Below is a personal account of an academic who has agreed to share their experiences about working in higher education on casual contracts. What they say here is relatable for many of us, and helps to explain why strike action is no easy decision, buta last resort in the face of unreasonable conditions and expectations.
The first time I missed teaching a seminar was seven years ago, when my mother died while I was doing my PhD and starting as a graduate teaching assistant (at an HE institution that was not Bournemouth University)—and even then I only missed one seminar, teaching the following session the week after she was buried. The second time was later that year at that same institution, when I had the stomach ‘flu. The spirit was sort of willing but the flesh was very, very weak. Today is the third.
At all the universities where I’ve been a part-time hourly-paid employee since 2012, the instinct to keep going at all costs, to not let students down, to not cause difficulties for overworked colleagues, has led me to give lectures through hacking coughs, and lead seminar discussions where students flinch backwards every time I sneeze, as I try to laugh it off with comments like “and I thought I was too old for fresher’s flu.” This instinct is not purely due to work ethic or sense of responsibility, of course—it’s also driven by the fact that I don’t get paid for teaching hours that are cancelled or covered by someone else, and I need the money. I’m not getting paid today.
I am, of course, against the exploitation of lecturers. Having the energy, stability, and emotional space, as well as the time and resources, to support and educate students as they deserve is, I think, a worthy cause—which is why I’m out here. And yet it hurts to be out here, to be missing my lecture, in a visceral way I didn’t expect when I was carefully considering the pros and cons of joining the union and the strike. I care about my students, and I care about their experience, and I want to do my best for them. I don’t think I’ve always been able to give them my best as a part-time hourly-paid employee on a casual contract—and that hurts to admit as well.
Since my PhD funding ended in July 2013, I haven’t always known how I’d get through the period between July, when the final pay for marking dissertations comes in, and the end of November, when pay for October’s teaching comes in. I’ve been quite fortunate with side-hustles, including stints as an admin assistant for the NHS, and data entry for a housing association. I’ve moved about six times since 2013, renting rooms in other people’s homes, carrying boxes of books that I haven’t had time to open, between five towns in three counties.
I’ve been teaching at Bournemouth University since September 2016. I get paid for a certain amount of time to mark an essay and write constructive feedback, no matter how long it actually takes. I get paid to watch student presentations, but not for typing up my notes and uploading feedback. I get paid for delivering an hour-long lecture; this usually includes actually writing the lecture or updating last year’s lectures with current examples and up-to-date scholarship. For most of the research and publications I produce, I don’t get paid—and yet they feed into my teaching (and of course are required by my job, and for any hope of a permanent full-time post). Based on my past experiences at other institutions, and situations shared by early career researchers and PTHPs on Twitter over the last few days (#ucustrikesback), my situation here is a lot better than it could be elsewhere—at least I am paid for contact hours, and paid for marking essays at all. This is an odd sort of thing to feel grateful for.
I still consider myself fortunate. I have great colleagues, and line managers who genuinely make the effort to be supportive, within the scope allowed by their resources and budgets and the wider university management. I have the prospect of a permanent part-time post in the near future, but it’s very hard to feel a sense of stability and security—I’ll celebrate when I’ve signed a contract, I keep telling well-meaning colleagues and friends. I get to read and write and ask questions about things I hugely enjoy and care about, and share them with students who have sharp insights and questions, and who are funny and curious.
Most of all, I’m fortunate because I’m not yet at the point where I start asking why bother sitting up late to try to craft a helpful piece of advice, or to rewrite a lecture, or redesign a unit in a way that might be more intuitive and useful for students, or getting to know students I may not ever see again. But I know that if something doesn’t change, for me and the colleagues I care about—possibly even the sector—I might start asking these questions soon.
My mother was a sixth-form teacher; I saw how she remembered her students even years afterwards, how proud she was to see their skills develop. I occasionally get to see how they still remember her. I would like to be able to do the same, and I would like to leave some sort of positive impression, some sort of legacy. I would like to be able to do this without breaking myself.
#UCUstrikesback #StrikeBU
StrikeBU 