Some limbs chopped off the family tree

After four days of bright sunshine, the sky today is gray and bleak and the rain just won't quit--weather made to order for a campus coping with sudden staff cuts.

We knew the cuts were coming but we couldn't guess who or when. Unsatisfactory enrollment figures led to sharp reductions in operating budgets last semester, and some staff members who have quit or retired have not been replaced. Still, this week's cuts were painful--especially for those who were let go.

All morning I've been hearing people greet each other with "So glad you're still here!" The faculty were mostly spared except for some adjuncts and one-year appointments, but those of us who have served as contingent faculty share their pain. This is a small campus in rural Appalachia; finding qualified adjuncts isn't always an easy task, so we tend to get attached to those we find, treating them as colleagues. When they're cut, we hurt, and we wonder about the future impact. How many courses will be cut? How many seats will be added to required courses? 

Similarly, we rely on the faithful work of those who clean our offices, tend our grounds, fix our computers, and staff our administrative offices, so when they get cut, those who remain carry an extra workload. We're a family here; we've celebrated birthdays, toasted accomplishments, and carried burdens with each other, so when suddenly a bunch of limbs get chopped off the family tree, we feel their pain.

Those of us who remain are torn: we know the cuts were necessary and we're relieved that we were spared, but we can't look at the sudden blank places on campus without feeling phantom pain in our missing limbs.