I recently gave a guest lecture at the university I just left. As the double doors opened, and I caught a glimpse of the familiar University of Blank rug on the floor, I tensed up and said, “I hate this place!” Then I went upstairs, found my colleague’s students in a freshly remodeled classroom, and fell in love all over again. Not with the institution per se, but with its mission.
Prior to my guest lecture, I had driven across town from an ever growing, ever expanding, most-things-shiny-and-new Research 1 university where I am a new hire. I left an office where no fewer than seven students, colleagues, advisees and maintenance men stopped in to check on me while my office door was ajar. In some way, all of them offered to assist me in my newness to the university. My doctoral student and research assistant asked if there was anything they could do for my research agenda, to further the preparation of my one course next term, or if we could meet for Indian food off campus. I. Love. This. Place.
I used to love my old position. I had been invited, just after graduate school, to help build a center for urban education to recruit, prepare, and support the professional development of urban teachers in the nation’s neediest and most under-resourced schools. The job description read like a dream come true, and, before copious sobering realities set in, it was. I had a major hand in designing the curriculum for a master-level teacher education program and was even encouraged to design, from scratch, a world-class doctoral program in urban education.
For someone who had not quite finished her own doctorate, this opportunity was nothing short of miraculous. Many newly minted Ph.D.s pine for opportunities to simply join a college of education, a program, or department. In a sense, I got to design the fundamental elements of all three. When does one get to add that to her curriculum vitae?
For five solid years, I created courses, designed syllabi, and taught urban teacher candidates with empathy—not sympathy—for their experiences in severely underfunded public schools. The university I was employed by seemed to be imperiled on every side, just like my days in public P-12 settings. Our budget was too small and overspent, and we were under constant threat of losing municipal funding. Office supplies were scarce; you were given supreme side-eye if you were caught making too many copies, and I went a full two years with a printer whose toner could not afford to be replaced. There were times when paychecks were simply skipped, and I taught myriad summer and “overload” courses for which I was never properly compensated.
The experiences of my students were even worse. Scholarships were promised and unfortunately withdrawn. The public charter school with which the university sought to form a professional development school partnership was threatened with revocation. Students were frustrated with red tape; seemingly insurmountable bureaucracy; toxic, disgruntled, and beaten-down employees who seemed so unwilling to help; and with such simple tasks as the disbursement of financial aid awards or the fulfillment of transcript requests falling by the wayside. Course registration was a pain, waivers for an automatic-enroll health plan were misplaced, and frustration with every aspect of university logistics was a given. Nearly everything was arduous, laborious, and an expected struggle. It tired you. It wore you down. It discouraged faculty and students.
The historically Black community college and university I left is (just like) a public school. It is ill-funded, faces low monetary support, and is the frequent subject of flagrant news stories and damning reports. During my brief, 5-year stay, there were three university presidents. The institution was beleaguered by shifting leadership, financial mismanagement, a bitterly at-odds faculty and administration, and low morale. Many times, it was a miserable place to work
