Back-to-School for the Rest of Us
Every semester is a premiere. Some of us still rewrite the script.
This week is opening week. Back to school. After a week of rain and grey skies, I’ve started adding an extra shot of coffee to my morning ritual just to offset the dismal outlook of starring in the adjunct sitcom. I’m pacing around my apartment like a nervous wedding DJ, checking my gear, wondering if the mic will cut out, if the playlist (slides) will bomb, or if I’ll just sweat through my one groovy-looking “teaching” shirt in under 10 minutes.
Every September I tell myself it’ll be different—that I’ll stride in like a seasoned pro. Instead, I hover backstage in my head, fussing over the wrong things: which marker works, whether my backpack makes me look like a middle-aged grad student, whether my slides scream “strategy” or “PowerPoint hostage note.” It’s slapstick theater, and I’m both the cast and the cleanup crew.
Yet most people treat “back to school” like it’s brushing their teeth—autopilot. The tenured professors? Paid salary. Same classroom, same jokes, same 15-year-old slides that could qualify for pension. Admin staff? Another Monday in sensible shoes. Students? They drag themselves in like it’s parole, except the freshmen, still high on freedom and cafeteria sugar.
But for adjunct faculty like me, it’s different. It’s theater. A one-man show where opening night happens every single semester. No stale decks. No phoning it in. I spent my summer rewriting slides like a caffeinated playwright, rebuilding my Notion manual (80 pages, 60,000 words, diagrams, and at least thirteen regrettable puns). It’s part lesson plan, part treasure map.
This week I’ll step into class like a Michelin chef presenting a dish for the first time, hoping nobody sends it back. I want my students surprised, jolted awake, nudged into thinking harder than they have all year.
And yes, oddly, I still buy a new backpack. Every year. It’s my ritual. My talisman. Like being eight again with box-fresh sneakers, ready to strut into the unknown. Curious? This year’s it’s Patagonia (of course) Micro MLC.
Because here’s the thing: every fresh start feels like walking onstage, curtain about to rise, not knowing if the audience will clap, cough, or just scroll TikTok under the desk. I’m the actor who still worries about tripping over the cables, sweating through the wrong shirt, or forgetting the punchline to my own joke. And honestly, without the applause—without those moments when students actually lean in—adjuncts don’t come back.
For me, that’s back-to-school: equal parts adrenaline, self-doubt, and fresh stationery smell. It’s the feeling that keeps me in the game—and makes me wish the rest of the campus felt it too.