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.

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teaching week one: the horror, the horrror (pt. 1).

For those of you who are unaware, this semester is my first in the classroom.  I am Ms. Adams: the constructor of syllabi and dispenser of grading rubrics. I feel responsibility to 44 other souls (two sections of 22 students whose names I will never, ever get right) to whom I’ve become an intellectual parent. Suddenly I feel more relevant, more valuable. I see the world in a different light: the gentle luminsescence of sheer and complete terror.

Teaching on the college level has always been my career goal. For someone who gets their sense of worth from their work, this means I take teaching — along with writing — very seriously. My experience has been limited, but I’ve always enjoyed it when it comes my way. But this newest development isn’t subbing, it isn’t presenting, it isn’t assisting. It is straight-up teaching a college level course.  My program has exceptional preparation and help for incoming TA’s, especially in comparison with what I’ve heard from other schools. Still, when I stand at the podium, I become a rambling, mumbling, spazzy, spacey teacher lady.  Actual excerpts from my first week:

“I’m sorry…sometimes I just say things?” (Repeated three times in my first class)

Me: “Is [band x] anything like [band y]?” Student response: “No.” Me: “Cool.”

“I’m reasonable within reason.”

“I see you bought the new Coldplay album. That’s cool. I…am trying to come up with an anecdote for this and I can’t think of anything. People seem to like Coldplay. Oh, hey, have you ever seen Exras? Chris Martin was on that once. He was funny. There. Anecdote.”

“I, uh. Hm. Yeah. That’s funny. I, um. Yeah…yeah.” (Repeated daily at regular intervals.)

“Marx is a radical but he doesn’t want to throw that at his audience first thing. You know, it’s like, he’s all ‘Hey, proletariat! Know what sucks? Working in factories! Who else misses farming? We should kill the Czar!’” My paraphrase of the opening chapter of the Communist Manifesto was accompanied by what can only be described as my “dur-dur-dur” elbow dance. You know the one.

“[inaudible mumble]” My attempts to pronounce a third of my students’ names.

“So many of you are pre-med! But I guess everyone starts out as pre-med, huh?” Nervous laugh.

“Yes, Brandon.” Silence. “You’re Brandon right?” Silence. “Okay, sorry. Who are you?”

“Rhetoric is not only what you say but how you say it and saying in a way that communicates what you’re saying to other people. So, um, eloquence.”

I am Ms. Adams: the inscrutable. More to come and soon.

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