cool kids

I'm not sure what it means, that I feel most at ease when bantering back and forth with an older generation of academics in our little corner of the institution. And I do mean that...the adjunct work space is in a hidden-away corner of the institution. They aren't really my peers: several Baby-Boomers with grandchildren, mostly Gen X with kids in middle to high school. I'm one of the oddballs. I know there are more of us, but they don't seem to hang out in the corner.

And the weird thing is that I'm okay with that. I don't really want to be reminded of my own generation anymore. Neither those of us who are "making it," nor those of us who suffer from underemployment. I'm insanely jealous of the thirty-somethings with jobs, and hearing about unemployment makes me ill. It seems the more I read about possibly pursuing a PhD and making this academic thing more of a career than just paying the bills, the more I believe it is a terrible idea. And not in the Hollywood, bad-decisions-lead-to-happy-endings sort of way.

My generation seems to be lost. Or at least I am. Of the two "Xennials" writing in this bittersweet article in Good magazine, I side with the admitted "malcontent" born in 1983. I'm right there with you, pal.

But I don't want to hang out with you.

There has to be some name for it--if not, I could come up with one all my own--this compulsion to seek out people who are different, to be lost in the heterogeneous crowd. I always felt better walking around the city by myself. Having a friend along on roadtrips always made it more stressful. Conversing casually with strangers is infinitely easier than opening up to closer acquaintances.

My fear is that the strangers in the adjunct corner aren't strangers anymore. They ask me about Dad, and I share what's going on in my life outside work. I ask them about their wives and kids and travel plans. Horror of horrors! It's wrong, isn't it? Shouldn't I socialize with people who are in the same life stage as I am? What life stage is that, exactly? Chronically stuck. Circling the drain. Failed to launch.

I just had the thought that my musings about the adjunct corner do not qualify as cultural clash. Maybe I'm not so different from the other teachers, despite decades of life in between. That just makes my lack of those "signifiers of success" that much more painful. How did I get into a Gen X mindset without all the Gen X bells and whistles? Where is my mortgage? Where is my white picket fence? Shouldn't I have those before I am qualified to sigh heavily at the snotty Millennials that fill the hallways and roll through the campus stop signs?

The knowledge that many of my peers have over thirty years of secondary teaching experience or doctorates or families seems suspended long enough for me to derive actual pleasure from hanging out in the corner. There is the IT guy whose phone sounds like the Star Trek (TNG) comm, and the geology professor who yells at the nursing faculty for using the community Xerox machine. Granted, those nursing gals do tend to cause several paper jams.

There are the math professors--all former high school teachers--who tease me over my far too subjective discipline of choice. They tease everyone else, too, so it's no big deal. One has to keep his desk super clean because of an immune deficiency, but he makes it entertaining, writing "No Adjuncts Allowed" or piling furniture in front of the desk to prevent the next English professor from sitting down. The mock battle over territory is a welcome respite from fearing the dull stares of students in the next hour.

There is the political science professor that I could probably talk to for hours on end if we didn't have work to do. And she's Republican. That's how deep I'm in this. I get along with people who I would expect to look at my liberal self with conservative scorn. I'm the only art history nerd in the adjunct corner, yet I fit in.

This fitting in is a very strange sensation, mind you, considering my experiences as a student. Before I stood in front of a whiteboard to earn money, I was an outcast. Now, I imagine we are the cool kids of the faculty. Too cool for our own offices. We can't be bothered to hold regular office hours. Health insurance is so over. Our clique is not impenetrable...full-time staff and tenured faculty are welcome to stop by. I don't even mind seeing students in the grocery store anymore. This is naturally what happens when geeks and nerds become cool.

I'm way too comfortable with this. Where is the angst? Wait, I just remembered I'll never be able to retire. Oh, and my part-time socializing eclipses even my closest relationships that are in dire need of repair. There we go, angst recovered!

Elegy for a term paper tossed in the trash

You weren't that bad...worth a B-, for Pete's sake! Yet, it might be that one capital letter that the student glanced at before tossing you aside, as if to say "good enough, no need to improve." Not even a pat on the back for you, term paper, for being satisfactorily organized and formatted. Not a second wasted on how your argument might have been strengthened with well-chosen citations.

You were tossed in that trash can far too soon. You had a whole life ahead of you. A life of study and reflection on essay structure and grammar. A life worthy of academic praise.

I'm sorry, term paper, that your creator doesn't give a damn about you.

I suspect many term papers are thus abused and cast away. But what about the students, these creators-turned-destroyers? What is the motive, the thought process behind such a callous attitude toward the written word? And why do I care?

As I picked up a random person's large McDonald's pop to place in the trash, I noticed a term paper with familiar green comments written (rather politely and stylishly, if I may be so bold), in the margins. It was the term paper of one of my students who had finished an exam earlier that day and picked up his term paper on the way out. And, also on the way out, he deposited that paper in the trash. There is, say, a 20-foot walk between my table and the trash can, so I highly doubt the student absorbed any helpful tidbits between picking up and pitching.

To which I say, "Thank you. I'll lose no sleep over your bad grade tonight."

That trashed term paper is a symptom and symbol of the larger ills of academia and the Millennial generation (or at least how Millennials are viewed in society).

This student grew up in the same region I did. I don't know his family background, his social status, or any of that, and I shouldn't know. But I can tell he is at least ten years younger than I am, so he's a Millennial whereas I identify myself (defiantly!) as Generation Y. We are different, yet the same.

We are different, because no one taught him to value his work. Or at least to include writing in what he considered "work." That attitude is far too prevalent these days. Too many people (*cough*Business majors*cough*) think writing is not a worthwhile skill, not something to be practiced and perfected. Writing is simply the act of expressing your ideas, which I should think is useful in any profession. My parents might have stopped reading my writing around 10th grade, once it got more and more esoteric, but they never allowed me to think of it as worthless. Writing made it possible for me to succeed in college, then graduate school.

Further success is pending. And I suppose that's why I have difficulty finding fault only in the student. It's a tough world out there. Yet that's why parents foster a sense of pride in a job well done. Whatever that job may be. That's why teachers give stickers, smiley faces, and praise...at least, they used to before all the standardized testing. The apathy of our students is of our own making. And once they're apathetic, there doesn't seem to be a way of reversing the process. Not that I've found...

I end with this question: how can we expect Millennials to value earning their way through work, when we don't teach them to value what work they do in school?

autumn

Most consider autumn the season of decline...leaves start to turn and fall, grass browns and temperatures drop.  Yet for me, autumn, this one in particular, is all about a new start.  It's my spring.  Instead of lamenting my under-employment, I will be chronicling the whirlwind that is holding two jobs: one in academia and one in the non-profit sector.  Right up my alley.

Now, I can't exactly blog about the non-profit...if I choose to identify it, I'd have to follow a law that bans me from "proselytizing" or making political statements.  And although I don't consider myself much of an activist, I think I should allow myself the ease of anonymity where that is concerned.  Suffice it to say that it's a brand new chapter in the book of me, a challenge that will hopefully develop my management skills and make me irresistible to future employers.

The temperatures are still summer-like...jeez it was hot Monday during the 9/11 Day of Remembrance service project.  I prefer cool weather when I can wear scarves and cardigans and other layers.  Speaking of scarves,  the least complicated issue of the academic job is whether I should go full Manhattan mode with the wardrobe. It's what pops into my head when I think "art history professor," but then again, I'm teaching in Ohio, and I need to be accessible to the students, not aloof.  I already feel like the bad guy, expecting them to do incredible things like show up for class.  And I'm already on the path of disappointment, heading toward the realization that despite my words and images and best efforts, they won't love art like I do.

When I told the awesome people at the store about the class, they were surprised.  "You have a Masters?"  "Wait, how old are you?"  Seems I can still pass for a teenager in some people's eyes.  Well, gone are the days of shop-girl-dom.  Now my brain is fighting shifting into overdrive to get into this new mode of employment...a mode which requires and invites me to think.  It's what I wanted, but getting what we want can be scary too.  Come on, autumn.  And bring it on, winter.  Except for a lot of snow...a snow day or snow emergency would seriously wreck my course schedule.

what is merit? or, how I would like to bitch slap my high school guidance counselor

So I had a random memory today of my physical therapist, Vitaly.  During the usual chitchat that I assume was supposed to distract me from the painful and tiring processes, he told me that a lot of younger trainers and therapists were getting not only Masters degrees but also Doctorates.  And those with the most schooling, no matter how green, were favored for employment.  Over those with more experience, yet "lower" degrees due to the fact that a Doctorate didn't exist when they were in school.

Well, if only it worked that way for me.  I'd like somebody, just one employer, to overlook a few things in favor of arbitrary information.

How am I supposed to keep up with all of these HR prejudices that seem to contradict one another?  They want good schools, but also lots of experience.  They want responsible employees, but shy away from advanced degrees.  It all seems designed to force me to lie, and that's something I really don't want to do.  I don't want to pretend I already live in Philadelphia, or that I didn't go to graduate school.

Of course I'm assuming that the people with whom I am competing are playing fair.  And I have a sneaking suspicion that they aren't.  To fail and preserve my character, or to win by selling my soul?  That is the question.

I know for sure by now that all my "hard work" in grade school means bupkis.  Not even the whole "it shows you can start something and complete it" bit doesn't satisfy me.  So the existential crisis continues for a third year...what is this life about?

loose ends

I knew this would happen...I'm mentally balking at the notion of sending my resume to New York places because I feel that New York is out of my league.  That's what a year in Ohio does to you.

I really need to bite the bullet and call the places I've already sent to, so at least I'll know they've dragged and dropped my resume into their computer's recycle bin.  It really stings.  As it did before.  And it's harder now to search for jobs, not because there are no openings, but because I feel I am not qualified for the openings.  Because I took that worthless internship my second year.  Because I'm on academic leave.  Because I'm here in Podunk, Ohio.  I cannot bring myself to lie or pad my resume.  And quite frankly...does it really need padding?  What else can I do but write an honest letter and let my skills speak for themselves?  A clever turn of phrase, in moderation, maybe, is all I used to need to impress a potential employer.

Sometimes I think I embody the phrase, "Oh, how the Mighty have fallen."  It really brings me down to think of all the potential I had in high school.  That I still had at OSU.  All that promise that now seems wasted.  And I know I've written sentences like that before.  At least there is still a little voice inside that insists:  I have fallen, but I'm still mighty.  I just wish I were more impervious to the things that make me feel less intelligent.

I'm wrapping up a "gig" as educator of a small museum with major financial and organizational issues.  Have I helped at all?  The idea of talking about what I've done with my boss is rather frightening.  I think I've helped in such tiny ways that it will all disappear not long after I'm gone.  Absorbed by larger problems.  Again and again like a litany of shame I describe to the people I run into around town that I'm applying everywhere I possibly can...waiting...licensed for substitute teaching...waiting.

tornado

I had another tornado dream yesterday...right before I woke up.  It happened on the farm, as they always do, and this time my sisters and I were out on the hill when I saw the funnel cloud form.  We ran back to the house, where there were a whole lot of strange people, and I had trouble convincing everyone (as usual) to go down to the basement.  Funny enough, after the storm, there was still a large uprooted tree floating around in slow motion.  The trunk tapped against the front door, just as I peered out of it.  Talk about weird.

There are a lot of weird things going on that I feel I have no control over...which is one interpretation of tornadoes in dreams I believe.

The most benign is of course my lack of organization around the house.  It sure looks like a tornado hit.  More importantly, I'm about to be unemployed again.  In a way, though, it will be a relief, because my job has caused me a lot of extra stressing over my own inabilities to affect change.  I wanted to do some good for that institution that gave me my first job.  Sort of like returning the favor.  But it's in this downward spiral that I don't think any one girl, no matter how smart or educated, could unwind.  It will take a village, literally, to save the museum.  Sadly, half the villagers either don't know or don't care.

I know I need to be more regimented.  Especially with editing the thesis.  It started out as the Sword of Damocles hanging over my head.  Now its more like the ICBM of Damocles.  What is stopping me?  I don't think I can even answer that now.  I was thinking about New York, as I usually do, and it seemed so far away...so unreal.  Did I ever really live there?

The application for my teaching license renewal asked "Have you lived in Ohio continuously for the past five years?"  Technically, no.  But on paper, yes.  I never became a permanent resident of New York.  With one little flick of my pen, I sort of erased those two years in the Big Apple.  Like it never really happened.  I want so badly to go back, if only to visit.  But it's been a year, and I'm afraid there won't be a place there for me.  I have to remember:  people are friends in spots.  And my spot is gone.

I'll keep sending out emails and resumes and applications.  But will it ever get me anywhere?  I have no control over that.  Sure, I control what I write to potential employers.  But I can't control my competitors...all of the millions of them.  Some pad their resumes.  Some "know" people.  I feel unprepared and ill-equipped to make it in this "job market."

Maybe I'm too naive.  Too idealist.

And I have no control over my "manfriend" leaving for Cleveland.  Maybe it would have been a shorter blog entry to list the things I can control, like the color of my toenails, for example.

stuck in the mud

Feeling very sluggish today, although there is loads to do.  Or there are loads to do.  Not sure about the grammar on that one.  I'm hosting the second round of ArTalks at the museum, hoping that we can get some of the missing generations talking about art.  And it would be nice if they ate the snacks I prepare for them.  Plus I've got a clay class going on all this week that I need to keep an eye on.  Can't forget my meager attempts at sewing schoolbags for a church charity either.  Add on top of that cleaning the house because a cousin is coming in for the family reunion and there isn't much time to focus on what really matters:  the thesis and job applications.

Of course, the kitchen can't clean itself, cousin or no cousin.

And my room is a mess.  A very uncharacteristic mess.  Have I lost my powers of organization?  Because I've been touting them to potential employers, and it would be prudent to make sure I can walk the talk I'm talking.

Things I'd like to highlight...hmm...I've been doing my part lately to help the economy.  I got my hair done at the Aveda Institute, getting all pretty and supporting my generation.  I always feel like a goofball there, but then the staff are always nice, and they gush over my hair...I end up feeling pretty.  And it smells good.  The one issue was I estimated an hour and a half to two hours...I was there almost four hours.  Ooops.  That cut into special man time.

I also stumbled across some online sales from Target  and Athleta.  Maybe I'll stop feeling frumpy with some new options.  Seeing as I love layering, though, I'll be frumpy till autumn comes.

There's just so much negativity at work, and it takes a lot of energy to summon smiles for visitors and students.  I wish I could be at a museum with a real connection to the community, one that is really making a difference.