Think Faculty Do All the Teaching? Think Again.

There’s a Difference. And It Matters.

When I was at Cypress College, my title was Instructional ASSISTANT.

At Long Beach City College, I’m an Instructional ASSOCIATE.

That shift in language may look small on paper. It is not small to me.

Instructional Assistant → Supports instruction.
Instructional Associate → Engages in instruction.

One suggests proximity to the work. The other acknowledges participation in it.

And participation is exactly what instructional staff do.

Beyond “The Help”: Recognizing Subject-Matter Expertise

In higher education, instructional staff are sometimes perceived as background support—the people who prep materials, maintain equipment, and make sure the logistics function smoothly.

Yes, we do those things.

But we are also hired because we are subject-matter experts. The hiring process ensures that we know our disciplines thoroughly. Many of us hold advanced degrees. Many bring decades of industry experience. Many actively practice in the fields we support.

The difference between faculty and instructional staff is not expertise. It is primarily evaluative authority.

That distinction matters—but it does not define the full scope of instructional impact.

Presence Matters: The Power of Being There

Faculty carry the responsibility of curriculum design, formal instruction, and grading. That role is foundational.

Instructional staff, however, are often physically present in labs and studios forty hours a week—sometimes more. We witness the in-between moments: the uncertainty after a lecture, the frustration before a critique, the small technical failures that derail confidence.

Learning happens in those spaces.

Because we are consistently present, we often spend more cumulative time with students than faculty do. We see their growth incrementally. We answer the quiet questions. We steady the process.

Presence shapes education.

Real-Time Guidance and Psychological Safety

Faculty evaluate the final product. Instructional staff frequently guide the process.

We troubleshoot equipment. We demonstrate alternative workflows. We explain the same concept three different ways until it lands. That ongoing, iterative engagement can determine whether a student gives up—or keeps going.

We also create psychological safety.

Students sometimes hesitate to expose confusion to the person who assigns their grade. Instructional staff become a bridge. We are often the ones students approach when they need to admit uncertainty. That openness fosters experimentation. Experimentation fosters growth.

Influencing Curriculum—Even When Our Names Aren’t on It

Curriculum does not evolve in isolation.

Instructional staff influence it—whether or not our names appear on official documents.

We hint.
We advise.
We advocate.

We recommend updates when industry standards shift. We flag recurring misunderstandings. We suggest scaffolding where students need reinforcement. We share observations about pacing, clarity, and tool limitations.

Sometimes this happens in meetings. Often it happens in conversations between classes. Either way, it shapes the educational experience.

Instructional staff are part of the feedback loop that keeps programs relevant and responsive.

A Culture of Respect Makes All the Difference

At Cypress College, although my title was “Assistant,” most of the faculty—save one or two—treated instructional staff as peers. They respected our expertise. They sought our input. They collaborated with us.

That culture of mutual respect strengthened the program. The word “assistant” was on paper, but it was not how we were treated in practice.

Now, at Long Beach City College, the recognition is embedded in the title itself. “Associate” signals partnership. It acknowledges engagement, not mere proximity.

I am deeply grateful for that.

Even though my position is temporary, I am genuinely happy to be there. It feels meaningful to work in an environment where the language reflects the reality of the work—and where leadership understands that education is collaborative.

Education Is an Ensemble

Respecting instructional staff is not about hierarchy or ego. It is about accurately naming the work.

Faculty design and evaluate. Instructional staff operationalize, reinforce, adapt, and sustain. Together, we create the environment students experience.

There is a difference between supporting instruction and engaging in it.

Recognizing that difference strengthens not only the individuals in those roles—but the institution itself.

And when institutions acknowledge that partnership—whether through culture, collaboration, or even something as simple as a title—it sends a powerful message:

Education is not a solo act.

It is an ensemble.

Gratitude for the Instructional Staff Who Shaped Me

I want to take a moment to acknowledge Ron Miller and Yvette Goytia. I wouldn’t be where I am today without your guidance, support, and mentorship. I know I’m not alone in feeling this way—there are many others whose paths you’ve shaped just as profoundly. Thank you both for everything you’ve done to lift up your students and colleagues alike.

This perspective is not only professional. It is personal.

As a student, I learned just as much from instructional staff as I did from faculty. Sometimes more. The person who stood beside me in a lab, who answered my repeated questions without impatience, who showed me the practical workaround that wasn’t in the textbook—that person shaped my education in lasting ways. Ron and Yevette. I see you. I remember you!

As a colleague, I continue to learn from instructional staff every day. Their depth of knowledge, their technical fluency, their quiet consistency—these qualities elevate programs in ways that are not always visible from the outside.

I appreciate every instructional staff member I have worked with—past and present. They have influenced how I teach, how I mentor, and how I understand collaboration.

I hope you feel the same.

Think about your own educational path. There was likely someone in a lab, studio, or support role who invested time in you. Someone who stayed late. Someone who answered the question you were hesitant to ask.

They helped shape you.

If you have the opportunity, give them a shout out. Recognition matters. Gratitude matters.

Money: The Most Intimate Thing We Don’t Talk About

Here’s the thing I’ve been circling for a while now: money is one of the most practical, impactful topics in our lives—and yet, among friends, it’s often treated like a taboo. Talking about finances can feel awkward, impolite, or weirdly intimate. We’ll talk about relationships, health scares, therapy, SEX, and existential dread before we’ll talk about salaries and debt.

I find myself wanting a small circle of friends where money isn’t taboo. Not competitive. Not braggy. Just… collaborative. A group where we can talk openly about how to lower expenses—because someone always knows a trick you don’t. A better phone plan. A smarter insurance setup. A way to renegotiate a bill you assumed was fixed forever. 

And just as important: a group where we can talk about increasing income. Side projects. Negotiation strategies. Teaching gigs, freelance work, investments, opportunities. Rising together doesn’t mean everyone makes the same choices—it means information flows freely enough that people can decide what’s right for them.

What’s interesting is that when these conversations do happen—usually accidentally, or one-on-one. Someone finally admits they’re confused. Someone else says, “Oh, I’ve been there.” 

I think most progress comes from shared knowledge and shared resources. Avoiding money talk preserves a polite distance, but it also keeps everyone reinventing the wheel alone.

I don’t want money conversations to replace joy, creativity, or connection. I want them to support those things. I want friendships where we can talk about food and spreadsheets. Dreams and deductions. The emotional side of life and the logistical one.

Why “Make Me Look Skinny” Made Me Quit Photographing People

Dear friends,

Please be patient with me as I relearn how to take pictures of people.

I’m out of practice. Rusty doesn’t begin to cover it. I’m more “found in the back of a garage under a tarp” than “needs a quick tune-up.”

For years—years—I actively avoided photographing people. This wasn’t an accident. It was a series of conscious decisions layered with rationalizations, preferences, and a healthy dose of self-preservation. Let me explain.

I was trying to be considerate

Some people truly do not want their picture taken. They freeze. They grimace. They raise a hand like a traffic cop and say, “Nope.” And I respect that.

Asking every single time, “Is this okay? How about now? What about now but from the left?” starts to get tedious. It feel like interrupting a moment to ask permission to document it. The flow dies. The magic evaporates. Everyone becomes hyper-aware of their face.

So I opted out. Food doesn’t object. Landscapes never say, “Wait, I wasn’t ready.” Shadows are always emotionally available.

I like pictures that not everyone likes of themselves

I love candids. I love the in-between moments. The half-laugh, the blink, the expression that lasts a fraction of a second before someone remembers they’re being observed. Those moments feel true to me. They make my heart go pitter-patter.

Other people, however, would like their eyes open, their posture corrected, their chin lifted, and their complexion gently retouched.

Sometimes my favorite photo of someone is the one they immediately hate. And that’s awkward for everyone.

Expectations can be… ambitious

I’ve heard some version of “Make me look skinny” more times than I can count. If you are not skinny, that is a challenging request. I’m a photographer. Not a magician. Not a sentient Instagram filter.

Yes, there are lenses, angles, lighting tricks, and retouching tools. All of those take time, energy, and skill. Retouching alone is its own art form and a significant investment of time and energy. And they usually don’t have the patience to put all of that into practice.

I’m bad at posing people. Truly bad.

Telling someone where to put their hands while remembering camera settings, composition, and lighting is a skill I never fully committed to learning. I avoid it. I panic. I say things like, “Just… be normal?” which has never helped anyone in the history of photography.

People are messy and expressive and complicated and impossible to replicate in 2D.

People photography requires emotional labor.

This one doesn’t get talked about enough.

When you photograph people, you’re managing insecurities, expectations, energy, and sometimes decades of baggage they bring to their own reflection. That’s real work.

You’re not just composing a frame—you’re reassuring, directing, encouraging, translating intention into something visible. Some days I don’t want to do that. Some days I want to photograph light hitting a wall and go home.

I didn’t want to deal with the aftermath.

Because the photo session doesn’t end when the shutter clicks. It continues in the texts. The emails. The “Do you have any more where I look better?” The comparisons. The requests. The quiet disappointment when the images don’t match the version of themselves they were hoping for.

Avoiding people meant avoiding all of that.

And yet…

People are the point this all began for me. I didn’t study photography to take pictures of my food. I got it to take pictures of the people I love. 

So here I am. Relearning. Shaking off the rust. Remembering how to talk while shooting. Remembering that awkwardness is survivable. Remembering that not every photo needs to please everyone, sometimes it just needs to exist.

If I photograph you and it feels a little clunky, a little unpolished, a little “we’re figuring this out together,” that’s accurate.

I’m practicing. I’m rebuilding muscle memory. I’m saying yes more often instead of hiding behind abstract objects and excellent excuses.

Thank you for your patience.

And for standing there while I remember how to do this thing I avoided for so long.

I promise I’m trying.

Friends, Take My Picture Already

Friends. Listen up. We need to have a serious talk. A camera talk. A “this-is-not-a-drill” talk. Let’s make a little pact. A sacred, non-negotiable, morally binding pact. The next time we hang out IRL, let’s… gasp… take pictures of each other. And then—here’s the revolutionary part—actually trade them.

I Want Memories Too!

I don’t have nearly as many pictures of myself as I would like. You’d think I do. I’m a photographer, after all. I have cameras glued to my hands. I should be drowning in images of me, right? Wrong. Dead wrong. I am shockingly absent from my own photo archives.

Why? Because when I hang out with non-photographers, I automatically become the default group photographer. “Grace will take pictures. Grace always takes pictures.” And indeed, I do. I capture the laughter, the awkward mid-sentence hand gestures, the perfect light hitting the plate of food. Pictures for everyone!!! Everyone, that is, except me. 

And if I’m with my photographer friends? Still nope! You’d think pros would be amazing at this. BUT, they’re off duty. They’re relaxing. They’re thinking, “I’m not getting paid for this.” Which, fine, I get it. But now I’m stuck trying to photograph myself in the wild, like a sad influencer. 

Of course, there are exceptions. Asian friends, for example, are absolute monsters with the camera. They will snap hundreds of shots. But here’s the catch—they’re usually posed shots. Faux candids, as I like to call them. “Look like you’re laughing naturally while subtly tucking your chin down 15 degrees.” Close, but no. I want raw, chaotic, slightly embarrassing realness. 

A Fair Trade Agreement (No Photo, No Mercy)

So here’s my plea. Friends. Please. Please. Take pictures of me. Maybe two. Maybe twenty. And make them good. Real. Human. Alive.

And here’s the deal: I am nothing if not a fair negotiator. No trade, no mercy. No picture for me, no picture for you. Think of it as photographic karma. You capture me, I capture you. We all win.

Life is short. Someday we’ll look back on these images and be grateful, not just for the perfect smiles and flattering angles, but for the messy, unposed, unpolished moments. The ones that actually show us living.

A Small Rant About Isan/Isaan/Esaan Food

As you venture off to eat Isan food without me (tragic, emotionally devastating), I feel compelled to address a personal pet peeve. A trigger, if you will. And yes, it’s about the food.

Specifically, the moment when someone—often well-meaning, often very confident—says. “That’s not Thai food. It’s Lao.”

Cue my internal scream.

Here’s the thing: I don’t disagree entirely. I just disagree with the either/or framing. Because I believe it’s more complex than that, I think it’s BOTH. And also because… this is personal.

Why I Care (More Than Is Reasonable)

My mother is from the Isan region of Thailand. So is my older sister (long story, another post). I spent many summers in Sakon Nakhon with my mom’s family and Roi Et with my sister, eating sticky rice with my hands, learning flavors before I learned vocabulary, and absorbing a culture that lives very loudly in my bones. In our home, both Thai and Lao were spoken equally.

So when people argue about whether Isan food is “really” Lao or “really” Thai, they’re not just debating cuisine. They’re debating identity, history, and who gets to claim what.

And that’s where my eye starts twitching.

A Very Brief (I Promise) History Lesson

To understand my pet peeve, we need to rewind a bit—back to the Lan Xang Kingdom. Lan = million, Xang = elephants (excellent branding).

Lan Xang was a Lao-speaking, sticky rice–loving, Mekong River–centered civilization whose cultural footprint included:

• Present-day Laos

• Most of Isan (northeastern Thailand)

• Parts of what are now Cambodia and Vietnam
  

The people of this region called themselves Lao.

My mother still considers herself Lao ethnically and Thai nationally. And not because she or her family is from the country of Laos, but because she is descended from the Lao people, some of whom now live in a country called Laos, and some live in a country called Thailand.

Isan food = Lao roots + Thai evolution

This is the part people miss.

Isan cuisine has roots in dishes from the Lan Xang (Lao) culture with Thai influence. Lao food (in Laos) evolved on its own path too.

As the Isan region was gradually incorporated into Siam and later Thailand:

• Ingredients changed (more access to palm sugar, fish sauce styles, Thai chilies)

• Techniques adapted

• Flavors shifted slightly sweeter, saltier, sometimes richer

• Dishes absorbed Central Thai influences while keeping Lao structure
  
  

Cuisine is alive. It migrates, adapts, and hybridizes. So when someone says, “That dish is Lao, not Thai,” they’re usually half right. Ethnically and culturally? Yes, Lao. Nationally and culinarily today? Also Thai. Both things can be true at the same time. Imagine that.

Modern Thai cuisine already includes multiple regional traditions, and Isan food is one of them.

My Recommended Isan Dishes (Eat Like You Mean It)

Here are some of my favorites, the dishes I grew up eating and adore.

• Som Tam (ส้มตำ) – The iconic papaya salad, bright, spicy, and addictive.

• Larb (ลาบ) – Minced meat salad with herbs, lime, and toasted rice; tangy, fresh, and unapologetically flavorful.

• Khao Niew (ข้าวเหนียว) – Sticky rice, the backbone of every meal; use your hands, it’s the only way.

• Gai Yang (ไก่ย่าง) – Grilled chicken marinated with garlic and herbs, smoky and perfect over charcoal.
  

• Kor Moo Yang (คอหมูย่าง) – Grilled pork neck; juicy, tender, and full of smoky flavor.

• Sai Krok Isan (ไส้กรอกอีสาน) – Fermented Isan sausage, slightly sour, a little funky, and wildly addictive.

• Tom Saep (ต้มแซ่บ) – Hot and sour soup with herbs and chilies; comforting, spicy, and tangy.

• Nam Tok (น้ำตก) – Literally “waterfall” salad; grilled meat tossed with lime, herbs, and toasted rice powder.

• Naem Khao Tod (แหนมข้าวทอด)– Crispy rice salad with fermented pork, herbs, lime, and chilies; crunchy, tangy, and deeply flavorful.

• Khao Jee (ข้าวจี่) – Grilled sticky rice brushed with egg, smoky and chewy perfection in every bite.

• Jim Jum (จิ้มจุ่ม) – Isan-style hot pot with herbal broth, cooked at the table, meant to be shared.

• Gaeng Nor Mai (แกงหน่อไม้) – Shredded bamboo shoots gently cooked in yanang leaf juice until tender and nearly dry, then mixed with fresh herbs. Earthy, fragrant, and herbaceous, it’s subtly tangy and deeply flavorful

• Kai Mod Daeng (ไข่มดแดง)– Red ant eggs, often in soup or salad; adventurous, funky, and a true taste of traditional Isan.

Single by Choice: Why Some of Us Prefer a Relationship-Free Life

Love can be wonderful. Partnership can be beautiful. And some of us… have opted out—at least for now, and very much on purpose.

I have a subset of friends who are single by choice. Not bitter. Not unlucky. Not “couldn’t find anyone.” Just deliberately, intentionally relationship-free. It’s similar to the child-free conversation: people are beginning to understand that choice a little better, even if it still raises eyebrows. This one? Not so much.

Let’s Clear Something Up…

So let me address the elephant in the room with a little humor and a lot of clarity:

Do you REALLY think we can’t get laid? That we aren’t getting laid?

Because that seems to be the default assumption. As if choosing to be single automatically means we’re unwanted or untouched. Most of us absolutely could find partners, and many of us are already intimate in the ways that suit our lives. We’re not celibate by force. We just refuse to lower our standards or sign up for relationships that shrink us.

Standards Aren’t Entitlement. They’re Alignment

That’s the real conversation: standards. Not entitlement—alignment. For many of us, the single life is simply more fulfilling than compromising in ways that would cost us peace, autonomy, creativity, or joy.

We find intimacy in friendships and family. Sometimes in casual connections. Sometimes in solitude. Our lives aren’t empty — they’re full in different, meaningful ways.

Yes! A Fulfilled Life Exists Outside Romance

And yes, I know some people can’t imagine that. A life without a spouse to lean on. A home without children. A calendar that isn’t structured around a partner. But this life exists. We exist. And our fulfillment doesn’t hinge on a romantic relationship slot being filled.

We already compromise in a thousand other places: careers, responsibilities, family obligations. Choosing not to compromise on who we share our lives with is intentional.

Friendship Without Assumptions

What I want more of are friendships that feel easy and unburdened. Friends who can hang out without assumptions. Where closeness isn’t confused with pursuit. Where connection can simply be what it is in the moment — laughter over coffee, a walk at sunset, deep conversation, or comfortable silence.

No hidden agenda. No quiet evaluation of whether this might “be something more.” Just… being human together.

Not Anti-Love—Just Anti-Settling

And here’s the thing: it’s not that any of us have sworn off committed, monogamous relationships forever. Most of us haven’t. If the right person showed up, someone whose presence expands life rather than constricts it, we’d recognize that.

We’re just unwilling to force it. Unwilling to treat partnership as a checkbox. Unwilling to trade a life we love for one that only sort of fits.

Single Is a Whole Life, Not a Half One

Choosing singlehood isn’t a failure or a fallback plan. It’s a conscious choice for a life.

And if you know someone who has chosen this road, trust them when they say they’re fulfilled. There’s a whole, vibrant world inside a relationship-free life — and it’s not a consolation prize. It’s simply another way of being free.