I'm In My Angry Phase
Back in the day when I was first studying psychology, I was reading about Elizabeth Kübler-Ross' five-stages of grief. It was a classic work that has undergone much scrutiny from the academic community over the years. At first the work was applied to those suffering from grief due to death but over the years it has come to represent reactions from any type of devastating news or personal loss. Each person reacts different to loss and not everyone goes through all of the stages nor in the same order. She listed them as such:
As I child I was sold a bill of goods: work hard and reap the reward. I was also told that if people don't appreciate you for who you are, then screw 'em. I worked hard for four years. My boss (who I now think is a ball-less twat) kept on dangling a carrot in front of me: do me all these little favors and when a tenure-line opens up, you'll be a shoe in. Whenever he got stuck in bad situation, it was always "let's go to Cat. She'll do it for us." Oh we need someone to teach this crappy class that no one else wants to teach because it doesn't get out until 11pm. Oh let's ask Cat, she'll do it! Oh wait, the faculty contract says that we're not supposed to give anybody more than three preps a semester and that will give her six? Ah, no problem. She'll do it! You need someone to run a club, turn to Cat! Need someone to help with the online training? Go to Cat! For the past four years, I've taught six to seven classes a semester, almost all of them with a minimum of four preps (one day I went from Cold War America to Ancient Sumeria to Medieval Europe in a span of six hours), all while acting as faculty liason to a club, learning how to teach online courses, showing up to faculty meetings, and advising students. The first two violated the faculty contracts while the last four weren't even part of the job description. I worked my ass off. I would go into the office at 7am and not come home until 9pm at night. I didn't see my husband for much other than "hi honey I'm home. Good night." And that didn't even include the time on my days off that I devoted to my classes. I don't remember the last time I was able to spend the entire day reading a book, watching TV, or doing something around the house. It has always been "I've got work to do." Heck, even my grad classes fell to the wayside. I had to drop one this summer because I got too far behind.
And you know what? I'm pissed. I should have listened to my colleagues who told me "don't go the extra mile. The bosses don't care about us lowly contingent faculty." Of course I had to learn the hard way. Three times I applied for tenure jobs. One time I made it to the final three but a 70 year old who kissed the boss' ass got that job. The other time was for a position I knew I wasn't qualified for but send it a resume anyways. This time it was because I wasn't "qualified enough." Fine. I worked my ass off for four years, get raving reviews from my students even though they work harder in my class more than any other classes, actually get along with other faculty members, and have gone above and beyond in my duties to prove my worth. And yet you have this strange perception that this is all just a hobby for me. Sixty to seventy hours a week for four years is one hell of a hobby.
And because nothing I can do can change your perception of me, I shall live up to that perception. You want me to teach extra classes? Uh no sorry. You want me to teach other professors how to design online classes? Nope sorry. You want me to organize efforts for the club and participate in that stupid idiotic studies group that honestly nobody gives a shit about except for the fact it looks good when going for a promotion? Why bother?
And you know what? I'm going to wear shorts for the rest of the fucking summer. There isn't any dress code and I'm sick of sweating my boobs off in the rooms with no a/c because I wanted to look professional to help my chances of getting this fucking job. Hell, I'm even going to order a pair of rather silly looking Converse sneakers so I can get some semblance of my individuality back, you fuckers.
- Denial
- Anger
- Bargaining
- Depression
- Acceptance
- Depression
- Anger
- Acceptance
As I child I was sold a bill of goods: work hard and reap the reward. I was also told that if people don't appreciate you for who you are, then screw 'em. I worked hard for four years. My boss (who I now think is a ball-less twat) kept on dangling a carrot in front of me: do me all these little favors and when a tenure-line opens up, you'll be a shoe in. Whenever he got stuck in bad situation, it was always "let's go to Cat. She'll do it for us." Oh we need someone to teach this crappy class that no one else wants to teach because it doesn't get out until 11pm. Oh let's ask Cat, she'll do it! Oh wait, the faculty contract says that we're not supposed to give anybody more than three preps a semester and that will give her six? Ah, no problem. She'll do it! You need someone to run a club, turn to Cat! Need someone to help with the online training? Go to Cat! For the past four years, I've taught six to seven classes a semester, almost all of them with a minimum of four preps (one day I went from Cold War America to Ancient Sumeria to Medieval Europe in a span of six hours), all while acting as faculty liason to a club, learning how to teach online courses, showing up to faculty meetings, and advising students. The first two violated the faculty contracts while the last four weren't even part of the job description. I worked my ass off. I would go into the office at 7am and not come home until 9pm at night. I didn't see my husband for much other than "hi honey I'm home. Good night." And that didn't even include the time on my days off that I devoted to my classes. I don't remember the last time I was able to spend the entire day reading a book, watching TV, or doing something around the house. It has always been "I've got work to do." Heck, even my grad classes fell to the wayside. I had to drop one this summer because I got too far behind.
And you know what? I'm pissed. I should have listened to my colleagues who told me "don't go the extra mile. The bosses don't care about us lowly contingent faculty." Of course I had to learn the hard way. Three times I applied for tenure jobs. One time I made it to the final three but a 70 year old who kissed the boss' ass got that job. The other time was for a position I knew I wasn't qualified for but send it a resume anyways. This time it was because I wasn't "qualified enough." Fine. I worked my ass off for four years, get raving reviews from my students even though they work harder in my class more than any other classes, actually get along with other faculty members, and have gone above and beyond in my duties to prove my worth. And yet you have this strange perception that this is all just a hobby for me. Sixty to seventy hours a week for four years is one hell of a hobby.
And because nothing I can do can change your perception of me, I shall live up to that perception. You want me to teach extra classes? Uh no sorry. You want me to teach other professors how to design online classes? Nope sorry. You want me to organize efforts for the club and participate in that stupid idiotic studies group that honestly nobody gives a shit about except for the fact it looks good when going for a promotion? Why bother?
And you know what? I'm going to wear shorts for the rest of the fucking summer. There isn't any dress code and I'm sick of sweating my boobs off in the rooms with no a/c because I wanted to look professional to help my chances of getting this fucking job. Hell, I'm even going to order a pair of rather silly looking Converse sneakers so I can get some semblance of my individuality back, you fuckers.
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