Launch the lifeboats, the ship is sinking!

The term ended today at the career college. Last week was spent preparing finals, administering finals, and grading finals to the few students who actually showed up. (I know, like, who wouldn't show up to the final?) I took time out from all the grading to wonder how some students could, despite ten weeks of reminders, pleas, and threats, turn in no work during the entire term and have an expectation of passing the course. And as I reflected on how few Access tests I had to grade (bonus!), an increasing amount of my time was spent wondering how long this career college is going to survive.

I love that terms are only ten weeks long. I hate that, after the term is over, we have no time to process or reflect on our 10-week journey. No time to think about what we would like to improve. No time to create new assignments we hope will be more engaging than the lame things we did last term. I submitted my last grade packet this morning, but some instructors will be spending their weekend grading. Grades are due Monday morning, and first thing Monday morning we launch into a new term. With so little time to reflect, grade, and prepare, how can we possibly do a good job?

I wish I had something good to say, some cheery and uplifting observation, sort of like the pithy and pointed remarks my father used to say, along the lines of, “Hey, you have a job, what are you bellyaching about?” I should be grateful. I'm not. What I am is burned out.

The amount of effort, angst, grief, and frustration that goes into the ending of a term and the prospect of beginning a new one has led me to one unsettling conclusion: I need a new job. But where can I find a job that pays me full-time wages for part-time work? Until I finish this stupid doctorate, I am stuck.

So what, who cares. In about eight weeks, I will have forgotten how crappy I feel right now.

A little more venting, and then I'm done. Today, in addition to the grading and prepping, as we do at the end of every term, we attended three hours of in-service workshops designed to make us better teachers. I could tell them what would make me a better teacher: Let me get enough sleep. Give me some time to process what I've experienced. A door prize of a school t-shirt or a Wells Fargo grocery bag is not going to cut it. My boss's boss, who is the business program director at another campus, sat by me in one session. He wrote something on a piece of paper and turned it so I could see it. He wrote, “I had zero starts.”

Zero starts! He told me we need 64 students at our site to break even. If every new student actually shows up on Monday, new starts at all three campuses will total 64. Clearly the ship has crashed on the rocks and is taking on water fast. Launch the lifeboats. Mucky-mucks, no cuts. We are watching you.

Speaking of mucky-mucks, they were around at the end of the day, lurking like the mostly invisible creatures they are, coming out after dark to flit around the building. At 5:00, we got the news: Time to leave. Evening orientation was canceled due to lack of enrollments. Everyone out of the building. As I lugged my bags full of last term's binders toward the door, I passed the president of the college and another man in a suit. Both looked quite relaxed, standing in the lobby, smiling. I wanted to ask them what they had to smile about, but I didn't. Oh wait, let me guess. I bet you have some pretty nice golden parachutes to save you if the company goes under. Not me. But I'm not going down with this ship. Last one out is fishfood. Beat you to the lifeboat.