Chronicle of Higher Education November 11, 2013 Grad-School Gulag By Beau Ewan
The lighting in the classroom was a yellowish, institutional hue, casting subtle shadows that bounced off the waxed linoleum floor. The incoming class of graduate teaching assistants sat upright in their chairs; some of us took notes, others just stared, but everyone listened attentively as our illusions of grandeur quickly faded away. The director of the program explained that Florida was a right-to-work state, so we could be fired without much reason. He also told us not to waste our time trying to form a union, since unions didn't mean much here. Because unions in right-to-work states can't force employees to pay dues, he explained, they have very little money and thus no real power. After we learned about our lack of collective-bargaining rights, the director proceeded to tell us that we weren't even permitted to park in the faculty lots. "So I guess it's a bad time to ask about health benefits," I piped up. He turned a chilly smile in my direction as some of the other teaching assistants chuckled. The sad truth, however, is that I wasn't being sarcastic. I had just moved to Florida from Hawaii, a state that enacted laws toward universal health-care coverage long before President Obama took office. As a fifth-grade teacher in the islands, I had benefits that covered everything from general office visits to acupuncture, and I had friends waiting tables or hammering Sheetrock who received equal coverage. Because my new source of income—a graduate teaching assistantship—included only a small annual stipend, $9,000, I had foolishly assumed that the university would at least provide me with health insurance. And so I sat there panicking, wondering how I was supposed to survive on $9,000 a year without benefits. Since I was in the gray area of half-student, half-employee, it's unclear whether I would have qualified for insurance under the Affordable Care Act. I do know, though, that had it existed then, I could have purchased private insurance at a far cheaper rate. Also, many of my younger colleagues could have stayed under their parents' health insurance, an option that will afford future generations a better opportunity to pursue graduate degrees. For me, though, it was clear that I needed a second job. It was at this point that the director suggested that teaching should be our only job while in the program. He said that between teaching two freshman sections, attending our own full load of courses, traveling to conferences, and writing a thesis, we wouldn't have time for a second job anyway. He might have said, "Don't even try it." "So should we apply for food stamps?" I asked. Some colleagues laughed again. Again, I wasn't joking. The director didn't think we'd qualify. Instead, he mentioned student loans as a way to supplement our teaching stipends. This reminded me of a documentary I saw about Wal-Mart wherein underpaid employees were encouraged by their managers to sign up for government programs like welfare, Medicaid, and Section 8 housing. The difference was that our loans would have to be paid back. The director said to think of student loans as our future selves paying our current selves' salaries. Later that day, I felt a glimmer of hope when I walked down a corridor and noticed that the university had a student-health clinic. Unfortunately, later research revealed that the prices there were comparable to other private practices in the area, all of them ridiculously out of my price range. My new life on the U.S. mainland made me feel like a true American, as my rent would take precedence over my health, whether I needed a basic checkup or hard-core antibiotics. I wondered if I could physically survive graduate school—if the university would actually let me go hungry or fall ill. My acceptance letter from the university claimed that this teaching assistantship was an honor reserved for only the most worthy applicants. But I can tell you that there is no honor in hunger unless you're fasting, and that Jesus fasted for only 40 days in the desert, not three years in an M.F.A. program. I imagined clever ways I might cut costs. I could steal condiments from the food court, hawk my beloved books on Amazon, and sell my sperm. If I became homeless, I could write in public places like J.K. Rowling did, though I had serious doubts that my thesis committee would accept my proposal on napkins instead of watermarked, 25-percent-cotton paper. This program would prove incredibly challenging, yes, but I convinced myself that I could squeak by. The most difficult part of my first semester was the teaching. While I loved the job, a student's sneeze would send me into a nervous, cold sweat. I realized, too, that I was developing a troubling capacity for lying. Though I had worked hard in my 20s—graduated college, taught elementary school, gotten some articles published—as a 30-year-old graduate student, I was one doctor's visit away from debilitating debt. Nonetheless, I told my students: "If you just work hard while you're here, then you'll find yourself exactly where you want to be." After all, it was my job to motivate these freshmen, to convince them that their education would pay off. "You should feel honored to be here," I told them. After an experience with influenza that first semester, I regrettably took out student loans to purchase bare-bones health insurance at an exorbitant rate. I know that my situation in graduate school was not uncommon, that I was one of countless teaching assistants in this country without health benefits, collective-bargaining rights, and only a meager stipend. Everyone in academe knows that universities exploit graduate students for their cheap labor. But I've often wondered if administrators stop to consider the possible consequences of placing hungry, jaded, uninsured graduate assistants in front of the freshmen. If graduate students are examples of where hard work, dedication, and higher education can get you, then the university has a lot of explaining to do. As for me, I've graduated and moved on with a "terminal" degree, which sounds like some kind of cancer. I'm now drowning in the adjunct pools, where I remain hungry and uninsured. Should I one day land a tenure-track position somewhere, you'd better believe that I'll be fighting for the well-being of my graduate assistants. Beau Ewan is an adjunct English instructor at Northwood University (Fla.) and Palm Beach State College. _______________________________________________ pen-l mailing list [email protected] https://lists.csuchico.edu/mailman/listinfo/pen-l
