Living in the Northeast, we have had a lot of snow days in the last couple of weeks. On a couple of those days, Brown University has canceled classes; on others, classes have been on because, well, the students live on campus so they’re there anyway — might as well teach them, right? Except it’s not that easy for faculty who don’t live on campus to make it to class in the middle of a snowstorm. Go ahead and call me weak, but I remind everyone that I am Canadian, and thus no stranger to snowstorms, driving in snowstorms, walking in snowstorms, and harsh weather in general. Still, I’ve had more days at home than expected in the last week, thus I’ve worked at home more often than expected.
Recently, the Governor of Wisconsin, Scott Walker, has raised the cry that professors are overpaid for their work (see this piece @Politico). This has generated learned and articulate responses (here’s only one) from my fellow academics, who point out that actually, the vast majority of academics in the humanities in this country don’t actually get paid that much (like, on par with bus drivers and school teachers), particularly if they are junior or contingent (adjunct) labor, which increasing numbers are. They also note that there is a lot of work involved that extends beyond the classroom time, which is about 3 hours of active class time a week (that is, you are physically standing in front of a class) per course. A full-time professor might teach anywhere from two to four courses a semester. Then there is the additional time to prepare for each class, which is on the order of about three hours prep for every one classroom hour. There are meetings with students and faculty, advising responsibilities, and administrative tasks. This sort of thing fills our days on campus. This is all part of being a professor, and it’s included in our contracts.
So, it’s great to have a day off, right? A snow day, to curl up by the fire and read a book or, gosh, watch television (except that many academics — including my husband and myself — don’t own a tv…that should tell you something). But, as I sit in my armchair on my snow day, I feel characteristically overwhelmed by all I have to do. No no — I’m not seeking sympathy. It’s a perfectly lovely comfortable armchair, and there is a fire, and a cat (okay, three, but only one fits on my lap at any one time), and hot chocolate, so let’s be serious — I’m not suffering. But my point is that there are so many more things involved with being a professor than prepping for and teaching class. That is already a lot. But there are things that…well….no one told me about. For these things we are paid…exactly nothing.
First, let’s talk about letters of recommendation. We write a lot of them. There are many different variations on the theme. The most intensive are letters for promotion — either for tenure or for promotion to full professor. Those require a deep engagement with everything that a particular scholar has written — maybe a number of books and dozens of articles. The letter has to be specific, and knowledgeable, and place the scholar’s work in relation to the field as a whole. It needs examples and supporting arguments. It runs perhaps 8 or 9 single-spaced pages in length. It’s not unusual, then, for faculty members to turn down writing these letters, because they require so much time that we just can’t find in a day. Luckily, I don’t get asked to do these very often. Next up, though, are letters from junior faculty applying for jobs and fellowships, then letters from graduate students applying for jobs. Those are still a lot of work, if you want to do them right. You can write a generic letter for each job candidate, but that will probably hurt the person for whom you’re writing, so you have to tailor each letter according to the place for which they are applying. That requires some additional research and time. Then there are letters for undergrads applying for graduate schools. These, too, need tailoring, although in general they are only a couple of pages long. Finally there are letters for undergrads looking to apply for internships, internal fellowships, study abroad programs, and so on. These are about a page long.
Each of these letters of recommendation need to be researched, written, edited, proof-read, tweaked, and then uploaded to various sites by specific deadlines. How many do I do in a semester? Probably around sixty. That’s a lot of time. So, today, on my snow day, I do four, including one re-sent to a graduate seminary that lost my last one. Two hours. Important, and unremunerated.
Another task for today: I’m asked by a national funding organization to evaluate a major grant proposal which another academic has submitted. The funding organization is not in the US, and the proposal is not in English. It is also 22 pages long. I plow through. Read, evaluated, submitted. Three hours of work. Also important. Also unremunerated.
I also serve on a couple of national academic committees and advisory boards, which means more proposals for evaluating. I just get through a couple today; more lined up for this week, with a deadline for completion coming soon. Another hour gone. Necessary, important, free labor.
Okay. So several hours have passed and, you might notice, I have not yet done the hours of reading for this week’s classes, nor set up the Powerpoints, nor revised the online syllabi that need revising because of the snow day. So, no class prep as yet, except for answering student emails, which are frankly endless. This will take five or six hours altogether, easily.
Next up I tackle my thesis writers. I have three seniors currently writing senior thesis projects with me, major pieces of work which will qualify them for honors in our department. It’s spring, so they have a busy writing schedule and I meet with each of them an hour a week. To make the meetings productive, I have to read drafts of their thesis chapters. These constitute a teaching overload — I mean, directing even one thesis qualifies as an overload — but I am uncompensated for them; I offer my time and expertise pro bono, as it were. Another ninety minutes to read and comment on three chapter drafts.
More stuff: board meeting notes from the weekend’s advisory board. Arranging logistics for a summer course I’m teaching. Reading a paper for a faculty colloquium I’m moderating this year. Setting up accommodations for students with disabilities to be able to succeed. More email.
Tired of these tasks, having browsed around the kitchen for food (grocery shopping, cooking, and cleaning all take time away from work time, so I try to set aside hours each day for these things; it’s not like professors can afford household staff) and having sent my younger child out to celebrate the snow day by playing outside in blinding snow and subzero temperatures, I set “stuff” aside to try to get some writing done. I manage to finish drafting a 1000-word “Bible Basics” essay for the Bible Odyssey and submit it. I finish and submit another, longer piece. I work on a third piece — a 6000-word encyclopedia entry — that one’s overdue, sorry. That leaves, still to do:
- one major book chapter promised and now overdue. Not started. Sorry.
- revisions on one major book chapter for a conference proceeding. Started but not finished. Now overdue. Sorry.
- three 6000-word encyclopedia entries, one overdue. Started but not finished. Sorry.
- one journal article based on a presentation, overdue. Started but not finished. Sorry!
I admit all this overdue-ness here, in this very public forum, to underscore the point that snow days or not, most academics have far more work to do each day than there are hours in a day. Much of it is “invisible” in the sense that it is not directly about teaching, writing books, or reading. Yes, sure, I can spend leisurely time at home in the snow sipping hot chocolate, but, gosh darn it, those pieces are not going to write themselves. I can futz around on Facebook, but, same. And, further, owing pieces to people out there — colleagues, friends, editors, strangers — is actually very stressful. Not stressful like “oh my gosh if I mess up this surgery my patient will die” stressful, but as in “my reputation, job, possibility of future work, etc., is on the line” stressful.
The other thing that bears mentioning, somehow, is that I spend much of my day staring at a computer screen. This is the New Academia. There’s email, of course, which is pretty much the only way that academics communicate when not face-to-face (phone conversations are a thing of the past). But most of the reading I have to do is scanned and digitized, and course management is all online. We use things like Skype and Google Hangouts more and more frequently. Many of us maintain social media pages; library catalogues are online, and most journal articles we need to read are directly linked through library websites. Even letters of recommendation or grant proposals and reviews, graduate admissions, and other things that used to require getting in to the office or actually handling paper and files are now almost entirely online. That means, realistically, that most academics stare at a screen, for work, from the time they begin work in the morning until the time they quit, usually late at night.
I say all this because it’s not the life of a professor that I imagined thirty years ago. It’s not the life of a professor as Gov. Scott Walker and other non-academics imagined. It requires stamina and mastering skill sets that are quite unexpected. It means going to sleep, every single night, knowing that you’re behind, or at least, that you have a ton to do just to stay on top of things. Again, am I asking for pity? In no way. It’s a great life. But it’s not without stress, and it’s not lucrative. It’s a labor of love.