The Death of an Adjunct | The Atlantic

Thea Hunter was a promising, brilliant scholar. And then she got trapped in academia’s permanent underclass.

A bald eagle in flight is elegance to behold. The sudden, violent flaps of its wings are broken by sublime extension as it locks onto a breeze and glides. Occasionally, 10 blocks north of the George Washington Bridge in Manhattan, you can spot a bald eagle overhead in Fort Tryon Park. There, Thea Hunter could often be counted among the bird’s admirers—typically while walking her dog, Cooper, a black Labrador retriever.

Thea loved the park, a bastion of calm amid the city’s constant hum, and she reveled in the chance encounters she had with eagles there. Often, even in the middle of winter, she would wrestle out her phone to call a friend. Some birds flap, flap, dive, she would explain, while others catch a current and soar. It was remarkable, really, that bald eagles were there at all, as they had once been so close to extinction.

[Featured Image: Sanna Stanley / Rykoff Collection / Imran kadir photography / Getty / Frank Fiedler / Shutterstock / Arsh Raziuddin / The Atlantic]

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