It’s the week before classes begin and I’m in
the faculty workroom at my “other” college, Verdant Fields, when my colleague
Jesse shuffles in looking just a little depressed.
Actually, he looked thoroughly, disconcertingly
abject. Jesse is normally an outgoing, even
charismatic guy. His students love him,
and last spring he received the college’s annual excellence in teaching
award. Trying to engage Jesse, I ask
about his summer.
Shrugging, he tells me he taught a summer class. He mutters something about not being ready
for summer to be over before sinking into a chair at one of the workstations,
putting in a set of earbuds, pulling a sheaf of papers from his briefcase, and
commencing to type into the computer. I
don’t take the rebuff personally. My
outward affableness aside, I’m in a similar mood.
I typically feel a sense of loss as the fall
semester begins. I used to jump into the
new year feet first with hope and anticipation, but now it’s with a sense of
regret that maybe I hadn’t used the passing summer to better advantage.
Like Jesse, my summer was as much work as
vacation. My academic year officially
began ten weeks ago with an online summer class at Snowflake College. This virtual class allowed me a couple of
getaways which should have reinvigorated me, but it wound up with one of those
incidents that have made me dread something I once loved.
Back in June, I was at once self-congratulatory
and apprehensive. The last academic year had
been trouble-free, even pleasant. There
wasn’t a single troublemaker in any of my classes at any of my campuses. Verdant Fields gave me a teaching award of my
own last spring, albeit division level, and it assigned me an additional
section for the fall. I wondered how
much longer my luck would hold.
Not for long, as it turned out. There were 39 students in my summer online
class at Snowflake. Of those, 37 passed
with a “C” or better. One failed for not
participating in the class after the first week. The other neglected to submit any of the
required writing assignments, which made up 1/3 of the coursework and therefore
1/3 of the final grade.
A week after final grades were posted, I get a
panicked email from the latter student, whom I’ll call Devin. Not surprisingly, Devin’s singing the
blues. He claims he uploaded all the writing assignments. He said Whiteboard gave him a successful
upload message each time. He just can’t
understand why the Whiteboard gradebook says the assignments are missing, he
just can’t. He’s transferring to Big
State University, and I just have to
give him a good grade.
Ah, to be young, lazy, and entitled! Luckily for Devin, he’s just the kind of
student Snowflake College nurtures. And
so, the following exchange ensued:
I answer Devin saying
it was his responsibility to make sure the assignments were in.
Devin replies that he
meant to have them in, reminding me, with no proof of course, that he had
uploaded all the work on time. He closes
with a gratuitous assertion that he doesn’t want me to think of him as a
dishonest person. (Too late for that,
bud.)
I email Devin with a
vague promise to look into available options, informing him that submitting
late work for credit after final grades were in was, well, a trifle unlikely.
And then, silence. For a day or two, anyway. The next email missive came not from Devin
but from Regina, the administrative assistant to our academic dean. She informed me young Devin has submitted a
grade change.
Now I’m beginning to see red. In twelve years, no student has ever had the
gall to challenge a grade I’ve issued. I
consult the Snowflake College faculty guidebook concerning the grade change
policy. My blood pressure ratchets even
higher when I find that a grade change is issued only in cases of instructor
error, bad faith, or incompetence.
I shot Regina a reply telling her in no
uncertain terms that none of those criteria apply to my assessment of Devin’s
efforts.
Regina was unimpressed, though as a classified
employee one can excuse her indifference to the spirit rather than the minutiae
of academic regulations. She answered
with a tersely worded request to send her the corrected grade when ready.
The college allows a full year for grade changes
after the end of term. Young Devin is in
for a wait. While I’m sure I’ll catch no
end of flak for dragging my heels, I plan to hold out against that lying little
shit for as long as I can get away with it.
Screw him and the cayuse he rode in on.
If you’re unfamiliar with contemporary higher
education, this story might seem confusing.
If you’re like me, you believed you got the grade you earned. No more, no less. So why is Snowflake College siding with a
student who’s so obviously in the wrong?
Retention and completion rates, that’s why. These are the excuse for any number of
depredations committed of late by college administrators. They will do anything to gain and keep
students, even if it means condoning academic dishonesty and besmirching the motives
and reputations of faculty. (Well, the
motives and reputations of adjunct faculty, anyway.)
We adjuncts have to take it because their jobs
are secure, and ours are not. Snowflake
has been on an institution-wide quest to maintain enrollment and boost
graduation rates in the face of a declining college age population in its
service area. In furtherance of this
end, some clever grant writer managed to finagle a seven-figure dole to create
a program to do just that.
Of course, any new program needs staff. And so, Snowflake has created two new
executive dean positions, touted as “temporary” even though everyone knows
goddamn well they’re here to stay, to streamline its academic and job training
programs. And where you have
administrators, you have to have a bevy of classified staff to do their
bidding.
This push has been in the making for the past
couple of years, supported by a public relations campaign to get faculty buy-in. Last spring, the college even condescended to
invite several part-timers, myself included, to brainstorm potential
pre-packaged academic tracks for students who don’t know what they want to be
when they grow up.
We submitted our recommendations and were
politely thanked by management. A few
weeks later, they released their initial plan.
It bore little resemblance to any of our recommendations. I doubt if anyone bothered to look at them.
The implications for us in the trenches are
grim. We’re hanging on by torn and
bleeding fingernails as courses and programs are cut or whittled down. Meanwhile, the bureaucracy gets larger, or at
least it’s holding ground. No wonder
Snowflake’s administration is so imperious.
They see themselves as the good guys, naturally. More than few of them take pains
to create rapport, or its simulacrum, at any opportunity.
It doesn’t fly with me. Nothing peeves me as much as a dean or vice
president who rushes to point out that s/he too was once a part-time
instructor. I don’t care; the operative
word in that statement is “once.” We are
not friends, and we have nothing in common.
I am labor; you are management.
The strange thing, and the saving grace, about
the situation is that my best moments in the classroom and my successes in
motivating students to learn still make up for any resentment and
frustration. There are lots of days when I find satisfaction and even pride in my work. Sadly, those days are becoming fewer. It’s like I’m locked in an abusive
relationship where my abuser constantly reminds me of all the good times we had
together to keep me from leaving.
Observing my friend Jesse, this sense becomes
even more acute. Finishing my prep work
for next week, I try to wish Jesse a good day as I leave. Engrossed with the computer monitor and lost
in whatever sounds were coming through his earbuds, he doesn’t hear me. I wave my hand in front of his eyes to get
his attention.
Turning to me with a morose expression, Jesse
merely nods. I go away with a heavy
heart. Classes start Monday.
© 2017 The Unassuming Scholar
