Enthusiasm don't pay the bills, son!

On occasion, I’m asked to talk to certain organizations or groups of students or writers about my life. More specifically, I’m asked to talk about the content of my writing, primarily the seeming dichotomy of being who I am. And usually there’s a Q & A afterward, a set aside amount of time that generally is characterized by questions about the stripper job.

“Do you find yourself growing irritated at men because of the job?”

“How did you start doing it?”

“Who in your life knows about the job, and from whom do you keep it secret?”

There are elements of my life that I’m so accustomed to, I forget that people might find it interesting or unusual.  I've been doing a curious amount of interviews lately as a result of some of the talks I've given. And I’m noticing that the question I’m least often asked, or least often asked to elaborate on is this: “If you’re a professor, why are you also a dancer?” That whole element of my life is sort of overlooked for the juicier, and admittedly probably more intriguing, details of the stripper job. What bothers me is that the conversation I feel like we should be having, if there needs to be a conversation about me in the first place, is why DO I have to have both jobs?

I almost never reveal my daytime identity at the nighttime job. Largely it’s because I feel entitled to some semblance of privacy. But also, if the idea of privacy weren't in the foreground, I know that the truth about my academic life in the context of the strip club is almost unbelievable. I could make up the most asinine bullshit—I was born into a family of Irish travelers and I grew up in an RV, I’m a folk artist who makes lawn furniture out of discarded silverware, blah blah blah—and people buy it by the cartload. But the truth is far less believable, and so even if I felt compelled to tell it, no one would believe me anyway. The Cassandra Complex.

Here is the answer to the question I want to be asked: In name, yes, I am a professor of African-American Literature and English Composition. That sounds impressive, perhaps, inspiring thoughts of tweed jackets with leather elbow patches, and days spent in grand lecture halls, or quietly book-buried in an office behind a stout oak desk. But that’s not true for 76% of college professors. Yes, 76%, over three-quarters of American college/university faculty are adjuncts. Sometimes institutions dress the names up: part-time, continuing part-time, voting adjunct, etc. but ultimately the names define the same occupational status: higher education untouchable.

I teach two courses nearly every semester [sometimes it’s three, occasionally it is shaved down to one]and I am paid per course. I receive no benefits, no sick leave, no retirement or pension, no funding for professional development, no sabbatical, no real voice in administrative decisions regarding curriculum or course scheduling. There are semesters when my courses get cut, and therefore, my pay is suddenly halved without warning. I pay for my own parking. My gross income from teaching topped out last year at around $16,000. And honestly, that’s pretty spectacular adjunct pay. I have friends at other institutions who’ve worked the same hours for far less. All that said, I think a more colorful illustration to describe my work in academia is this: it costs more to board and ride a horse at Stephens than it does to pay my salary. That’s not an exaggeration. I just added up the fees. And don’t even get me started on what my students pay in tuition, room & board, technology fees. That number would likely pay my salary four-fold.

Since the economic crash of 2008 [coincidentally, the year I entered graduate school, partially at the behest of the former VP of Academic Affairs at my institution] 40% of full-time jobs in academia have been permanently eliminated. Simply put, there are no new jobs for MFA’s or Ph.D.’s available. When they do become available, the influx of applicants for a single position is gargantuan. If I were to quit, seek a non-academic job, I sever ties to my institution, limiting my likelihood of ever teaching again. And honestly, aside from the embarrassingly low pay, I really love teaching. I blush with joy when I get to share information with students. My enthusiasm is palpable in my literature classes. I don’t want to give up teaching; I would just like to think that it holds some value in the broader sense. Joy and enthusiasm don’t pay the bills, son.

Moreover, when I watch the money generated by academic institutions via tuition, sporting events, alumni donation get funneled into bigger buildings, posh furnishings, more bricks, more mortar instead of toward the development and maintenance of faculty, I wonder what the hell college is even for anymore. When the highest paid employee in the state of Missouri is the Mizzou football coach [or maybe it’s the basketball coach . . . either way, they both make more than our governor] meanwhile, I’m wondering how I’ll make it if one of my courses doesn’t fill and has to be cut, thereby cutting my already paltry salary in half. And don’t give me that old shenanigans about how sports generate money for the institution, so it’s crucial to hire the best, yada yada – shut up! I get it. I understand the commercial and economic factors behind this decision making. But ultimately, or at least historically, don’t people go to college to learn? Doesn’t anyone want to know stuff anymore? And why are faculty and faculty positions the first on the chopping block when it’s time to trim the fat? Something is wrong when 76% of faculty is paid as poorly as I am, while the football coach is a millionaire.

[Likewise, something is wrong when my husband, an active-duty member of the USMC is paid a dismal fraction of the annual salary of an average NFL player, but that’s a rant for another time.]

This is why I’m still a stripper on the weekends, folks. Because I make in a weekend what Stephens pays me in a month. That’s not braggartism, but a testament to exactly how poverty-level consistent my academic pay is. And this isn’t a condemnation of Stephens, but an observation of the larger institutional shift from focus on education to focus on commercial/financial gain. Colleges became businesses instead of idea spaces long before I entered the academic world, but the disparity between the learning part and the business part stretches, an ever-growing chasm, far from the original intent.

The weekend job isn't an exploratory gig for me, not an endeavor in immersion journalism, not an outlet for exhibitionism nor a therapeutic space for me to investigate sexuality. It’s a god damned job, like schlepping drinks, like busing tables, like cleaning office buildings, like retail . . . all of those jobs that supplement the lowly adjunct’s pay. I’m just getting by, just like everyone else.

These are the things I see, friends, from my figurative periscope, deep in the hot trenches. Lately in some ways, my written observations are taking on a life of their own, shaping the path ahead of me, which is terrifying and thrilling at the same time, but I can’t stop telling the truth about my experience. It’s probably because I’m getting older, and don’t give a shit what people think anymore. If people are going to hold court on my being a stripper, but not issue judgment on why anyone has to work as much or as hard as I do just to make ends meet, then they’re assholes I wouldn't associate with anyway. Also, I’m learning people seem to feel good about reading what I write, and the feedback has been overwhelming and inspiring. On days when both jobs make me feel like a slave to my own reality, the writing gig, this thing we writers do, fulfills me in ways no occupation can and I’m grateful for all of the amazing people who've written to me upon reading a post that has resonated with them in some way. So thanks for reading, guys. And thanks for being human beings, which I’m discovering is the most challenging job of them all.

A Few Remarks

I was asked yesterday in an interview whether or not I would call myself [or my multi-faceted lifestyle, at least] exceptional or if I would call it remarkable. The question gave me pause, because initially the words seem relatively interchangeable, synonymous with noteworthy, interesting, unique. But ultimately the query has led me to this conclusion: to call me exceptional is to say that I am somehow an exception to some rule. The notion is that because I have all of these variant facets of life all running concurrently at once, I am somehow more significant than other people whose lives intersect with mine. The idea suggests that although I’m a stripper, being an academic and a writer makes me somehow more acceptable than the other women who, for varied reasons, also work at a nudie bar. This is bullshit. I’m not exceptional. To say I am is to say that all those other women are not exceptional, thereby suggesting they are less than or equal to what society expects a stripper is or is not.

To call me exceptional is to say that I am not one of them. It also suggests that the women I work with must live lives consistent with the largely-conflated stereotypes surrounding the industry. You know that old song: drug-addled sluts from broken homes who survived a sexually-traumatic childhood only to be forced to seek positive affirmation through sexual exhibition straight out of a Mötley Crüe video. Come on, now. Aren't we grown-ups, yet? The whole idea makes me defensive for every other gal I've had the pleasure of working with. To say I’m an exceptional stripper is like saying to a black person ‘I don’t really like black people, but you’re exceptional, you’re better, you’re not one of those . . .”

Likewise, while I would agree that my life is remarkable, I might also argue that EVERYONE has a remarkable life, especially if you’re really good at telling a story. My life is remarkable because I have the skills to make remarks that people find interesting. But that doesn't suggest that my life is somehow better than or more acceptable than the lives of my coworkers. I think my friend Jill is god dammed remarkable because she’s the only person I know who has managed to successfully pull-off every single Pinterest craft, recipe, party-inspiration she’s ever attempted. It’s fucking awe-inspiring! And I occasionally find myself wishing I could be more like her in that respect. Does that make her an exceptional stripper? No. Does it make her remarkable? Yes, because I just remarked.

What this really boils down to is that every human being is remarkable. Those whose lives seem mundane are remarkable if you turn the picture the right way, if you artfully craft the words that shape their memoir.