Prof. Pottah sends a letter of contemplation and hope.

Hey There, 

So over four years ago--wow, that long?--I posted this: https://zoozethehorse.blogspot.com/2017/05/adjunct-debt-from-prof-pottah.html

I was down. I was . . . not well. I had just finished another semester at two local colleges. The jobs, like many adjunct jobs, were often humiliating (we know why; no need to rehash that). The school I taught most of my classes at let me go a semester later. It was bleak--financially and spiritually. It was bleak. I had made mistakes and was paying for them, but I was pretty much condemned to this life forever. 

I kept the messages (on the website and one the moderator sent me) with me. I kept them in my wallet. I took them out this year on Christmas morning after receiving a new wallet from my kids. I had forgotten about them, but they helped me hold out some hope and stop judging myself by academia's
terms,  and eventually I found an open door (that phrase is inspired by one of the comments) in another field.  It was just a crack at first, but then it grew into something larger (and it almost grew into something really amazing recently, but I didn't get the job, which is fine). I'm not making much money, but with this job and a little adjuncting, I am at least making about $40,000. And I get four months off from the main job! (It's permanent but seasonal.) 

But what I am really earning is pride and a sense of mattering. My teaching experience directly impacts my job now, and I am able to mentor younger people and bring all of my creativity to the work. I am really good at the job. Teaching as an adjunct, of course, mattered, but any positive feelings were usually destroyed by the daily humiliations and frustrations. But that's a thing of the past.

I feel real again. I don't have to lie to my kids. Adjuncting is much better now because I don't walk on to campus full of shame, the community college at which I teach values me.  I feel like an actual person, not something that exists on the backside of a university and can be wiped away at will without the outside world ever witnessing it, or wanting to.

No one else knew about this struggle, save my wife. (And I don't even think she understood the feelings of powerlessness.) Who else was I going to tell? Thank you. I was glad you all listened. Who else would have? Again, thank you.

--Prof. Pottah

[Editor's note:  Thank you to the writer for sending a follow-up message a few days later--because the first one actually went to my spam folder.  Who knows how long it could have languished there had I not been poked?]