gatekeeping

A student came to see me today to talk about a paper he'd written, but we ended up spending most of the time talking about other things, including academic hierarchies. The topic came up when he noted that the department had changed the board out in the hallway where they list professors' names and their office numbers. It used to be a simple alphabetical list. But some time in the last month or so it became segregated so that sessional instructors (the Canadian equivalent of the US adjunct professor) are listed separately from regular faculty. Never mind that the vast majority of the sessionals are regular fixtures in the department, teaching multiple courses year after year. Never mind that many of us have pinch-hit for the department more than once, helping out at a moment's notice to fill a suddenly instructor-less course, etc. Never mind any of the ways in which we are a major part of the academic structure of most universities. Never mind. The big problem, which was why my student raised the issue in the first place, is that the new format makes it hard for students to find us sessionals. They look at the list of professors and don't see our names and give up--I suppose at that point they roam the halls examining nameplates on doors? I heard one on a cell phone the other day, "Er, excuse me, but do you know where I find Dr. H.?" (I popped my head out at that and waved him in.)

Now, granted, university students should have the capacity to read another inch or two down the board to find the sessionals list. So, to be fair to the list-maker, reading the new board isn't exactly rocket science. But this misses the point, which is: why, after all these years, the new segregated format? What gives?

My student may have already found the answer. When he raised the topic today, he said he was surprised to find out I was a sessional, and he noted that there are three of us in that category, in contrast to many regular faculty with whom he'd had some experience, who he believes are "so great." Now, I don't make that same distinction--I say this not in an attempt to cover my ass, but in all honesty: there are some really fantastic faculty members in the department where I teach. Truly. And I know he knows this. So, I'm not going to join in the us-against-them game. But I will emphasize his central point, which is that there are some kick-ass sessionals who teach at this university, and who do so by choice. We have PhDs from world-class schools and we choose to be here for a range of personal reasons, and I'm starting to realize that there are at least some regular faculty who, at best, are losing their patience, and at worst, feel some serious resentment toward us.

Let me stop here for a second to set the record straight about why I bring any of this up: this post is not a woe-is-me-I'm-a-lowly-sessional whinge. Granted, my ultimate goal in life is not to be a sessional instructor. Of course I would like a job that had some security and paid better and had benefits and at least a modicum of prestige, especially after spending 9 years in graduate school to earn my doctorate. Who wouldn't? But for now, there are things about being where I am that outweigh those desires. And I'm okay with that sacrifice. I have chosen not to go on the wide academic market just yet, and I understand what that choice means for my position within the academic hierarchy (read: marginalized).

Still, because I'm interested in power relations and all that jazz, I can't help but look at my life and ruminate on the ridiculousness of academic gatekeeping. What's it to the regular faculty if the names of sessionals are included in alphabetical order with theirs? In what world is that any kind of real threat? Why on earth make it harder for students to find any instructor--whatever his/her rank--who has been charged with the responsibility of teaching a course for the department? Courses taught by sessional faculty provide students with the same credits as those taught by those in the tenure stream. From the students' perspectives (and this was confirmed in the last external review), we're all the same.

And there's the rub. We're all the same from the students' perspective. They could give two shits about rank. They don't even know what rank means, for the most part. All they know is which courses they like and who they want to stare at/listen to/be judged by each semester. And I'm getting the sense that the fact they choose me or my sessional colleagues pisses many regular faculty off to no end. I'm starting to realize that this drives many of them absolutely bonkers. (In the spirit of providing evidence for this claim, I do have a story to tell, but I can't tell it publicly. If you know me, ask and I might share. If you don't, trust me: they're pissed.)

Maybe if I'd spent years of my life climbing the tenure ladder I'd be just as proprietary. Maybe I, too, would begrudge people paid less than half my salary and denied any job security the small gift of student satisfaction and relative popularity. Maybe. But I doubt it.

Back when I was a dancer, a friend said to me, "Other people's successes do not detract from your own." And I took her words to heart. Sure, I get jealous sometimes. Everybody does. But do I get jealous when the people scrambling for crumbs actually manage to scrounge a few? No. I can say quite honestly that I do not. I'm not that gauche.

I'm not bitter about the academic hierarchy because I'm at the bottom of it. Because I know it's my own choice to be where I am. But I am bitter about it because I care deeply about scholarship and teaching, and I believe that ultimately, it doesn't serve anyone very well. A colleague recently commiserated that it is bad, yes, but he isn't creative enough to think of an alternative. Me neither. Not alone. But it's high time that, as a group, we at least started brainstorming. Because it's just too ironic that so many of us progressive-lefty-power-to-the-people academics are so whipped by this archaic, outdated, paternalistic, classist hierarchy. Scholarship should not be a pissing contest. Or worse. It's about time for some change.