creme de la random

And now, the awards for my student suggested roll call questions.

Questions I wished I’d thought of:

• If you found yourself in jail one day, what would you most likely be there for?
• Go back in time… what phrase/saying would you coin?
• What is the color, type, and significance of your toothbrush?
• If you were a superhero, what would your power and name be?
• What’s your favorite commercial or infomercial?

Questions I’d like to ask but am afraid to:

• What do you hate about Baylor?
• What is your idea of a perfect date?
• Which teacher have you disliked the most and why?

Most likely to be a schizophrenic’s waking dream:

• If a trashcan at Target grumbled at you while standing in line, how would you respond?
• Would you rather be a chair, a backpack, or a ceiling? 
• Do you know the muffin man?

Most likely to be reported to the counseling center:

• If you could kill anyone in the world without consequences, who would it be and why?

Proof that they pay attention sometimes:

• What is something embarrassing that you do subconsciously? (i.e. Ms. Adams’ crack-addicted octopus)

Most disgusting:

• Location of conception?

Best Pop Culture Reference:

• Why so serious?

Most likely to get Ms. Adams fired:

• If you could fondle anyone in this class…would it be John?

 

best p.s. ever

After the Adderall-free, stream-of-consciousness rant I gave on introductions and conclusions, I receive this day-making e-mail from a student (the body of the email was about an assignment, the P.S. is the relevant bit):

P.S- You really saved me on Tuesday with your comment about not taking your ADD medicine. I started laughing when you said that but then I remembered that I had forgotten to take MY ADHD medicine that morning as well and I had a test later on that day. Luckily I was able to go back to my room to get it. Just wanted to let you know how you inadvertently helped me out.

Ms. Adams: she spazzes out so you don’t have to! 

teaching wk. 9, pt. 2: the day i told my kids i’d be a stripper

When Dr. Losey offered me a TA position, he assured me my students would love me because I’m “quirky and self-deprecating in a really endearing way.” While that’s not a traditional pedagogical approach, it’s how I’ve survived so far. Unfortunately, at this rate, it will also result in an escorted removal from Baylor’s campus.

Today we did peer reviews. A couple of kids finished really early, so I handed out index cards and asked for three suggestions for roll call questions. Roll call questions are a unanimous favorite in both my classes, and they’ve actually helped me a lot as well. I ask an unusual or telling question at the beginning of class, and as I take attendance, they answer. It’s a practice that has helped me get to know my students, makes them feel at ease, and is a lot of fun in general. Questions have ranged from “What was your favorite TV show as a kid” (I almost lost control of both my classes with that one) to “If you could only eat one food for the rest of your life, what would it be?” The raciest things ever got was “Who is your celebrity crush?”, so they obviously have a precedent for what is and is not appropriate. Too bad they, like I, ignore that.  

If I didn’t love my students before, I certainly would now — and not just because I hope they don’t report me. Yes, there were a lot of boring, half-assed entries (”What’s your favorite color?” , “If you were stranded on a desert island…”, etc), but I was thrilled by some of the other suggestions; those will be their own entry. First, let’s talk about how I told my kids I’d be a stripper. 

One student, who cracks me up for a lot of unintentional reasons (and who I’d already publicly antagonized, albeit lovingly, this class period), turns in a card on which his third question is, ahem, “If you had to be a stripper, a prostitute, or a slave, what would you choose? Why?”

First thing out of my mouth: “[Student's Name], are you trying to get me fired? Why would I ever ask this in class?”

Second thing out of my mouth: “Guys, listen to what [Student's Name] thinks is a good thing to say in class…”

After I read the question — and pointed out it should be “which” not “what” — I wondered again why he would ask that, especially when the answer is so obvious: of course I’d be a stripper. Who would choose to be a prostitute? And even as a prostitute, you’d get paid, unlike a slave. As a stripper you don’t really have to touch people. Another student pointed out that wasn’t true, because sometimes you have to give lap dances. I agreed, but pointed out that’s not the same thing. 

I apologize to parents everywhere. But also, what sort of children did you send me?

Perhaps if this had come during a normal day, it would be one thing, but I had already pointed out that, though I love my ringtone (”Business Time” by Flight of the Conchords), it’s kinda weird when my dad calls.

Also, I had to say at one point, “Kyle, while are you fondling John?” “Fondling” had been an overstatement, since Kyle was just rubbing John’s shoulder and leg to make him uncomfortable and being wildly successful. I had to ask him to molest John on his own time, and not in my class where I responsible for John’s virtue.

And then, I had told a story about running into one of the students in the class at Season’s Creamery. After leaving, Ezra had said, “You did that thing you do.” I responded, “What thing?” He said, “You know, that thing you do where you wave your arms and make that weird ‘baaah’ noise.” Then followed a conversation in which, through fits of paranoia, I went through my many, many recurring gestures that occasion me to wave my arms and go “baaaaah.” I concluded that being a crazy octopus is the cornerstone of my communicative skills. 

Then I told them I would be a stripper. At least I didn’t say prostitute. 

 

 

 

teaching, wk 9: “it’s a party hat!”

I haven’t written about teaching in a while, but that’s not to say it’s been going badly. In fact, it’s been going pretty great. I’ve found something of a stride in the classroom, I’m not letting them out twenty minutes early (sometimes I don’t even finish, which I thought would never happen), and I’m starting to get some feedback. Most exciting, I’m seeing some of my students make leaps in their writing. 

I did a mid-semester evaluation/questionnaire and got some surprising results. Most surprising is that they want more grammar lessons, which means I need to review more grammar. Luckily, Jonathan Gitlin has a fabulous, grammar-master of a mom who wrote a fabulous, grammar-simplifier of a book. I’m planning to work that into many a lesson from now until the end of the semester. 

I had a few kids tell me I was their favorite teacher and that they enjoyed my class. I also had students tell me, however, that they wanted to be better writers by semester’s end, but they didn’t want to write so much. That aside, I felt pretty good about myself. Which is why days like today are inevitable. 

Today I covered introductions and conclusions: what they should do and some good ways to make them do it. At one point, I had four different abstract shapes on the board, each explaining an introduction. Sure they were. And my analogy of intro = birth announcement/conclusion = eulogy was unanimously declared (okay, by one student — but she was loud) lame. Which is was. But guess what? Lessons on intros and conclusions are lame. I was keeping tone. The highlight of my lecture came in the first class when, while describing the specific-to-general pyramid, I realized I’d made a party hat. Like this:

Then I exclaimed, “Party hat!” That was quickly followed by my fourth apology/explanation that I didn’t take my adderall this morning. I took it before my second class. It didn’t go much better, though they were spared my explanation of the unhealthy relationship between the independent and dependent clauses on either side of a colon (”I need you, baby! I can’t exist without you! I have no meaning when you’re gone!” self-satisfied chuckle). 

Really, making a fool of myself doesn’t bother me like it used to. Getting to know my students makes the whole thing worthwhile. I did student conferences all last week, and while it was exhausting, I kept thinking how much I like my students. They’re actual people. And they’re precious. 

My day had two shining highlights. First, during my “lecture,” I accidentally made up a new word: “relephant.” It’s an elephant that matters. Second, in response to the roll call question asking for their irrational fears and phobias, one girl said butterflies. She is terrified of butterflies. I still don’t know how that happens. 

 

 

laughing. crying. same thing.

Thank you, Wondermark. Thank you.

depends on your definition of “sense”

Excerpt from a (very bright, I might add) student’s essay:

Society today has become one of the grandest places where many contrasting ideas arise concerning certain subject matters.

More than anything, I’m impressed. How do you use that many words and avoid saying a single thing? This kid has promise: he could be a political speech writer, a critical theorist, or an English teacher. My job here is done.

teaching week 3, pt. 2: who am I really talking to here?

teaching week 3, pt. 1: “we eat lunch with your other class. they talk crap about you.”

As I sat down to begin today’s entry, I took a bite out of my pizza from the SUB. Reminder: bring own lunch from now own. 

My lesson plans for the day  came together at 9 AM this morning. Class, I should mention, begins at 9:30. It was a weird in-between day: they were assigned all the pre-writing for their essay last time, and their polished draft is due on Thursday. I couldn’t really cover new material today; it seemed intellectually irresponsible. Surprisingly, I was actually pleased with what we covered in class, and I was calmer than I’ve ever been. Moral of the story: preparation is a fickle mistress. 

To emphasize that what we’re doing in class might actually be worth a damn (and to convince myself of the same thing), I started off with a post from the Much Hallowed Language Log — a post I would never have seen if puttering around on the internet wasn’t the most pronounced side-effect of my fatal allergy to productivity. We talked a bit about thinking critically (5 minutes) and I made them write about it (10 minutes). Add that to the Writing Center presentation (thanks, Mollie and Cameron!) and that’s 20 minutes down. 50 minutes to go. 

For my first class, making them write a journal at 9:30 in the morning is tantamount to making them breakfast on a beloved childhood pet: only a sick, perverted mind could concoct an act of such profound distaste. Eyes were rolling so emphatically, I thought I might have wandered off into a Romero film.

Just like that. Minus most of the gore.

In my second class, it was the next exercise that affronted their sense of decency.  As I called roll, I had them tell me their thesis sentence. In my first class, the reaction amounted to, “Oh.” In the second section, cries of disbelief — and a few tragic wails — filled the air. But guess what? I’m an English teacher: our life force is fueled by topic sentences. I demand theses! So, they read their thesis statements, and we discussed how to make them better. For example, your thesis statement should be about what your essay is going to be about. Learning is fun. 

After reading the previous paragraph, this next bit should come as no surprise. I decided to review the rhetorical situation: specifically, the rhetorical situation for this essay. When I asked who their audience was, the class correctly responded “You.” When I asked them what that meant, one student incorrectly responded, “Use sarcasm.” Well. Maybe.

After the uproar asking them to do a modicum of work caused, I pointed out how well my 9:30 class had taken the news. Captain Latin: “Yes. But that class has no personality.” Me: “What? You don’t know them!” Girl I Previously Thought Was Not Capable of This: “We eat lunch with your other class. They’re boring, and they talk crap about you all the time.” She was kidding. I think.

Just in case, I let them out 20 minutes early. 

 

 

teaching week two, pt. 2: “miss adams, get some rest.”

In a conversation with Z last week, she mentioned that she and Dan had wondered when, in Dan’s words, “Kat’s going to do that sarcastic impression thing to one of her students.” That day was yesterday.

Yesterday I did a grammar review with my students. After reading their in-class assignment, I decided to review a few basics that I thought they were having trouble with, and then play a game over what we’d reviewed (a game which, thanks to Ezra’s suggestion, required me to do very, very little). 

The first class went well. They participated in the review, they were enthusiastic (in 9:30 AM terms) about the game. Success.

The second class. Maybe it’s because some of them are older, or perhaps it’s because their brains have perked up by 12:30, but they effectively and consistently stumped me on grammar. I’d gone over the basics again, but frankly I haven’t thought seriously about grammar in years. This become progressively more obvious as the 75 minutes progressed. Unfortunately (by which I mean “Thankfully”), I have a very bright, eloquent sophomore in that class who is in his third semester of Latin. He knew everything. He was very respectful about it, but on more than one occassion he had to interject, “Miss Adams, isn’t it actually [blank]?” And of course he was right. I’m glad he spoke up, and I know it certainly helped other students, but the whole thing did end with me saying, “I’m Brandon! Predicate nominative, blah, blah, blah!” Over the nervous laughter, I did explain that I wasn’t making fun of him, and that he was obviously right. Hopefully everyone caught that bit.

Despite being grammatically pwned in front of my students, the day was much better than Tuesday. My classes were entertained by my retelling of the nightmare I’d had the night before, in which half of them got up and left in the middle of class, only to come back and insist they were there all along. This unfortunate circumstance was only made worse when, while they were arguing with me, an ex-boyfriend walked in and smirked condescendingly at me. The students really liked that part.

As I was leaving my first class, a student (the “difficult” one whom I actually like) said, “Miss Adams, get some rest this weekend. You can’t keep drinking those huge cokes.” I think I’ll take his advice. Though I still feel Whataburger’s large is a perfectly acceptable serving size. 

teaching week two, pt. 1: “you’re going to hate this.”

NB: I realize last week’s entry had a misleading “pt. 1″ designation. I thought it best to leave that week behind me and charge forth. Turns out this week isn’t any better. Cool.

The saga of my inadequacy continues. Worse, the kids are catching on. Eventually they’ll expose me as a fraud. My authority will be shot. I’ll be at their mercy. Obviously, I would prefer this not to happen.

Which is why I’ve concocted a plan.

Inspired by Lydia Cooper’s (PhD) story of “accidentally” calling her students “dumbasses,” I considered unleashing a verbal tirade on my classes – savaging their tender, blossoming minds to a slew of abuses unheard this side of a fishing barge. Then, my thinking followed, at least I’d know they disliked me and why. There’s a comfort in certainty. A certainty that one is reviled is no exception. Depending on how you define “comfort.”

I’ll illustrate. Today I assigned a half-hour in-class writing assignment in which the students were supposed to summarize the results they received in a personality test and respond. As they were leaving, one student (who has already taken great care to define himself as “difficult”) leans over and says, “You’re going to hate this.” Smirk, smirk.  I suspect he thought this because he devoted his essay disavowing all personality tests. He, it was argued, is a unique lil snowflake. Psychological research can suck it.

Frankly, I didn’t hate his essay at all. I was so pleased to find an actual opinion hidden among that teetering pile of blue books, his dissent didn’t offend me in the least. He didn’t realize that I wasn’t going to take his response personally. I don’t need his approval. More accurately, I don’t need his approval once I know I don’t have it.

So, The New Plan: offend every students’ sense of self. Then, if the particular is an accurate predictor of the whole, I’ll be free to do whatever the hell I please.

What I keep forgetting is that I already have that ability. I’m the teacher. Right.

So, The New Plan (Revised): just forget about making them like me and teach the thing. I’ll do it in ways that interest me and hope that interest is contagious. I’ve said from the beginning that I don’t care to be their friend, and that’s true. I never wanted to be their buddy, but I did want them to like me.  I still do, just not at the cost of my sanity and confidence.  So for all practical purposes, when I walk in on Thursday, I will pretend that I’ve called them all dumbasses. Not like Lydia did (when she probably didn’t mean to), but like I looked at them all and said, “Geez. You are dumb. And asses. You are dumbasses. And I hate you a little bit. Dumbasses.”  It’s an impossible place to come back from. Freed from the tantalus of their universal adoration, I can do as I please, teach as I want, and enjoy my role as rhetorical guide.

Wish me luck. Or don’t. Dumbasses.