Fuck Your Forms

I spent three hours yesterday filling out forms for a $500 professional development grant. Three hours. For five hundred dollars.

The application wanted my CV, my teaching evaluations, a detailed budget breakdown, a timeline, a justification for why attending this conference would benefit the university, and a reflection on how this aligns with the institution's strategic goals.

Five hundred fucking dollars. That's less than what they spend on catering for one faculty meeting.

But here's the thing—I needed that money. I needed it because I'm adjuncting at three different schools just to make ends meet. I needed it because my car is making weird noises and I'm praying it lasts until I can afford to fix it. I needed it because "professional development" isn't built into my salary like it is for my tenure-track colleagues.

So I played their game. I wrote about how my research on working-class narratives would "enhance the university's commitment to diversity and inclusion." I explained how my attendance at this conference would "strengthen my pedagogical practice and benefit our students." I promised to share what I learned with the department.

All for five hundred dollars.

The real kicker? The committee that reviews these applications includes people who spend more than $500 on dinner without thinking twice. People who have sabbaticals funded by the university. People who get automatic conference funding every year.

They're going to read my application and judge whether I "deserve" this money. They're going to decide if my research is "valuable" enough, if my justification is "compelling" enough, if I've jumped through enough hoops to prove my worth.

And if they say no? I'll smile and say "thank you for considering my application" because that's what you do when you're dependent on their goodwill for survival.

This is the daily bullshit of academic life when you're not from money. Every opportunity comes with forms and applications and justifications. Every dollar has to be earned twice—first by doing the work, then by convincing people you deserve compensation for it.

Want to present your research? Fill out this form. Want funding for books? Fill out this form. Want a desk that doesn't wobble? Fill out this form and wait six months for facilities to get back to you.

Meanwhile, my tenured colleagues are complaining about the "bureaucracy" of having to submit their syllabi by the deadline. The same deadline that's been in place for years. The same deadline that's announced multiple times.

I want to scream at them: You think THIS is bureaucracy? Try being contingent faculty. Try having to reapply for your job every semester. Try having to justify your existence to the institution every time you want basic support.

But I don't scream. I smile and nod and fill out their forms because I need the money. Because I need the job. Because I need to survive in a system that treats my labor as disposable.

The worst part isn't the forms themselves—it's what they represent. They're a reminder that people like me don't belong here by default. We have to earn our place over and over again.

We have to prove our worth constantly.

We have to be grateful for scraps while watching others feast.

Well, I'm done being grateful. I'm done pretending that jumping through hoops is normal. I'm done acting like this system makes sense.

Your forms are bullshit. Your committees are bullshit. Your "strategic goals" are bullshit. Your "commitment to diversity" is bullshit if you're not willing to pay people fairly for their work.

I'll keep filling out your forms because I have to. But I won't pretend it's reasonable. I won't pretend it's fair. And I won't pretend to be grateful for the privilege of begging for money I've already earned.

Some days I wonder what would happen if we all just stopped. If we all refused to fill out one more form, attend one more unpaid meeting, serve on one more committee that exists only to create the illusion of shared governance.

But we won't. Because we need the money. Because we need the jobs. Because we need to survive.

And they know it. That's why they can get away with this bullshit. That's why they can make us jump through hoops for scraps while they debate whether to renovate the faculty lounge.

So fuck your forms. Fuck your strategic goals. Fuck your commitment to diversity that only exists on paper.

I'm going to keep fighting for better. Not just for me, but for everyone who's tired of begging for basic respect. Everyone who's tired of proving their worth to people who never had to prove theirs.

The revolution might start with refusing to fill out one more goddamn form.

A notepad and financial documents are neatly organized on a wooden surface, with a pen nearby.