Precarious Adjuncthood and Care-Giving Solutions

In the fall of 2018, I embarked on a grant study titled “Teaching with Liveness.” My pedagogical premise was that as theater educators, we should be using live theater as a part of our tool kit. I hired, directed, and paid actors to perform scenes from plays my classes were reading to workshop in real time and glean what liveness can do, but also to use as a learning tool that could be generalized to understand all the theater we were learning about in my theater history and script analysis classes. My eventual goal was for an interdisciplinary expansion wherein I assisted departments outside of the arts using live performance as a teaching tool (I actually accomplished this in the same semester as a journalism professor asked me to bring actors into her classroom to perform). On top of this project, I was teaching four classes, bringing a guest artist to campus and was the primary caretaker for my four children, as my husband worked full-time. I should say, my husband and I both worked full-time, but he was compensated for it. Needless to say, I burned out. Bad. Years later, I am still feeling the repercussions for pushing myself to such extremes, especially when my own employer did not have such expectations. However, ever-the-lifelong-learner, I am determined that this shouldn’t have happened for nothing. So, I learned from it. I learned about the precarity of my life—specifically as an adjunct professor, but also intersecting with other facets of my identity—and I saw the pandemic throw a spotlight on the uncompensated labor and the precarity of that unsustainability.

This article considers a modernist break with the traditional practices of academe—practices that have resulted in rampant burnout. Burnout is a timely subject, as so many employees are trying to build their job-lives back after working remotely and yet are facing employers who have unrealistic expectations. The shaming from bosses berating their employees for “quietly quitting” is becoming revelatory in another way, as people learn that they shouldn’t have to go above and beyond their job description to avoid being fired. According to Forbes, this movement is motivated by a newer concept of workplace happiness.[1] While it is not new that some employees choose to do the “bare minimum,” the current shift to “quiet quitting” is a direct response to people burning out and why workplace unhappiness needs more attention. In particular, academia has seen an exodus brought on by burnout.[2] I examine how contingent labor is affected by this phenomenon and therefore structure this article specifically according to the six main triggers that lead to burnout, which Jennifer Moss outlines in her book The Burnout Epidemic. These include workload, lack of control, lack of reward or recognition, poor relationships, lack of fairness and a mismatch of values between the employee and organization.[3]  All of these triggers have been pulled with respect to the contingent labor force in academia, making it a unique site for burnout to be examined. What seems to sustain the practice of exploiting our adjunct professors is not just the tone-deaf response from some tenure-line folk or administrators, but the policies, trends, and institutional practices that reflect the devaluing of what has become the primary source of teaching labor at universities. As with many other circumstances, COVID-19 threw all this injustice into greater relief. Some contingent faculty (me included) regularly teach up to eight courses in a school year but are not considered full-time because those classes are across different departments, different institutions or are categorized differently. The trend towards hiring part-time labor has meant that more and more of these faculty members are taking on multiple of these part-time jobs to make ends meet, and those ends still do not always get met.[4] As published in The Atlantic, “[n]early 80 percent of faculty members were tenured or tenure-track in 1969. Now roughly three-quarters of faculty are non-tenured. The jobs that are available . . . rest on shaky foundations,” meaning that adjunct faculty are in a prime position to burn out.[5] Burnout is not only harmful to the adjunct employees themselves, but the students and other faculty can also be detrimentally affected by high turnover and uneven teaching, which leads to last-minute stop-gap measures that are felt by the entire department.

Workload

To begin with the first burnout trigger Moss gives, I examine the effects of workload. I have worked at my current institution as an adjunct for seven years and have consistently taught a teaching load that matches the “full time” load of tenure-line faculty—and lately have frequently surpassed that. Full-time teaching at my university is a 2/2 load. This year, I will be teaching a 4/3 load. I love teaching and am happy that I am needed and wanted at this university. But it has only been within the last year that the Office for Faculty has recognized that they need to either pay me as a full-time employee or decrease my workload. Since the three separate units for whom I teach claim they will always have a need for my teaching, it would seem a no-brainer to pay me for full-time work. However, due to the logistics of bringing together funding sources from separate departments (which are also housed in separate colleges), I am left to push through the enormous workload that keeps coming my way in the hopes that something more permanent comes . . . eventually.

The reality that higher education is moving toward majority-casualization is a large part of what has created the current crisis that I (and many others) are suffering through. Adjunctification started taking hold long before COVID-19, however, much like many other equity discrepancies, the pandemic made the contingent crisis more visible. The workload for faculty members increased exponentially because of the need to switch to digital/online platforms and to accommodate any and all students who may be experiencing hardship due to the pandemic. Supports were strongly suggested across the academy, but often did not apply (or just didn’t happen) for adjuncts.[6] Kind phrases started to be shared by upper administrators that we needed to be compassionate and understanding to ourselves and our peers, but the expectation that we continue pushing to meet the extraordinary needs of our students never wavered.

In addition, two other pandemic-related developments contributed to the unequal workload dispersal in departments: hiring freezes and encouraged retirement. The hiring freezes resulted in more teaching being shifted to current adjuncts who were already overloaded (but often needed the money), as well as hiring more part-time faculty to help pick up the slack left by departments who were no longer interviewing for a full-time position, but still needed the teaching done. Another cost-saving measure universities (and many other institutions) tried primarily during the first year of the pandemic was to encourage faculty at or post-retirement age to retire immediately, promising them a decent pension package in return.[7] A close colleague of mine took advantage of this offer, but then left a gaping hole in the Theatre program with regard to teaching needs that I and others were enlisted to fill. While no doubt helpful for the bottom line of the universities since they had multiple large salaries they no longer had to pay out, chipping away at full-time faculty meant that there were even less people to do the same amount of teaching.

Lack of Control

The second burnout trigger is having a lack of control. Apart from lack of job security (since departments, including my own, typically issue contracts to their contingent faculty on a semester-by-semester basis), there is little I feel I have control over in my job. When I go into work, the students I teach think I have all the control. I am a professor in their eyes, and all professors seem to have a similar command. I am truly grateful for their blindness most of the time because in reality, I am given little say in what I can and can’t do in the department. Even scheduling when my courses meet is not just out of my control—but apparently not necessary information to tell me after the fact. In the summer of 2022, I was sent an email that told me that one of the classes I’d be teaching in the fall (one I have taught at the same time, same days each week for six years) was no longer meeting at that time. The department had rescheduled it for the late afternoon, which was also the same time of the regular department meeting. This was problematic for multiple reasons. I have kids and had normally been able to arrange picking them up without spending extra on childcare. With this new schedule, I would be shelling out a significant amount of extra childcare money. In addition, while I was not required to attend the departmental meetings, I did so because I wished to stay connected with my colleagues. Scheduling my teaching in the exact time block as the meeting made this impossible for me. I was not consulted prior to this scheduling decision being made, but just informed last-minute (weeks before the semester was to begin). Through informal conversations I had with the staff, I learned that this late-afternoon time was not the only option for my class to meet and that it could be shifted in order to enable me to attend the departmental meetings. Despite pushback because it was “so late in the process to change things,” I did end up changing my teaching time slot for the course by essentially capitalizing on the only leverage I had—I was the only one they could count on to teach the class without scrambling to find and hire a different adjunct lecturer. Oddly, the course that was re-scheduled is a course that I alone teach in the department and I learned (again, through the remarkable staff in our department) that the decision to change when it met happened in the early spring, yet I was only informed late summer. What this lack of transparency leaves me with is a profound sense that at any time, the rug could be pulled out from under me, and I will have little recourse. If I had not had the ability, time, or bandwidth to push back as I did (all typical realities for me), my options would have been to suffer through it or quit and lose the income.

Adjuncts (me included) also have little to no control over larger curriculum decisions or departmental procedure, which leaves us feeling like puppets. Curiously, despite the trend toward casualization that has led to over half of the teaching faculty at universities being contingent (and, at times, up to 75% or more), those same individuals are often not allowed to serve on curriculum development committees or the university senate (Hall, “Adjunct Professor”). This was highlighted as a problem a decade ago and it has only gotten worse since.[8] In addition, the control adjuncts do have over their teaching is not typically monitored or reviewed directly by departments. This is due to the policies surrounding faculty assessment. While tenured faculty are required to have peers and supervisors go in person to evaluate their teaching and submit reports for the fuller reviews, in many higher education departments the review for adjunct faculty is essentially a two-minute vote taken during a regular faculty meeting. The contingent faculty who are present are asked to leave and the remaining faculty are asked if they think the department should retain them. If there are significant issues with an adjunct that students have reported informally to their other professors, or if the adjunct faculty member is seen as needing censure (see Nathanial Bork’s case), there can be times when retention is not approved and the faculty member is dismissed without any avenues or time to address their shortcomings or dispute an unjust termination.[9] But if nothing is known either way, the vote is often a majority in favor of retention because it would be more difficult to hire new people and because those adjuncts are usually taking some of the teaching load off of the tenure-line faculty. In the end, due to casualization, overwork of adjuncts and their lack of control, the students are the ones who suffer from uneven teaching, high turnover or professors who just burn out.

Lack of Reward or Recognition

The next trigger of burnout—lack of reward or recognition—is the smallest section here because, as is likely no surprise, this is an obvious hardship for adjunct laborers. Putting aside the dismal pay contingent faculty receive (typically between $20,000 and $25,000 annually—without benefits—compared to $84,303 plus benefits as average for full time professors), even when adjunct faculty are terrific at what they do, the university framework in place for achievement recognition is not typically formed with them in mind.[10] During the height of Covid, we were all expected to do more with less and carry on. Yet, as we return to some semblance of normalcy, disparities still exist in regular recognition pathways. Awards for teaching at the university level are often restricted so that adjunct laborers are not even allowed to be nominated. This was made obvious to me when a former student approached me, wishing to put my name in for a university teaching award, and I had to tell him I was not eligible. So, while some tenured faculty may be able to receive accolades for how well they met the students’ needs during the pandemic, those doing most of the teaching and grading of those students are left to pat themselves on the back.

Poor Relationships

The burnout trigger of poor relationships in the workplace can be connected to the lack of reward or recognition. With higher ranking, full-time faculty receiving resources, support, and accolades that adjunct faculty do not (and cannot) receive, it is not surprising that relationships between faculty can be strained. Relationships also suffered across the board due to the pandemic separating us all. Communicating over Zoom drained our emotional, physiological, and psychological resources and did not replace in-person connection.[11] While this was felt by everyone, it needs to be recognized that good relationships are sometimes the only bright spot in an adjunct professor’s working life—it is what keeps them going despite not having acknowledgement or compensation in other ways. Unfortunately, the few good relationships with colleagues are typically counterbalanced with ones of social and political hierarchy in departments. It is difficult in the best of times to not let such hierarchies detract from collegial relationships. As a personal example, the successful grant study I ran that examined how in-class, live performance could be used as a pedagogical tool resulted in strained relationships with my colleagues due to how they responded when I had completed it. I had applied for and received funding for the project, but only by using a tenured faculty member’s name at the top of the application form (this was the only way I could apply—I had to put myself as “Secondary Investigator,” even though the tenured faculty member did not contribute labor to the project). The study lasted a semester (though the work for it began six months prior) with live performers rehearsing scenes with me and coming into my classes to perform. I was preparing to discuss the grant and its outcomes at our regular BA program meeting (which I was not required to attend but have done so since I’ve been at my institution). I learned by speaking to another colleague that this regular meeting had already happened without my knowledge. This was quite an irregular practice as I had been on the BA program email for years and had never missed a meeting. Thankfully, the program head said he would share the meeting minutes with me. When he did, however, it showed that they had discussed my grant project. I was dumbfounded, since none of them had worked on it with me. What could they have discussed about it and why wouldn’t they want me present to share my knowledge? This question was followed by an uncomfortable moment with that program head because he had no answer for me. He told me that not much was discussed since the people present knew little about the outcomes. This poor communication severely impacted not only whom I thought I could talk to in the department, but how I felt I was being valued by my colleagues—colleagues who claimed that they supported and applauded me, but in practice ended up excluding me. And all of this was made possible by the institutional norm of keeping meetings primarily, if not exclusively, for full-time faculty. The explanation I have been given by tenured faculty for this practice is that full-time faculty are the only ones able to vote and that no one wishes to put pressure on adjunct faculty since they are not required to come. There is now an institutional norm at my university of inviting all faculty to meetings, with a note that adjunct faculty are not required to attend. However, due to my personal experience (one I know I share with other contingent colleagues), I don’t feel invited or welcome despite continuing to attend and often worry whether meetings I would like to attend are happening without my knowledge. In addition, the practices put in place to mitigate communication problems due to quarantining (namely, Zoom and Microsoft Teams procedures, invitations, and agendas) led to new, virtual walls being erected to keep only certain, full-time people in the loop. Adjunct labor, at least in my home department, was typically only looped in when it concerned confirming our teaching load.

Fairness

The fifth trigger of burnout is fairness. It is no secret that the pandemic revealed many disparities with respect to how certain groups are treated and what access (or lack of access) they can expect from institutions. While I by no means am equating contingent labor unfairness to the dire straits some have had to navigate (Black people dying at greater rates from Covid due to poor medical care; people forced out of work or their homes; lack of vaccinations in poorer countries), the height of the pandemic did see a rise in unfair expectations with respect to performance that have pushed some to consider leaving academia altogether.[12] Everyone was expected to do more with less. However, when you are already part of a group that has little to no job security and is only minimally compensated, these expectations highlight the unfair advantage some people have to avoid hardships by virtue of being adequately paid and cared for. According to Kevin Birmingham, in his scathing speech and article about adjunct experience (“The Great Shame of Our Profession”), the average pay rate for adjunct faculty in the U.S. is approximately $2700 per class, yet this does not necessarily reflect the actual hours of labor it takes to teach a course.[13] In the spring of 2022, my own department re-assessed what they pay adjunct faculty, attempting to accurately calculate how many hours it takes to teach particular courses. They found that the courses I teach are worth between $5400–$6075 per course. This is significant, though even when working full time (which at my institution is a 2/2 load), that is only just over $24,000 a year, maximum. I teach nearly twice that load regularly and am only just coming close to making half of what my full-time counterparts make (again, without benefits). In other words, while adjunct professors were also asked to do more with less, they were already operating with less to begin with and over several semesters and years of receiving so little compensation for doing so much, the lack of fair treatment builds upon itself, leading to burnout.

Mismatch of Values Between the Employee and Organization

The last burnout trigger concerns the mismatching of values between the employee and the organization for which they work. Two main areas of institutional context where value mismatching is a problem, specifically for adjunct employees, have to do with what the institution purports to place value on—research and interdisciplinary work. R1 universities put a premium on research, however the support available for researchers is typically limited to tenure-line faculty. As an adjunct, research is not included as a part of my job and as such, is given no consideration regarding support from my institution. In fact, there are many myths out there claiming that adjuncts just do not do research or publish at all.[14] However, as an avid academic (and someone who wishes to one day be paid in part to do research), I do it anyway independently to bolster my CV. Despite being published in multiple journals and anthologies and co-editing an anthology that came out in 2023—research practices my university wishes their faculty to engage in—there is little (if any) support available for my pursuits since I am contingent. The assumption supporting this practice is that no one would do research unless it was required of them by their job (in which case, I am choosing to do extra work—like a hobby—so it doesn’t have to be acknowledged, compensated, or fully respected).

In addition, something that my own and many other universities claim to value is interdisciplinary work. However, university infrastructure was not constructed with this in mind, so even when a faculty member does teach cross-departmental or cross-college lines, as I currently do, it is made incredibly difficult to sustain by virtue of the silo-ed nature of university departments.[15] If interdisciplinary work and research are valued, then there should be support, resources and compensation for all who do this work. Right now, there appears to only be support avenues for tenured and tenure-line folks to do so, despite universities moving away from the tenure model for years and having over half of all faculty teaching positions currently posted on HigherEdJobs being for part-time employment.[16]

Solutions

I propose five changes to university policy and practice that would help all contingent university workers as well as create an environment with significantly less of the burnout triggers mentioned above. The changes I propose include:

1. Create a temporary full-time position (much like a visiting-professorship) that is always on the books and disconnected from departments—something kept within Human Resources. If an adjunct is teaching full time, they would receive this position and requisite livable wage and benefits. There are multiple categories into which departments put (and therefore calculate pay for) their labor. I will never forget not getting paid for teaching a course the first semester at my institution and then being told by our account manager that I had been accidentally miscategorized as “voluntary adjunct.” If there is a category that can allow for someone to be unpaid for labor, there should be a category that recognizes and pays a living wage to someone who is working full-time. It may mean that adjunct faculty fluctuate in and out of these positions, but since visiting or 1-year faculty do so already, this shouldn’t be difficult to implement.
2. Create a rotating position within departments that is held by a tenure-line person (and would count toward their service) to coordinate social and collegial connections between faculty. While I have typically been very warmly received by my colleagues within the departments for which I teach, any type of larger cohort connection is left up to me to create through the labor of organizing. And though it should be on the individual to maintain relationships, it should not be on the underpaid, contingent faculty to create a welcoming environment where everyone can share and see one another’s achievements and step up to help those who need it. One example of what this person could do that seems simplistic, but would help with real-world, everyday issues, is to create an email or phone tree specifically for finding faculty members to step in and teach a class. Throughout Covid and continuing now, departments are requiring that everyone make sure to stay home when ill. I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve been given the “you have to put your mask on first” speech. And I agree. We should be modeling for our students that it is not healthy to push through while feeling unwell. But in my own department, they have instituted a report system wherein I must report all my absences and I must find a replacement person to sub for me. But I am on my own to do so. It would be enormously helpful if I had a list of faculty members who are willing and able to sub-in for me if it is needed. And frankly, it should be required that tenure-line folk have this as a part of their service too. As it stands, the labor I put into trying unsuccessfully to find a substitute for one of my classes ends up draining me of further energy and the situation typically results in me pushing through and teaching the class on my own, despite being ill, just because of the discouragement of getting “recorded” as being an absent professor without the security of tenure.
3. Make all teaching awards available for adjuncts to earn or win. The “adjunctification of the academy,” means that the majority of the actual teaching happening at universities is being done by adjuncts and yet, the majority of teaching awards specifically exclude adjuncts from even being allowed to be nominated. This is not just demoralizing and illogical. It is wrong.
4. Award research, publication and conference presentations that adjuncts achieve with bonuses to their base earnings. Universities should not be allowed to take credit for the terrific research and academic talent their faculty possess without giving compensation to the researcher for it. While typically not required in their contracts, adjuncts still do research, present at conferences and publish scholarship—all under their university’s affiliation. But other than lines on CVs, there is no motivation for them to continue. This is detrimental to the employee themselves, but also to the departments and university as they lose out on the prospect of gaining knowledge and broadening networks through their faculty researchers.
5. Allow and invite—but do not require—participation and attendance at every level of administration for adjunct professors. If departments wish to foster a collegial atmosphere, the hierarchies and walls that have been constructed need to be torn down. What possible benefit do we glean from exclusionary tactics? While it makes sense not to penalize contingent faculty for not attending meetings, telling them they can’t (explicitly by doing things like scheduling their teaching during meeting times or implicitly by excluding them from email chains) only results in a classist system.

I suggest these five changes to target some of the strongest triggers to burnout that come with the precarity of the contingent academic life—particularly the contingent/pandemic academic life—and to answer the call of professor emeritus, Henry Reichman: “The academic precariat did not emerge overnight. It was the product of many small, incremental decisions and will be reversed only through patient and persistent organizing, step by painful step” (“Do Adjuncts Have Academic Freedom?”). 

Let’s step up, people.