Abstract: In this article, I explore through personal narrative the relationship between adjuncts and full-timers and also between adjuncts and support staff. Special attention is given to the issue of age as a factor structuring social interplay. And a 42 year old man who drools on himself gets a tenure-track position.

30, its the new 18

I walked past the bullpen (the adjunct lounge) and through the main department offices. An administrative assistant runs toward me, “May I help you?”

“Nope. I’m fine, thanks.” I smile at her. I turn and walk into the copy room.

“I’m sorry this copy room isn’t for students. There are copy machines in the library and downstairs next to the pop machine.”

I nod and pull the final out of my leather briefcase. “Okay”

“This is a faculty copy room” she repeats.

“Yep.” I nod at her. Its not that I’m stupid. Well I am clearly stupid… I am teaching college while other people with 12,000 dollar a day coke habits are in respectable industries like real estate and human trafficking where at least you can be honest. I can’t even figure out how to make an extra 12,000 a year. Ever hear a group of realtors sitting around talking about “changing sh$t”? Ever heard a pimp say, “when is the world gonna wake up and realize we need social justice”?

“You’re going to have to leave”

Here I turn trying to remain calm. “I AM a faculty member. I’ve been teaching here for three years.”

“Oh you look so young” she giggles. “Sorry”

“Sorry? I walk past your desk three times a week. I’m 30 years old” By this time I’m pissed off, but I still fake a smile. This is the fourth time I’ve had this exchange. “Do many students carry stacks of other students papers around? Do they wear ties to school?”

“I said I was sorry.” She storms off.

I hope that I’ve pissed her off so bad she’ll never talk to me again. Pimps don’t have to prove their old enough to be pimps. I place the first page of the final in the copy machine and begin my fifteen minute wait for the copier to power up. Its 7:30 in the morning, I’ve just finished teaching a class of automotive students.

Before class one of my students asked, “do you think I’m retarded.”

“Um… no.” I ask not sure where this is going. “Why?”

“Well my speech professor told me, I’m a retard. She said I shouldn’t even be in college.” He’s on the verge of tears.

A pimp would probably tell a college student they were retarded, but would the student believe it?

“Well I see no difference between you and any of my students. You’re a pleasure to have in class and speaking of the class. I have your last paper.” I delivered an “A” to him.” For once I’m happy I actually forced myself to grade the papers on time.

Still waiting for the copy machine to warm up, the admin assistant walks past the door. Glares at me.

When I enter the classroom another student tells me their speech teacher called him a “piece of sh$%”. I swallow hard. I cannot get involved in conflict between students and other professors. I don’t even have a contract. I don’t have health insurance. No office. No voicemail. I can’t even get the tech lady to re-instate my password so I can use the ELMO. I can’t have a conflict with another faculty member over a student, I make 18 cents on the dollar of what a full-timer makes.

“Well if that’s true. If a professor is mistreating you, what you should do is talk to the division chair. So if you don’t like my performance or another person’s performance, I would say going to the division chair would be the next step.” I look him straight in the eye. His expression is blank. So I repeat myself several times.

Finally I give up. “Go complain to the division chair, this woman is wrong for saying this sh%# to you. If you tell anyone that I told you this, I’ll claim you’re a liar. I can’t loose my job.” He nods and thanks me.

As the copy machine light comes on Tom Carrol breezes into the room and lifts the lid. In one smooth motion he tosses the first page of the final onto the prep desk and lays down his ditto. “Sorry, I’m running late.” He smiles. “So did you apply for the full-time position opening up here? You’re kind of young, but you’ve got some experience.”

I’m ABD and have taught for six years. I’ve worked on five federally funded multi-million dollar grants. Student and peer evaluations place me in the top 2% of the college’s faculty. The last guy that beat me out for a full-time position wears Haiwain shirts and drools on himself. For three months he threw all of my campus mail in the trash, and bumped me in the hallway every time he passed me. During a faculty BBQ, he spent the duration of the time telling me how I was just a twinkle in my father’s eye when the Cuban missile crisis happened. I’ve kicked people in the nuts for less, but that’s out in the real world. This is academia.

I’m not saying they didn’t make a good hiring choice at the college. After all when you look at my credentials and then consider that he has an M.A. and worked odd jobs for five years before he taught for one year as an adjunct, who would you have hired? Its true students drop his class to transfer into mine, but you’ve forgotten the most important fact he’s 42.

“So sue!” my hair stylist tells me.

“Are you nuts?” I shake my head. “I’d never work in academia again. I mean once you sue, lets face it everyone talks. I’d have to get a big cash out and something like this, it just won’t work.”

She laughs. “Maybe you should get into real estate. My cousin does that and makes a killing. Him and his wife they flip houses and she’s illiterate.”

“Is she really?” I look hard at myself in the mirror.

“Yeah, she’s a bitch too. I hate her. Always throwing her boobs up in your face. Big deal.”

“Do you think I’m loosing my hair?”

“Bald men are sexy honey,” she winks into the mirror and smiles.

I sigh.

Back in the copy room, I look at Tom and smile. “Yes, yes I turned in my application early in the week.” After he leaves and I finish my copies, I put three boxes of staples and a box of pens in my jacket pocket and walk out. The administrative assistant is playing online poker as I pass her desk.