Negotiating the Paradox: Adjuncts & Writing

  • 24 May 2010 /  adjuncts, awards, research, writing

    I recently wrote about wordriver (and my ambivalence regarding it). This week I’d like to touch on a markedly different publication, Kairos. Kairos is subtitled “A Journal of Rhetoric, Technology, and Pedagogy.” They’ve been around for more than a decade, which means they were publishing about the intersection of computers and rhetoric back in the early days, at least in academia.

     

    Kairos is a useful publication. They’re flexible, as they must be to analyze a topic that is being created as they look at it. I’ve generally found the folks there friendly. (I wrote a few conference reviews for them back in the digital stone age; you’ll find them in the archives.) As people and scholars, they’re committed to good teaching, and to examining the role computers play in good teaching.

     

    More to the point for our purposes, they also give the Kairos Award for Graduate Students and Adjuncts. These awards are given for teaching, but also for service and research. Besides the honor, they carry with them a $500 prize.

     

    They’ve taken over the responsibility for these rewards from Lore, which is largely defunct (and was discussed in this blog). The funding for the award comes from Bedford-St.Martin’s Press. One of Kairos‘ editor, Erin Karper, who’s currently coordinator for the Kairos awards,  indicated they grouped graduate students and adjuncts together for the award because neither group is properly recognized for their contributions.

     

    The award also fits with Kairos‘ purposes. Doug Eyman, senior editor at Kairos, indicated traditional tenure evaluations often fail to recognize those working in genuinely new areas (like on computers and rhetoric). (Eyman, who is an Assistant Professor of English at George Mason University, also mention that most members of the Kairos staff when the award was founded were either graduate students or adjuncts. [He was an adjunct.])

     

    You’ll find a list of the past award winners here, and I’ll return to comment on this year’s winner or winners after they’re announced in May.

     

    For now, I’ll just say that I’m glad this award exists, and make a few observations. First, I’m not surprises that innovative scholarship suffers in the tenure evaluation process…but I’m not precisely sure what to do about it. Second, when I looked into the past winners, I found them academically active and successful, which is not something that can be said for all winners of adjunct teaching awards, alas. (I know this is a small sample, but it is still encouraging.) Third, if you look at some of the winners’ websites, you’ll find them clean and well-organized, even snazzy. These are people who know how to use current technology well. And fourth, that means they’re staying in academia because they want to be here. Not a bad tally.

     

     

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  • 10 May 2010 /  adjuncts, publishing, teaching, writing

    Last week we shared the first portion of an interview with Dr. Kirk Astle, Director of College Writing at Baker College Online. This week we conclude that interview.

     

    Adjunct Advocate: How much of the composition faculty at Baker is full-time?

     

    Dr. Astle: At Baker College Online I am the only full time Composition faculty member.

     

    Adjunct Advocate: What challenges do you encounter guiding faculty in an online program?

     

    Dr. Astle: The college is a dynamic place with several initiatives aimed at improving many aspects of its curriculum and mission so there are many compelling ideas affecting the teaching and learning of writing that I put before faculty for their consideration and input.  The challenge is collecting and accurately representing the faculty’s input to Baker initiatives and some of my questions.  For instance, on writing-related issues, I have solicited feedback  on how and why faculty provide the types of feedback on participation that they do to get a sense of what may be a wide array of teaching in the college’s main discursive venue, the Discussion Board.  I think this kind of writing is overlooked in formal assessments and may need more research and scrutiny.  The Discussion Board is a common discursive venue cutting across all disciplines at Online, and I feel that teaching students how to engage in that forum is paramount to learning to write effectively for various audiences and purposes while also serving students in future courses and their careers.  Guiding the faculty erupts out of student and faculty needs, and the challenge is accurately identifying or prioritizing what those needs are and then determining how best to address them.  I try to guide based on those needs rather than anything I devise or project in advance.

     

    Another challenge is my relative anonymity.  Faculty are beginning to get a sense that I’m here to help them in their jobs and profession.  Only now, after eight months, do some faculty seem comfortable emailing me questions.

     

    Adjunct Advocate: What challenges do you encounter guiding adjunct faculty?

     

    Dr. Astle: See above.

     

     

    Adjunct Advocate: Do your adjunct faculty members publish scholarly works?  

     

    Dr. Astle: Yes, but it is not required as a condition of employment.

     

    Adjunct Advocate: Non-scholarly works (such as fiction or poetry)?

     

    Dr. Astle: Yes, but it is not required as a condition of employment.


    Adjunct Advocate: What does Baker do to support adjunct faculty scholarship?

     

    Dr. Astle: To my knowledge, Baker Online does not specifically support adjunct faculty scholarship but it does support continued advancement in pedagogy demonstrated by the College Writing Conference (CWC) and inviting faculty to participate in the annual Faculty Conference, which addresses discipline-specific issues and invites faculty to participate in the life of the institution.  The System president Jim Cummins and Vice President for Academics Denise Bannan both scored papers using the System-wide essay rubrics during the day long CWC.  Empathizing with the writing faculty’s immense grading task, Mr. Cummins commented on the extraordinary amount of work it took to effectively evaluate student essays using the rubrics and demonstrated his complete support for the faculty’s move to increase rigor in the English courses.

     

    The Baker System also offers funding for faculty projects, which “must enhance the faculty member’s knowledge and teaching or otherwise improve student learning at Baker College and be consistent with the College’s Mission and Purposes.”  In these terms, this funding addresses more needs than supporting faculty scholarship alone.  The funding comes from Baker’s Jewell Educational Fund, providing a total of $150,000 for faculty projects to be implemented during the 2010-2011 fiscal year.  (Faculty are defined in this offer as those “currently employed as a Baker College faculty member” and who “deliver per year courses totaling at least 24 credits.”).

     

    Baker also provides the Employee Scholarship that offers part-time faculty, after six-months of consecutive employment, the opportunity to take up to eight credit hours per academic quarter at no charge—but no more than 24 credit hours per academic year on “an available” basis.  I’ve included the link below.

     

    https://www.baker.edu/departments/hr/ininfo/hrform2.cfm?ee_info_cat=Forms

    2009-2010 Baker College Center Employee Scholarship- Undergraduate Courses

     

    Adjunct Advocate: From your perspective as Director of College Writing for Baker College Online, what would your ideal be for an online college writing faculty? (I’m asking everything from what contracts would be like to what training would be like—an open-ended invitation.) And can you say a few words about why this would be your ideal?

     

    Dr. Astle: One of the many pleasant and encouraging surprises of working at Baker College is that the college shares many of my professional ideals.  For instance, one ideal I have is to help increase the number of full-time professors in General Education and in English specifically and this would necessitate increasing the support staff necessary for the effective functioning of the institution. Another ideal I have is to support more effectively faculty and student writing by offering a fully functional, appropriately credentialed and trained staff for a seamlessly integrated Online Writing Center.  And since the question is a bit of a blank check, my ideal would also include ensuring that the faculty’s teaching experiences would be 100% effective, enjoyable, and rewarding in every sense of those words.  I think attaining this ideal can come only under the college’s continued commitment to including faculty of all statuses in its decision-making across the college’s many facets.  I think this makes perfect sense, since the faculty are the experts in their fields.  Additionally, I would like to see an undergraduate research initiative across all disciplines launched to help students become self-directed learners and contributors to their career fields as “co-workers in the kingdom of culture,” to borrow language from W. E. B. DuBois’ The Souls of Black Folk.  I’m taking DuBois’ words as partly synonymous with the notion that undergraduate research initiatives help students assume more accountability for their learning while developing them as leaders and supporting their contributions toward a better society.  I would like to see continued efforts to support faculty scholarship and creativity because they ground education and they have substantial impacts in the classroom as instructors transfer their energies to the students when they teach their scholarship.  In other words, one ideal I have is to advocate the aggressive support for the symbiotic relationship in higher education between scholarship, teaching, and service.

     

    Adjunct Advocate: As you know, this blog focuses on adjunct faculty and writing, and addresses all aspects of those topics (everything from tips for how to write better to reflections on adjuncts may teach differently from full time faculty). Consider this an open-ended invitation: do you have any thoughts on this matter?

     

    Dr. Astle: I regretfully have to defer because the open-ended nature gives me little to respond to and would generate my own meandering thoughts on largely personal and necessarily ill-defined topics.  Please accept my apologies.  However, as a member of the professional organization the Modern Language Association (MLA), as I am assuming you are as well, I do concur with the “MLA Statement on the Use of Part-Time and Full-Time Adjunct Faculty Members.”  Please find the link to that statement below:

     

    http://www.mla.org/statement_faculty

     

     

    Adjunct Advocate: Thank you very much for your reflective answers, Dr. Astle.

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  • 19 Apr 2010 /  adjuncts, grading

    Last week I sketched out the issues surrounding adjuncts and grading in general. This week these issues were brought home in a specific experience, one that is particular to the adjunct’s situation (and exacerbated by living in the information age).

    The situation? A student had a problem with a paper. To be specific, she submitted a paper that was an exact copy of one of her earlier papers. I’ve had this happen before in instances where I judged it to be completely innocent. In these cases, the erroneous submission is followed within a short time by a hasty (and sometimes teary) phone message, email, text, and /or office visit with the real paper attached, clutched, or promised. I’ve also had students submit the same paper twice in what seemed to be a calculated cynicism (as in, they thought I wouldn’t notice and said so when asked).

     

    The context? I teach for more than one school, and right now I teach for more than one school online. That’s crucial here, because when this student contacted me in a panic, she did so via email. That email was her personal email, not a school email. She had chosen an email address that didn’t include her last name, and her first name was common. When she emailed me her plea regarding the paper I “claimed” had been submitted twice, she didn’t sign her name. Finally, her discussion of her paper was so general that I couldn’t tell if she was a graduate student or a freshman.

     

    The result? I found myself paralyzed, adrift in the Sargasso Sea of the responsible adjunct. One school I teach for has very specific policies favoring the student. (They get to submit the papers over, without any penalty.) Another school allows me to make a policy. I’d done so, and posted it in the classroom. A third school held the student responsible. One of the schools I teach for is very strict about which details can be sent to non-institutional emails. Another is pretty lax about these details, accenting flexibility in instructor response mode.

     

    I found myself unable to respond. My mind raced in a little circle, trying to guess which female student this was, from which school. I simply couldn’t. My heart surged into the details of the narrative, trying to decide what I thought was the right thing to do in this situation…and then I kept realizing I may not be allowed to do the right thing.

     

    I could email her and ask what school she’s from, but that leaves the situation hanging (and, though it may be honest, may make a panicked student even more anxious). Do I delay a response until she writes again with her name (breaking policy on required response times at some schools?)? Post notes in all classes asking all Lindas/Susans/Janes to sign their emails using their last names? (I’d already done the general note, asking all students to sign notes, so that wasn’t enough.)

     

    Any teacher at any school might get an unidentified and unidentifiable message from a student, and be unable to track it even by class. I couldn’t even track it by institution or policy, and so every attempt to do the right thing left me burning more time I didn’t have. I couldn’t judge freely, because I was contractually constrained. I couldn’t even conform, because I couldn’t figure out what institution’s policies to conform to. (And I cannot teach for only one school and make enough money, so…)

     

    Dante’s limbo included virtuous pagans who could never enter heaven. I guess this is my version of Adjunct Limbo: the virtuous instructor who can never enter tenure. My torments aren’t really tortures, but they grind on and on and on…

     

     

     

     

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  • One of the factors defining academic writing, and distinguishing it from writing in the rest of the world, is that it is graded. Grading is an area of ongoing debate in academia, especially grading writing. Do a search on grading and you’ll find discussions of methods, criteria, standards—as well as a steady string of anti-plagiarism screeds and the occasional wincing humorous (or is it “humorous”?) essay on student bloopers and accidental self-exposure. Grading is time-consuming, exhausting, and marked by student resistance in particularly vivid ways.

    One of the more complicated and under-examined aspects of the swamp that is grading is how it is changing as adjuncts make up an increasingly larger percentage of academics. This change shows up in multiple areas.

    I teach for more than one school, and each school wants to serve its students well. However, what “well” means varies according to context. What’s more, several of the schools also want to help their adjuncts teach well, and several of them want uniformity across the curriculum. In practice, this means providing things like rubrics to help adjuncts grade.

    That’s all well and good, but it is another place where good intentions lead…well, let’s just say elsewhere. I’ll focus on rubrics as an example. Each school that I teach for that provides rubrics provides two things: flawed rubrics and standards I don’t completely believe in. Both are understandable. It’s hard to imagine a perfect grading rubric, and it’s equally unlikely that your basic cranky and opinionated composition instructor (me) would agree fully with anyone else’s standards. However…there’s also a third factor in place, and a fourth, and a fifth, and maybe more.

    The third factor is that the rubrics I’m using aren’t just imperfect (that’s the nature of reality). They are someone else’s imperfection, to the point where there are items on the grading scale I don’t understand. My rule of thumb is, if I don’t understand it, my students likely don’t understand it.

    The fourth factor is that these rubrics come from different sources at the different schools, and those sources are often a) collective, b) unknown, and c) likely to change over time. In practice, this means that there is no one to ask if I don’t understand a rubric I’ve been given in most instances, because those handing it on don’t know how it was produced, or know who wrote it but that person is gone, etc.

    The fifth factor is that only one of the schools I teach for (Baker College) has been willing to pay for the time needed for the adjuncts to grade as a group and achieve some degree of uniformity. That means that in practice, even clearly articulated rubrics that I think I understand vary wildly in application. (For example, I’ve been told to fail students for 1 plagiarized line and to not deduct points for anything below 16 percent plagiarism…by administrators in the same school. I’ve also had another administrator tell me that an A in spelling and mechanics meant a paper was excellent, and a B meant it was good, C average and so on…but when I quantified that, I was told that 40 spelling errors wouldn’t lower the grade below A in that category. )

    Taken together, the result is grading writing that is inorganic to the instructor and more time-consuming than allowing adjuncts to generate their own rubrics. It creates the side effects of control (fear of failure, a sense of being watched) without any of the raised quality or uniformity it is intended to produce. It is also, quite frankly, a model of wretched scholarship. These rubrics are written by…someone. Somewhere. They appear and are to be applied, like Wikipedia entries, but with the power to distort your GPA.

    Don’t get me wrong. I had tenured faculty do a wretched job of grading my writing on both the undergraduate and graduate level. Some of those experiences are legendary. But those standards and experiences were not institutionally imposed. They were the result of quirky faculty members.

    This new structure of writing grading creates a kind of weary and bureaucratic hypocrisy for the adjuncts who grade writing.

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  • 23 Mar 2010 /  time management

    I received a brief and surprising email today. The first surprise was that the email arrived at all. You see, I’d emailed Elizabeth Strout, whose complex and often lovely novel in stories Olive Kitteridge. (If you haven’t read Olive Kitteridge, I highly suggest it. There’s a reason it won the 2009 Pulitzer for fiction.) I’d contacted her to see if she was interested in being interviewed for this blog, since she had published a number of short stories while teaching as an adjunct at Manhattan Community College (and being a wife and mother).

    The second surprise was that Ms. Strout managed to turn down my request for an interview graciously: she expressed gratitude for being asked, but indicated that her work schedule was “too strict” to take part in such an interview at present. 

    In between classes today, I visited a number of humor sites, for a much needed break. I also visited a blog for freelance writers, the Renegade Writer blog. There I read a post from Linda Formichelli, a nonfiction writer who is a bit of a name as a professional nonfiction writer. She’s published half a dozen books, and regularly writes for magazines such as Wired and Family Circle.

    Today’s post discussed Ms. Formichelli’s recently commitment to cutting back her writing time while maintaining her income, so that she could spend more time with her young (one-year-old) son. She did this in part through stopping her visits to an online writers’ forum (which she found too addictive), as well as stopping her visits to…some of the online humor sites I’d visited today. Hmm.

    To be fair, eliminating her Web habits weren’t the only changes she made. Formichelli also recruited help in changing her habits and increasing her level of focus (from her husband and a writing buddy). However, the synchronicity of the two writers made for a message even I couldn’t miss, dense though I may be.

    Having young children—as Formichelli does, and Strout did—is one of the more universally acknowledged ways to disrupt both your focus and control over your time. New York, where Strout lives—is a city seemingly designed to seduce one away from plans with its explosion of temptation, and I can’t imagine living there on adjunct wages. (Ye gods!). That said, Strout managed to make major strides towards being a writer who would win top prizes in American literature while still an adjunct, while Formichelli managed to cut her work week back markedly while maintaining her income…at a time when the magazine publishing world is imploding.

    I therefore thank Elizabeth Strout for turning down my request. I’d rather have another page written on her next book than an interview with her—and her lesson for adjuncts is as clear as any one could want. Adjuncts can write. Adjuncts can write great things—if they take control of their schedule. And though she’s a freelancer rather than an adjunct, Linda Formichelli would agree.

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  • 02 Mar 2010 /  adjuncts, tenure, writing

    In between these actual posts about writing and adjuncts, the subject is always simmering in the back of my mind. What is the relationship? What should the relationship be? How does one affect the other? What is the place of tenure in this equation?

    Some gloriously impractical ideas for posts bubble up, pop, and, thankfully (trust me on this one) evaporate, leaving only the faint scent of l’eau de brainstorm behind. However, some leave traces that might be useful; I’ll offer them up and we’ll see.

    The stated purpose of tenure is protection of academic freedom: professors who have proven their worth as scholars and/or teachers have shown earn job security. As a result, they are free to pursue their research wherever their training, conscience, and creativity may lead them. The image this ideal evokes is of the solitary thinker, standing up for what he or she thinks is right, speaking out and speaking up, despite the overt disapproval of the administration, whose hands are tied, and even of the surrounding community. This vision of tenure fits with the best elements of the ivory tower: protected and above it all, in order to see more clearly.

    Tenure can also be viewed as a form of cultural capital, a stamp of social approval that is given to some but not all. This imprimatur amplifies the individual’s voice, giving his or her positions greater weight, silencing some critics and making others at least listen to one’s positions. In this tenure enables your writing more efficacy. Finally, tenure gives stability. It requires a time investment from the faculty, and, once acquired, tends to anchor faculty in place. This is fraught with potential negatives, but it has the benefit of creating a fairly stable identity for the school.

    Adjuncts lack these (closely related) qualities. Not only are controversial opinions not protected, they are actively at risk. The most recent adjunct contract I signed indicated that the school in question “reserves the right to withdraw or cancel any course for any reason that it, at its sole discretion, deems appropriate.”

    So…instead of tenure, what options would protect academic freedom? What could be done to give adjuncts’ writing more weight and power? (We’ll leave aside the issue of a school’s stable identity for now. It interests me greatly, but isn’t really the subject of this blog.)

    One suggestion put forth for high school teachers is simply getting rid of tenure all together (and paying more money) This works to make the system less stable (in good ways—it can get rid of bad teachers), but to be frank, won’t help most adjuncts at all. It would ask schools to spontaneously pay them more…with no reason. We already work for cheap.

    Another option is writing under a pen name. The practice has a long history, and an honorable one. It’s already pretty common in academia, where folks like Thomas H. Benton write for publications as influential and mainstream as The Chronicle of Higher Education under pen names. Doing so takes care of protection and the academic freedom, and even adds the allure of being a secret rebel, but removes the power of the tenured pen.

    A third option is simply to ignore the administration/school. The people who might get mad about your writing are waaay too busy to keep tabs on you. Write whatever the heck you want. They won’t know unless someone brings it to their attention. And then you’re one screwed adjunct. This works for an unfortunately undefined time, which will be much longer if you’re working in non-controversial areas. It also works only for the academic freedom element of tenure, and does nothing to provide cultural capital.

    A fourth option requires political involvement/some negotiation. To be more specific, adjuncts can push for colleges to spell out the reasons they might be discharged (rather than making contracts at will), push for full year contracts, push for monetary compensation for all publications, and so on. Doing so may blow away the remnants of collegiality from the working relationships and expose it for the labor situation it is, but hey. It’s rarely comfortable to analyze things too close to home, but it is useful, and any gains won here would protect academic freedom for adjuncts far more than it is protected now.

    I find this avenue of thought useful, and I hope you do too; I’ll be returning to it in future posts, with more possibilities.

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  • 16 Feb 2010 /  plagiarism

    Jenny*,

    You asked the other day how you were supposed to know that the Week 6 paper was due by the end of the week. You seemed miffed when I answered that it said so in the syllabus and in the weekly reminder of the work due that I send to everyone, and that we talked about it in class. I think your exact words were “Jeez, don’t be so pissy about it.”

    Donald*, you asked how you were supposed to know that the school’s rules about plagiarism applied to all assignments, not just long papers. You seemed outraged when I referred you to the school’s academic honor code. “It’s not fair,” you said. “How was I supposed to know about that.” When I said that it was in the syllabus, that we’d discussed it in class, that I’d mentioned it in my comments on your earlier paper, and that I’d begged the class to share any questions they had on the topic, you went all sullen and silent. For a while. Then you asked the same question on the phone. And via email. Emails.

    Jenny, if you want to know why I sounded pissy, see the note to Donald above. That’ll tell you about a quarter of the story: you asked me about that due date when I was in between questions from Donald. My bad, and I apologize.

    The other three quarters of the story are the parts you can’t see, and can’t know. The second quarter is that I had blocked out my own writing project to work on that afternoon, and answering Donald’s questions, phone calls, and emails. You don’t know adjunct from tenured, so you don’t know I’m more careful about CYA in those exchanges than my professors were when I was an undergraduate, because I’m always afraid of being let go. Too many student complaints: blip! No more Dr. Beatty, at least here.

    Jenny, unlike Donald, I love to write. I live to write. It is calling, and I skipped Monday’s writing to deal with his bull. I could feel the story slipping away, buried under irritation and simple distraction as I fielded questions.

    And a chunk of Tuesday’s writing time was spent documenting his plagiarism. Again, you don’t know adjunct from ad hominem (I know—I graded your quiz on fallacies), but that too is due to being an adjunct. I don’t want to be let go, and I don’t want to not be scheduled because I didn’t follow procedures…and I have a mortgage and no job security. That means I spend more time documenting Donald’s plagiarism than he spent “writing” the assignment—several times as much, in fact. That’s the third quarter.

    The fourth invisible quarter is that our school doesn’t care about my writing. This means I have to maintain my motivation in the absence of praise, support, or even acknowledgement. Jenny, remember how you smiled when you earned that B+ on the first paper? And how you were reassured when I told everyone I’d gotten their papers? Try writing without any of that. It’s possible, but it is harder.

    And that part isn’t your fault. It isn’t Donald’s, even, though he’s a mighty fine lightning rod for my irritation over the situation.

    But I thought you should know…

    I’ll be better on Thursday. The story’s just a pile of notes, not a story, but at least I’m not mad at you guys anymore. But seriously, read the syllabus and don’t cheat, or I may stick a pencil in my eye.

    Sincerely yours,
    Greg

    (* = Names have been changed to protect the guilty and clueless.)

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  • 27 Jan 2010 /  writing

    In his recent (2009) book Designing the Smart Organization author Roland Deiser primarily focuses on learning in the corporate environment. In fact, one of his starting points is the claim that traditional models of education (such as those that happen in classrooms) are too limited in both scope and definition. He overstates his case a bit—he seems to be working with a slightly aged straw man at times, and not looking at the numerous educational initiatives focusing on team work, new technologies, applications in the world, etc.—but his book is still quite useful in several ways.

    First, it looks at how education can be reconceived to address numerous arenas that are indeed too often shorted, such as ethical action and incorporating learning into corporate growth and strategies. These are useful, and the attempts made by institutions as different as the U. S. Army and Novartis to learn in more functional ways are exciting in themselves. For the most part, however, they aren’t directly applicable to the work of adjunct faculty (though they are to those who hire and manage them); we are too loosely connected to our institutions, too far from the strategic core, and work with a population who will by definition be moving on.

    However, Deiser made several points about the shifting nature of learning that do apply to adjuncts, and that will apply in an even more focused fashion as higher education becomes more corporate. First, he points out that businesses function less in isolation and more as part of a supply network that is often international. This applies to higher education on the literal level: more students are attending more than one institution than ever before. It can also apply to the adjunct writer. We can use this in our pedagogy and our politics: we can use students as sources of information about other institutions, which empowers them and teaches us. We can also use this in our scholarship. We have in our classrooms every day students new to college and well-versed, students new to online and cyber veterans, and students home grown in our institutions, transferring in, and just visiting. This provides raw material for any number of essays and studies, and could be extended to analyses of how different institutions use resources they share (such as Turnitin.com, which is used very differently by different schools).

    Second, Deiser details ways in which standardized learning is falling short. Adjuncts could build on this in to ways: by documenting how increasing standardized curriculum falls fails to serve higher education’s corporate masters (ahem), and by writing pedagogical articles on the dubious challenge of working with standardized curriculums.

    Third, Deiser points out that, “Learning requires irritation, so the major task is to provide the right irritation…” and that in the contemporary environment, institutional growth and innovation is most likely to happen at the periphery. This is where adjuncts live: on the irritated edge of higher education. On a visceral level, we know what changes are pushing up against higher education. Long before our administrators do, we know about new sources of plagiarism, new trends in student-student communication, new writing habits born of video games and chat rooms. We know about the inappropriate irritations, in which students can’t register for this or can’t get an answer for that because of the institution’s rules. We know what new sources need to be evaluated as credible or not.

    We already respond to these trends as teachers. We need to do so as writers as well. Write for Wikipedia. (I’ve got a great short lesson I use in my composition classes about how the Wikipedia entry on me is flawed and shouldn’t be used as a source that I use in composition classes.) Write for students, to legislatures. Design research assignments writing proposals to change the things that irritate them, have them submit those proposals, and document the changes. Help them analyze how Microsoft’s grammar checker works—and write articles about it. Work with a content mill, write academic articles about the process, and so on.

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  • 17 Nov 2009 /  publishing, time management, writing

    This week I thought I’d shift gears a bit. Assuming that the folks who read this blog write, or want to write, I thought I’d share a bit on writing productively…and what it means for an adjunct.

    Assume that you have established a solid mastery of your field, and that you want to contribute to the body of knowledge making up that field. Take these as a given, and further, take as a given that you’re not blocked: ideas are flowing, you see debates you want to enter and questions you want to explore. For a professional scholar, the task then is not just to have these thoughts, or even just to share them with your students, essential though these two steps are. A professional scholar must share them with their field and may wish to make a name for him or herself by doing so regularly. This means writing productively: writing regularly, and bringing works to completion. What do you need to do?

    In her article “Becoming a Productive Academic Writer” Susan Johnson suggests recreating the sort of environment one might find on a plane: minimize distractions, gather tools to you, keep refreshments handy, etc. She also suggests writing regularly, rather than engaging in “binge” writing, tracking your output, and making writing only a moderate priority. This last was striking, given writing’s centrality in academia, but Johnson sketches in her reasoning, which draws on attempts to reach goals in other areas: raising the priority of something too high tends to lead to perfectionism, which in turn leads to people not completing their desired actions.

    Johnson also includes a sidebar summarizing the work of Robert Boice, a psychologist who focuses on how academics work productively. Boice has given special attention to beginning faculty, looking at those who start quickly up the academic ladder vs. those who don’t.

    Boice has found that the few faculty (5=9%) who are “quick starters” share certain characteristics: they write 3+ hours per week, limit course prep time (and link teaching to research), left time in classes for student involvement, and ask peer help on both teaching and research. By contrast, most faculty over prepare for classes, teach “defensively,” and experience academia as isolating. (Those interested in Boice might view this reader’s guideas an introduction.)

    My first conclusions seem obvious: adjuncts are pushed by the structure of the system to share characteristics of the majority, rather than the “quick starters.” We are isolated. We are more vulnerable to student complaints, since we may not get rehired, and that very real increased vulnerability may well lead to defensiveness.

    My next conclusions are somewhat less obvious: 3 hours a week seems like nothing, so it would be relatively easy for a focused adjunct to become a productive academic writer. While there is certainly no guarantee that doing so would help one make the leap to the tenure track, 3 hours equates to 36 minutes, Monday through Friday (or 26 minutes seven days a week). Most of us waste that much time and more.

    What’s more, while the isolation of the adjunct is real (and again, fostered by the system), it does not have to be permanent. Online forums exist, office hours can be shared, labor organizations can be joined, and so on.

    My final conclusions for the day are emotional. I want to push back against Johnson’s advice, and maybe shout a little. How the heck can I control my time when I spend too much of it grading? How can I control my space when sharing office cubicles? Hey, there’s a little anger left to snip at Boice. Yeah, I feel isolated—I am isolated.

    Whew. I feel better. No, life isn’t fair, and life as adjunct has special stresses. However, at the risk of sounding all pop psychology-ish, there’s a lot I can do to make things better, and to become more productive.

    And I’ll share more of those tips in weeks ahead. 

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  • At the risk of beating a dead one day conference into the ground, I want to touch on some of the results of the one day conference on teaching writing (at one of the schools I teach for as an adjunct, Baker College) that I recently attended.

    There have been four results that I can see, two of which are directly related to the intersection of adjuncts and writing.

    The first result is official: there are follow up emails, acknowledgements, inquiries about expense reports, etc. This is mostly housekeeping, but since one of the mailings was a certificate that goes in our files, it was a little more than that. Baker is tracking which adjuncts take part in these professional development activities (and we’ve been told, informally but repeatedly, doing so will make future employment steadier, and full-time employment more likely).

    The second result is interpersonal: there have been a number of faculty-to-faculty emails sent around, as well as emails from various administrators. Those from administrators might be attributed to formal management speak (”We’d like to thank you for attending our recent…”), but the peer-peer emails are lively, casual, and friendly (more so than before the conference). I count this as a sign of community being built.

    The third result is institutional, or rather, relates to engaging adjuncts with institutional standards. Readers will recall the conference focused on raising and standardizing grading practices through using rubrics to grade papers. A new class session has started since the conference. I can testify that I’m evaluating both my assignments to students and their work in terms of this rubric and the thinking behind it. I’m developing more examples of different levels of writing performance (as in, “Here is are A, B, C, D, and F level examples of thesis statements”), I’m articulating the differences among levels, and I’m trying to align my evaluation with these standards.

    The fourth result is relates to engagement with pedagogy. New freshman composition courses have been implemented since the conference. There is more discussion of what works and what does, and faculty are sharing more, than there was before the conference. I count this as a victory for writing pedagogy, especially since the conference was not about these courses.

    Was the conference expensive? Without a doubt. However, if you really want your adjuncts to a) feel wanted, b) feel like part of a community, and c) change how they are teaching, it worked.

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