April 10: Old Guard, 24 Years, Baaa-d Fairy Tale

Ives and Freeman were two of the more respectable higher-ups.  "Family men," whom the slightly looped secretaries tended to praise to death at these parties, for their gentlemanly natures and fidelity to their wives.  With thirty-nine years at the agency between them (seventeen for Ives and twenty-two for Freeman, who had started at the agency just after graduating from Yale in 1945), they, in their forties, represented something of the composed and more refined "old guard."

Ives is a faithful man.  Faithful to his church, family, wife, and job.  He struggles, as any person does.  His relationship with his wife is strained to the breaking point after the murder of their son.  He questions God's benevolence and becomes a little distant with his daughter, as well.  At work, Ives becomes distracted by his overwhelming grief, talking to cleaning ladies about heaven.  Yet, Ives remains a loyal and true father, husband, employee, and child of God.

Tonight, I received an e-mail from a colleague at the university.  Next Tuesday is the faculty recognition luncheon.  As part of the proceedings, and to make those attending aware of the contributions of contingent instructors, a flyer is going to be circulated at the luncheon.  The flyer will list contingents who have been teaching at the university ten or more years.  My name is at the top of that list.  Twenty-four years of service.  Close to half my life.

That makes me both proud and a little depressed.  I'm proud because I know I've done good work as a teacher.  I've helped students and made lives better.  I'm depressed because I'm a part-time instructor with no benefits or security.  A new contract every semester.  Very little has changed in those 24 years.  Yet, I'm like Ives.  Loyal to the end, regardless of trials and setbacks.  I believe in what I do.

That probably sounds pretty old-fashioned, but that's the way I was raised.  Work hard.  Love unconditionally.  Do whatever you need to do to provide for your family.  That's the way I live my life.

Once upon a time, a man named Alphonse worked as a shepherd all his life.  He loved what he did.  At the age of 117, Alphonse slipped on some sheep shit, fell down a hill, and broke his neck.

Moral of the story: shit happens.

And Saint Marty lived happily ever after.

Watch your step!

September 17: James Thurber, Jealousy, Colleagues

In March 1927 a new writer came on board at The New Yorker, a tall and nearsighted, bespectacled and mustached thirty-two-year-old named James Thurber.  He had considerably more journalistic experience than Andy.  He had already worked as a newspaperman in his native Columbus, Ohio, as well as for the Chicago Tribune in Paris alongside other expatriates such as William Shirer.  Thurber was serious about his career as a writer, but like Andy [White] he couldn't remain solemn for more than an hour at work.  In Paris, Thurber liked to sneak in fictional filler paragraphs, including one quoting President Coolidge as having said to a religious convention that a man who does not pray is not a praying man.


E. B. White worked with great writers at The New Yorker, Thurber being one of them.  Despite Thurber's greater success and fame, White harbored no jealousy against his new colleague.  They shared an office.  White championed Thurber's cartoon work at the magazine's art meetings.  He thoroughly enjoyed his friend's humor and talent.

Any long time reader of this blog knows I have a small problem with jealousy.  It comes from years of watching people teach classes I wanted to teach.  Get jobs I wanted to get.  Write and get published books I wanted to write and get published.  Life in higher education is sometimes thrilling and challenging, and sometimes it's just plain challenging.  I have generally fallen on the challenging end of the spectrum.

I have friends and colleagues whose writing I truly admire.  They deserve all of the accolades and rewards their talent provides.  That doesn't mean my little, mean-spirited side remains silent.  No.  It whispers things in my ears like, "What the hell?  Who did he screw to get a MacArthur Genius Grant?" and "She can't teach poetry.  She can't even spell 'poetry.'"  It's my nasty secret.  Intense envy, bordering on sociopathic.

I'm sitting in my office at the moment, waiting to teach my Wednesday night Intro to Film class.  It has been a long day, starting at 4 a.m.  I just walked down a hallway of the English Department, reading the names of full-time, tenured professors on the office doors.  I've been teaching here longer than most of them.  In fact, I've been teaching here longer than the majority of the full-time English faculty.  That's a little depressing.  Sometimes I feel like the red-headed stepchild of this little academic family.

I'm not complaining, though.  Well, maybe I am a little.  I simply wish I would feel a little more accepted than I do.  Unfortunately, I carry the descriptor "contingent" in front of my academic title.  That marginalizes me in most professor's eyes.  I'm "temporary."  After 18 years, I could just leave because I'm not invested in the success of the university.  I'm only in it for myself.  I stick around for the (ahem!) huge salary and (gag!) incredible benefits.  Not to mention the (cough!) respect.

So, you'll excuse Saint Marty's attitude tonight.  He's just wondering when the MacArthur Foundation is going to recognize his genius.

I can spell "genius":  S-A-I-N-T  M-A-R-T-Y

April 11: Spring Pig, a Little Despair, Tenured Fairy Tale

"He claims he's a spring pig," reported Charlotte, "and perhaps he is.  One thing is certain, he has a most unattractive personality.  He is too familiar, too noisy, and he cracks weak jokes.  Also, he's not anywhere near as clean as you are, nor as pleasant.  I, too, took quite a dislike to him in our brief interview.  He's going to be a hard pig to beat, though, Wilbur, on account of his size and weight.  But with me helping you, it can be done."

Charlotte is fairly confident through the whole book that she will be able to save Wilbur's life.  She never doubts herself.  She simply doesn't accept the fact that her friend will end up as Christmas ham.  Flying in the face of all evidence, this little spider knows, deep down in her heart, that Wilbur will live into old age.  She has faith.

I went to a committee meeting at the university this morning.  It had to do with the upcoming contract negotiations with the administration and the fact that adjunct/contingent faculty are the Cinderellas of the school.  We're alright to do the dirty work.  Sweep out the fireplace.  Muck out the cow shit from the stables.  Make breakfast, lunch, and dinner for our tenured stepmothers and sisters.  When it comes to being invited to the palace for a ball, however, we might as well stay in the attic and correct our stacks of freshmen compositions.  No fairy godmothers for us.

I hope you're catching the bitterness in the previous paragraph.  I guess I don't have the same strong faith that Charlotte has.  After teaching at the same college for close to 18 years, I find myself feeling a little despair that my situation hasn't really changed all that much from the beginning.  Yes, I'm teaching different classes.  Yes, I'm part of the union now and received a small salary bump with the last contract.  But, when I walk down the hall of the English Department, I still get the impression that I'm begging for table scraps from all of my colleagues with PhDs (most of whom have been teaching there less than half as long as I have).  I'm tired of being the red-headed bastard child.

Once upon a time, a red-headed bastard child named Rick lived on a beautiful estate with his stepmother and sisters.  Rick's father had died of a massive coronary when Rick was a toddler, so Rick grew up being the house butler, handyman, and cook.

One day, Rick was shoveling snow off the front steps of the house.  He leaned on his shovel and said, "I wish I could marry the princess and live in the palace."

In a puff of pink smoke, a short, rotund woman with a wand and wings appeared.

"Who are you?" Rick said, startled.

"I'm your fairy godmother, Melba," the woman said, waving her arms.  "I heard your wish, and I've come to help you."

"Really?" Rick said.  "You're going to help me marry the princess and live in the palace?":

Melba frowned.  "Did you say marry the princess and live in the palace?"

Rick nodded.

"Do you have a terminal degree?" Melba asked.

Rick shook his head.

"Do you have any publications?"

Rick shook his head again.

"Research grants?  Awards?  Conference presentations?"

Rick kept shaking his head.

Melba slipped her wand back into the sleeve of her dress.  "I'm sorry, honey," Melba said.  "All I can do is offer you a contingent wish, and you'll have to renew your contract every six months."

Rick sighed.  "Will I ever get a tenure-track wish?"

Melba laughed.  "You're a red-headed bastard child.  I can't perform miracles."

Moral of the story: Publish or you're fucked.

And Saint Marty lived happily ever after.

Bastards have to stick together