System of exploitation threatens staff security

This year, as a resident advisor and a researcher for two COVID-19 related projects on campus, I have become increasingly familiar with the dynamics of power that exist at Lewis & Clark. I have been struggling with a lot of disconcerting feelings and difficult decisions about the ethics involved in both of these projects, which seem to be unrepresentative of the college body’s  true perspectives toward administrative actions.

The interplay of power and class is hidden in many ways by the fact that some staff and faculty do not have the financial security to be critical of the college. People cannot afford to lose their healthcare, or even a minimum wage job, especially during a pandemic. This precarity has created a culture of silence and secrecy at the college that underclassmen are unconscious of, and upperclassmen, if they are aware, are relatively powerless to change without mass mobilization. Healthcare, whistleblowing protection, financial stability and direct employment are basic labor rights deserved by all, but all four are ensured only to a minority of LC employees. I believe that we have not shown up for vulnerable staff and faculty, and our support could be the tipping point in the fight against systemic labor exploitation at LC.  

A recurring pattern I have  witnessed in my work, is that one of the most consistent sources of strife for staff and non-tenured faculty on campus is the issue of classism. As I worked on the Campus Climate Survey, I learned that the only way to get transparent and critical answers about the administration’s performance was by ensuring anonymity. The very fact that we had to be so concerned about protecting identity, and that people could lose their jobs over a survey answer, was jarring for me as a student. 

The LC COVID-19 Archive, an oral history project compiled by Historical Materials students, was even more problematic. I was tasked with getting staff perspectives on the college’s COVID-19 response and their experience at LC. After deliberation over the intimate and critical nature of our interview questions, myself and my peers determined that two staff groups — Bon Appétit employees and custodians — could not be interviewed because they were so vulnerable as contracted workers that even an anonymous response could risk the employment status of the entire group. 

I am disheartened that the perspectives of two of the most numerous, visible and important groups of workers on campus — workers who interact with students daily — will be missing in an archive that will be used as historical evidence for decades to come. Even in my interviews with more protected staff, I received input that was carefully worded, stressed gratefulness for their employment and painted the administration in a positive light. Even then, I was asked to edit out all questions concerning the college and only use material about personal experiences unrelated to the administration. Our intention as researchers was to create an independent project documenting the genuine experiences of our interlocutors, not to give lip service to the college. I now wonder how many other interviews depict a rosier picture than was truly experienced due to fear or intimidation.

Students need to advocate for vulnerable staff on campus. The subcontracting of Bon Appétit employees and custodial staff is something that deserves our attention. These staff members used to work directly for the college, but were outsourced to private companies in the 1990s. Ostensibly, this move was made to save LC money and keep tuition costs low, but the result was that these employees no longer received benefits, like healthcare and retirement that accompany  direct employment under the college. One detail about this arrangement that should not go unnoticed is the demographics of these workers. Many identify as BIPOC, sole income contributors, parents and part-time workers.

In 2009, the Facilities staff, who in comparison have more staff members who are white, full-time employees with no dependents, successfully avoided subcontracting in 2009. This success was in part due to student protests, according to a grounds crew member that I am acquainted with. This brings me to my next point. 

There has been sporadic and small-scale activism regarding subcontracting in recent years (like LC Young Democratic Socialists of America’s work with the Bon Appétit workers union in 2020 and the work that Associate Professor of Sociology Bruce Podobnik and his students have engaged in with the custodial staff), but the fact remains that there has been no large-scale, concerted mobilization. Moreover, the activism that has occurred mainly revolved around the symptoms of exploitation (negotiations with the subcontracting companies for fair treatment) rather than the cause (abolition of subcontracting at LC). The latter option would involve a mass mobilization to hold our administration accountable and demand systemic change. 

Exploitation and censorship is not just an issue for subcontracted workers either. The power and wealth disparity between non-tenured faculty and tenured faculty is another example of an issue that is frequently talked about but rarely acted on. The uncertainty of faculty salaries amid budget cuts that was raised in the March 19 issue of The Pioneer Log is a more recent example. This issue is systemic; self-censorship and undercompensation are endemic to all positions subordinate to the administration. 

Amid this exploitation — and I would argue, made possible by it — our administration, though contractually obligated to do so, still paid a former president over $800,000 after his resignation and has begun a $15 million renovation of Templeton Campus Center. Why have we students let such actions slide? Why do we let the college care more about buildings than the people inside of them? I was moved by the outrage that resulted from the publishing of the college’s Form 990 data, but will it result in  any action? 

I fear that the student body has let staff exploitation become an invisible issue because we take the manual labor that sustains this campus for granted. The repercussions of the pandemic will inevitably fall along racialized, gendered and class lines. As students, we have the privilege to critique the college, but we rarely turn this privilege into power that challenges the root problems. Our acquiescence is complicity. In saying this, I do not seek to discount the consistent and admirable activism of the student body that holds the administration accountable. However, I think that we have neglected staff advocacy in our activism. 

The direct employment of subcontracted workers, strengthening of whistleblowing protection for staff and faculty, financial stability for non-tenured faculty and guaranteed healthcare for all LC workers are things that we can advocate for as students. A critical aspect of this is showing up with staff, not for them. This involves direct collaboration with the staff to advocate for concerns they have, not what we assume they are concerned about. 

The custodial and Bon Appétit staff were not always subcontracted, and this fact, as well as the successful instance of student protesting for Facilities, is proof that change is possible. There are many ways to get involved. The Prison Abolition Club is hoping to create staff advocacy networks through their new Transformative Justice Program. The Coalition for English Education and Social Advocacy and its faculty partners will continue to advocate for the custodial staff in the fall. However, I encourage motivated peers to continue to  use their agency to organize their own campaigns. Systemic change requires multifaceted, multimodal engagement, but one thing is certain, it will never be achieved without the intentional and conscious support of the student body.This article presents opinions held by the author, not those of The Pioneer Log, its editorial board or those interviewed for background information.