I previously wrote about anxiety dreams in my diary about impostor syndrome several months ago. In particular, I briefly mentioned a recurring dream that often afflicts me:
There’s the dream in which I was supposed to be teaching a class, but I don’t realize until the end of the semester.
This, at least as far as I can tell, is a very common dream among professors. I think it is an adaptation of a common student anxiety dream, in which you find out that you’re enrolled in a class at the end of the semester. Both of these dreams are pretty much impossible and neither would happen in real life. At least, that’s what I tell myself. Nevertheless, the dream came uncomfortably close to reality for me this past week.
Let’s go back in time, because it’s necessary to have a little backstory here to fully understand how this nightmare happened. When I first graduated from my Ph.D. program, I was a struggling adjunct, as is the case for many recent Ph.D. graduates—especially in my field of history. If you don’t know what it’s like to be an adjunct, let me tell you: It involves stringing together several classes at as many campuses as you can (you’re capped at two or three at each campus when you’re part-time, since they have to give you benefits if they give you more than that), crisscrossing your metro area to meet multiple classes per day, and finding time to grade and course prep whenever you can catch your breath. If you teach six or seven or eight classes per semester, maybe you’ll make ends meet...maybe not, especially if one or more of your classes gets cut due to low enrollment. It is a stressful, insecure existence, and it requires maintaining relationships at multiple institutions. I am extremely lucky that I only had to do this for one year before finding better work, because low-paid adjuncts often spend years in this situation.
So that gives you a little context. Back when I started teaching, one of my first teaching gigs was at a community college that I will call CC #1 for the purposes of this story. I loved it there, even though it was in an outlying exurb with a hell of a commute. I had a good relationship with the department chair, I got along really well with the students—it was great. I balanced that gig with a couple of university classes, plus a gig at a community college that I will call CC #2. Three different campuses, in three different parts of the Houston metro area, all in the same semester. Fun times.
After the first year, which was incredibly stressful (as you can imagine), I lucked out and got a better university position. I still needed to adjunct, but money was less tight. About a year ago, I reached out to the chair at CC #1 and told her that I was interested in teaching in the coming semesters—because, again, my experience there was wonderful. I even filled out a course preference form. I didn’t hear anything back, and I assumed they didn’t have classes to offer. I was bummed out about it, and I even took it a little personally, but I moved on. Then, my university situation got even better starting this academic year, and I was now in the great position of not having to teach at a community college at all if I didn’t want to. And, for a time, I didn’t plan to. But for a variety of reasons—wanting to continue teaching history (my main job is not a history position), being afraid of finances getting too tight later in the year, etc.—I decided to accept a few classes at CC #2. Because, again, I’d never heard back from CC #1. And to be honest, I’d forgotten all about CC #1, because I was no longer in a desperate position.
But I did continue to get mass emails from the department at CC #1, and I wondered why. I assumed they just kept me on the list after I’d left. I just deleted any email that reached my inbox. Why would I read them? I’m not teaching for them, after all.
Fast-forward to this past week. I was sitting in my office doing some work on Tuesday afternoon when my phone rang. I glanced down and saw that it was the department chair at CC #1. That’s weird, I thought. Why would she be calling me? I answered. This is roughly how the conversation went:
Me: Hello?
Chair: Hi, it’s [chair] at [CC #1].
Me: Wow, this is a surprise. How are you?
Chair: I’m actually calling to check on you...is everything okay?
Me: Uh, yes...
Chair: I’m only asking because I was just told that your class was canceled. (I guess this was a nice way of saying, “You didn’t show up to class today, WTF?”)
Me: ……….my class……….canceled……….? (At this point, I was like, “Hoooooooooly shit this is not happening...”)
Chair: Oh no.
Had I actually read the mass emails, I probably would have noticed my name listed, which probably would have helped avoid this situation. But I didn’t read the emails, because again, why would I? I never confirmed that I would teach the classes I was assigned (which is how it always worked in the past), so I understandably assumed I was not going to be on the schedule. Meanwhile, there were so many red flags: I didn’t show up to the mandatory department meeting. I didn’t respond to any of the “RESPONSE NEEDED” emails. I never submitted a syllabus for approval, and nobody asked why, even a couple of weeks after the deadline. I still have no idea how this could have happened.
Needless to say, they needed to find somebody else to take over the classes. I felt terrible about it, even though this cannot reasonably be construed to be my fault. But I think that bridge might be burned, despite the pleasantries exchanged at the end of the call.
I guess those irrational anxiety dreams can come to life. I’ve been telling everybody about this since Tuesday, because it’s ridiculous, and I’ve been laughing about it...because, again, it’s ridiculous. But every once in a while, I think about those classrooms filled with students, waiting for me, and I shudder. It’s the stuff of my worst anxiety nightmares.
NOTE: I’m meeting up with some friends tonight and may not be back when this publishes. If not, I’ll be back as soon as I can. As always, it’s an open thread.
What do you want to kibitz about tonight?
