The only jobs I have ever gotten in academe have been mostly
by accident. Like the time when I got my
first post as a lecturer because the professor broke her leg. Or the time I got a coveted position because
another professor decided that she had had enough of academic life and split
home to Alberta less than 24 hours of making that decision.
I am the hired gun, the last resort, the one who they ask when they need a course syllabus developed in less than two weeks, and who will do all my own photocopying and never go over my limit. I also have friends EVERYWHERE who are always quick to name me as a competent fill-in and available at the drop of a hat. (Thank you. I love you all.)
I am the hired gun, the last resort, the one who they ask when they need a course syllabus developed in less than two weeks, and who will do all my own photocopying and never go over my limit. I also have friends EVERYWHERE who are always quick to name me as a competent fill-in and available at the drop of a hat. (Thank you. I love you all.)
Multiple
Organics opened in June 2008, and I started teaching 4 courses at a community
college in September. (I will never name names of academic institutions in this
blog, from fear of never being hired again!)
I got this gig because someone else had pulled the plug on them just a
week before classes were to begin. Just
when I thought I had nothing lined up for the fall, I got a bonanza of 4
classes. Yay! It was teaching academic writing and nothing
juicy in my area, but what the hell? It
was work and PAID work. My wage was
$84/hour for a 12 hour week. No funds were allotted for prep, admin work, grading, meeting students, answering their
emails ,etc. (I believe in naming wages
because transparency is important, and kudos must be given to the student
activists in the unions who continue to fight for fairer conditions.)
Before this, I had never taught college level before. All my teaching experience was in the crème de la crème of universities in Ontario, where undergrads can only get in with A averages. This doesn’t mean that there aren’t slackers in the cohort, or that this is truly the brightest bunch in Canada, but these places imply that you are among the best of the best, and if you want parchment bearing its brand at the end of your stay, you better do as you’re told. There is currency in which schools you attend. Just look at Maclean’s asinine university ranking every year. The ranking/branding of academic institutions translate into more administration, more corporate funding to particular faculties, and more enforcement (subtle and otherwise) for compliance and docility in the student and faculty bodies. This is how the ivy-leaguers and wanna-be ivy-leaguers of Canada see it: they don’t need you. And you should be bloody grateful for breathing their heady air. So behave or get out. (Hey, that’s just my take after hours of fieldwork as both student and teaching staff.)
Accustomed to this climate, I ventured to community college. I received a textbook and a set curriculum. They didn’t care how I taught, only that the specified material was covered. Grammar is lovely. I love grammar. However, teaching and learning grammar can be as interesting as watching a dog clean its nether region. Alas, I was armed and ready. The classrooms didn’t have a smart board, so I made do with old school transparencies and overhead. I would mix up my pedagogy – some lecture, some group work, some discussion. Tried as I might, I couldn’t find any interesting documentaries featuring Stuart Hall or Slavoj Zizek on writing an essay.
My first class was with first year Child and Youth workers. They were timid, freshly out of high school, appraising each other and me apprehensively. I launched into an introductory lecture on the importance of writing skills both in college and in life while they stared back at me without blinking. Perfect, I thought. They were enraptured!
10 minutes in, a hand shot up from the back. Ah! A question! What engaged students, I thought.
“Yes?” I inquired.
A young woman with her face suddenly screwed up like she had just eaten a pickle and didn’t think it would be that sour, asked, “When you actually say something important, could you let us know, so I can write it down?”
And we were off.
Before this, I had never taught college level before. All my teaching experience was in the crème de la crème of universities in Ontario, where undergrads can only get in with A averages. This doesn’t mean that there aren’t slackers in the cohort, or that this is truly the brightest bunch in Canada, but these places imply that you are among the best of the best, and if you want parchment bearing its brand at the end of your stay, you better do as you’re told. There is currency in which schools you attend. Just look at Maclean’s asinine university ranking every year. The ranking/branding of academic institutions translate into more administration, more corporate funding to particular faculties, and more enforcement (subtle and otherwise) for compliance and docility in the student and faculty bodies. This is how the ivy-leaguers and wanna-be ivy-leaguers of Canada see it: they don’t need you. And you should be bloody grateful for breathing their heady air. So behave or get out. (Hey, that’s just my take after hours of fieldwork as both student and teaching staff.)
Accustomed to this climate, I ventured to community college. I received a textbook and a set curriculum. They didn’t care how I taught, only that the specified material was covered. Grammar is lovely. I love grammar. However, teaching and learning grammar can be as interesting as watching a dog clean its nether region. Alas, I was armed and ready. The classrooms didn’t have a smart board, so I made do with old school transparencies and overhead. I would mix up my pedagogy – some lecture, some group work, some discussion. Tried as I might, I couldn’t find any interesting documentaries featuring Stuart Hall or Slavoj Zizek on writing an essay.
My first class was with first year Child and Youth workers. They were timid, freshly out of high school, appraising each other and me apprehensively. I launched into an introductory lecture on the importance of writing skills both in college and in life while they stared back at me without blinking. Perfect, I thought. They were enraptured!
10 minutes in, a hand shot up from the back. Ah! A question! What engaged students, I thought.
“Yes?” I inquired.
A young woman with her face suddenly screwed up like she had just eaten a pickle and didn’t think it would be that sour, asked, “When you actually say something important, could you let us know, so I can write it down?”
And we were off.
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