I quit my job

A personal update

Hal Hartley, Trust, 1990

***

Two years ago, I took a new job as a tenure-track professor. Thirteen days ago, I resigned from it. It was the hardest decision I’ve ever made, in part because I don’t have anything else lined up. I’ll be okay for a little while, although I don’t have tons of time to figure out what comes next.

I could wryly describe this as a return to form. I was on the job market for almost four years; I’m familiar with the particular flavor of dread that comes with long-term instability. The fact that I left a secure position after such a long period of uncertainty says a lot about my recent quality of life. My back was against a corner, so much so that quitting felt less like an autonomous act than as graceful a concession to fate as I could muster. If I’d stuck around longer, it wouldn’t have been so graceful. (The details might make for an interesting pitch to The Chronicle of Higher Education, but I see no point in public grievance-airing. I’ve said my piece to those who need to hear it.)

Back in grad school, I’d joke that we were learning all about why we’d soon be unemployable. Something about becoming useless to the economy — I trained in the humanities and social sciences. Gallows humor plays well among the self-aware precariat. My peers and I could already see it: the scrappy dignity of the student who chooses a life of meaning over short-term material gain becomes the real terror of the ghettoized academic. We’d read about homeless professors; up-and-coming scholars routinely brutalized by their mentors (some of us already knew that hell); the legions of PhD candidates who burn out among a heap of half-written dissertation chapters (some of us would eventually join them.) The path to tenure is supposed to reward one’s bravery in the face of this horror show, but I ended up feeling foolish for committing to it — for having placed all my chips on the “meaning" table.

I started this newsletter in the midst of a dry spell in my publication record. I’d thought about trying out Substack for years, but held off as a matter of principle, the same principle that kept me in academia for so long. For all its flaws, university life appealed to me as a historically instantiated and politically sound alternative to most other viable careers. In theory, the academy defies the modern mandate to innovate for innovation’s sake. It produces social continuity, a conversation between past and present. We tell stories that reveal “disruption” for the empty marketing ploy that it is. In this sense it’s inherently left-leaning, although in practice it’s fully incorporated the ways and means of technological capitalism — but I still saw it as a bastion of anti-disruption thought, a place where I could be proud to ply a trade. I have taken this very seriously, and it's translated into a real suspicion towards Substack. (Aside from all of this, I’ve resisted content platforms because I'm hesitant to put anything out there without the input of an editor.)

It feels good to break one’s own rules. I’ve enjoyed posting strange essays for a very small audience — I mean that. In my previous position, I had few free hours for research and writing, and I eventually found it easier to entertain ideas for new projects knowing that I could share them whenever I wanted. Academic publishing timelines are long, and my typical week offered limited opportunities to connect with others over subjects I find truly interesting, so I treated this as a kind of vitalizing supplement.

In other words, this Substack was borne of frustration at a system that started to feel awfully oppressive. The psychic drama which culminated in my quitting seems like a small-scale version of the present conflict between pro- and anti-establishment ideologies. I was working for the nation’s largest state university system, a college with a strong union, and I was unsupported in situations that at times felt intolerable. The main impression was one of betrayal by a structure I believed in, something I’d wagered for against bad odds and in an abundance of good faith. So my days have been full of frustration — and even more than that, resentment. Lots of it.

Those who know how to channel resentment wield exceptional power. The obvious case study is the far right, today and a hundred years ago. Resentment is such an embarrassing emotion that most people avoid seeing it in themselves. But you can’t use it wisely without acknowledging it, and when you take that step, it can be turned into a transformative force. My resentment was rooted in a degree of confidence I don’t like to admit to. But I had to get in touch with that part of myself to change my circumstances. I’ve pulled off accomplishments before that wouldn’t have been possible without a great measure of self-assuredness, and I believe I can do something like that again in my professional life. Which is not to say I’m not scared — I am, very much so. That seems sane.

This all happened in the extremely weird 2024-25 interregnum period in the United States. I started drafting this post on the day of the inauguration. I see Trump as a special kind of wizard, a black enchanter who can speak directly into the back of a million heads. Most of us can't address ourselves at that level, let alone other people. I'm no Trump — right — but I have spent countless hours in front of a willing audience, i.e. the thousand-plus students I've taught in recent years (okay, a semi-willing audience, but no one forces you to go to college!.) This means I know the difference between outward-facing performative confidence and the internal superpower that comes from living in right relation to oneself and one’s surroundings. The former can get you through a long teaching (or campaigning) day, it can start wars, but you need the latter to contribute to a healthy society and have a decent personal life. Also, it gives you access to a level of perceptiveness that I associate with the best writing I’ve ever read. I’ve been bleeding right relation for a while, as a function of my work life forcing me to lie to myself on a regular basis. I’m looking forward to getting some of it back.

Since I have the time, I’m planning to use this outlet to develop pieces that are more incisive and less heady than what I’ve shared up to this point. I’m also playing with the possibility of unpublishing the earlier stuff, since I’m afraid it gives the impression that I don’t know how to write about non-niche topics. And in the spirit of new starts. We’ll see.

I’m terrible at conclusions, so I’ll wrap this up with a request: I’m searching for podcast and reading recommendations. Books, articles, newsletters, whatever. My favorite Substacks are from Rob Horning and John Ganz, and I’ve just started to check out Max Read and Henry Farrell. My interests go beyond tech, politics, and the antipodes of critical theory, so get at me with whatever’s exciting. My email address is emma.stamm@gmail.com. Thank you.