At the last strike, which took place in November and December 2019, one of our members opened up about why they felt that they had been pushed to the point of leaving the profession.
Their very relatable account is shared again below, reminding us that this strike action is personal. They have since left BU. We are losing good people because they can no longer cope with the pressures of the job. This is not good news.
Staff are at breaking point and I’m broken.
I have been teaching at the university for 8 years. It’s my second career and I fell into it quite by accident, as a way to earn money as a self-funded PhD student. But I found that I loved teaching. I still love teaching. I just can’t afford the personal cost anymore; I’m leaving.
It has been a heart-wrenching, soul-searching decision to leave teaching. I’ve always worked extra hours as a lecturer because the workload plan simply doesn’t allow time to do the job properly. (It doesn’t include half of the things I do, either, but that’s another matter). I love teaching enough to want to do as good a job as I possibly can for my students. My philosophy has been that it’s my choice to do that, and the joy and privilege of teaching make it worthwhile. It’s a pity that the university doesn’t recognise the time it takes to make things the best they can be for students. The admin burden is also a nightmare (not the admin staff, who are also under the cosh). But weighed in the balance, the utter joy of the job has until recently tipped the scales enough to keep me going.
This semester, though, I have been on the back foot from the start. I’ve been permanently behind on replying to emails, I’ve sat in endless meetings, I’ve jumped through hoops to show that I satisfy arbitrary, hasty, unevidenced and relentlessly enforced policies that will do nothing to increase students’ satisfaction. Instead of being given time to provide quality feedback, I’ve been told to flag almost everything I say to students as “feedback” so they know that they’ve received some. I have obediently listed my office hours (which students never use) in my email footer instead of having the time to spend with them that they need. I care, though, and deeply, so I DO take the time to talk to them, whenever they need, even though I don’t have it to spare. One of my Deans would say I shouldn’t do this because it sets unrealistic expectations. I say it should not have to be unrealistic that academics have time for their students.
Despite the long hours and the ever-growing backlog of emails and tasks I have struggled on, not really having time to stop and reflect. The promotion and pay progression process changed that. I’m fortunate to have a proper contract in a job that pays a salary above the national average (if we ignore hourly rate!) so for me personally this isn’t about money. It’s about fairness: the appropriate grade for the work I do and a salary commensurate with men doing the same work. I was very upset to get neither of those despite what I consider to be the best year of my teaching career. The feedback showed me that the university neither understands nor values what I do. It forced me, hard, to stop and reflect. When I did I realised that the balance has shifted.
This semester I have a light teaching load, notwithstanding the demands of one unit being unique and brand new. I’m also a Programme Leader, a project supervisor and an academic advisor. Next semester, I have a very different, very heavy teaching load and the projects will be in full swing. I realised I’m already working evenings, working weekends and getting behind in this “light” semester – and I am already exhausted.
Teaching has been such a joy. I thought I was in it until retirement age and would even then be one of those old lecturers who can’t quite give it up and works part-time. But I literally can’t do it anymore. When I stopped and reflected I became aware of serious health implications which I don’t want to go into here. It is with a regret so enormous that I don’t know how to express it that I am leaving teaching. I dread telling my lovely students. This will be identifiable by some staff and that’s fine; students are the only reason it’s anonymous. They don’t know yet and I want to be able to tell them the arrangements to replace me when I tell them I’m leaving. I care far too much to put them in the limbo of “I don’t know yet” if I can avoid it. I will miss them. I will miss them SO much. I think many of them will miss me. But I have to take better care of myself, and it’s absolutely not in my nature to achieve that by doing a perfunctory job. I’m striking to try to help pull things back from breaking point for those who stay, but it’s too late for me. With tears in my eyes, I am leaving.
StrikeBU 