At dinner at the Grand Canyon, Dad asked me why I was staring at him. “You’re grayer,” I said, not telling him that he reminded me a little of Dustin Hoffman in Death of a Salesman. “I got old,” Dad said. “At my next birthday – I can hardly believe it – I’ll be 69 years old.” Dad remarked that the block we were on had been his territory when he worked for that private investigating firm while he was still in high school.
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Alice decided that she’s going to ask him to move out and go back to his apartment, which he’s sublet all these years. He’s going to be hurt and angry when she tells him, and Alice is going to go through a hard time, too. Six years of living together is a long time, and so much of her life has been wrapped up in his.
You aren’t an adjunct because you aren’t a brilliant teacher, you can’t work full time, or you simply don’t deserve it. You are an adjunct because administrators think that our retention rates will improve with newer computers, prettier hallways, more events, and better courtyards. They think that money is better spent on making the campus snazzy than on giving their teachers a living wage.