Jennifer Jordan

I’ve been doing this thing called advocating for my students. It is exhausting. Here’s how you do it. You learn about some decision that will affect the students at the university where you work. You worry spiral in response to thinking about all the ways this new program will affect both students’ outcomes and the outcomes of a program you have worked so hard to build. Then you cry for a week, and in between sobs, you do research, research, and research. Then you start creating tangible outputs for varied audiences, PowerPoints, letters to the editor, and carefully worded emails. And you send them out. You go to meetings. You cross your fingers.

The program I am trying to spread awareness about at my university is this new flat-rate, automatic textbook billing program scheduled to go into effect in the fall of 2025. To me, it’s the publishing industry’s late-stage capitalistic grab for students’ federal financial aid. To other people, it’s Equitable Access.

In higher ed, the academics who write and research, we have ideals, we value academic freedom, and we value critical thinking. We live on a cerebral plane that starkly contrasts with the business of the institution, and sometimes we miss an important meeting that demanded our attendance or maybe we weren’t invited, and because we weren’t paying attention or we didn’t get the memo or we thought no one would listen to us, the people who sign our boss’s paychecks change the business model. It’s not our fault, but it feels like our fault (I do sometimes feel complicit in my cushy job that allows me the freedom to lament and type). We saw it coming, the corporatization of higher ed, but then we’ll get a 2% raise, and inflation might slow down, and we’ll once again feel grateful for having a job in this economy.

If you can’t tell from my sarcastic tone, I feel hopeless. When I am hopeless, I try to have compassion for myself because I am tired from working in higher education. This place is not normal. If it was a bake shop, they would have the best croissants that sell out minutes before I get there. And every time I walk inside, my shoes stick to the floor, or I see a mouse caught in a trap, or I catch a whiff of the bathroom that reeks of fried dough and urinal cakes, and I think, “This isn’t what I came here for.” But I keep going because I am hopeful, and I think maybe next time, I’ll get that flaky pastry my heart desires.