring out the sweat from your shirt in the bathroom. You will feel like you need to catch your breath before walking into a classroom filled with undergrads. You won’t have much time.
After the semester ends, there are a few weeks to compose yourself before Spring courses begin. You will think you have an advantage by planning out your syllabi in advance. You won’t realize that your course offerings are tentative. 2 days before the semester begins, 2 of those 4 courses you’d prepped for are given to full-time instructors whose courses didn’t make. Now you’re stuck with half a paycheck until summer. You will look for other work. You won’t be sure how to make ends meet. Maybe you can pick up a course or two at the community college across town if you’re lucky.
When the Spring ends, so does the pay. For 3 months, there is a window of time that is yours and yours alone. Maybe it means serving at a coffee shop. Maybe you find an opportunity as a deliver driver. Maybe you work with a landscaping company. Maybe.
The truck wash a few miles up the interstate is always hiring. $15 an hour sounds like a dream compared to minimum wage. Once hired, you spend your day in a bay that mists heated water on 18 wheelers running a pressure washer all over the big trucks. 115 degrees and soaking wet in the shade. You will get cramps in your hand from running the spray gun all day. You won’t enjoy the smell of rotten meat and animal feces you spray out of the trailers. You will puke at least once a day, either from the smell or heat sickness. You won’t forget why you’re here. Your feet will be wet all day.
Taking this teaching job meant moving hours away from your family. The big city is a far cry from the small town of 800 you call home. No red lights. The closest store sits 15 minutes away in either direction. At night there, it’s just you and the darkness. And the crickets. And frogs. There is no dark silence of peace in the city. The light and sirens are ever-present. People look at you differently when you tell them you’re from the mud puddle. You will meet people that think less of you. You won’t allow them to get too close to the truth. You will feel sorry for them. You won’t feel sorry for yourself.
After a year or two, the routine is in place. A full plate of classes in the Fall, scant offerings in the Spring and a fee-for-all in the Summer. Rinse and repeat. After a dozen years or so, you get tired of even applying for the full-time positions but you don’t quit. And eventually, after a global pandemic resulting in a shortage of people willing to do the job, you’ll get your shot at a full-time instructor gig. It will feel good to finally have some room to breathe. It won’t matter how you got it. It will be nice to sit down and write about it one Summer day. It won’t make much sense to anyone other than yourself.
Travis Turner is native of Alabama's Black Belt. He teaches writing at the University of Alabama. Cats, books & gardens take up the remainder of his free time. Find him on social media at @travisturnerii
by Travis Turner
Autor’s Note: This story is a manual for the beaten down adjunct instructor who just won't give up the damn dream.
“When can you start?"
"As soon as I'm needed."
"Classes begin in 2 weeks. We have orientation sessions this week for new faculty. Most of them are for incoming tenure track, full-timers, and GTAs but they're very informative and can help you get a handle on course expectations and the ins and outs of campus. I can print you out a copy of the schedule.”
"Sounds great."
There are many things you're left to find out on your own when signing on as an adjunct instructor. You will need a parking pass that costs $350 to park anywhere within a mile of campus. You won’t get a full paycheck for 2 months. You will share an office with 8 other people. You won’t get a code for the printer. You will encounter full-time instructors and professors that look right past you once they realize you're a part-timer. You won’t understand the social dynamics. You will teach whatever courses you're offered. You won't have health insurance. You will ask yourself if it's all worth it at the end of each day. You won't feel very human.
My first semester schedule was similar to a patchwork quilt. 8am Freshman Comp 101, 1pm Introduction to Argument 102, 3pm Freshman Comp 101, 4 pm American Literature II, and 6pm Freshman Comp. 3 preps spread over the course of a 10 hour day, 3 times a week. A long day, but it beat the 12-16hr shifts at the paper mill I'd worked at back home right after high school.
The mill was really the only way to make a decent living back home if you didn’t have a safety net. My grandfather worked there as did my father and my uncle. It was tough work, but it was stable, good pay with benefits. You will see it break down the bodies of the people you love who work there. You won’t see it robbing them of time and memories with their loved ones. You will enjoy the camaraderie with your coworkers. You won’t enjoy the smell. Anything within a 5 mile radius was saturated with the acrid smell of industry. The old-timers always joked that it “smelled like money.” Most of them died before they ever got a chance to enjoy what they’d saved.
Fall semester starts in the middle of August. Alabama summers are brutally unforgiving. Once the students arrive back in town, the town is past capacity, just tens of thousands of people simmering in a stew of humidity. My classes are spread from one side of campus to the other. 10,000 steps by noon. You will wonder why you wore a dress shirt and tie. You won’t be able to wring out the sweat from your shirt in the bathroom. You will feel like you need to catch your breath before walking into a classroom filled with undergrads. You won’t have much time.
After the semester ends, there are a few weeks to compose yourself before Spring courses begin. You will think you have an advantage by planning out your syllabi in advance. You won’t realize that your course offerings are tentative. 2 days before the semester begins, 2 of those 4 courses you’d prepped for are given to full-time instructors whose courses didn’t make. Now you’re stuck with half a paycheck until summer. You will look for other work. You won’t be sure how to make ends meet. Maybe you can pick up a course or two at the community college across town if you’re lucky.
When the Spring ends, so does the pay. For 3 months, there is a window of time that is yours and yours alone. Maybe it means serving at a coffee shop. Maybe you find an opportunity as a deliver driver. Maybe you work with a landscaping company. Maybe.
The truck wash a few miles up the interstate is always hiring. $15 an hour sounds like a dream compared to minimum wage. Once hired, you spend your day in a bay that mists heated water on 18 wheelers running a pressure washer all over the big trucks. 115 degrees and soaking wet in the shade. You will get cramps in your hand from running the spray gun all day. You won’t enjoy the smell of rotten meat and animal feces you spray out of the trailers. You will puke at least once a day, either from the smell or heat sickness. You won’t forget why you’re here. Your feet will be wet all day.
Taking this teaching job meant moving hours away from your family. The big city is a far cry from the small town of 800 you call home. No red lights. The closest store sits 15 minutes away in either direction. At night there, it’s just you and the darkness. And the crickets. And frogs. There is no dark silence of peace in the city. The light and sirens are ever-present. People look at you differently when you tell them you’re from the mud puddle. You will meet people that think less of you. You won’t allow them to get too close to the truth. You will feel sorry for them. You won’t feel sorry for yourself.
After a year or two, the routine is in place. A full plate of classes in the Fall, scant offerings in the Spring and a fee-for-all in the Summer. Rinse and repeat. After a dozen years or so, you get tired of even applying for the full-time positions but you don’t quit. And eventually, after a global pandemic resulting in a shortage of people willing to do the job, you’ll get your shot at a full-time instructor gig. It will feel good to finally have some room to breathe. It won’t matter how you got it. It will be nice to sit down and write about it one Summer day. It won’t make much sense to anyone other than yourself.
Travis Turner is native of Alabama's Black Belt. He teaches writing at the University of Alabama. Cats, books & gardens take up the remainder of his free time. Find him on social media at @travisturnerii