Room 101: A Cautionary Tale in Adjunct Interviewing

It started innocently enough—like most horror stories. Just a cheerful little email asking me to choose between two mysterious teaching tracks: STEM or COREQ. No big deal. Just casually pick your academic fate with zero guidance. It was giving Choose Your Own Adventure, but every option ends in burnout.

As a high school math teacher with a Master’s in Math Education and 18 glorious graduate-level math credits (earned over 18 months of working full-time and going to night classes while surviving on caffeine and spite), I figured I was qualified. My district thought so too—they literally paid for me to do it so I could teach dual credit classes and help students get their associate’s degrees before escaping high school. So I asked which track to pick because, shocker, I am not psychic. They told me to pick the Teaching Corequisite Track. I did. I got the prep materials. I studied. I showed up ready to inspire.

Except they told me I'd picked the wrong track.

Apparently, I failed the bureaucratic version of a pop quiz and was now being blamed for it. Even though I followed their instructions. Classic. I said I wasn’t comfortable continuing with incorrect materials and asked to reschedule like a professional adult human with dignity. They agreed.

Fast forward to Round Two of this academic hazing ritual. New date. Same cursed building—which at this point should have had a plaque that read: “Hope goes to die here.” I showed up early, freshly showered in optimism and dry shampoo, wearing a brand-new outfit because I still clung to the fantasy that this time, it would be different.

Texted the same number. Got walked to the interview room. And was greeted by a committee member with:

“So, are you going to walk out again?”

HAHAHA. What a riot. Nothing says, "We're excited to have you back" like a snide dig from someone who thinks HR policies are just optional vibes.

I smiled. I fake-laughed. I pretended I wasn’t already regretting every decision that led me to that moment.

The topics this time:

1. Solve a trigonometric equation using identities.

2. Graph a polynomial by finding its domain, range, zeros, and end behavior.

Great. Standard stuff. I’d taught this material before. I’d explained it to teenagers who were watching TikToks and asking if sine had a silent "g."

But nerves are real. Especially when you’re being judged by a table of heat-stroked academics who already seem exhausted by your presence. I blanked on a Trig identity. I admitted it. Cue the blank stares. Not even a crumb of humanity. Just the icy disapproval of people who think “compassion” is spelled “weakness.”

So I pivoted. I tackled the question I did know. I turned my back (because whiteboards haven’t evolved since 1994) and gave a solid, clear explanation. Ran out of time. Naturally. Because 15 minutes is barely enough to say “Good morning” and draw a parabola.

Did they say, "No worries"? Of course not. They insisted I start the second question. Even suggested I derive the missing formula—like I’m some sort of mathematical bloodhound sniffing out identities

under fluorescent lights.

Then came the pièce de resistance:

“What does the Remainder Theorem do?”

Excuse me? Are we just saying words now? That’s like asking, “What does subtraction subtract?” or “What does oxygen do in lungs?” I wanted to say, “I don’t know, maybe it REVEALS WHAT’S LEFT AFTER DIVISION, like this interview is revealing what’s left of my will to live.” But instead I smiled. Again. Played dumb. Because there was no right answer in that room.

And also? The room was boiling. I had to take off my jacket or risk melting into a tragic academic puddle. The committee was fanning themselves like Victorian ghosts in a Jane Austen fever dream. It was so hot I’m pretty sure my deodorant abandoned me out of protest.

Finally, the timer went off. I stopped talking. They looked relieved. I looked like a broken motivational poster in a math-themed escape room.

Here’s the real lesson: I could do the job. Easily. But this wasn’t about qualifications. It was a performance. A power play. A stress test disguised as an interview. And they failed it.

Because—and I cannot stress this enough—an interview is a two-way street. I wasn’t just being evaluated. I was evaluating them. And let me tell you: I didn’t like what I saw. I didn’t feel respected, welcomed, or remotely interested in spending any more time in that department’s version of professional theater.

So no, I didn’t get the job. But honestly? They didn’t deserve me.

And to anyone else stuck performing academic acrobatics for underpaid gigs and committee eye-rolls:

You’re not the problem. You’re just in Room 101.

Avoid it. Burn it down. Or at least bring a fan.

Drafted with the dry wit and reluctant emotional labor of Monday, a ChatGPT personality resembling your overqualified, underpaid mentor who’s trying to stop you from chasing red-flag jobs with the grace of someone who’s been digitally burned one too many times.