Since October 2011, I have been a part-time lecturer in the University of Washington system, splitting my time equally between the main campus in Seattle and a satellite campus in Tacoma. I left my position as Associate Professor at Texas Tech University to move to the Pacific Northwest in May of that year for family reasons. While I have enjoyed working with the students, my workload has gradually been cut back and it’s to the point where I can no longer afford to work there.
Historically I’ve taught two or three classes a quarter. I was offered one class for autumn quarter, which I taught, and one class for winter quarter. I received my offer letter about six weeks before the start of the quarter: I was being offered $5,800 to teach the class, which would be spread over three months.
But I’m more valuable than that. I told them I would only teach the class if they paid me $15,000.
Associate professors in the School of Interdisciplinary Arts and Sciences make approximately $102,000 annually. That works out to $8,500 a month. They offered less than 25% of that, in an area where the average rent is about $1,300 per month. I have a family of four to support.
I’m quite sure none of the associate professors instruct as many classes as I do: historically, I’ve taught 9-10 classes a year.
There were 40 students registered for my music and trauma class on the Tacoma campus (the classes are capped at 40), and I received several e-mails from students asking me if I’d be willing to overload them into the class. In-state tuition for a five-credit class is $2,006; out-of-state tuition is $6,569. Assuming that only in-state students take my class, that means my class is bringing in roughly $80,000.
I overloaded both my summer and autumn courses by two students because we’re in a pandemic and I was feeling compassionate. That’s at least an extra $8,000 right there.
I’ve been using my personal laptop and home internet to teach since March. Surely I should be compensated for that.
But associate professors do research and service, and part-time lecturers don’t, right?
I wrote proposals for and saw the development of four new courses, and I substantially revised an existing course. My rap class ultimately resulted in a textbook on the subject—only the second rap textbook on the market—which was published in June 2018 by Routledge. I wrote it in a year while teaching full time between two campuses, with no external support. It was nominated for the Society for Music Theory’s Outstanding Publication Award in 2019, and the American Musicological Society’s Teaching Award in 2019 and 2020. These are the primary scholarly societies in the realm of academic music.
I have presented and published in a variety of venues; I serve on the editorial board of an international journal; and I have held offices in regional and national scholarly societies. I am active as a classical musician in the region. I served as an expert witness in a criminal trial in Texas in which rap lyrics were used as evidence against the defendant.
I have repeatedly applied for what appeared to be the job I already had. In autumn of 2016, I was asked if I would consider transitioning to a full-time lecturer position at UW Tacoma, which I was enthusiastic about. After some correspondence with the chair, it was determined that there was no money available to hire me on full time, and that such a hire would also require justification for including music classes in the Communications, Art, and Culture program. (How do you have “communications, arts, and culture” program with no music component?)
In early October 2016, I saw a job posted for a full-time lecturer in music at UW Tacoma. I applied for the position, puzzled as to how there was suddenly money, and made it to the phone interview stage, after which point the search was inexplicably canceled. A second job description, this one somewhat broader but still centered in Visual and Performing Arts, was announced early in 2017, and I applied for it. The deadline for applications was September 15, with a potential start date as early as winter quarter 2018. I did not even get a phone interview.
And then there was the failed job search that took place last year. Despite the fact that the job posting went up just days before the application deadline, I applied for my own job (again), got a phone interview (again), was told I’d be teaching in winter even though I didn’t know the results of the job search. I was told via e-mail that I was recommended for the position, and then told not long after that the search failed. And I still taught there.
I won’t even get into all of the times that my appointment and/or pay was mishandled, and I had to wait for an emergency check. Or go on unemployment. Or get terminated, rehired, terminated again, and rehired within the space of a month. I had to drive to campus—twice—to complete an I-9 verification at the height of the pandemic and wildfire outbreak this year when there was no break in my service, and when that information should have been on file to begin with.
Perhaps not surprisingly, the university was unwilling to pay me $15,000. The winter course was immediately removed from my schedule, but not before I could activate the class listserv to let my students know what was happening.
I sent a version of this story to the administration, department chair, and others in positions of power at the university and I have heard nothing from them. Not "thanks for all of your work over the last nine years"; not "let's have a meeting and talk about this"; not "good luck--let us know if you need a recommendation." Nothing.
My autumn appointment ends on December 15, and grades are due on December 22.
The university made it clear what I was worth to them. But I know my value, and for once, I find myself in a position to make others aware. I have a new job now, one in which I do feel valued, and I hope my story empowers others to consider their value, too.