Question (from “Nelda”): I am an adjunct instructor of English with over 20 years doing responsible and demanding work in the classroom and in my day job in corporate America. My teaching evaluations are very good, and I get along well with students, colleagues, and college staff. I love what I do and the institution where I teach. But now I have a supervisor who finds fault with whatever I do.
Each semester “Dr. Martinet” sends out a skeleton department syllabus for instructors to complete for each section. We are then required to send our syllabi back for review, approval, and any noted changes. I am fine with this and appreciate a second set of eyes to check for typos, incorrect dates, or continuity errors.
Dr. Martinet, though, has turned this process into an ordeal. He criticizes minutiae, apparently because he can, and demands changes. He claims that my explanations of assignments aren’t detailed enough, for instance, even though I describe them also in the course requirements and objectives section of the syllabus, and in individual instruction sheets. I also answer questions in class.
This semester I’ve had to redo my instruction sheets for every major assignment multiple times, rehashing what’s already in the syllabus. These revisions and re-revisions add hours of work and take away from my time for students.
I’ve studied the assignments in the department repository that my fellow instructors have created, and mine are comparable to everyone else’s. I am at a complete loss as to why my instructions are called too vague and too little to work with.
As an adjunct, I have no job guarantees and want to keep the supervisor who makes staffing decisions happy. Yet I can’t help but think there’s some sort of double standard, and I am tired of being a whipping girl. Is there anything I can do beyond just smiling (“You’re crazy, not me”) and taking my lumps?
Answer: You are in the clutches of the Control Freak Bureaucrat. Ms. Mentor is surprised that you haven’t encountered that species before. They proliferate in academe in our barbaric times, and help account for the huge increase in money spent on administrators. (The largess in academe does not go to faculty salaries, as shown in countless articles in The Chronicle.)
One might claim that the Control Freak Bureaucrat is a solid citizen, someone who recognizes a need and fills it. The Bureaucrat steps in to do the dirty, boring work that’s often mandated from above. “Accountability!” is the theme song. For the Lord God of Paperwork reigneth.
Contemporary tortures include the dreaded assessment rigaramole—which has just inspired “Mr. Caring Wisdom,” a beloved teacher of Ms. Mentor’s acquaintance, to retire early. He is not the only one driven mad by ceaseless contradictory and voluminous instructions. Ms. Mentor grieves for the students who will not be able to learn from him.
There are also truckloads of paperwork for accreditation, curriculum changes, revisions to committee reports, and documents “assuring” higher authorities that “targets” have been met—along with the usual grading; budgeting; documenting for hiring, tenure and promotion; and promulgation and posting of syllabi drowning in boilerplate about plagiarism, attendance, gadgets in classrooms, and warnings like “Do not sleep in class.” (Yes, Ms. Mentor has seen that statement, which has the rare virtue of clarity and brevity.)
Ms. Mentor has written the previous intensely boring paragraph to illustrate how easy it is to bury a real message—and how effective, too, since it keeps you from paying attention to the content. You are growing sleepy. … Your eyes are closing. …
Ms. Mentor is not paid by the word, and her job does not depend on generating memoranda (busywork)—but many people’s jobs do. They have to show they’re important by making others suffer.
And so an ambitious but unimaginative person could, presumably, do well in academe today as a low-level Control Freak Bureaucrat. If you can crack the whip, somewhat indiscriminately, there’s a place for you. If you do it well enough, and damage enough skulls, you may even rise in the hierarchy.
Ms. Mentor offers this piece of advice to Nelda and others tormented by an autocrat: “Wait him/her out.”
CFB’s rarely stay in one position for more than a few years. They’re wooed away by other departments or institutions seeking “a strong leader.” Their history of whipping the troops into shape—"I devised a better and more cogent methodology for the collation and aggregation of assessment data and associated modalities"—always attracts hiring committees from already fractured, dysfunctional, self-hating places.
Ms. Mentor suspects that doesn’t make you feel better.
There is, however, some comfort in being able to assess (O, hateful word!) your prospects clearly. As Nelda knows, an adjunct rarely has job security. Except for the few places where adjunct unions may get some rights, most adjuncts are hired (and fired) “at will.”
That means Nelda can confront her nemesis and refuse to do the paperwork—and probably lose her job. Or Nelda can try to organize the adjuncts, and any others tormented by Dr. Martinet, to confront the system—by, say, a group refusal to do the work. That is also likely to lead to a mass firing.
But what if Nelda is indeed being singled out, while others get away with—whatever they’re getting away with? What if Dr. Martinet for some reason—say, Nelda’s resemblance to his hated sibling—can’t abide being around Nelda?
Ms. Mentor would wish that all academics behaved rationally. No one should draw on childhood traumas as a blueprint for adult interactions. No one should bully anyone else. No one should bury anyone in paperwork or cherish grudges. But besides waiting out Dr. Martinet and keeping a secret file on her nemesis for use in a future academic novel, what can Nelda do?
She can try to make friends with Dr. Martinet. Take him to lunch, ask his advice humbly (“I’m wondering if I might”). Learn from him. Even compliment his tie, if he wears one. Make a charm offensive.
Yes, Ms. Mentor admits that such a campaign can feel offensive. Few academics can say honestly what Erica Jong’s character says in Fear of Flying: “My natural impulses is to toady.” Academics want to consider themselves independent thinkers, involved with the life of the mind rather than with sucking up to snakes.
If the thought of doing any of that is unbearable, Nelda should resign.
Ms. Mentor wishes she could offer more optimistic advice, but we live in troubled times. All she can say is, “This too shall pass.”
But so will we all. Unless we sleep in class.
Question: If I send holiday greetings to everyone I work with, will I be considered eccentric, or a paragon of generosity?
Answer: Yes.
Sage readers: Ms. Mentor wishes everyone the survival of the holidays. As always, she welcomes gossip, rants, and queries. She regrets that she can rarely answer letters personally, and never speedily, and she recommends regular perusal of The Chronicle’s forums. She cannot give legal or psychiatric advice. All communications are confidential, anonymity is guaranteed, and identifying details are pureed. If you are not feeling the love during this or any other season, Ms. Mentor will not tattle to your disgustingly chipper colleagues, friends, and followers.
Ms. Mentor, who never leaves her ivory tower, channels her mail via Emily Toth in the English department of Louisiana State University at Baton Rouge. Her most recent book is Ms. Mentor’s New and Ever More Impeccable Advice for Women and Men in Academia (University of Pennsylvania Press). Her email address is ms.mentor@chronicle.com.