Last spring, when the organizers of an international conference in Great Britain accepted my proposal to present a workshop, I was ecstatic. But my enthusiasm quickly dampened when I learned that my university would contribute only $1,000 toward the trip's cost.
I thought the proposal was a long shot when I submitted it, so I hadn't bothered to solidify how I would pay for it. The $1,000 would barely cover the registration fee. In addition to attending the conference, I wanted to spend some time visiting friends in London, so my budget swelled to $5,000 once the airline ticket, hotel, and other expenses were added.
With only a few months to come up with the money, I decided to seek a second job. My provost approved that plan, with the stipulation that the job not interfere with my primary administrative work.
My next step was to find something suitable. I went to various university Web sites, thinking I could apply for an adjunct teaching position. But my timing was off; those positions had been filled months ago. So I purchased a Sunday paper and combed through the want ads. While hundreds of jobs were listed, none remotely fit my skill set in higher education. Finally, sandwiched between a pitch for energy pills and an advertisement for a company that promised to erase bad credit, I saw an ad from a major shipping company for package handlers.
It read: "Need to earn some extra income? Want flexible hours? Want a challenge? If you answered yes, this position is for you!" I thought, "Perfect." Then I noticed the fine print, "Must be able to lift 50 pounds." I disregarded that and went to the first information session.
The interview room was bursting at the seams with people from every age group and walk of life. After completing a data form, I was tested to determine if I could, indeed, pick up 50 pounds. I did, and was congratulated on passing that portion of the interview process.
It was the next portion that proved challenging. In filling out the application, I quickly realized that all of my work experience would make me appear overqualified. I decided to list my current university, but instead of saying I was an "assistant vice president," I wrote "educator." I opted to list my B.A. and M.A., but not my Ph.D.
My interviewer, a young woman who appeared to be fresh out of college (and indeed was, I later found out) said she had recently interviewed someone else with a graduate degree. (Were times that hard?) We chatted about a wide variety of topics, but I was constantly on guard lest I let something slip about my true background. I felt as if I were hiding a criminal record.
On the way home, I mused about how bruised my ego would be if I didn't get a callback. But I did, and now it was time to interview with the shift manager. He was more suspicious of my motives: "Why would someone like you want a job like this?" I told him that the pay was not great in education, and I had a family to support. He softened his stance somewhat and responded empathetically, "It is a (expletive) shame that we don't pay our teachers enough money to live on."
Still unconvinced of my suitability, he reminded me that the job involved backbreaking work and that the average person could not hack it. He warned me that I would leave the job daily with various aches and pains. I countered that I worked out regularly and that I was not afraid of a strenuous job, though I must admit I was starting to worry.
To prove my point, however, I showed him scars on my hands. "Are these the hands of someone who is not used to work?" I offered, looking him squarely in the eyes. The part I left out was that the scars did not come from hard labor but from falling on glass when I was in the third grade.
I was working so hard at creating a working-class persona that I felt like a fraud. But my responses did the trick, and he asked when I could start.
The entire hiring process had taken less than four days. I would work the twilight shift, from 3 a.m. to 7 a.m. To get enough sleep, I had to be in bed by 8 p.m. Getting up at 2 a.m. would at least afford me six hours of rest.
Easier said than done. The night before my first shift, I was so anxious about working a second job and not getting enough sleep that I lay awake most of the night. Lying in bed as the alarm went off, I started to have second thoughts about all of it: the job and the conference.
Revived by a hot shower, I arrived at the training room, groggy but ready to begin hauling boxes. My training group had 12 new hires. Our trainer began the session by asking everyone to introduce themselves and explain why they took the job. There were college students supplementing their income and others who were eager for the advertised health insurance. When one man discovered that the health insurance did not begin until after 1,000 work hours (and at part-time status that would mean more than a year), he quit on the spot.
At our training, I discovered that the correct term was "packages," not "boxes." The trainer was enthusiastic and actually quite funny for 3:30 in the morning, though I still found myself getting drowsy, especially during the video on how to effectively stack packages without creating an avalanche.
After a few days of training, we were taken to the plant and assigned a mentor. Mine was a guy originally from Mexico by the name of José. I did not understand much of what he was saying, and I gathered that he did not understand me either. We smiled at each other quite a bit.
Initially, the packages came down the chute in a manageable flow. Once the line supervisor determined that I could handle the sorting, lifting, and stacking, I was placed on a busier conveyer belt. I can only compare that experience with the classic candy episode on I Love Lucy. Instead of candy, I had an endless flow of packages -- small, large, long, and round. There were tires, toilet seats, pipes, and college textbooks, anything imaginable that one can ship.
From time to time, José would ask, "Are you OK?" Between gasps, I managed, "Doing fine." Finally, the supervisor told me I was done for the day. Exhausted, dirty, and sweaty, I glanced at the clock to see how long I had worked. Ninety minutes. The supervisor informed me it would get easier.
At the university, the secretary who normally arrives before me was surprised to see me at my desk. I told her I got an early start that morning, an understatement. I was doing fine until mid-morning, when I dozed off at my computer screen.
I thought I would get used to the schedule and the heavy lifting; I didn't. Over the course of the next few days, José and I started understanding each other enough to talk. He told me that he started part time at the shipping company and worked up to full-time status with benefits. In addition, he worked another full-time job at a manufacturing plant, putting in over 80 hours a week between the two. His wife also worked full time at another plant. After hearing his story I vowed to never complain about my hours.
I asked him how he had the energy to work so hard and long. He smiled and said, "Lots of fresh fruit."
When he asked me what I did full time, I told him I was an educator. A look of disbelief crossed his face, and then he said that he felt very bad and embarrassed because he was working with someone so great. I was floored. He shared that he had always wanted to get an education so that he could quit the shipping job and not work as many hours. I was both humbled by his comments and amused by the irony.
I reminded myself that I was only there to earn money to go overseas; I had options with my education. I found comfort in that, but was very unsettled witnessing firsthand how hard many people must toil to make ends meet.
Finally, after the third week, I could no longer take the physical and mental toll. On the day I quit, I tried to slip out unnoticed, only to run into the supervisor who had hired me. I shook his hand and informed him that I was leaving. He good-naturedly said he knew I was not going to last. I conceded.
Needless to say, I canceled my trip. However, I did realize that a second job -- the right second job -- would be something I could manage. Last fall, I did find an adjunct position, teaching one evening a week. I figured out I earned as much by teaching for three hours in an evening as I did in a 20-hour week of backbreaking work at the shipping company. Education truly gives you options.
Over lunch recently, I was discussing workload issues with some colleagues, when one asked, "Who works the hardest: administrators or professors?" When it came time for me to share, I thought about my short stint at the shipping company and about my fellow co-workers, especially José, putting in 80-plus hours of sheer physical work for little pay, and responded, "Neither."
