It was a contemplative walk from my flat in Islington towards the Curzon Bloomsbury cinema. The August sunshine had not quite taken the chill out of the air as I weaved through the tranquil back streets of Barnsbury, then down by the side of the canal, where the water and light combined to create an almost perfect mirror, before reaching the somewhat self-conscious concrete spaciousness of Coal Drops Yard. I strolled across the elevated concourse, where kids, watched over by their parents, were already joyfully cooling off in water fountains. I joined the flow of people heading down towards King’s Cross, where the throng of London late morning envelops me; takeaway coffee and bustling intention filling the air. I crossed the main road in front of the British Library onto Judd Street and straight down to Brunswick, where Curzon sits in all its brutalist resplendence.
I often make this walk. To watch a film, of course, but also to take advantage of the terrace looking out over Brunswick Square Garden—a nice place to think and write with a balance of calm serenity but a definite sense of being in the active world.
I came here to write this first blog in a new series about a big life change.
Yesterday was my last day in my current position as Course Leader of an undergraduate film degree. It may be my last day as an academic in the institutionally employed sense of the word.
It was pretty uneventful: deleting files and handing in my computer. Most staff were on holiday, a few handshakes, thanks, and I was off. I’m not one for ceremonial leaving events. I handed in my notice in May, so I’ve had plenty of time to reckon with the idea of, officially, not being an employed academic.
Today, the day after, is a moment I’ve contemplated for some time. Would I feel any different?
In some ways, a weight has been lifted. I’d come to a point of reckoning, particularly with this current role, where something had to change. A weight of internal pressure had built over many months. I’d had several bouts of illness. I’ve found it hard to shrug off a perennial lethargy, which is partly physical but manifests in demotivation. I know I’ve been bad-tempered and had lost the ability to switch off, to compartmentalise work and life. I’d put things aside that I enjoyed doing.
As the spring term progressed, the thought of starting another September cycle had begun to fill me with dread.
But I’m also sad. I don’t actually want to leave academia; I still believe in the necessity of higher education in the broadest sense, but “the university” as the space that enacts its ideals is what I’ve come to question.
I’m finding this tricky to write. I have a lot to say but, as usual, structuring my thoughts on the page is hampered by a nagging reluctance to overshare or to feel like I’m whinging. I’m trying to refrain from grandiose statements of intent. I need to trust in a more stream-of-consciousness process.
I’ve left my academic job without another one to go to. Many people quit jobs, many people change jobs, so I don't want to overstate this decision with too much hyperbole. On a personal level though, it's pretty momentous, not to mention exciting and thoroughly anxiety-inducing. I’m from a working-class background, and summarily quitting without absolute clarity of where your next paycheck is coming from is something that was drilled out of me in my formative years. That sense of aversion to economic uncertainty doesn’t just come from class distinction. It derives from the ingrained experiential knowledge of the time, work, and struggle (in relative terms) it took to get into the Ivory Tower.
It's difficult to express succinctly what my decision means in the long term. I remember crying, not with satisfaction, but with relief when I got the call telling me I’d been hired for my first full-time university job. This was back in 2011. I’d been part-time, effectively on zero-hours contracts, for seven years.
But I’ll save the detail of my formative “journey” as an academic for another entry. Suffice it to say, like many of my colleagues and friends, I define the academic life not just as a job, but as a vocation and, indeed, the core of my identity. Which is why this decision is not just a pragmatic one. It also requires an examination of who I think I am.
This decision has had a long gestation period. Like many colleagues in academia (so it seems), I’ve been fighting a gradual disillusionment. This derives from a variety of factors which I’ll only scratch the surface of here but probably can be boiled down to three interrelated elements:
A questioning of my own desires and motivations as I wade through a familiar mid-life “what does it all mean” phase. At the risk of twanging a mid-life crisis cliché banjo, I turned 50 this year, and I have been terrorising myself with the thought of being on the year-in-year-out grind for the next twenty years. This specific personal questioning of my own value and contribution—am I doing something useful for me or for those I manage, teach, and work for? I reached a point where I thought I’m young enough that I can make a radical move, and if I don’t, it might soon be too late. Twenty years is a long time to hang on for a pension.
The specific circumstances of the last few years and the role I’ve been in have been exceptionally difficult. The dynamics were not right from the start. And even though I believe I’ve made significant improvements to the course I led, I was ground down by the structural issues and internal politics. I can’t remember who I heard this from, but someone in academia once said to me (and I’m paraphrasing here): “Do you know why there is so much politicking and power battles in academia? Because the stakes are so low.”
Since lockdown, when that horrific period opened up the potential (or so I thought in my naiveté) for a reimagining of Higher Education, there has not only been a return to normal but a ratcheting up of the disjuncture between what universities promise and what they can effectively deliver. The sense of what universities are for, particularly in the Arts and Humanities, the broken funding model, the workloads that have shifted onto academics with cuts to support staff, the variability, and often outdated methods of teaching and assessment formulated for a pre-internet era, are just a few of the variables that I can see firsthand affecting both that vague concept of the student experience and the capacity of academics to deliver the “world-class” education they are held up to.
There is much written about the marketisation of universities and the shift in focus from intellectual exploration to employability and profit. As universities prioritise STEM subjects, fields like film studies, media, and philosophy are increasingly marginalised if not outright denigrated as worthless. Again, there is a lot to unpack here in an objective critical sense. But perhaps I have internalised some of this when it comes to my own sense of value.
I’ve always thought I have a good relationship with students. My modus operandi when I’m teaching or in a Course Leader role, is to try to make accessible and useful any subject or concept I bring to their attention. It’s become progressively more difficult, though, to reach that sense of pure engagement, which should be the university’s main function to manifest. I wrote a piece in January, reflecting on the malaise relative to that opaque idea: “the student experience.” This offers more of a critique of the context that undermines particularly working-class students' ability to fully engage in the education they are paying for. But there’s so much more to it than this. The very sense of education as a rite of passage, that offers a holistic sense of growth, where experimentation and curiosity are not just indulged but given license to flourish. I too often have reverted to a cynical mindset. That there’s too much performativity between students and educators, it’s become at its worst adversarial. Students go through the motions and we are accreditation managers.
Obviously, this is an anecdotal generalisation. But I couldn’t carry on in good conscience with this mindset.
Up until the last year, I've just looked within academia for another role in a different institution, sometimes in an adjacent discipline or with a slightly different teaching philosophy or curriculum identity. But I'm at the point where moving to another university just feels like rearranging the deck chairs on the Titanic.
So what am I going to do? Well, I’ve done some research on ways of leveraging my experience and skills in a freelance and online capacity. This will likely take various forms. I have ideas related to producing online courses and contributing to less formalised education spaces, and I’m interested in adult education and lifelong learning.
What might a structure of post-university higher education look like? With the internet causing what might be called the fracturing of knowledge production and consumption, something that is nearly always defined as negative, I’m interested in my own small capacity in how to navigate what technology offers in ways that might be positive, progressive and valuable (in not strictly a economic sense).
As I type this, the anxiety is swelling again. Trekking out of one comfort zone is, at bottom, saying to yourself, "I don’t know." My anti grandiose warning light is flashing. I have plans, but obviously, nothing is guaranteed, and that sense of a structured pattern of life is now something I have to make for myself. I have no history of freelancing, let alone entrepreneurship. Maybe in six months, I’ll be desperately searching for a stable job, and recant these fanciful aspirations?
I want to write in a critical vein but also explore the personal experiences that emerge through this period. A key element of that will be addressing the somewhat existential question, “Who am I if I’m not defined as an academic?” The next blog I’m going to write will give some context to this. How I came to be an academic late bloomer and how, for me at least, that sense of self has become so bound up with the narrative of an academic identity.
I would also like to talk to other people about this—those who have left already or are thinking of doing so. Speaking to colleagues within various institutions and at different stages of their academic careers, I want to think through the changes that have happened in university education in the last 25 years since I've been employed in the sector. Utilising the time to podcast is one of the things I’m looking forward to. Having podcasted for a number of years now, I have come to appreciate how such semi-formalised conversations can be a productive way of organising one's thoughts and having them positively challenged. The medium fosters self-reflexivity, but through dialogue. And it’s cheaper than therapy.
I joke, of course, but acknowledging a somewhat self-serving move, I want to cultivate a much more active network/friendship group. My partner pointed out to me that another substantial change is the sudden removal of an immediate professional community. I’ve always thought of myself being able to work and live independently is a strength. But isolation might be a issue that I need to think about.
That’s it for now. I’ll return to much of what I’ve mentioned above, no doubt. If you’ve gotten this far, thanks for taking the time to read.
And if anyone who is in or out of academia feels that the issues I am writing and thinking about chime with you, and you would like to talk about it anonymously or publicly, please don’t hesitate to get in touch (drdario22@gmail.com).