of course i did [warning: explicit, humorous language].
Right now I’m sitting in an echoing corridor of Morrison Hall, poking my head in the two seperate rooms my students are taking their finals in. Why two seperate rooms? Well, I’ll tell you.
I got to campus at 10:30 AM to pick up the tests. After that, I went to grab breakfast on campus with Ezra. So far, so good. At 11:19, I go back to my office to grab the tests, only everyone else had already left and I was locked out. After a good deal of running up and down the dreaded stairs of Carroll Science and a couple of calls from students, I finally make it to Morrison Hall. As I’m walking in, I see both sections of my academic dependents exiting a room that was “crowded as hell.” So, together, we took a little walk around the building, found a couple of empty rooms and got started — though not before I announced that it was “probably a good thing I only had one semester to fuck students up.”
Well, it was bound to happen someday. I finally said “fuck” in front of my students. Two hours shy of leaving with some dignity I said, almost literally, “fuck it.”
Good thing I’ve spent the entire semester conditioning my students to a) not be shocked by anything I might say or do and b) to just roll with it. After dropping the ole f-bomb, showing up 10 minutes late for the final, telling them I wore my new boots so I wouldn’t have to shave my legs, and going pretty much rogue on departmental policy, they just went along with it all, laughing as they did, reminding me to be glad they’d already filled out my student evaluations. As if I hadn’t thought of that.Â
While passing out the test, two of my students told me how the other proctors were freaking out and making “executive decisions” in my absence, which I guess is what happens when you’re on top of things as a teacher. I’m actually really proud that my students just up and left, all together, to find me. To quote one student: “They didn’t understand we’ve been with you all semester. 11:30 means 11:45, and everyone would be fine.” It’s taken some of my closest friends a lot longer to figure out the same thing.Â
As they’re handing in their test, saying good-byes and wishing happy holidays, they’re telling me how much they enjoyed my class (*ahemgradesnotinyetahem*). I’m pretending it’s not just because of my general spaznuggetry. Each time I say bye, I reminded how this really is what I love doing. Though I’m about to take a couple of years off and work in completely unrelated sector, these kids brought home the reason I got into my discipline to begin with: because I love using English to show students what they’re capable of, Â helping them find their voice and be taken seriously. And also to say “fuck” in front 43 college freshmen at the nation’s largest Baptist university.Â
Filed under corrupting the youth | Comment (1)teaching week 3, pt. 2: who am I really talking to here?
Alright, fine, Universe. I’ll get into it if you just really want to get into it. And clearly you do.
I do not write these things to air my dirty laundry. Yes, I’m often frank about my fears and inadequacies, but those of you who know me also know that’s simply how I roll. Because you know what I think is hiLARious? The futility of human toil (I’m only partly joking, but the part that is joking is deathly serious). So, while I don’t enjoy being overly open in a semi-public forum, I encountered a little teaching irony this week that brought some things to light.
For those of you who missed it, I should’ve graduated in August. I actually could have gotten out in May had I got my shit together.  But I didn’t get said shit together, for a few reasons. Mainly, I had another bout of depression in what has been historically and genetically proved to be a chronic struggle. I did not deal with it as well as I should have, and so spent the bulk of the spring semester and a better chunk of summer making less than fabulous choices. The depression also compounded my professional and perfectionist fears and insecurities, so that I couldn’t do anything. I had a crippling fear of failure and a low enough opinion of myself that I ignored due dates and obligations. Eventually, I had no choice but to hang out for another semester. Over the course of the last few months, I lost the respect of my thesis advisor, lost perspective on my calling, and lost all motivation to make it better. And then, in a act of grace, I was offered a teaching assistantship.Â
I’m teaching, I’m terrified, blah, blah, blah. You’ve heard this part. When I walked into class Thursday, I overheard one student say to another, “I don’t care. What’s the big deal? It’s just an English class.”I wasn’t bothered that it was said; I certainly didn’t take it personally. I was, however, a bit bothered by who said it, because he is and exceptionally bright student who is doing poorly in the course. He’s already missed once or twice and his daily grade has plummeted. He didn’t come prepared for class that day either, but e-mailed me his assignment.
When I went to read his late work, I was not angry, exactly, but deeply peeved. He was supposed to summarize two essays, and he didn’t. He responded to them, and he responded to them in a way that was a direct challenge to me and the course. I won’t go into it, but he was clear on how he felt about ol’ ENG 1302. So, I met his challenge. After making notes on the summaries, I continued,
On a slightly different note, I would say that in your in-class writing, your comments during discussion, and these summaries, you’ve proved yourself to be a very effective communicator and writer. You clearly have something to say and are self-aware enough to say it. Because of your absences and missing daily work, your daily grade for the unit is suffering. Things are not dire beyond help — you could still walk away with an A in this course — but I would hate to see you perform below your obvious ability.
 I realize this is not exactly the most enjoyable course offered: I took it as an undergraduate English major, I’m teaching it as an English graduate, and I still struggle with how profoundly dull the coursework is. The skills really are useful, and I try to make things interesting, but it can be challenging to get excited about class. That said, do not turn in C level work when you are completely capable of an A. The only thing worse than a boring class is doing poorly in a boring class.
As I wrote, and as I grew increasingly frustrated with the student, I found myself emerging from my academic lethargy. Â I understood the disappointment I caused in those who wished me to succeed. I understood how counterproductive my fear of failure had been. Most importantly, I realized that there is still hope. I don’t have to stay where I am; it is within my power to make things better.
So, hey. I think I’ll do that. Â
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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
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.
![I swear.](http://www.sothereisthat.com/wp-content/uploads/2008/09/3734949_std.jpg "\")
Just like that. Minus most of the gore.
In my second class, it was the next exercise that affronted their sense of decency. Â 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.Â
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.Â
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Filed under corrupting the youth | Comment (0)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).Â
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.Â
Filed under corrupting the youth | Comment (0)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.
Filed under corrupting the youth | Comment (1)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.
Filed under corrupting the youth, typical | Comments (2)