Uncle

I just concluded my 34^th year in education, and at the conclusion of every teaching semester, I wonder:

Was that my last one?

The last time I walk across campus, lost in thought? The last time I make copies and tuck them neatly into my messenger bag? The last time I sip hot coffee in front of my classroom computer? The last time I confer with that quiet student who hovers at the end of class, just wanting to talk to me? The last time I accept late work from a panicked student, even though the work deadline has already come and gone?

Is this the year?

In 2017, I retired and swore I was done. I was burnt out. Nothing left to offer. Unwilling to learn any more new technology. Tired of grading papers on Sunday nights. Feeling like I lacked the spark needed to deliver pedagogy in provocative ways.

But I felt pulled back to the classroom, part-time. And because of instructor shortages due to the pandemic, I was pulled back in full-time in 2020. Waaaaaaaay back in. And then again in 2022. But as I feel the heaviness of academia closing in on me, I realize I don’t want any more heaviness in my life. Lightness only, please.

I am ready to declare Academic Chapter 11.

I wish I could claim that phrase, but it’s from an article in Inside Higher Ed journal. An anonymous professor wrote an article entitled “Academe, Hear Me. I Am Crying Uncle.” And I feel I, too, am crying “Uncle.”

Enough already.

As the anonymous writer states, academic Chapter 11 comes upon a teacher slowly. Maybe it starts with a roll of the eyes. Maybe appears in the form of indifference, exhaustion, emptiness. No matter how it presents itself, one thing is true:

It cannot be reversed. Once it takes hold, it is permanent. No vacation, promotion, degree, or salary can change what it is:

A dearth.

This writer declares what all teachers try to provide: an ethos of care, in the hopes of building a thriving and just academe. But as evidenced from what is being coined “The Great Exodus” of teachers from education, it can be asserted that something tragic is happening:

At this pivotal time, when our country’s children need experienced, compassionate educators more than ever, we are leaving.

This is most tragic.

For this tenured professor, it got to be too much. With a sick child at home, his work piled up and piled up, on top of a system already teetering on the brink of collapse. He was forced to do the unthinkable, something teachers try to NEVER do.

Take it easy on himself.

He began delegating tasks to colleagues. Asking for help, saying no to publishing, putting aside manuscripts, even giving back grant money, as he was unable to complete the work on time. He says:

I simply have no way to catch up at this point. Extensions don’t help. Not only do I lack the capacity to think with the clarity and dexterity necessary to manage a complex workload and the emotional tenacity to work endless hours, even if I did, I would never catch up. The gap between the length of my to-do list and my own resources- time, energy and willpower- has stretched into an impassable chasm.

Educators in these last two years have been told to not make a fuss- to please just pivot, learn to do new things and carry on. Wake up at 4 a.m. to answer emails, skip family vacations, workouts, and pleasure. And under no circumstances, we have been asked, are we to do anything to upset parents or the state educational system.

“We’re all in this together,” after all. Right?

I wish I could clearly elucidate the terror, despair and depression that seeps out of this brave professor’s essay. I feel every word. He is despondent that his academic Chapter 11 will make it even tougher on his colleagues, who are also suffering, and to whom he is indebted. But sooner or later, everyone has to make the choice to say it.

Uncle.