My 40-Hour Week

I was full time faculty, and I was tired, if I were to be completely honest. I could have conducted all that I taught without being fully awake, as though an automaton, and that was the best part of the day. Then there were the endless, pointless tasks and processes that departmental assistants and secretaries used to see to, that were suddenly my job. I have not even begun to mention the interminable grading, which made Sisyphus’ rock rolling seem like a picnic. My schedule changed every several weeks, and I’d have days off that coincided with no one else’s, during which I would watch television or haunt my house as though a ghost. No one else had time off in late September for a week and I would be too exhausted to do much. Yes, being full time faculty can be exhausting, even though work-week seems to be only 25 hours long. I worked non-stop, almost 60-hour weeks, but since I did most of that work at home, it did not “count.”

 I thought that was my lot in life; things could never change.I had been faculty almost all my working life until I was RIFed from my last faculty position and decided to walk out of the classroom. Even though I soul-searched extensively and it took me a long time, I have ended up not too far from the classroom: I coordinate a writing center.

However, my insistence on trotting away from the classroom has demanded many changes, so many, in fact, that my internal compasses are different, with unfamiliar directions and strange needles. I navigate by different constellations and I cannot even imagine the nature and composition of my new horizons.

If someone were to ask me what my daily duties are, I’d not have a clear answer. I coordinate. This means that I do whatever needs to be done, and that is a surprisingly large range. I began without any training, without a clue about what was expected from me, with no idea about how to do my job, let alone how to do it well. I had had no management training, did not know how to balance a budget, create a schedule from scratch, oversee staff, or how to troubleshoot or navigate online lab platforms. Even this LMS was not familiar to me. The only thing I really understood properly was the curriculum around which the writing center revolves.

It turns out that is anchor enough as the world whirled and stood on its axis. One of my major navigational tools is Excel, something my old self had steered clear of. In my old job, I had needed just a little screen to explore the world and sculpt it into material for class; now, I cannot work without my double screened computer, and yet the material resists sculpting. As faculty, I had despaired of meaningless paperwork and forms; now, I create forms and document meticulously. As faculty, I used to feel much put upon when asked to generate reports; now, I seek out training that would help me mine and analyze substantial chunks of data. As faculty, I had felt isolated on my side of the desk and had considered myself apart from the people I spent most of my work day with, students. Now, I work on team building exercises and conduct regular meetings to be as much a part of my staff and colleagues as I can. My 25-hour week used to cling on, follow me home, and eat into weekends and evenings, especially during exams; now, my 40-hour week, though tiring, ends when I leave my office. Now, exam weeks are the best, since most of the work of the semester is done and things begin to slow down. As faculty, I sought out creative ways of presenting the same material; now, I seek out recognizable formats for ever-changing information, for precedents that reassure.

Even the very rhythm of my work-seasons is different. The time between semesters, in my old life, was a time to reflect, calm down, gather threads and reweave. Now, the time between semesters is fraught with furious activity, as I race to organize over a hundred class orientations, update orientation folders to adjust to changes in online labs, juggle ever-changing requests for schedule changes, and see to a myriad of other tasks before the semester begins.

I do miss my students a great deal; I do miss talking about timeless stories and the many ways they can be interpreted; I do miss students discovering the beauty of the written word; I do miss treading well-loved, well-worn paths. I feel that I have aged suddenly and aged far; constant contact with the young had kept me believing in my own youth. Being a manager of sorts, on the other hand, does make one the grown-up. As faculty, one might be a figure of authority, but it is not a managerial position. Now, even though I have my office, I feel more like a juggler than a person with any authority.

All things considered, however, my office has grown on me. I have begun to slice and stash things into tables and sheets. Most importantly, I am learning to decode implications when anyone speaks to me. I am more aware that all conversation has a context, a subtext, and an agenda. This is changing the way I write my characters and what they say, when I indulge in my first love, writing stories.  

I am told that this job gets easier after a couple of years. That is my hope, to find a terra firma beneath my feet, so that these paths also feel well-trod to my hesitant steps. It is rare that one gets a chance to be reinvented in the exact middle of one’s expected life-time.

 It is my hope that this overhauling will assure me that there have been less roads not taken when, at last, I consider how my light is spent.

Tornado Skies, Rainbow Weather

We had “bad” rains a couple of days ago, deluges that streamed down from an invisible, grey heaven, spreading floods and fear. This went on for days, which felt more like a punishment than a benediction. The air remained damp and cool. The sun remained a memory of warmth; the constant, insistent downpours conquered all, spoke above all conversations and TV shows, and turned the world into that indescribable color, that silver-grey-white. Visibility was low and we all hunkered down in cars and rooms in isolated bubbles, convinced that our range of visibility, our ten-foot radius was all that remained of the world. The unthinkable happened when malls were closed for flooding. Cars, branches, and other paraphernalia of a dry, logical world floated around, defunct, wet and lost, unable to find a use or definition.

We did not venture out unless forced. We cautioned each other on Facebook to stay in, stay dry, stay safe. My fingers and knees complained and the cats whined. Had the sun not shone when it did, we all would have begun to climb the walls in sheer cabin fever. We shudder at the memory.

We ran out of staples, of milk, bread, and eggs, but put off going out. We reminded ourselves to replenish our stock of batteries and water; we tallied our bank accounts to see if this is the year we’d get a generator (perhaps next year!). We dined on canned soup and canned beans and relished the hot water of our showers. The grocery list on our fridge began to fatten with perishables that could weather well. The sight of the empty peanut-butter jar began to cause discomfort. It was June; why didn’t we have our stock of crackers and sterno stoves? We stared wide-eyed at each other: how was this possible? Had we not just begun to get used to writing 2017 in our dates? How could half the year be gone?

Our TV’s, when they worked, were locked in at local weather stations; no other news mattered until the torrents stopped. We followed each shade of severity as the TV screen followed the storms moving inland and away, anchored our gaze on the point where we imagined we were. We stopped stitching and turned the burners on low when the weather was updated on top of the hour, and we listened. Our worried gaze sometimes shifted to the skies and we saw that green tinge that marks illogically heavy storms. We gasp when we hear that a tornado was observed in our zip code. Surely, the apocalypse must feel like this!

It is after June 1. Seasonal visitors have left for calmer latitudes. Here, where I write this, the hurricane season has begun and Sunshine State becomes a misnomer. It is one of my favorite times of the year. Perhaps it is the cathartic rains, the seriously blooming verdure, the shortened commute to and from work, and the empty grocery stores. The closet performer in me loves the drama of the storms. I have been fortunate in calling this landscape my home for long enough to know its skies well. This is the season of daily, multiple rainbows. Somehow, it is difficult to remain morose when faced with two well-defined rainbows arching above the highway.

This same splash of color spills through the landscape. Gulmohar trees burst out in flower flames. Hydrangeas bloom in a veritable rainbow. The entire vegetative world erupts in a cornucopia of colors and textures, and everything smells freshly cleansed. People bring out their colorful attire, sporting bold hues that shy away as the year gets older. Monsoon here feels like a celebration, since the children are out of school, home from colleges, visiting with families. This season feels full of promise, like a slice of fresh watermelon sprinkled with chaat masala, best served on ice. And yes, reader, it is mango season! This season is rich in color and flavor, and the rest of the year seems pale in compare.

The torrents have stopped for now. It still rains everyday, but there is no cosmic drama the skies indulge in. Of course, I pray that we are spared from a hurricane, even if it by the skin of our teeth. It is not the devastating aftermaths of hurricanes that I enjoy. But I find it difficult to resist the silvery shade of a rainy day in a season filled with blinding color and heat.

This weekend, I shall prepare my home for tornadoes, and I shall try not to miss any rainbows that are all part of this prothalmion of a season.