Guest post: Jenn Zuko

An adjunct theatre professor says goodbye after twenty years of service

Jenn Zuko, from Boulder Weekly

AUTHOR’S NOTE:

The exploitation of adjunct faculty is one of academia’s nastiest little secrets. And it wasn’t until twenty years of hard teaching labor had passed that I began to realize: in my career there was no next time, like I’d been promised. No promotions, no raises, no opportunities. No health insurance. It also hit me at this same time that my husband had been doing the exact same thing to me that my academic and theatrical careers had been: expecting me to give everything, returning nothing but empty promises of a next time that never existed. 

Next Time is a memoir that draws parallels between the gaslighting abuse I’ve suffered through the same twenty years by a husband, the theatre world, and a career in academia. Throughout the dozen sections of my book, I weave together the abuses of these three powerful forces in my life, draw out the common themes that unite them, and reflect on how this sort of thing can happen even to a strong, interesting woman. I then tell the story of my own emergence from these abusive systems, and offer a narrative of hope for other people caught in similar, intertwined cycles of personal and institutional abuse.

This is the Prologue to Next Time. Some names have been changed to protect the… well, to protect me.

Jenn Zuko

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We were all sitting in a big open circle, in the studio classroom which is so much like a stage space. I made sure to pose in a deliberate power stance: manspreading wide, leaning one elbow on my knee. I’m a big person, both physically and presence-wise, and I was wearing very high heeled Doc Marten boots with my jeans and dress. My long hair was freshly dyed black and undercut.

I was thankful for all the rigorous modern acting training I’d had, in that I could be strong enough to be positioned that way, facing everyone in that circle with an open posture, and still say what I meant to say in a voice that carried, and maintain that strength through three hours of faculty meeting after. In the emotional state I was already in, having waited for this meeting with jaw-clenching anticipation, all weekend long, it was a good tool to have.

My seat was between the Department Chair and Friend Tenured Jim. This was the yearly all-faculty meeting, which always takes place at the end of each Spring semester. The start of the meeting includes new faculty introducing themselves, and everyone listing out the professional accomplishments they’d achieved throughout the year. 

I was last in line for the professional catch-up/introduction spiels, which was excellent timing—my big announcement would be the last thing said after all the intros. I couldn’t have scripted it more perfectly. I took a good actor’s breath, centered my voice for prime resonance, and began:

“Hi everyone. As some of you know and a lot of you don’t know, I’ve been teaching here as an adjunct since 2001, and for the Theatre Department since 2005. I teach Stage Combat and Staging Cultures, and I thought I taught Stage Movement, but I guess I don’t anymore? I also teach Intro, and Theatre History every once in a while.

“Let’s see: this past year, I did the fight choreography for Vintage Theatre’s Shakespeare in Love, fights as well as intimacy consulting for the Catamounts’ One Way-Back Day, and those things also for Coal Creek Theatre’s Epic Proportions. I’m about to do the fights for Empire Lyric Players’ Pirates of Penzance, and will be traveling to Washington State this summer to play a dream role in Twelfth Night with Animal Fire Theatre. I’m also teaching at DU, and for the past two years I served on our Faculty Senate, including the Faculty Welfare Subcommittee. Oh, and my variety show, Blue Dime Cabaret, is going strong: I cast the shows and I often perform with them too. We’re doing a show a month, about. It’s been very popular around Denver.”

I reminded them that I was the author of the textbook for the stage combat course I had created from scratch, almost 20 years ago. “Remember that, back in 2006?” I asked. They all chuckled. Three quarters of them hadn’t been there anywhere near that long. 

“And now for the announcement,” I said. “It’s this: I’m quitting.

“I’m quitting unhappily, having been disrespected for years. This is not a happy retirement, like Laura last semester. I feel like I’m being driven out of this department. Because I am. 

“If any of you would like to hear more details, I plan to be at the Union Brewery after this meeting, so I can tell you more over a pint. But. That’s it. I’m leaving. After 20 years, after enduring such disrespect.”

…and that word “disrespect” hung in the air long after I was done talking, reverberating through the space.

…..

Friend Tenured Jim had come out to lunch with me about a week before, to hear me tell him the big news: that I would be quitting at the next all-faculty meeting. He emoted sympathy, and sadness. He told me the theatre department was making a big mistake, driving me away. He told me he’d make sure they knew his opinion; that they should regret their treatment of me. He pep-talked me: encouraged me to tell them why I was leaving, right there at the meeting, in front of everybody. I hesitated: I didn’t want to make the room too uncomfortable, or cause conflict. He retorted, “You absolutely should make that room uncomfortable. You didn’t cause the conflict; you definitely should point it out to them. I fully support that—it won’t be the first uncomfortable room I’ve been in, and this is fully warranted. Make them uncomfortable. I’ll be right there, and I’ll ask you questions on the spot if you need prompts.” 

He said, “I’m kind of looking forward to this. Good for you.”

…..

What I expected after my speech was a classic theatre gaggle’s performative emotion explosion. I figured there’d be some wailings and gnashings of teeth, if not entirely sincere ones. 

I was surprised to see the opposite happen. I finished my say, as above. Friend Tenured Jim rubbed my shoulder, encouragingly but silently. And then?

Utter.          Silence.

A vibrating, cold silence that I let go on for a long time. Like I had dropped a stone down an empty well. I let it echo. 

Still, silence.

Nothing.

The Department Chair and the head production manager, both of whom I’d known since my own undergrad at a different university, attempted to say something in response while I spoke, but all they could do was nod and try to mutter, “Okay,” a couple times. The other theatre adjunct of many years (but not as many as me) heard me say that word “quitting,” and clapped his hand over his mouth. The tenured head-of-tech’s eyes bugged out, his jaw dropped. But nobody said a word.

And then?

Why then, the Chair took a big breath, cleared his throat, and sailed right on with the meeting agenda. And went through the agenda, bullet point by bullet point, from 10:30am when I had finished my announcement, till 1pm, which was the scheduled end of the meeting. 

Nobody said a word to me. For that entire three hours. Nobody made eye contact, even. During the midway 10 minute break, when we all were getting plates of potluck snacks and visiting the restroom and returning to our seats, not a single word, not a single person so much as looked at me.

…..

I was tempted to leave a few times, if only because what we were discussing had nothing, anymore, to do with me. But I stayed. I felt like it was very important to make the Chair move through all those agenda points, most of which had to do with student wellbeing, inclusion, and all that sort of thing, with me sitting there taking up space, that word “disrespect” hovering over every single item he covered. And I could almost hear most of that assembly praying that I would leave, so that they could continue to pretend that nothing was wrong, no bomb had dropped, without me there watching them do so, sitting in my power stance. I stayed. I wanted them to insult me to my face, not behind my back. Nobody said a word pointed in my direction.

By the end of that meeting, I found the whole scenario hilarious. I had shaken off a lot of my own emotion and was realizing rationally that I had scared them. Friend (?) Tenured Jim sprinted out the door as soon as he could, when it was all over. He spoke not one syllable to me, not even during the break. He had pointedly walked across the room to chat with another faculty member during that time. He didn’t look at me nor say anything about what I had done.

I packed my bag slowly and, unhurried, made my way towards the door.

Then, right as I was almost out, the head office admin (the main secretary, you could say) stopped me, grabbed me in a tight hug, and would not let go. 

She said, “I have loved working with you all these years. I am going to miss you so much. I am so sorry you felt that way. I’m sorry you were made to feel that way. Please let me know if I can do anything for you.

“I also know that I’m making you cry and I know how that goes.”

Then she let me go. I was indeed sniffling a bit. I said, “Dangit I am trying to be cool here!”

She smiled warmly and said she understood. We agreed that I’d poke my head in and make sure I see her when I come by over the summer and gather my decades’ worth of stuff out of the office. 

I left.

Postscript from Josh:

Jenn reminds me of the many silences that accompanied my own departure, but I’ll save that story for the Friday thread. If you’d like to read more from Jenn, please check out Zuko’s Musings.