The BBC salaries report has prompted me to do something that I've had in mind for quite some time.
So here it is: my salary is £48,327.
I am 42, and have had a full-time academic job since 2008, when I was 32. Before that, I took a long time to do a master’s and a PhD, and taught as an hourly paid lecturer in six different subject areas for eight years. When things were tough, I did some supply teaching, which is why I admire teachers so much and feel so guilty about my behaviour in school. Well, some of it anyway. I also had a £6,000 annual scholarship to do my PhD.
If you think 32 is late, the generations of academics behind me have it far worse. Being on a selection panel for an entry-level lecturing job was shaming: every single applicant had achieved more in terms of research, while doing huge amounts of teaching, while never having had a full-time job, a permanent job, or even a full-year job.
Salaries are not as transparent as they look either. Some academics negotiate, while others aren’t aware that it’s possible, and there are ethnic and gendered aspects to this. I was once sitting next to a colleague who was offered a proper contract after working with us for years. To his enormous credit, the associate dean on the end of the phone talked her into accepting a higher salary than was technically on offer.
I was also lucky. I’d taught for years in so many areas before the possibility of a part-time job came up that I quaveringly asked whether my length of service might justify making me a senior lecturer, and the panel agreed. I doubt that this would ever happen now.
How do I feel about my salary? I feel rich. The average UK salary last year was £27,600. I live in a very poor area, so the gap is far wider. I have benefited from being middle class, white and male: lacking any one of these characteristics would result in a sharp drop: lacking all three dramatically reduces earning potential.
I do have other feelings about my salary, and they’re mostly comparative. I work in a sector where managements work very hard to make sure that academic salaries fall behind while their own converge with industry. That annoys me.
I feel that the long years of earning little or nothing and having no job security simply to acquire the qualifications and experience needed should be reflected in academic salaries.
I’m also aware that this is my peak salary: the elevator stopped long ago, and insecurity is once more afoot.
I work hard to remind myself that my salary is way in excess of my neighbours and what most of my students will get, and that I don’t even have a family to support. I mitigate the guilt by happily paying every tax that I can, and by making sure that those earning less than me never buy the coffees: that’s how it was when I had no money, and I’m just passing it on.
I also feel that I work hard for my salary. I have contracted hours, and they’re officially exceeded by a significant amount every year, and unofficially exceeded by even more. Then there’s the emotional labour involved in this kind of work: we don’t just teach and write, we provide intellectual, cultural and emotional support to students and colleagues in ways that can’t be quantified. The strong bonds between us means that there’s a culture of overwork that is never acknowledged.
It’s true, however, that within a neoliberalised social system, being a lecturer in English literature and a researcher in Welsh literature is a luxury good. It shouldn’t be, but it is.
So there we are. That’s what I earn. I’m lucky to work in a sector with a national pay bargaining unit, and resigned to the ever-widening gap between my colleagues and our overseers.
I’m conscious of the class, racial and gender bonus included in my salary. I don’t aspire to riches, simply to security. I spend my money on books and train travel, and lust over extremely expensive bikes that I’ll never be able to afford. I’d happily pay more tax and see a more level salary landscape, but I also think that there are a lot of people taking home a lot more tax for doing less useful work.
This is an edited version of a blog that first appeared on the personal website of the Plashing Vole, a senior lecturer at a English university who blogs anonymously about university life.