The problem with "Fuck-off John" stories is that they're too bloody long.
Academia and I are an uneasy fit. Culturally, we're too far apart. The problem is uninteresting and complicated, but it boils down to this: each party thinks it's doing the other a tremendous favor, and only one of us is right.
Adjunct faculty positions in English departments are prized. True, they're prized by the otherwise unemployable, but they're prized nonetheless. And thus are departments accustomed to treating adjuncts as shoddily as they like and having these folks beg for more abuse. The departments are doing these people a favor by hiring them, because otherwise they'd be selling their bodies or, more likely, their body organs.
And then there's me. I had already established my career when the university approached me about teaching. I turned down lucrative work in order to teach. The tiny stipend I received barely covered the $1500 in gas, ferries, and parking it cost me to teach each quarter. At its most expensive, teaching one quarter cost me $19,000 in lost income and expenses. Meanwhile, the investment in time was enormous. Each of the forty one-way trips to took me five hours. That's twenty hours a week on the road, folks, for a "job" that hemorrhaged my money and made me use a park-and-ride for the final few miles of my already ghastly commute. At my own expense, of course. I'm not complaining, mind you; I wanted to teach, to give back. I love the kids. But yes, I very much viewed teaching as charity work—every bit as much as the thousands of dollars in software I donated to the department's labs.
Therein lies the culture clash. The English Department was perpetually unsatisfied with how I conducted this enormous, expensive favor. And I was appalled by being treated like I was damned lucky to be performing it.
A few weeks after Spring Quarter ended, one Ms. Metzker, the associate chair of the department, wrote to scold me for not submitting my evaluation materials. I replied that this was the first I'd heard of such a thing. She said that she'd put a packet in my mailbox "some time ago." This seemed unlikely, as after my last Thursday afternoon class—before I'd left town for the quarter—I'd checked my mailbox one last time.
"When were the materials placed in my mailbox—after my last class meeting?"
"I put the notice in during the last week of classes," she evaded, likely meaning 11:59pm Friday. Suddenly, it felt like I was dealing with the student who has his late assignment routed across the International Date Line, then argues that this makes it on time. Her request was made all the more absurd by the unlikelihood of my arranging for a student survey, faculty observer, etc. after my last class had been conducted.
Up until this point, the exchange was merely annoying in the manner that all of my interactions with academic twinkies are annoying. Then Metzger overplayed her hand: "Advise on when you can provide these materials. Usually reappointment can not proceed until the letter of evaluation is submitted."
I had just been slimed for the last time.
"I'm excited by the prospect of not being reappointed. I'll opt for that," read my entire reply.
And thus did I dissolve a seven-year relationship with the university.
A simple "thank you" would have sufficed. It's a pity that those entrusted with teaching our kids about rhetorical analysis and critical thought are themselves so utterly incapable of practicing it.