Stages

Leaving academia after three decades

Each time I walk to my front door, I pass the telephone chair that I refurbished. On top of it sits a mug -- impressionistic in feel with pink, yellow, and lavender flowers with a gold handle and rim. The mug arrived in a large box with a selection of fine teas and sugar cubes. It was a surprise to receive it --- one of those gifts that means so much more in gesture than in form.

The package had arrived at a stressful time. I did not fully understand all the emotions I was having due to being on the precipice of a major transition and sensing it at an intuitive level. On one level I knew it was imminent. On another, I thought I could tough it out as I had for the last five years.

I had worked at my institution of higher learning for over 25 years. I had started as a road runner in my early days, spending weeks in Florida in the fall, searching for students who would want to leave the Sunshine State to go to the north Georgia mountains. Many were intrigued, but once I told them the school was a two-year institution, they turned away. After being in that role just a few years, I proceeded to move through the ranks from Institutional Research to Vice President for Planning & Assessment and Assistant Professor of English (more on that later) over the next two decades. In my Vice President role, I worked closely with a small team to move the college from a two-year school to a four year, or Level II, institution. Doing so was no small feat, and the institution became much more desirable for those in and outside of Georgia.

In those years, transitions of leadership occurred, as they do at any organization. With over 25 years in, I hoped that my work would be appreciated, recognized – that I would be the one who held the institutional memory that was quickly eroding with attrition and new hires. Yet soon after the arrival of a new president and provost, I found myself in a stairwell. Literally. My data analyst and I had been moved out of the historical building we had been in for years into a stairwell. The reason I was given was that the marketing department, much larger than institutional research, needed the space. The stairwell was hidden in the building that we moved to. The bottom of the stairwell had an exterior door that remained locked, and the two offices my colleague and I occupied were at the top of the stairwell, behind another locked door. All these locked doors were because the hallway that led to our offices was linked to the IT department. Security reasons. Needless to say, no one ever walked by or dropped in, and the majority of my students had trouble finding my office.

Blow number two came when the provost told me that my salary would be cut by a third, my title would no longer be VP, and that I would have a shortened contract. For the first time in my life, I stood up and walked out of a meeting with a supervisor. After registering my shock and anger, I simply stated I was in no shape to discuss this rationally, and I left. I could see he felt badly about it all, but that did not buffer the feelings I was having.

As I look back, I realize I have been moving through the stages of grief, starting around the time of demotion. I always associated grief and its pain with losing a loved one. What a narrow lens. Obviously, grief arises from a myriad of human situations, from jobs to health to relationships. The stages of grief are messy and non-linear. I stayed in the rage stage for quite a long time. Rage has feeling. It has a focal point, a person or system to be mad at. This rage felt justified, but it was all encompassing, stopping me from viewing my situation from a wider lens. The good thing about rage was that it distracted me from the darkness that was looming – the depression that would intermittently suck the energy out of my being.

Denial was also prevalent. The demotion I received was for “financial reasons” since the institution was facing significant fiscal challenges. Having served on the leadership team, I knew this to be true. Even so, I was angered that I was being singled out to take the hit. I was assured I was not the only one, but there was no way for me to confirm this. I called a lawyer at one point who said I had a case, but I had neither the energy nor desire to drag out a legal suit. I still loved the institution, as I had poured myself into it and was an alumna. I had met my husband there as a student, so the place was more than a job. It was a place where I had experienced positive transformation in my life both as a student and as a young professional. I did not want to stain it.

I denied repeatedly in my head that I was someone that needed to be let go, but my husband finally and very gently told me: they are telling you that they want you to leave, “they” being the president and provost. In their eyes, I had nothing to offer. Maybe they inaccurately assumed I remained loyal to the past president. Maybe they did not like the hard questions I asked. Maybe they had a friend who could do my job for less. I will never know. But I thought I could wait them out. I was denying the writing on the wall. I was not wanted, fair or not fair, and nothing I could do would change it.

When I finally accepted that it was time to go, I began the job search. I paid a ridiculous sum for a service that promised to make my resume “applicant tracking system” friendly. In the meantime, what kept me going was teaching, although relegated to English composition. My preference was creative writing, but I was easily outranked by the full-time creative writing faculty. Enrollment was shrinking, and the department did not need three faculty members teaching creative writing. I tackled English composition by using creative nonfiction essays and poems as reading requirements. From there, students learned the art of close reading and persuasive writing. It gave me pleasure to see some of those students grow in their writing skills, and I always made a connection with at least one or two students who appreciated the readings and our class.

When I was demoted, the provost had tried to sweeten it with a new title: Assistant Professor of English. I am not sure how often this is bestowed upon a part-time faculty member (I assume rarely to never), and it embarrassed me. I am sure those in the English department found me underserving of such, but they still treated me with a kind but distant respect.

Anyone who has ever spent time working at an institution of higher learning knows there is a gap (sometimes an insurmountable gorge) between faculty and staff. The roles are quite different, and it is rare for one to move from staff into a faculty role, and almost unheard of from faculty to move into a staff role. I was both – the proverbial red-headed stepchild who belonged to neither group. This never really phased me, though, since I had felt like the oddball for most of my life. I grew up as the child of a Methodist minister back in the days when ministers moved every two to four years. My father served a rural parish more than once. When I moved into a town where everyone knew one another and/or were related (as we almost always did), I was like a specimen under the microscope. I learned to adapt. Being the hybrid faculty/staff person was a comfortable fit for me. I could solve problems in a unique way than those steeped in their silos. Sometimes this was helpful. But often it was not, since those who were interested in what I had to say seemed few and far between.

In the meantime, I had entered the bargaining stage. If I taught composition long enough, maybe, just maybe, I could ask for an introductory creative writing course to teach. Maybe enrollment would grow, and they would need me to do it! This phase of bargaining transitioned to telling myself that if I did not find a job I liked, I could work at a less-than desirable one until I did. I could do menial work (I loved to garden, maybe the local nursery could use me?), or data entry from home. Maybe transcribe medical records. I entertained these bargains and fantasies because it was nothing short of humiliating to walk around campus, seeing my former colleagues. I had been demoted. They had not. They moved on and never darkened my door. These possible alternate jobs when no interviews were incoming kept me above water.

All that bargaining evaporated the day I decided to check the email in my medical portal – the very portal that had a big red disclaimer stating I was opening the results at my own risk, that I should consider doing so in the presence of my doctor. This was the second time I walked out of an office. It was my office, and I did not tell anyone where I was going. I got in my car, drove home, and shocked my husband with the same news I was digesting: I had breast cancer.

The job search? It came to an abrupt halt. The snippet of good news was a lead on a job in the area that had real potential. This ray of hope dimmed, though, as I assumed the position would be filled by the time I completed surgery and treatment. I began reading voraciously about breast cancer. In my rural town, there were no in-person support groups. I vetted Facebook groups and found a support system with women who had the same type of cancer I did. I learned that cancer falls under the American with Disabilities Act (ADA). The caveat was that one must inform their employer that they have cancer in order not to be discriminated against. In my case, with the obvious desire of the institution to see me leave, it was in my best interest to inform my supervisor. Because discussing my diagnosis easily upset me, I emailed the provost ahead of our scheduled meeting to let him know. I had hoped that by sharing my news through email, we could get right to specifics on how to best identify flextime for surgery and treatment. But when I walked into his office for our meeting, he greeted me with an upbeat hello and asked how I was doing. I sat still for a moment before asking if he had read the email I had sent him earlier. He looked confused. No, he said. He had not had the time.

Prior to my lumpectomy, I chose to take a weekend class at the local folk school just over the state line in western North Carolina. The school offered traditional Appalachian arts (quilting, broom making, dancing, just to name a few) along with other non-Appalachian crafts in a non-competitive setting. I opted for something I had never heard of: sashiko, a Japanese form of decorative stitching. I knew that if I stayed home the weekend prior to my surgery that I would be an anxious basket case. The class would jolt me into paying attention to learning a new skill as opposed to ruminating on “what ifs”. I had learned to sew earlier in life, but never took it up as a serious hobby or pastime. But in this room of women, all of whom were strangers, we learned the history and intricacies of sashiko. Initially used by the Japanese to mend clothing in a decorative way, we were all allowed to select a design, fabric, and thread. I chose navy blue fabric with small cross shapes, and a rich deep orange thread. For two solid days all we did was sit and stitch. The softness of that time, along with the community, was soothing. We talked while we stitched. Women talked about the quilts they had made. They talked about family. They talked about their health, where they were from, artists they admired. At one point mid-Saturday, I let it slip about my diagnosis and upcoming surgery. The room grew silent, but it was not an uncomfortable silence. It was a silence of support and camaraderie. Every woman in that room knew someone who had had breast cancer. A few pulled me aside later in the day to share a positive story or offer a hug or well wishes. That Friday and Saturday of sewing was joyfully distracting and edifying. But when Sunday arrived, I could not make it to class. I was finally facing the inevitable surgery and just wanted to stay home. I sent messages to the teacher and co-teacher and began to prepare for what was next.

The lumpectomy that I opted for was virtually painless. In fact, the adhesive used to cover the wound was more irritating than anything, as I had a dreadful allergic reaction to it. My med school daughter was home, and she helped change my bandage while my husband made meals. My month “off” due to my shortened contract was spent going to radiation each morning, Monday through Friday. In August when the semester started, I had one more week of radiation left. I only missed class when I came down with pneumonitis – a type of pneumonia caused by radiation striking the lung. The pneumonia only added to the exhaustion that radiation causes, yet I slogged on, teaching and performing my administrative role in my stairwell office.

The final blow arrived mid-semester. The provost called me in to tell me he would no longer be my supervisor. Instead, I was being pushed down yet another layer and would be reporting to someone else. At this point, I was numb and entering yet another phase. It was not rage, but instead a healthy anger – an anger that motivated me. I finally accepted that no matter what, my job situation was not going to change. After leaving that meeting, I texted my local contact about the possible job I had found before the cancer diagnosis, Is the job still open? If so, I’d like to apply.

The gift box arrived a couple of days after the surgery. The return label was for a company, not a person, and I had not ordered anything. I opened it up to find a card of well wishes from the women with whom I had spent only two days, sewing tiny decorative stitches. They wished me well in my recovery, and the box had a beautiful mug with teas and fancy sugar cubes. The kindness of these women overwhelmed me. They had heard me. They had understood my fear and shared it. They had their own issues to deal with, but took the time to pool their money and give a gift to a woman they had just met and would likely never see again. My heart still grows soft when I look at that mug, and it is why I put it in the entry way of my home.

Until now, I had not linked my sashiko class to my next iteration of creativity. Even though I am a poet, words were not what I turned to as I healed, and continue to heal, from the experience of cancer and ending a career of almost 30 years. Initially, I began to hand sew pieces of fabric together with no plan. I made small snippets of things. I mailed them to friends and acquaintances. I received encouragement. I did not measure or use a pattern when sewing. I was more interested in the organic, in the surprise of patterns or shapes when not planned. I wanted to know how to make my small organic creations larger. I wanted to learn more about the craft of quilting – terms, techniques. As I did with cancer, I found community through an online platform led by a renowned improvisational or “modern” quilter. My skills have grown. My textile art helps me heal. It allows me to see that there are unchartered and unexpected paths to fulfillment. When I get stuck or the design or project is not going as well, I remind myself to keep going. Because each time I do not give up, I learn something new.

For those who are curious, I also got that new job – the position had not been filled, and after an interview, it was mine. I was able to leave the college on my own terms as opposed to being pushed further and further out on that cliff. I emailed my resignation letter with a dash of glee, knowing that at some point grief would continue to descend upon me. However, I know that I will move through it more aware and a tiny bit wiser. The messiness of life is like the two massive bags of fabric scraps I have – once I begin to sort through them and see the potential and beauty that starts to seep through when the right fabrics meet, I know that I can create something out of disorder. Art and life mirror one another, and art can heal the pains of being human. My art is like the mug that I was gifted; it is a beautiful, purposeful thing that provides sustenance, and I am grateful.

Note: This essay was first published in Feels Blind Literary Review. Since publication, the review seems to no longer exist.