Within a very short time, we all knew that the three associate program directors had been invited to transfer to Wilsonville, although two will be demoted to instructor. (They were, like, yay! No more meetings, no more paperwork!) Our boss will retain his position, lucky him—I guess. I heard this from the mouths of the people affected. Still, I'm skeptical. I wouldn't be surprised if we all got to work on Monday to find the doors locked and moving trucks pulling away in a cloud of dust. I don't think the place is long for this world, frankly. Change can be good. Maybe it's time for this school to die. Survival of the fittest, and all that. We have proved time and again our unfitness for purpose.
Sheryl, my indefatigable colleague, at 66 is not ready to retire. She made some calls, sent a few emails. Efforts to find her new employment were launched immediately on her behalf. Even while she whined, she scrambled her network, thereby demonstrating her ability to multitask. Take note: You are never too old to... to.. what? look for a job? She'll play the age card if she has to. Our other colleague—I'll call her Mella—normally an easygoing, optimistic woman—expressed her anger with some choice cuss words. Right on, Mella. Me, I processed my anger by watching everyone else process theirs. I have no cards to play.
On Monday night and into Tuesday and Wednesday, students were informed by management of the coming change. The fallout was swift and vehement. Students who are graduating May 3 had looks of profound relief. Others, especially new students, were furious that the admissions reps hadn't told them that going to Wilsonville would be a possibility. The panic subsided after students were told they would receive $100 Visa cards to help them with gas expenses. Car pool lists circulated. The frothy anger calmed down into a general discontented malaise that permeated the campuses. Students came to class, but no one felt like doing anything.
I kept on teaching. I wrote notes on the board. I covered the chapter. I facilitated the discussions. I answered questions. I encouraged them to focus on their education.
“You are going too, right?” they asked me.
I said I didn't know.
“What will you do?” they wanted to know.
I said I didn't know.
Sheryl's students, weeping at the thought of moving to an unfamiliar campus without her, joined together to write her a batch of recommendation letters. I heard one student even called Channel 6 news. (This could get interesting.)
So now it's Thursday. We irascibly await the news—do we stay or do we go? Mella quietly started packing her gear. Taking her cue, I cleared the miscellaneous bits of paper... pictures, notes, phone numbers, calendars, reminders... off the walls around my desk. I removed the course materials I had created from the shared file folders (take that, you future adjuncts). I recycled stacks of student work from last term. As I rummaged through drawers, I pondered what I will do if management offers me a job. I'll probably take it. But a big part of me wants to say no thanks and walk away.
Postscript: The phone just rang. It was Sheryl, calling to tell me that tonight when she went to school for night classes, she saw our elusive president in the parking lot. He asked how she was. “How do you think I am?” she said. “Not happy!” He tried to explain. Sheryl said she straight out asked him if she and I would have jobs next term, and he wouldn't look her in the eye. He told her he had delegated the task of deciding who stays and who goes to his management team (I'll call them Mr. Freeper and Ms. Sic-em). And no severance package, not that I thought we would get one, but it would have been nice, maybe a month of pay for every year of service? Nope. We'll be paid through May 15 and our insurance will last until the end of May. And that, as they say, is that.
