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In the following post, I write about my time as an adjunct professor. The title might sound abrupt and professional, but the reality of adjunct teaching is much less polished: you’re paid by the hour, which usually means you’re paid only for the hours your classes meet each semester. It kept me afloat, but it also made finances feel precarious.
I became an adjunct out of necessity while I was in graduate school in New York City. Between tuition, rent, and basic living expenses, my scholarship and support weren’t enough. I needed side income—plain and simple. But looking back, that time ended up being more rewarding than I expected. It wasn’t just about getting by; it became a formative stretch that taught me how to communicate academic ideas to students whose lives and goals weren’t necessarily built around the humanities.
My own educational background was classic liberal arts: humanities, philosophy, the kind of learning you pursue because you love it, surrounded by teachers and classmates who felt the same. Adjunct teaching was different. Many of my students were pursuing concrete credentials—health-related programs, business tracks, accounting certificates. They didn’t come to class thinking, How can philosophy change my life? They came thinking, How can I finish this requirement, get the degree, and improve my situation? That difference mattered. It forced me to ask a hard, useful question: How do you teach ethics, philosophy, epistemology—material that can feel “extra”—to people who are rightly focused on work, family, and survival?
A lot of my students were adults—some older than me—returning to school to earn a certification or an associate’s degree so they could get a promotion, switch careers, or rebuild momentum. Many of them also carried bruises from earlier schooling. You could feel it: skepticism, anxiety, a kind of guardedness around classrooms and teachers. Navigating that—respectfully, patiently, without condescension—became one of the defining challenges of the job.
And then there was the student body itself. Teaching in New York City introduced me to a level of heterogeneity I hadn’t experienced before: students from Eastern Europe, South Asia, China, and a wide range of Black and brown New Yorkers—many of them immigrants or children of immigrants—sitting in the same classroom, bringing different histories, languages, and relationships to school itself.
That contrast made me look back at my own education with new eyes. I grew up in Louisiana in a lower-middle-class family. We weren’t wealthy, but my parents worked full time, we had stability, and we owned our home. I also had grants and scholarships that opened doors. And yet, when I think back, my schooling was overwhelmingly white. In secondary school, I had one teacher who wasn’t white—Ms. Washington—and in college and graduate school I remember very few Black classmates, and no Black professors that I can recall. I’m not saying that for dramatic effect; I’m saying it because it’s clarifying. It points to something structural—how segregation and opportunity still shape who ends up where in the United States.
That’s part of why “diversity initiatives” matter now. They’re trying to correct a longstanding absence, not merely add a decorative layer of representation. But the work is hard because it challenges established norms—who gets access, who gets supported, who belongs in the room.
My time adjuncting in New York City gave me a lived perspective on all of this. It showed me what a truly mixed classroom can look like—and it also showed me how much effort it takes, institutionally and culturally, to make that kind of classroom feel normal everywhere.
