“Indispensable but Invisible”: a new study on contingent faculty at GMU

Check out this important new study on contingent faculty at George Mason University. I got my M.A. at GMU and worked there as an adjunct after getting my Ph.D. years ago, so for me, this reads like it came right out of my memoir: too many hours, too little pay, no opportunity for recognition or advancement etc. etc. etc. If you’ve ever been an adjunct, you know the routine, but we need more studies like this to move us past the anecdotal.

I was also pleased to see “Pay Equity between contingent and tenure track faculty of similar rank” as the first recommended action for GMU, among other important things related to benefits and job security.

I’m tempted to keep writing/summarizing but really, you should go to the horse’s mouth:

Indispensable but Invisible: A Report on the Working Climate of Non-Tenure Track Faculty at George Mason University

Thanks to the authors:
Marisa Allison
Randy Lynn
Victoria Hoverman
Doctoral Students
Department of Sociology and Anthropology
George Mason University

student loan repayment: can it be done?

I tweeted this a.m. that I paid off my student loan yesterday. Since I’ve been making monthly payments on that thing for 10 years, I felt celebratory. But after tweeting, I sort of regretted it. The twitter account, @Debt_Free_2day favorited and retweeted me (presumably because I am an inspiration for having closed out a loan). Confirming this idea, someone else tweeted that my news made them “seriously emotional,” adding #ItCanBeDone. Others congratulated me.

Here’s the thing. I feel happy to have closed out this loan, but no one should be inspired by it–and I’m sorry my tweet misled people. What I didn’t think to say was that my loan was for $6,200. The idea it takes a comfortable middle class person 10 years to pay off a $6,200 loan when others face boulders of debt in the range of $100K, coupled with the fact I could be looking at these same kinds of numbers after my kids go to college (starting next year!), is not inspiring. It is daunting. Horrifying.

How did I get away with just $6,200 in debt anyway?

I started graduate school twenty years ago, in 1994. While that feels like a blink to me, college tuition rates tell a different story: surely only the passing of a century can account for the snowballing 3.7-4.2% average increase we’ve seen in tuition every year since then?

Even in the golden olden days of 1994, we thought higher education was an expensive luxury. I paid for my master’s degree with $5,000 I inherited when my grandmother passed. Neither of my grandparents went to college, and both placed a high value on education. This inheritance was a huge windfall to me, and I felt obligated to spend it wisely. Confident my grandparents would have approved of my choice, I put the money in a separate bank account and drew from it only to pay for school expenses. When I graduated with my master’s degree in 1996, I had exactly $30 left. At the time, I thought, “Wow, I can’t believe it took almost every penny!” Even at the more modest rates of the past, I viewed graduate school as an expensive luxury that I only afforded with this unexpected gift.

Then I wanted to get my Ph.D.

By now it was 1997. Tuition rates were increasing at a rate of 3.7% each year, my doctoral program would be out of state, and my acceptance to the program did not come with funding. My tuition jumped from about $130/credit hour for the master’s, to about $350/credit hour for the Ph.D. (still a pittance by today’s standards, I know). This is when I borrowed the $6,200–to pay for my first year of doctoral work. The year prior, my husband and I had struck a ludicrous deal: I would stay home with the kids we hoped to have if he would support me while I got my Ph.D. (the repercussions of our naiveté in this decision are in part the subject of my memoir). But still, Steve’s support meant I did not have to pay room and board, so my $6K was not the $20K that my friends borrowed.

The next year, I got funding. Honestly, I may have dropped out if I hadn’t. Not just because of the money, but because no funding also meant no teaching. I knew with no teaching I had no chance of getting a job (if only I’d known I had so little chance of getting a job anyway!). Three years of teaching/funding paid my tuition and provided a small stipend that helped Steve and I with our bills. By the time the funding ran out, I was dissertating. Then I only had to pay for 1 credit-hour per semester, an approximate $400 expense that we scraped together twice a year without loans.

And there you have it. With a little luck, I managed only $6,200 in debt for a Ph.D. Meanwhile, my nephew just borrowed $4,200 to pay for one college-level class–his last one. I don’t know how much he owes in total, but I do know it’s the kind of number that sits in your gut like a rock.

In a great irony, I’ve paid off my debt just in time to incur more. My son will follow his cousin to college next year. We have actually managed to save enough money to pay for two years of his schooling (because he is an athlete, we already know he will attend a public school in our state–but don’t even think scholarship). At our current pace of inflation, those final two years will cost about $25K each. How will he (or us? we haven’t crossed that bridge yet) pay off $50K in loans?

And then my daughter will go to college as well. After years of responsible saving, will we still find ourselves at the end of our lives worthy only of debtor’s prison?

The latest financial advice for people like us is that we must not take on our kids’ college debt because we won’t live long enough to pay it off. We must leave it to our kids while we focus our resources on retirement. Either way, our kids inherit the burden: they can pay their own college loans or pay for our nursing home.

In another irony, my son is enrolled in a required high school class called Personal Finance this year. He is learning about checking and savings accounts, debit cards, credit cards and the like. Most importantly, he is learning about the imperatives of avoiding and managing debt. Yet, quite possibly, the first thing he will do after high school graduation is incur a debt so insurmountable it could take his entire adult life to pay it off.

Should I tell him not to worry? After all, it only took me 10 years to meet my miniscule obligation. Of course, times have changed since I went to school. While I couldn’t find a job in my field, my son can count on the benefit of a free internship after graduation to help him dig himself out!

And what of the person who tweeted #ItCanBeDone this morning? Do I write them and tell them it can’t? No. For who am I to say? Besides, I’m holding out the same hope for my kids, and their cousins too.

just finish it already!

Good god. I am someone who wrote a dissertation in three years with an infant in one hand, a toddler underfoot, and no childcare. I even had a teaching job for one year of it. How is it I can do that, yet take eight years (and counting) to write a memoir about that very same experience?

What is taking so long?

Once upon a time, this was a fun project. I saw it as a way for me to process the experience of leaving academe while also exposing the plight of adjuncts to the general population at a time when few people were writing about it.

Since then, talk has exploded around the problem of exploitative university hiring practices and the trek-to-nowhere that has become the humanities phd. There is no more need for an exposé. That’s actually OK because the project changed over time anyway. It grew into something bigger, an accounting of graduate school life as a whole: the experience of being a student, teaching, and writing a dissertation while contending with a reading disability and raising a family. And then giving it all up.

Great. But still, why isn’t it done?

To be fair, I haven’t been writing for eight solid years. This book has always been a spare time thing. Something I did when the duties of parenting, tutoring and grant writing didn’t call–which was almost never. I know I left it untouched for at least one full year of that time.

Technically speaking, I finished the first draft after about two years. I spent time after that sending book proposals to academic presses. I had this idea that some cash-poor university press would welcome the opportunity to publish a book people might actually buy and read. But they didn’t. With no simultaneous submissions and a minimum six month turnaround, I clicked off about two years just waiting around for rejections. Then I spent another year querying agents. One even asked to see the manuscript. But, alas…

THEN, in 2012 I got myself into a writing group. Before that, the book had been peripheral to my busy life. I didn’t give much thought to the fairly obvious fact that, unless you are a genius, you can’t get to the final version of a book by yourself: you need readers, editors, critics.

After years of simply reading my own book over and over again, I finally started getting useful feedback and making real revisions. I have since rewritten the entire thing twice over, and I cringe to think of the version I sent to that agent a few years back.

This is where I’m supposed to tell you, “And now…it’s finished! Voila!”

Except it’s not. I still have a few big decisions to make about structure and cuts, and my writing group still has to finish it (which will help me make those big decisions – I hope). So I plod on. I have to admit, I’ve begun to feel like I did during the final year of dissertating: like my life is on hold until I can unburden myself of this project that overshadows everything else, especially  other writing projects. I want to write magazine articles and blog posts. I want to start my next nonfiction book. I want to be free of this thing that has hung over me for eight years!

Instead, here I am–writing a blog post about the process of writing a memoir about the process of writing a dissertation. Ridiculous.

I need to just finish it already!

The Adjunct Petition Challenge — Watch Me Humiliate Myself (More Than Usual)!

professornever:

A worthy cause(s): (seeing Rebecca pretend to sing, and petitioning for a federal investigation of university labor conditions)!

Please check it out and sign!

Originally posted on pan kisses kafka:

Friends, Probably-not-Romans (but who knows?), Americans:

This spiffy petition, by Ann Kottner, Joe Fruscione and many of their hero compatriots, asking the US Dept. of Labor’s Wage and Hour Division to investigate the labor conditions of adjunct professors in our country, currently has about 5500 signatures. It would be very exciting if it had more signatures than that — especially from you tenured and tenure-track faculty I allegedly hate (JK, especially from anyone for any reason!). So here’s the deal.

I’m going to keep watching this petition, and when it hits 7500 signatures, I will, in the spirit of my friend Gordon Haber, upload a YouTube video of myself lip-syncing — WITH FEELING — to the song of your choice (as suggested in the comments below). I would prefer a German pop song from the 80s (I would prefer “Major Tom (Völlig losgelöscht),” if we’re being particular), but if there’s…

View original 74 more words

wanted: fair trade education

Of late, I found myself on several university campuses in an entirely new capacity: not as a grad student, not as a TA, not as an adjunct professor, but as a parent of a soon-to-be rising undergraduate. The university’s quintessential consumer-extraordinaire.

I found this something akin to one day shoveling coal into the furnaces that powered the Titanic and the next day (or decade) getting an invitation to frequent the Lido deck. The only problem: my experience in the bowels of that boat gave me reason to question the soundness of the ship. Which set me inevitably to grumbling about how those exorbitant tuition dollars I’m supposed to hand over get spent.

And it’s all downhill from there.

As an undergrad, and even as an early grad student, I walked around my college campuses feeling all dewy-eyed about the great halls of academe. The naiveté of youth must fade, thank god, but I never expected to feel quite the way I did on these recent campus tours.

As I endured five identical tours at five different universities, the slime of my own cynicism grew so prolific I feared I might leave a trail of it on the sidewalk behind me.

When the proud tour guides led us through the brand spanking new athletic and workout facilities, each expected me to ooh and aah with my son, but I could only wonder how a regiment of state-of-the-art ellipticals, positioned with an optimum view of the mountains, could supersede the need for a crew of composition instructors who can afford something more than Ramen for dinner.

We toured the newly turfed athletic fields, the mall-sized food courts, and a slew of smart classrooms in recently erected business school buildings. As one guide gushed on about the still-under-construction suite-style luxury dorms, I oozed a thick smear of cynical sludge on the ceramic tile just inside the sliding double doors of the brand-new student center. Do you give free massages too? I wanted to ask.

I’ve followed the problem of student-as-customer and lamented the progression of edutainment for years, but now it feels ever more personal because as a parent, I’m expected to buy–and buy into–these things.

I looked around for the cavalcade of high-paid administrators who had built these amusement park-empires, but they must have been cloistered in their towers for the afternoon—eating steak tartar out of silver dishes, no doubt.

Then the guide announced: “They do a great job preparing you for grad school here. So when you go, you’ll be ready.”

“When you go?” We heard this at several schools. When did grad school become an expectation? For which careers? All of them?

I’ve got to hand it to them. This is a clever sales tactic—kind of like creating brand loyalty for Camel cigarettes among elementary-aged kids. Persuade the new students that a bachelor’s degree won’t cut it before they’ve even had a chance to move their Xbox Ones and PS4s into their freshman dormitories.

No one mentioned how these unemployed college graduates would pay for grad school after four (or five?) years spent selling everything but their organs to pay for tuition. Another student loan perhaps? Or for top-tier students, a low-paid TA-ship with a loan on the side?

And then we got to the “excellent” part of the presentations: the teacher/student ratio. I had to keep moving because a puddle of goo had begun to form around my feet. Again and again I heard promises about personal attention, accountability and the family that is the university community.

“Really?” I said under my breath from my curmudgeon’s place in the back row. What happens to that ratio if we calculate professor to number of classes taught instead of number of students in each class? Then we also have to count the students and the grading for the three additional classes the professor teaches at the community college down the road to make ends meet.

If the professor has 25 students in each class and three classes at each institution, that’s 150 papers to grade for every assignment. How’s the ratio looking now? Does that instructor have time or energy to meet with my child about his latest paper grade?

So much for “family.”

Before going on these tours, I imagined I would heckle the tour guides about adjunct labor in a way that would educate other parents who may not be aware of this hiring practice. You will be so disappointed to hear that when the time came, I lost my nerve…entirely.

I don’t know what I expected, but I didn’t arrive prepared that each tour would feel so much like a Disney ride – a sanitized explication of university life intended to celebrate and sell, the script delivered by volunteer student-guides who showed us only the pretty parts of campus with uninterrupted smiles that dared me to contradict them. I believe the student-guides were genuine in their enthusiasm. I understood the families on the tours had signed up for just this kind of show–as had my son. I didn’t have the guts to ruin it for any of them.

So, in my pathetic way, I asked about adjuncts in a low voice from the front row—or worse, I slunk up to the guides after the tours were over and asked: did they use adjuncts?

They were ready for me.

Every one of them said, “Yes, we do employ adjunct professors” with more interminable smiles. But then, “No, I don’t know what percentage of the faculty they make up.” Two guides assured me that adjuncts are good teachers too, so I shouldn’t worry.

All of the guides invited me back to Admissions where they could answer my question more thoroughly…and collect my contact information to ensure the child of a parent who would probe into such sensitive matters would never go to that school.

No, that last part only happened in my imagination. But it’s true I didn’t pursue my question at Admissions. It’s true I feared it might reflect poorly on my son’s application.

And suddenly this felt like a really creepy business. Was I being paranoid? Probably, but I found myself in a vulnerable position: At the public universities, my son must compete for admission. At the private ones, he must compete for a financial package that will make the difference between our affording the school or not.

I need the sales people in admissions to like us, not usher us out the door for fear I might make a scene.

Voting with my wallet has always felt like a common sense strategy to me. I don’t buy meat or produce at the grocery store because I don’t like big agriculture. I buy fair trade coffee because I care about who picked and processed the beans. But where can you buy a fair trade education?

We need more parents to ask this question. If a school has fat administrators, skinny adjuncts and a long line of brand new stair machines, maybe that’s not the kind of place to drop your life’s savings.

Except I’m a captive consumer. I don’t know where I might find anything different.

Despite my griping, I’m excited about this next phase of my son’s life. I anticipate the day he’ll come home from college on a break and tell me about the cool class he’s taking and the awesome professor who teaches it. We’ll chat about it over dinner. He’ll recommend books for me to read from the syllabus.

But then we’ll wonder: Is that professor on food stamps?

And that sucks. For everyone.

Right now, the Fair Trade Movement focuses primarily on farming, food and home goods. But the fact the movement exists at all illustrates the will among Americans to make ethical purchases. Forget U.S. News & World Report. Wouldn’t it have been cool if I could have asked the tour guides, “Where does your school rank at Fair Trade USA?”

That is, of course, if I could muster the gumption to speak up.

the perfect job: life after academe

If you’re leaving academe feeling despair because you’ve missed out on the “perfect job,” never fear. Of course you know this, but I’ll tell you anyway: there is no perfect job. Even today’s professoriate suffers a variety of hardships: bigger classes, fewer raises, increased pressure to publish, a customer-oriented culture that emphasizes entertainment over education, and the biggie for me: the moral quandary of working side-by-side with an ever-growing force of underpaid contingent laborers.

Still. Perfect job or not, leaving academe is hard. Figuring out next steps can be even more daunting.

More than likely, the job you do right after quitting academe will not be the one you want to do forever (mine wasn’t). Perhaps you take it because you have to pay the bills now. Or perhaps it’s the only thing that comes along. Or perhaps it falls into your lap and you don’t know what else to do (me).

Whatever the reason, just remember first, that nothing is permanent and second, that your work doesn’t define you. The culture of academe suggests the opposite, heaping judgment on those who work outside the academy, but once you get away, the echo of those voices will quiet.

Looking back, I can see that each of my jobs has brought together a different balance of the same four things: financial need, ability, interest and time. As these factors have changed over the years, so has my work.

Here’s what that has looked like:

After graduating from college with a B.B.A in marketing, I needed to make enough money to buy a car and move out of my parents’ house. I also wanted to show just how high a woman could climb on the corporate ladder: to the top. Then I discovered the mind-numbing tedium of corporate life. With so little invested in the purpose of my work, I found the days soul-suckingly empty.

After four years in an otherwise good job (great boss, good pay, challenging tasks), I couldn’t take the boredom anymore. In pursuit of something more creative and less bound by the mandate I spend eight consecutive hours behind a desk, I quit and enrolled in an M.A. program. I thought perhaps I’d get a writing job, or teach. While in school, I supplemented my husband’s income by working a variety of jobs: part-time nanny, full-time office manager, full-time marketing assistant. Instead of the upward mobility I’d originally sought, these jobs offered a low-stress 40-hour week that left me with time and energy for my studies.

During the M.A., academic work seduced me into striving for a professorship. Where money had been a driving factor behind my corporate job, in academia I saw an opportunity to do intellectual and creative work, earn respectable pay, and work varied hours. Also, where corporations promise upward mobility and increased salaries, universities promise prestige. I can’t say I wasn’t enticed by that.

By the time I started the Ph.D., I had a 6-week old baby. I quit the office manager job to attend graduate school full-time and stay home with my son. After a year, I got funding and worked as a TA making $12,500/year. Because we could scrape by with that and my husband’s salary, I was lucky to graduate with minimal debt.

When I graduated, my kids were 7 and 3. I was exhausted, and we were broke. Of course, the only job I could get was an adjunct job paying $2,500/class. I took it because I felt I had to teach while on the market for a tenure track job. As a parent, childcare becomes a major work priority. Since the adjunct pay was so low, I couldn’t afford to hire a childcare provider, so I only taught one class per semester.

After three failed years on the market, I decided to quit for several reasons: 1) The adjunct work was unsustainable: I couldn’t parent, publish, present, network, write job letters and teach all at the same time—especially without funds for childcare; 2) I saw quitting as a form of protest. I did not want to be part of the adjunct problem. 3) Between parenting and academe, I’d had no life for years. I was tired; 4) Both of my kids had special education needs that required extra attention and patience, but all my time with them felt stressed and rushed; 5) Our growing family had gotten more expensive—I needed to make more money.

Also, my daughter became ill about this time, requiring I be more available at home. After so many years of putting career before family, my priorities changed again. I turned the tables and put career last, becoming a tutor for students with dyslexia.

One year, I taught college students about intertextuality in African American literature. The next I taught 7-year-olds how to spell “cat.” On the university’s prestige-o-meter, I’d fallen far. But I didn’t have time to care.

Tutoring was a flexible job that paid me the most money for the least amount of time. With just a 10 hour work week, I earned $2,000 per month. That’s almost as much as I made in an entire semester teaching one class at the university. When I upped my hours to 14 per week, I made over $30,000 per year for part-time hours.

Even better, I was deeply invested in my students and in literacy (a subject not unconnected to my training in literature). I was good at it. I worked in and out of my home, made my own schedule, and had no additional grading/prepping. For a time, the work was intellectual. I attended conferences, learned about the brain, opened my eyes about education in a way that all my own formal education had ironically never done. I didn’t expect it to hold me forever, but in the moment, it was the perfect job.

This brings me to last year. As of then, I’d been tutoring for nearly a decade. My daughter was much healthier and on the brink of middle school. The memoir I’d been writing off and on for years still languished on the back burner. Despite a good hourly wage, my part-time hours limited my overall income while cost of living had increased dramatically. Intellectually, I knew tutoring full-time would be tedious, so I decided it was time to refocus on my career.

Figuring out my next step over the past year has been another difficult transition. After much soul-searching, I finally decided that, in addition to the need to increase my income, my main priority is still: time.

When I started out in business, I was very ambitious. I never set out to get rich, but I did set out to make something very respectable of myself: the status of a corporate executive, the prestige of a university professor.

But tutoring young people in this most basic skill of literacy has humbled me. I didn’t get famous or rich. I didn’t make a bold feminist statement about women and work. I didn’t impress anyone with my credentials. Instead, I made a fair wage while truly changing the lives of my students in great leaps and bounds. And while I did that, I settled into a simpler life.

Between my work in special education and my daughter’s food allergies/sensitivities, I’ve learned a lot about the ills of processed food and big agriculture. Consequently, we are locavores. Since I make my own schedule, I can shop at farmers’ markets, cook fresh food, put my hands in the dirt of my garden, avoid traffic and save gas by riding my bike for short errands like the grocery store and the bank. I can meditate after lunch—sometimes. There is a rhythm to this life that I can only call spiritual. A nine-to-five schedule would disrupt that. It’s not that I don’t want to work a 40-hour week, it’s just that I want to pick which eight hours of the day to work (I work best late at night). This need goes all the way back to my dissatisfaction with my first corporate job, so I feel like it’s important to listen to it—if I can.

Consequently, in this next leg of my work life, I’ve decided to supplement my tutoring by increasing the freelance writer/editor work I’ve been doing in bits and pieces for years. If I can do that from home, I can manage my own time. So far, I have several regular clients, so it looks very promising.

I remember one of my advisors discussing her past work as a “copyeditor.” She practically spat the words when she said them. I shared her judgment at the time. How ridiculous that seems to me now. My intellectual life lives on not only in my continued interest in literature, but in my interest in food, the environment, education and the brain—and in the kind of writing/editing I’m qualified to do. It’s my life that defines me, not my job. As a “copyeditor” (no spitting), I hope to fit my job around my life and interests, which at 47, have grown more important to me than professional status or prestige.

That is the plan, for now.

My point in detailing this zigzagging career path is to show how career aspirations and employment needs/opportunities can change over time. While some of these transitions have been extremely difficult for me, all of my jobs have enhanced my understanding of myself and the world around me. All have been steps to the next thing.

If the transition from academe finds you adjuncting, waitressing, pushing papers in a job you hate, or if you’re otherwise unhappily employed, know it is just one step on the path—not an endpoint. While there may be no overall perfect job, the one that pays the bills today, or keeps you from sitting home feeling lost, may be the perfect job for now.

So, if you’re on this post-ac path with me, the best advice I can give is to forget the judgments of academe, do what makes sense for you now, and see where it leads.

post-ac community: who gets to speak?

I distanced myself a bit from social media these last few months and I’m sorry to discover, upon my return, that there’s trouble in Denmark, so to speak. I’m not even sure of the scope of it as I missed the twitter exchanges that apparently took place, but I can see from blog posts there was a debate about privilege within the post-ac community that has left some feeling like we’re divided and others questioning whether they should continue blogging.

I’m jumping in a day late and a dollar short, so perhaps I should keep quiet about it all, but I feel like I want to weigh in because I think this online post-ac community is such a valuable thing. After suffering the silence around what was happening to Ph.D.’s who left academe back when I did it in 2006, I know the value of connecting with others who have left the academy. It’s worth it to invest time and energy in preserving this positive space.

The tough thing about a community like this is that it must strike a balance between those who have found their way to a satisfying work/pay situation and those still struggling to do so.

The overarching point of the post that seems to have caused the debate, Post-Ac Privilege Divide from over at How to Leave Academia (HTLA), is that we don’t hear often enough from (or provide enough support for) those who are struggling to piece together their post-ac lives.

I think this is an excellent point and I’m glad the authors drew attention to it. I admit, however, that I’m also not too surprised there was some sort of backlash. I think that the piece’s attempt to divide our community by degrees of privilege distracts from its important argument about lack of balance by suggesting (inadvertently?) we should hear less from those who are more popular or who enjoy more financial security rather than just pushing to hear more from those who are currently underrepresented.

This sets us up to argue about who’s privileged and who’s not (who gets to speak and who doesn’t), leading to further debate about how we define privilege.

Of course, I say all that without knowing what much of the argument was about, so it’s just a guess.

What I find relevant about a discussion of privilege is that we acknowledge as a group how much easier it is to speak and be heard if you come from a position of privilege. If you are working three jobs to put food on the table, you are far less likely to find time for blogging or Twitter. Privilege affords access to a computer, time/energy to write, and time/energy to network on social media. So people with the luxuries of time and energy are more likely to engage with this community in an active way.

Also, even for those who have all of these things, I imagine we’re more likely to share our successes, or our steps towards positive change, than we are to share the days we spent staring at a wall because we couldn’t figure out how to move forward after the devastation of leaving our academic careers behind. In this sense, the stories of struggle are also less likely to get told.

Consequently, as a community and regardless of our individual backgrounds, we should remain conscious of imbalance in our story-telling to be sure we clear space for those still finding their way.

The transition out of academe can be long and arduous. Those just embarking on this journey need to know they’re not alone – that others are flat broke and in debt, working less than desirable jobs, feeling unemployable, questioning their worth, and questioning their investment in graduate school. But struggling post-acs can also benefit from the flip side, from seeing others like them who have discovered their marketable skills and have found satisfying work outside the academy.

The authors at HTLA are right, the post-ac movement needs balance. I just wouldn’t want to argue for silencing any particular voice to get it. Rather than call for fewer rants in national venues, fewer feel-good tweets or blog posts, or fewer paid sources of advice and information, I’d say we need all those things to remain in addition to all the things the authors at HTLA call for: more stories of struggle, more open source advice, more measured and thoughtful critique of higher education.

I know I’m a bit of a quirky member of this community: I’m older than most. I have teenaged kids. I left academe 8 long years ago. Yet, I still spend time hashing out what it means to have this academic self tucked away in my head. I don’t know if that’s encouraging or discouraging for others to hear! But I do know I have always felt welcomed by other post-acs, despite my differing situation. I would want to pass that kind of welcome on to anyone else finding themselves suddenly estranged from the ivory tower.

In the interest of that, I’m happy to offer my site up for anyone with a story who is in need of a platform. Traffic is pretty modest around here, but I’m willing to share the space if it’s useful to anyone. You can leave a comment or DM me through Twitter @professornever if you’re interested.

In the meantime, I hope everyone keeps blogging, sharing and working to build and preserve a post-ac community where everyone’s voice can have a place.