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Food for thought

Is there "life after tenure" after all? The Voice of Latina Scholars

10/27/2018

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Just a few years ago, one of my female friends, Magda, called me at my office to share the news that she had been anxiously waiting for in the last few months. “I got tenure!” she shouted. “We knew you would!” I hollered back over the speakerphone just before we began franticly chatting, and interrupting each other, while setting a plan for an upcoming celebration on her behalf. As the daughter of a farm worker from Central America, Magda embodied the epitome of the American Dream by becoming the first in her family to obtain a college degree, with honors, followed by a PhD with distinction from an Ivy League University. By the time she defended her dissertation, Magda had acquitted a remarkable curriculum vitae that included a couple of peer-reviewed papers published in high-ranked journals in her discipline. Soon after her graduation, I was not surprised to learn that she had landed a tenure-track job at a well-reputed urban university.

Magda’s early achievements are even more remarkable given the fact that her field, the humanities, has become one of the most precarious in the academic world—among the ones with the lowest rates of tenure track job opportunities in the United States (U.S.) As the only Latina scholar in her department, Magda soon became the sought-after instructor by a seemingly endless supply of students from under-represented groups, mostly first and second-generation Latinos. Still, she managed to skillfully balance her teaching and service obligations, keeping research and writing as her top priorities. This was also possible due to a generous start-up package that included teaching releases and a paid research assistant. By the end of her six year on the tenure clock, Magda had amassed an impressive record of publications, had secured a few impressive grants, and counted on very good student evaluations.

 A few months after the phone conversation recounted above, I bumped into Magda at an academic meeting and asked her the seemingly rhetorical question of how life was “after tenure.”  To my dismay, her face turned grim. “What happened? “ I asked. She replied by mimicking her Chair’s verbatim remarks: “Well, now you can start rolling your sleeves up and begin working for us.” In plain English, it was time for Magda to become in charge of key administrative tasks and a higher teaching load. So did she. In the years following her tenure, Magda took under her wing dozens of undergraduate students and sat on several cross-department committees that demanded countless hours of invisible work—including chairing the division’s curriculum committee. She even became a senate delegate and spent much of her summers, for little extra pay, taking care of other administrative tasks including supervising adjuncts’ work.

As per department’s request, Magda did not to take a sabbatical leave which, added to her already busy schedule, ended up hurting her scholarly productivity. By the end of Magda’s decade-long professoriate career, her once promising book on nineteen-century women writers in South America, a sinequanon requirement for her being promoted to full professor, was still in the trenches. Magda needed to be promoted not just for the sake of academic recognition but for a much more pedestrian reason: money! Being her household’s breadwinner, a promotion to full professor would give a much needed  salary raise as she had been lately struggling to keep up with her family’s increasing financial woes that included supporting, by now, her two pre-teen children.

Magda (a pseudonym in this article) does not represent just a woman but many. Her trajectory epitomizes hundreds of similar ones we all have heard about and read about—as the ones reported by the Chronicle—and that reflect a phenomenon that has become quite pervasive in academia: once you are tenured your “protective” status is over. This is even more the case among women of color, as Magda, who for obvious and subtle reasons face numerous barriers for career advancement, including the fact that are often expected to do more (and better) than their white peers. According to the National Center for Education Statistics, Hispanic females represent about 1% of the total number of full professors in the U.S., with nearly to 90% of full-time professors being white.  https://nces.ed.gov/fastfacts/display.asp?id=61
​

Although the life of assistant professors is paved by anxiety and uncertainties, there are certain privileges set in motion that guard their research and writing time. Assuming that they are seen as collegial (AKA: liked by the chair and key department members) during their pre-tenured years, most untenured scholars will be—one way or another—shielded from onerous service obligations and extra-curricular activities. In several public universities, such as the City University of New York, where I teach, my untenured colleagues received, during their first years on the job, a generous a union-based package of teaching release credits, and have access to mentoring programs such as the Faculty Fellowship Publication Program and the Mellon foundation-based faculty development grants.

Nevertheless, the goodies that come with an untenured status tend to disappear as soon as the “permanent position” letter gets into the lucky faculty member’s mailbox. The institutional fence that may keep junior faculty away from engaging with heavy teaching and service obligations may come back with a revenge once they become permanent stuff members – meaning tenured. Following the fate of the “terminal associate” as reported in the Chronicle https://www.chronicle.com/article/Terminal-Associate-Professors/145537, the hurdles associate scholars face to joining the full professorship rank have become even more pervasive in institutional scenarios plagued by under-stuffed departments, dwindling resources and the seemingly hemorrhagic reduction of tenure track lines. All these factors have resulted into growing administrative responsibilities that keep falling on tenured professors’ laps. Shrinking budgets had made associate professors multi-taskers whose abilities to juggle among endless chores parallels the mounting footraces they encounter to build their publication and research portfolios.
Fortunately, some institutions, including CUNY, are taking the lead in helping their associate professors claim the promotion ladder. These include mentorship programs, career workshops and fellowship leaves (including sabbatical at lower salary reductions than before) aimed at “promoting to promote” a seemingly stuck army of associated professors. The fact is that having an army of “associate” professors not only may represent a financial hurdle for faculty members but a red flag for an institution. Universities need a certain number of full professors able to run departments, serve in high-level committees, keep their reputations afloat and mentor the younger.
As per Magda’s current prospectus, she has lately been seriously considering applying for one of her University’ incentives for promotion and is planning to request a semester leave to get back to, by now, her promising, albeit dusty, book prospectus. Reflecting on her trajectory, she recently told me: “Being untenured was not a bad thing after all!”



​THE MAGIC BOX 
Originally published at: https://ffpp.commons.gc.cuny.edu/2018/02/24/making-the-magic-box-visible-by-a-viladrich/
During my recent promotion process, I began using the term “magic box” to describe the actual storage container, several in my case, that faculty members must use to report their scholarly productivity, teaching and service when applying for either tenure or promotion, or both. On multiple occasions, I had heard about the need to file hard copies of all academic materials, which would then be scrutinized by diverse tenure and promotion committees throughout the application process. Nevertheless, I was still not sure of what the actual box should look like—so that was how the term “magic box” came into existence. I thereafter began to use it to vaguely name an object that I knew would be needed throughout the promotion process, and that I knew would have the power to change the odds in my favor (despite the fact that I still was not quite certain about what was supposed to go in it). Lo and behold, I discovered that I was not alone.
Although most faculty members keep a careful record of their multi-tasking activities—including a well formatted and up-to-date curriculum vitae—not all of us are aware of the need to routinely collect detailed “evidence” of our daily academic routines and contributions. And by “evidence” I mean anything, and everything, that can eventually be considered a sound record of our itemized achievements: from a formal letter confirming a book award and an approved budget for an NSF grant, to an e-mail from an editor thanking us for reviewing an article.
Given the fact that standards differ across universities, colleges, divisions, programs—and that they even change within departments over time—there isn’t a one-size-fits-all rule when it comes to showing evidence of our productivity and service. In some divisions, copies of a slideshow of an important keynote presentation can strengthen a candidate’s record, but in others, these materials may be considered superfluous.
While doing my own “bean counting” to update my scholarly feats, I realized that I had not been keeping and filing all the materials that appeared in my C.V., and actually found many important things that were missing. A regrettable example of this was the fact that although I had received early promotion (to associate professor) at my former institution, I did not have any material evidence to prove it. Subsequently, I quickly turned into a sort of “scholarly detective” and began searching franticly—and finding one by one—all of my missing records, including a form from my former institution’s human services office, which confirmed my early promotion.
Today, I secretly cherish my three huge “magic boxes” that remain piled on top of each other in a corner of my office. They are the material proof of my—by now—long trajectory in the academic world. Even if painful, the exercise of making the boxes visible forced me to become accountable to myself, and others, with respect to the enormous amount of work, and resulting accomplishments, I have amassed throughout the years. Although the physical box will hopefully soon been replaced by faculty’s electronic files—as is already the case at most CUNY colleges—its symbolic meaning will probably remain for years to come.
 
 
 
 
 

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August 31st, 2017

8/31/2017

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Trump and Immigration by Judith Freidenberg y Anahí Viladrich ~ Published by "Pescado Fresco" ~ https://pescadofrescoblog.wordpress.com/

Donald Trump y sus decisiones sobre inmigración. Racismo y xenofobia: el espíritu de época Publicado el 31 agosto, 2017 por pescadofrescoblog

Donald Trump inauguró su mandato presidencial en enero de 2017 con un decreto que prohibía el ingreso a Estados Unidos de personas provenientes de siete países musulmanes, a saber: Irán, Iraq, Sudan, Siria, Libia, Somalía y Yemen. Curiosamente, Arabia Saudita, país con el cual Trump ha mantenidvo (y mantiene aún) numerosos y muy lucrativos negocios, no figuraba en la lista del denominado travel ban (que podría traducirse como prohibición de viaje). Este dato es aún más llamativo si recordamos que los ejecutores de los atentados del 11 de septiembre de 2001 (que incluyeron el ataque a las torres gemelas en Nueva York) provenían de Arabia Saudita, Egipto, los Emiratos Árabes y el Líbano. Ese primer decreto de Trump fue prontamente repudiado por numerosos sectores políticos y de la sociedad civil, y a la fecha (agosto de 2017) su aplicación se halla suspendida debido a las intervenciones de varios jueces que han impugnado su implementación.

Entre las medidas ejecutivas más significativas implementadas por Trump cabe mencionar el decreto sobre seguridad de las fronteras (Border Security and Immigration Enforcement Improvements) que establece la construcción de una muralla que separe física y tajantemente a Estados Unidos de México e incrementa los recursos para ampliar la vigilancia y el control de las personas que ingresan al país. En los últimos meses, Trump ha repetido hasta el cansancio que el gobierno de México tiene la obligación de pagar la construcción de la muralla, lo cual ha tensionado aun más las relaciones diplomáticas entre ambos países. Al mismo tiempo, se crearon nuevas cárceles destinadas a niños y madres que han ingresado a Estados Unidos escapando de la escalada de violencia que azota varios países centroamericanos, entre ellos Honduras, Guatemala y El Salvador. Mientras se tramitan sus solicitudes de asilo (y se decide si se los reconoce como refugiados o no), los niños, niñas y sus madres permanecen “alojados” en estos centros de detención. Según el Pew Research Center, en el año 2015 residían en Estados Unidos 11 millones de personas indocumentadas, 8 millones de las cuales trabajaban. Es importante subrayar que no todos los inmigrantes “sin papeles” son aquellos que cruzan irregularmente la frontera hacia Estados Unidos. Un gran porcentaje de la población indocumentada suele ingresar al país legalmente y luego permanece una vez caducada la visa respectiva o el permiso legal de residencia. También es menester señalar que existe una discrepancia significativa entre los discursos que ponen en circulación muchos políticos y medios de comunicación y la realidad respecto de quiénes son las personas indocumentadas. 

Contrario a la creencia popular, el número de inmigrantes mexicanos en los EE.UU. ha ido disminuyendo en favor de la población centroamericana y de la proveniente de Asia. Otra importante medida auspiciada por Trump ha consistido en profundizar la seguridad interna (Interior Enforcement) en contra de las “ciudades santuarios”, llamadas así porque protegen a los inmigrantes (sea cual fuere su estatus legal) y se niegan a cooperar con las fuerzas policiales federales que promueven la detención, encarcelamiento y deportación de los migrantes indocumentados. Las ciudades autodenominadas “santuarios” incluyen grandes metrópolis —Nueva York, Los Ángeles y Chicago— y urbes más pequeñas a lo largo y ancho del país. Como respuesta a su negativa de “denunciar” a inmigrantes indocumentados, Trump ha castigado a esas ciudades recortando su financiamiento y su acceso a fondos federales para salud, educación y programas y servicios básicos. Los decretos ejecutivos mencionados en los párrafos anteriores indican claramente que el gobierno de los EE.UU. se ha apartado de los principios constitucionales que definían al país como una nación de inmigrantes, dispuesta a acoger a todos aquellos que decidieran vivir en ella y a quienes llegaran allí en busca de refugio. Los abusos a los derechos humanos y el desconocimiento de los derechos civiles y sociales de los inmigrantes en los EE.UU. parecieran expresar el mismo espíritu de época (un espíritu xenófobo, securitista y policial, sin dudas) que late detrás del Decreto de Necesidad y Urgencia 70/2017 que aprobara Argentina en enero y de muchos de los mensajes que recorrieron la reciente campaña electoral en Francia o durante el Brexit. II.

Por último, queremos referirnos a la Acción Diferida para los inmigrantes que hayan ingresado a los EE.UU. siendo menores de edad (DACA, Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals), promulgada en 2012 por el ex-Presidente Barack Obama con el objetivo de beneficiar a grupos específicos de inmigrantes indocumentados. Este decreto, cuya vigencia debe ratificarse cada dos años, buscó mitigar las demandas de grupos progresistas—incluidas las organizaciones de inmigrantes—que buscaban la aprobación de una ley nacional (conocida como Dream Act) que garantizara la legalidad de quienes hubieran llegado al país siendo menores de edad, es decir: por decisión de sus padres y no por decisión propia y no hubieran logrado regularizar su permanencia.

​A la fecha, aproximadamente 750.000 personas han sido incluidas en el Programa DACA. Sin embargo, aún son muchos los jóvenes indocumentados que no han sido beneficiados con dicha medida. Algunos, porque no presentaron la solicitud por temor a las posibles represalias que pudieran sufrir sus familias, que incluyen integrantes indocumentados tales como sus propios padres. Otros, porque no pueden cumplir los numerosos requisitos que exige el programa. Para ser elegibles, los jóvenes debían ser menores de 31 años al 15 de junio de 2012, haber entrado a los Estados Unidos antes de cumplir 16 años de edad, haber residido continuamente en dicho país desde el 15 de junio de 2007, haberse encontrado físicamente presentes el 15 de junio de 2012 y al momento de presentar la solicitud. Además, deben abonar una cifra onerosa (US$ 495) cuando se solicita el permiso y cada vez que se renueva. Deben también concurrir a la escuela, haberse graduado u obtenido un certificado de finalización de estudios secundarios o poseer un Certificado de Desarrollo de Educación General (GED). También deben probar no haber cometido delito alguno (ni siquiera uno menor) y que no representan una amenaza para la seguridad nacional o pública. Pequeñas infracciones tales como una violación de tránsito o tirar papeles en la calle serían razones suficientes para ser detenidos y deportados.

Al día de la fecha, los jóvenes de origen mexicano constituyen tres cuartas partes de la población que se ha beneficiado con el DACA. Durante su campaña electoral, Trump sostuvo que eliminaría dicho programa, que beneficia a quienes son popularmente conocidos como “soñadores” o dreamers. Si bien el mismo aún no ha sido cancelado, el presidente y su gabinete han sido ambiguos respecto a su futuro. En las próximas elecciones legislativas, previstas para noviembre de 2018, veremos si los votantes estadounidenses premiarán o castigarán la mirada xenófoba y racista que atenta contra la posibilidad de darle cabida a los millones de inmigrantes “sin papeles” que trabajan día a día para construir un futuro auspicioso para ellos y sus familias en los Estados Unidos.

Judith Freidenberg y Anahí Viladrich, 31 de agosto de 2017

 
 

 

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Dealing with Post-Traumatic Trump Disorder 

3/6/2017

3 Comments

 
In progress...
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3 Comments

Surviving Rejection ~ February 15th, 2017

2/15/2017

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On “Surviving” Rejection ~ CUNY Academic Commons
 https://ffpp.commons.gc.cuny.edu/2017/02/14/on-surviving-rejection/​


As a mentor for the Faculty Fellowship Publication Program (FFPP) for the third year now, one of the recurring themes that keeps coming up in my groups is how to handle rejection. And although by “rejection” we may mean different things, the underlying question that our colleagues often ask is how to deal with rejection without taking it personally and in a non-emotional, objective way — so they can tackle whatever changes need to be made to their written pieces and move on.


The meritocratic ethos of the academic system makes us believe that if we work hard enough, play by the rules and do what we are asked, our lofty commitment (and sacrifices) to scholarly excellence will be acknowledged and, consequently, our jobs will be secured and the desired funding awarded. Unfortunately, that is no longer how academia works: the ongoing cuts to federal grants and the increasing pressure to publish — along with the backlash in the academic market — means that the scholarly cake has become smaller, while the number of those hungry for a piece of it keeps getting larger. Grant agencies and reputable publications are receiving many more submissions than they can possibly fund. Journals like “Nature,” as an example, currently reject more than 90% of submissions.


Not surprisingly, being rejected has many concrete effects in people’s lives and often feels deeply personal. To put it simply: Rejections sting and are either openly or secretly painful to many of us. And in my experience you can’t deal with rejection by just repeating the mantra “it’s not personal” over and over again. Indeed, quite the opposite is true: rejection feels personal because its effects can be devastating to one’s future career. After months of working hard on a grant application, a letter of rejection may lead to a frenzied panic — this may be the case for assistant professors going up for tenure as well as for senior colleagues who are counting on key external funding that will allow them to keep their laboratories and postdoctoral mentees afloat. Rejection is personal because being denied a fellowship leave may mean not being able to travel overseas to collect the precious archival data required to finish a book manuscript, just in time for the tenure application. Or it may mean not getting the invaluable release time that could lead to finishing a competitive grant before its deadline. Rejection is personal because all those weeks and months we spent working on a long project — often in isolation— meant taking time away from our families and kids, our friends and hobbies. And rejection is personal because, either openly or secretly, our academic egos are supported by the principle that our core self-worth is intrinsically dependent on the acceptance of our peers.


At the FFPP, we talk about learning how to perfect the scholarly craft of handling rejection, but we also open up about how rejection aches and how important it is to allow ourselves time to grieve and share our frustration, and get encouragement from people we trust. To that end, we are working on building a network of peer reviewers that will collectively contribute to creating a healthy community of scholars. We aim at developing strategies to enrich our intellectual and emotional lives with a view towards welcoming rejection letters as “just another day on the job” that will eventually lead to our articles and grant proposals being accepted — without hurting ourselves emotionally along the way. In fact, it is not just by learning to separate our academic work from our personal selves that we will become stronger fighters against the perils of academic rejection. It is by enriching our lives with “intellectual soul mates,” within safe and enriching spaces, that the pains of rejection are eventually turned into success.
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