Shari Wilson wonders what to do when she sees another adjunct cutting curricular corners.

July 6, 2005

"They're just darlings," my co-worker said. "Absolute darlings."

"Uh-huh," I agreed, staring at my grading sheet. She is discussing five athletes at the private, four-year university where we teach. As another part-time foreign-language instructor comes in, I overhear their

"Well, they'll never get through nine chapters," said the "darling" woman.

"Oh," responded my friend, a woman who teaches Spanish.

"I'm going back to Chapter Five," said the first instructor, "I just love teaching these darling, darling boys."

I sat there, stunned. Was I hearing correctly? Was she simply dropping half of the curriculum to cater to a few students who couldn't do the work? Later, when we were alone in the office, I commented, "It's so hard to get them to work, but I keep pushing. I've got to get them through the whole book or they're sunk next semester."

"Oh, well, that's how it is with English comp, I'm sure," said the "darling" woman. "I mean you've got to cover the material."

"How is that different with Spanish?" I finally asked.

"Oh, well, I've got to make sure that they really get it." She responded. Frustrated, I couldn't think of anything else to say. This adjunct had developed a curriculum based on department-approved course objectives. She had turned in copies of her syllabus to the academic dean for approval. Then, frustrated by her students' inability or unwillingness to learn, she had simply chopped off the back end of her course.

Later she had confided that there were a few students who were "getting it," but that they would simply have to review the same materials over and over until the end of the semester because she was catering to the athletes. That morning, as my colleague left for her class, I jotted the note, "curriculum rip-off" in my notebook. Something would come of this, I thought. Something.

At lunch that day, with the provost at the head of the table, I commented that a fellow instructor wasn't teaching the curriculum. "What do you mean," the provost asked, voice surprisingly kind for a man in power.

"She said the athletes in her class weren't learning," I paused, unsure if I should go on, "so she cut out the last four chapters of the book."

"You're kidding!" said a physics instructor to my right.

"She'll review them later, right?" the provost asked.

Trembling, I kept my hands in my lap, "I got the impression that she wasn't going to teach the last four chapters at all."

"Really," said the provost. "What's her name?"

"Oh, I really couldn't say," I mumbled, gathering up my half-finished tray.

Face reddening, I made my way to drop off my tray. What had made me speak up? Me, an adjunct? A part-timer with no tenure, no security, no voice. I didn't bring it up again. In the next days, I asked co-workers innocuous questions about their classes. I found it hard to make eye contact with the provost.

What had made me speak up? Anger. A feeling that not only would the next instructors to teach these students be frustrated, their jobs only made that much more difficult, but the students were being ripped off in a wholesale fashion.

According to the students, the less they were taught, the better. But I knew better. And I had been on the receiving end of some of these half-taught students. One of my colleagues at a large community college in California had confessed that he passed any student who would sit through his course. With no work to grade them, he simply gave them all C's. He was not the only one, I realized.

When I had struggled with a student whose grammar was shockingly poor and who could not form a decent paragraph or essay, I sometimes wondered if they had simply tested well on the eligibility exam or if an unwitting colleague had passed them on to me.

And what did the students get out of this? Yes, their semester was easier. Yes, they had less homework. Yes, they could spend more time on sports. But at what cost? Their education was being whittled away by instructors who could not or would not insist on the curriculum. It was a simple matter of trading the short-term for the long-term goal. Given the choice, I knew that a smaller percentage of the students would vote for learning all that they were promised. Yes, some would complain and wheedle, but I must believe that instructors know better.

We are in a position of power and we must not misuse that power by stealing. And when we lop off a part of the curriculum that is too bothersome or too difficult for some students, we are stealing from all of the students. One colleague confessed that she often had to switch lesson plans around to teach what she needed to -- but she always covered the chapters that she had promised.

I'm not sure if she had been burned by a colleague or if she simply knew what the right thing to do was, but I admire her stance. I, too, frequently find that I need to "borrow from Peter to pay Paul" in lesson making, but I always cover the curriculum. Even in the classroom, when I am tempted to cut out a section that once seemed important, I review the materials later in my office and talk to senior instructors who can guide me.

It is dangerous to make impromptu decisions at the chalkboard. More often than not, I am dreaming of new ways to teach something that seems tedious -- a new essay, a new exercise, or examples taken from my own classes. Anything to get them to see the lesson in a new way. My struggle sometimes reminds me of my effort to clip my terrier's nails. After an hour my struggling and his howling, I finally brought my dog to the local veterinarian and paid the $15. His nails did get clipped. In the same way, I struggle with curriculum, but in the end, it gets taught.

My last concern was a big one -- what about our accreditation? This four-year university already had a poor reputation. Once known as a feeder campus for Stanford University, its price tag now seemed to have no correlation to its rigor or value. What if our accreditors found that we were not teaching the curriculum? What if they somehow found out that we were not achieving the course objectives that they had originally approved. What then?

After working on committees at the large community college in California, I had learned a healthy respect for the powers that be. Whether one was a tenured full-time instructor or an adjunct, we simply did not have the right to make such decisions on our own.

Suddenly I was thankful for those who had mentored me -- even those kind souls who sat at lunch with me. Their opinions, ideas and suggestions were helping to shape me. Every day, every semester. So many teachers, struggling, wrangling, working to be sure that curriculum gets taught. What a blessing to be one of those who hold the line. And those who benefit? We do. Instructors, administrators, and, most importantly, the students.


Shari Wilson is the pseudonym of an adjunct who has taught at many colleges in California. In a column last month, she wrote about the unintended consquences of the "six year rule" on faculty members who are off the tenure track.


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