The Price of Anger: Exhaustion

Typically my anger is directed toward others, and is mostly in the form of smallish annoyances. The emotion is like a match: quick to light and quick to burn out. For those that see my annoyance on an almost daily basis they get used to the quickness of it, though I suppose some would say that if you’re burned by a match it leaves a mark even if the flame goes out quickly.

My sister says that I have the ability to change the temperature in a room. I don’t know if that’s true or not, but I do know that my energy is powerful and when not harnessed it has caused destruction. Maybe I’m thinking of Rogue from the X Men type ‘powers.’ At any rate, I cycle through annoyance on a daily basis, but the anger I felt the other day is much more insidious and harder to shake. It’s exhausting.

I feel like I’ve run a marathon through mud or molasses. My mind wants me to believe that I’ve learned something from that experience on Tuesday, but I’m not quite sure that it’s accurate. What’s challenging is that I KNOW that being a teacher is like being a therapist and that the cliche of leading horses to water is true. I know that. I really do know that. And believe it. And I’m still stuck. Which is the most frustrating part of it all.

The self-loathing that comes with this level of anger (dare I say rage?) is awful. I could curl up in bed all day with this shitty stomach ache. It leads to more destructive activities, like an obsession with alcohol (for which I haven’t consumed, because I am mostly afraid that choosing alcohol while I’m so angry will only make things worse), and a desire to give up yoga completely, and to lash out at all the lovely supportive people around me.

And I don’t want to hear about your damn problems, either. That’s the thing…I tried calling a friend the other day, and as she chattered on about whatever she was talking about I found myself seething with even more anger. I didn’t want to hear it. Not one more complaint about her job or her schooling or her dogs who chewed something up. Nope. Wasn’t going to have it. Emotionally and mentally spent.

It’s the end of my work week. Today the student’s are giving their speeches. And we will all go home early. I’ll probably go to yoga and hopefully can pull myself out of this funk, because it’s a terrible feeling.

The Evils of Tenurehood

My stomach is in knots. I just received an email from a student, saying she had recorded her instructor (another instructor in MY DEPARTMENT) calling one of the students “pathetic” “sad” and “ain’t got no mind.” And I am both furious, and powerless, because the beast of TENURE is alive and well on this college campus.

See, I’m a part-time, adjunct faculty. Sure I teach 15 credits, which is considered by many to be a full-time load, but I’m classified as adjunct. And the other two days I work I am classified as…classified, which means I’m paid hourly. Yes, my paycheck is strange and hard to sort out, but this isn’t about me. This is about working with students who are ‘at-risk,’ who are at the last point in their school career and might not have the internal strength to make it 12 weeks being called ‘pathetic.’ I know I give my students a hard time, and drop the F-bomb too many times to count in a given lecture, but I care deeply about each of them. The kid on the spectrum with an i-phone strapped to his wrist, or the girl who gave birth in the last week of class, or the gangbanger who had been in prison for 5 years.

None of my students are pathetic.

Sure they get on my nerves, but I care deeply about them.

And I want to protect them from the world, and don’t feel I should have to protect them from other instructors here on campus…especially not one in my own fucking department.

I might be shaking as a write this.

Because, while I read the tenure emails and hear all the bitching about adjunct faculty and lack of true benefits and yada yada yada I also feel a tiny bit of relief that I’m not tenure-track. Sure it makes the ultimate job security a little shakier, but I also trust in a karmic safety net that if I couldn’t continue here, I would be able to continue somewhere. And so, frankly, at this point, I’m not seeking a tenured position. My good friend, who also works here, and is knee-deep in the tenure process, is a first hand experience of why I don’t want to go through the hoops (at least not right now).

But mostly I’m so frustrated at how tied my hands our to the injustice that this instructor is causing. My boss has no authority, because he’s only over part-time adjunct faculty. And the deans (because yes, there has been more than one) have basically said ‘wait it out until s/he retires,” which is coming soon…but not soon enough.

While standing in the cold cooridor telling my boss about this recording, I felt so helpless that the institution is basically saying, “it’s okay THAT kid’s being raped, because it’s not MY kid,” and hoping the problem goes away. It feels like the fucking Catholic Church sex abuse scandal and I don’t understand why we’ve set up a system of ultimate power and authority that cannot be questioned.

I want no part of it.

If I am not a good instructor, or I am being horrible to students, then fire me.

Endings

Well, I have successfully completed my first quarter as a real-life college professor. Okay-fine, an adjunct professor. Okay-fine, a part-time instructor. Seriously, language is a HUGE thing (apparently) and I’ve been reading a gazillion emails today from irate professors/instructurs/adjunctfaculty/yourmom about WHAT TO BE CALLED IN EMAILS, because, apparently, people get their panties in a twist about the nuances of instructor/professor/adjunctfaculty. Whatevs. A student came up to me after his final presentation and the conversation went something like this:

Student: You’re new here, right? This is your first quarter teaching.
Me: Yes, I am new here. Though I’ve taught in a lot of different capacities over the years.
Student: Yeah, well you were good. You have a good teaching style. And I think people need to know when they did a good job. So, I’m telling you, you did a good job.
Me: Wow. Thank you. I appreciate that.

So there you go, I guess I didn’t do too poorly in teaching my first college course. And I am heading out the door for ONE MONTH of freedom. Whoo boy, I’ve got plans people! Plans!

Now if only Potamus would cooperate with said plans. Instead of whining. Yeah yeah, you have a fever of 102.5 kid, but I HAVE PLANS! And those plans include a) sleeping for 100 hours and b) doing FUN THINGS WITH YOU, so get ahold of your feverish self and let’s get crackin! No, it doesn’t work that way? Well poop.

I have noticed that co-sleeping with a feverish 11 month old is much like wearing a mink or fox neck wrap. But one that’s set on fire by 1,000 suns. And dipped in sweat. Pure awesomeness, until PETA is called, because that’s gotta violate all sorts of ethical issues.

At any rate, I am SUPER STOKED to have a month of freedom from work. I have a massage lined up, a coffee date with a friend, a joint birthday partay for me and little man, but most importantly: tons of quality time with Potamus. One thing I am excited to try is a place called Little Diggers Playtime, which is an indoor beach volleyball court that they open for kiddos to play in the sand since we live in freaking Seattle and it’s ALWAYS crummy weather during the winter.

Can’t believe this little boy is almost ONE. Geez. Where has the time gone?