This is my life

I am a migrant worker. At work, I am quiet and in the background. Ruffle anyone’s feelings or step on the delicate toes of the administration or full-timers, and in a few short months, I could be found out of work. Any questions to the status quo, any suggestions for change would be tantamount to handing in my resignation letter. I drift by, like a ghost in an old Victorian mansion; a presence you accept and expect, but not something that you wish to talk about or invite home for dinner. I float in the background, quietly doing what I’m told, no matter how tedious and time-consuming the tasks might be.

My paycheck arrives in time to pay for a place to live and food to eat and not much else. I don’t bother to nicely and politely I ask, “Please, could it be possible to have just a bit of health insurance so that if I get in a wreck on my hour commute, I wouldn’t be made instantly bankrupt?” I can only dream of the day of being able to afford it on my own. Pay rent or pay for health insurance. I can choose one of these. Not both.

Instead of picking apples or harvesting wheat, I am an adjunct lecturer. For anyone who doesn’t know about the job, to say that I teach writing at the college level gets an “ooohh...how amazing/interesting/fun/fulfilling.” I generally agree, because, again, I’ve become socialized to not make waves. It is easier to simply nod; far more difficult to explain the stress at hearing a class has been cancelled because of low enrollment. To hear that on average per hour (including office hours, prep time, grading, (ir)relevant administration, and commuting) I make less than a high-school babysitter or barista.

Yet if I apply to be a babysitter or barista, I am considered over-qualified and therefore unhireable. Instead, my degree in creative writing has somehow translated into teaching reluctant undergrads how to write a set of instructions for a user manual. Finding a full-time job (much less TENURE!) is just about as likely as my paying off my student loan in under 10 years. Even if I get a PhD (read more student loan), the chances are slim. The market is flooded with seemingly misguided humanities lovers who have been told/tricked into thinking that an advanced education will mean a chance at a career with more stability than a cashier job at McDonald’s or Wal-Mart.

As I was lying in bed a month ago, I had a sudden and breathtaking realization. This is my life. I am living my life as an underpaid, nearly invisible “educator” to surly and uncaring students. I have little chance of advancement and stability. Any suggestions?