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?

Our story is the story of two guys who start at the bottom, and with a lot of hard work continue along the bottom, and finally end up at the bottom

Thank you Flight of the Conchords for being endlessly hilarious and providing me for the title of this post.

I had been so excited at the beginning of this week for the start of the semester. I had my whole schedule lined up and sorted out. I had cleaned out my desk. I was tinkering with the idea of beginning lesson planning (I lecture my students to not procrastinate, and yet...the week before classes seems the appropriate time to open the book I’ll be teaching from doesn’t it?) I attended the mandatory orientation for my class, only to discover there was a very strong possibility that the class would get cancelled. I expressed my dismay, considering it’s not as though I teach these classes for fun or because I have nothing to do with my time but because I like to pay rent and eat! I was assured by several members of staff that even on the chance that my class would get cancelled, I would get a replacement class. All would be sorted out by the end of the week. OK. Fine.

Friday morning arrives and I receive a text from a friend of mine who had been on the wait list at the same university to teach the basic freshman class. We went to grad school together, and I’m genuinely (for the most part) glad that he got work. I sent a quick email to the scheduling director after this. I figured if someone with my exact level of education and no experience at this university, actually make that no teaching experience at all, got a job, that must mean that my job was safe. Because I figured surely you wouldn’t give a job to a wait-listed staff member when you were going to cancel the class of a staff member who’d worked there for 2 years.

Apparently, I was quite misinformed. My class was cancelled; “sometimes things just work out that way.” Really. That’s what you say to me when you tell me that I won’t be able to pay rent for 4 months without having to ask my parents for a loan? I don’t see that as helpful.

So my excitement on Monday quickly made it’s way to trepidation and stress with a dash of hope and that quickly turned into frustration, annoyance and terror at not being able to pay bills. All of this anxiety for a job that I’m not quite sure that I want...yet I know for sure that I want a place to live and food to eat.