Conferencing Matters: Investing in My Rhetorical Identity
By Quang Ly
Tags:Academic Identity, Ethos, Academic Currency, Contingent Faculty, Networking, Conference Presentations
Choosing what to pack for the CCCC Annual Convention often sends me into a spiral of indecision. Do I need a tie? How many dress shirts are enough? These subtle decisions influence how I present myself and raise the broader question: Why do conferences matter for rhetorical identity? By rhetorical identity, I mean the persona we carefully and strategically craft to signal our credibility and character in academic spaces. As a non‑tenure‑track professor—part of the contingent faculty workforce—I navigate a system that privileges research visibility. Although presenting at conferences is a standard practice for educators, I still feel slightly anxious when speaking before a room of researchers, teachers, and scholars. I want my peers to see me as someone who belongs in that room. To speak frankly, impressions count—whether we’re navigating the convention center, delivering presentations, or exploring the city, our demeanor defines the persona we convey in the spaces we occupy.
Opportunities for career growth emerge from these choices because every detail—from attire to attitude—shapes the impressions I leave. Those decisions become the foundation for how I interact with peers and portray myself within the community. This concern with presentation—both physical and intellectual—was amplified when I served as a documentarian, a role that forced me to interrogate how my actions contribute to the ethos I convey. One of the questions from the CCCC 2025 Documentarian Pre‑Conference Survey, “What are your motivations for serving in the Documentarian role?” made me wonder about my reasons for attending the Conference on College Composition and Communication (or any other national conference). I had attended major conferences (e.g., CCCC, NCTE, TESOL) out of habit but never interrogated the why behind my participation. I soon realized that this habit is actually a necessary tactic for long‑term endurance in academia.
Navigating academic spaces, then, requires more than logistics; for someone in my role, it demands resilience and purpose—a deliberate strategy for staying power in a system that rewards research prominence. This realization reframed my perspective on conferences: these gatherings are about survival as much as professional development. As a non‑tenure‑track professor, my primary responsibility is teaching, and I have no formal research obligations. And yet, year after year, I find myself in a different city, wearing a conference lanyard and badge. My PhD trained me for research, yet it’s not required in my current role. So why do I keep going? Why does research feel essential even when it’s not required?
Fostering a scholarly identity is essential for maintaining a presence in an oversaturated job market. In the economy of higher education, I think of conference presentations as “spare change” (easy to earn) compared to the “big coins” (hard to earn) of journal publications. This viewpoint changed how I approach these annual meetings: they must be intentional, functioning as opportunities to build academic currency and signal my expertise. In my own department, where teaching is the primary expectation, I need to go beyond the basics to stand out. For me, being part of CCCC is not about passive participation—it’s about leveraging each experience to bolster my scholarly profile. I’ve become a meticulous collector of spare change, adding conference lines that keep my CV from looking sparse. As a contingent faculty member, conveying a rhetorical identity is critical for gaining respect, prestige, and career advancement. Conference presentations, therefore, offer a faster return on investment than traditional journal publications.
Engaging with my peers transforms conferences into networks of possibilities. It’s about forming relationships that foster collaboration and reinforce the rhetorical identity I strive to develop. Coffee chats and hallway chatter are investments in relationships that, I hope, nurture lasting collaboration and mentorship long after the conference ends. My pursuit of academic currency began in graduate school, where I often felt like a misfit. In my seminar classes, such as Research Methods in Rhetoric and Composition or History and Theories of Composition, I prepared diligently but struggled to contribute meaningfully. While my classmates offered sharp insights, I sat quietly on the sidelines, unsure how to strengthen my ethos or claim my place. I longed not only for knowledge but also for acceptance in the academic community. Conferences, then, offer not just belonging but solace—a refuge where this precarious pursuit feels understood.
Reflecting on my motivations for participating in conferences deepens this understanding. Looking back, I see how my professors guided me toward building my ethos. They stressed the importance of research and publishing and encouraged me to submit seminar papers to conferences. At the time, I didn’t realize they were helping me construct my rhetorical identity. Their mentorship prepared me for the traditional model of academic success, where teaching, research, and service form the triad of professional achievement. Yet advancement in the field is often reduced to publication records, even though many pursue non‑research paths. Still, my professors helped me gather evidence for my CV to demonstrate expertise and research experience—credentials that elevate my position in the job market. To have a seat at the table and earn respect in my discourse community, those three components are key to developing an ethos worthy of recognition.
Establishing credibility, therefore, becomes a calculated effort. Planning proposals, selecting projects, and balancing service commitments against teaching loads are all part of the labor that underpins career advancement. All these decisions must be balanced against my teaching schedule and, of course, time—my most limited commodity. This triad is especially relevant at my university, where nearly forty faculty members teach in the first‑year writing program. I am but another face, a cog that can be easily replaced when worn down. I worry about job security and my placement in academia. It is difficult to feel like a valuable member of my department when I feel that we are all the same kind of cog. Questions like “How can I increase my value?” and “How can I stand out?” weigh heavily on my mind.
Networking transforms isolated achievements into recognition, especially for contingent faculty. These relationships help us gain stature and enter conversations often dominated by tenure‑track voices. Cultivating ties across teaching, research, and service helps shift us from invisible cogs to visible colleagues. While all three are necessary, they are not valued equally. If teaching is my daily labor, research remains a big‑ticket item. While all professors must teach, only those on the tenure track are generally expected to perform research and service. For non‑tenure‑track faculty, these components are optional, but optional doesn’t mean irrelevant. Those who excel in research and service stand a greater chance of continuing to be a cog within the university. While I find fulfillment in service, which is accessible to anyone willing to volunteer their time, research ultimately carries the most weight in defining professional standing. This is the one area I must prioritize despite my heavy course load and service commitments.
Celebrating colleagues reinforces the communal spirit that sustains our field. Attending panels, offering support, and acknowledging others’ labor are acts of solidarity that fortify the discourse community we share. Constructing my rhetorical identity requires intentional effort, and conducting research will help me achieve the kind of academic profile I believe is necessary for developing a strong ethos. The CCCC brings together researchers, teachers, scholars, and graduate students from all over to build connections, learn from one another, share teaching stories, converse about graduate programs, and much more. It’s important, then, that we take part in the events the conference offers to expand our professional circle and put our names out there. My self‑perception as a professor and researcher matters because it shapes how others see me and how I position myself for future collaborations and leadership roles.
Investing time in proposals and presentations pays dividends beyond the CV line. Each submission, each acceptance, is a step toward establishing an identity that expresses authority and belonging. While my primary goal in attending the CCCC is to share my research and learn about new topics, I also hope to catch up with some of my acquaintances from graduate school. Conferences also offer a valuable chance to reaffirm my presence in the field and remain engaged in ongoing conversations. I want my acquaintances to see that I’m still committed to scholarship, which could open the door to future collaborations if our interests align. As it is common to lose touch with people after we depart from school (or work), attending these annual conventions serves as a meeting space to reconnect with familiar faces—an added benefit of showing up.
Nurturing connections with new places and new people reinvigorates the work for me. Traveling to these events offers not only intellectual stimulation but also the pleasure of exploration. My institution’s participation in the Atlantic Coast Conference has shown me the value of school spirit, and I carry that same energy into the CCCC. Much like wearing orange and green at a Miami Hurricanes game, I approach the conference with a cheerleader’s ethos, transforming institutional pride into a deliberate practice of community‑building. As a member of the teaching and writing studies discourse communities, I am invested in supporting my peers. I make it a practice to celebrate their research, especially when familiar names appear in the program. This kind of mutual validation sustains and fuels us when we return to the relentless demands of teaching and research.
Granted, the demands of teaching and research can feel exhausting, but conferences provide respite and renewal. They offer strategies and inspiration for the unpaid labor that often defines academic life. In a tech‑driven era, teaching demands constant reinvention and reimagining of our pedagogy, and conferences create a space to discover new approaches. We redesign our pedagogy to keep students engaged, attend workshops, and participate in professional development to refine our instructional methods. Students may never witness the planning that shapes a course, but my peers know the long hours and unseen labor behind it. That is why I attend CCCC: to present my work, to learn from colleagues, to celebrate their successes, and to carry home new pedagogical ideas. I also use these moments to advocate for voices that merit attention and to ensure their contributions are acknowledged.
Managing the administrative demands of conferencing underscores the reality that rhetorical identity is labor‑intensive. From drafting proposals to seeking funding, the process requires foresight and persistence—efforts that communicate commitment to both peers and institutional leadership. Before the actual conference experience begins, the unpaid labor has already started with the call for proposals. Part of the conference experience involves the rigorous labor of crafting a proposal that can pass muster with my peers. It also requires seeking travel funding (from the conference organizer or my institution) and adjusting my teaching schedule to accommodate missed class time. When I seek funding from the Dean’s Office and my Department Chair, it lets them know about my research agenda. My rhetorical identity matters to the leadership team of my college and department. When I received the email about the 2025 CCCC, I sat back and contemplated whether I wanted to submit another proposal. The conference process demands a grueling volume of work, one that often makes me pause and reconsider. Yet despite the strain, I know I still need the spare change.
Assembling a rhetorical identity is not a single act but an ongoing process. Each presentation and publication adds another piece to the mosaic of scholarly credibility. For me, having some lines on my CV showing that I presented one of my research projects should, ideally, help me maintain my job or support an internal promotion. It is imperative to display an image of knowledge and expertise in my subject area. Although journal articles primarily construct this image, these publications can take many months (or years) before our labor comes to fruition. These spare‑change presentations offer immediate prominence on a CV, providing the tactical momentum necessary for annual reviews while serving as early drafts for future big‑coin journal publications.
Travel becomes part of the conference experience, blending scholarship with personal engagement. These journeys remind us that our academic identities travel with us. While in Baltimore, I explored the city on foot, using movement as a way to encounter something new. Changing the scenery is refreshing—and I would even argue that it’s beneficial for our mental health. For those two or three days of conferencing, it feels energizing to wake up and see a scenic view. The conference organizer selects a different host city each year, and I always hope the conference takes place in a favorite or entirely new city. Generally, the conference organizer will compile a guide highlighting places to visit, restaurants to try, and activities to explore because they encourage attendees to experience the area. Such events are rarely confined to the four walls of the convention center; they are equally about experiencing our surroundings. Who says we can’t discuss research and teaching while catching a game at Oriole Park? Even in these moments of leisure, we carry our rhetorical identity with us as much as we carry our phones. We must ensure we express ourselves in the best possible light.
Taking time to reflect on these experiences reveals their cumulative power. Conferences are chapters in our story of growth, perseverance, and aspiration. As I sat back and reflected on another successful conference at CCCC, I thought about the value conferences hold for my academic career. I was fortunate enough to attend several wonderful panels (“Remixing Socially Just Writing Pedagogy through Digital Archives”; “Writing about Writing, Embedded Writing Consultants, and Laboratory Teaching: Centerpieces to Developing a WID Program at SUNY Polytechnic”; “Visual Rhetorics in First‑Year Writing: Collaborating on a Curricular Exhibition for First‑Year Writing in the University Art Museum”). My goals for immersing myself in these panels were ambitious. I hoped to identify potential research collaborators, learn from colleagues doing similar work, explore new pedagogical, research, and administrative practices, encounter fresh theories and heuristics, and broaden my social and professional networks. Lofty as they were, these goals were realized.
Embracing the full cycle of conferencing can be demanding, yet it is indispensable. For contingent faculty, this labor is the price of visibility and the path to more opportunities. The entire conference process can drain me, from the proposal to the presentation stage, but the recognition it brings is worth it. Given my role at the university, I am always finding ways to build my rhetorical identity. This identity, however, does not come cheaply. It requires substantial effort on my part. My goal is to collect as much spare change as I can. I need to acquire funds to invest in an identity that conveys authority and earns respect in my field. I was taught in graduate school the tiresome labor involved in the life of a tenured professor (always researching, always teaching, always serving), and I continue to learn each year how much work that really entails, especially from the vantage point of a non‑tenure‑track faculty member.
Relationships forged in these spaces endure, shaping future collaborations and widening professional horizons. They become the unseen dividends of the time and energy invested during the conference. These investments can lead to co‑authored publications, joint research projects, or invitations to other gatherings. I attend these conferences to showcase my ongoing research and remain involved with my academic community. By staying active, I position myself as a candidate for introductions to new collaborators or emerging research opportunities within my colleagues’ professional circles. The informal conversations over breakfast or dinner can spark ideas that may develop into collaborative projects.
Securing a place in academia depends on thoughtful engagement. Just as packing for a conference reflects identity, so does each proposal, presentation, and conversation. Together, these actions shape the architecture of my credibility—an architecture I must assemble to survive and thrive. Conferences are not luxuries—they are lifelines for promoting our work, expanding our network, and sustaining our ethos. For me, they anchor my strategy for building and maintaining my rhetorical identity, and each year the cycle reminds me of what this work requires and what it ultimately makes possible. Once the conference ends, the cycle resets. When I return to my home state, there is little time to rest. In just a few short months, the call for proposals for next year’s conference will be due. I must begin drafting a strong proposal if I hope to meet the looming deadline and receive an acceptance. I take a breath and prepare to start the cycle again. Sigh. Under my breath, I whisper, “Welcome to the precarious life of teaching in higher education.”