An incident in my evening class tonight made me stop and think back to my first semester teaching. In particular, I remember one student who e-mailed me a couple days before a paper was due, telling me that a close family friend had just been killed in a car accident. A cynic would be reading this, waiting for a request for an extension. I believe I was half expecting one as I read her e-mail. No such luck. Her paper was done, she said, and she wanted to know if she could turn it in early, and if so, where she should leave it before she left town to be with the family for the funeral. It wasn't the best paper ever, and I could tell when I read it that her friend's death was weighing on her mind (it came up later in the semester, too, when she wrote an essay on drunk driving), but she went above and beyond what the stereotypical slacker student would have done.
Flash forward a year. Tonight was the first night of my late-start remedial class. I start off using the old standby "interview your classmate" routine. Two students in particular seemed to hit it off, asking interesting questions and showing a genuine interest in their new classmates. They're an unlikely pair, too, a young male traditional student who can't be long out of high school, and a single mother of two returning student. After introductions and reviewing the syllabus, I gave them a small break before buckling down to a brief, one-paragraph diagnostic essay that involved, once again, interviewing a classmate in response to a specific prompt.
The room was quiet as I waited for the last couple of students to return.
"Tell her," I heard the female student urging her classmate.
He seemed distracted and subdued. "No," he said, "I've got to do this assignment."
I asked if anything was wrong.
He hesitated, then revealed that he'd received a call that his brother had been in an accident.
I asked if it was serious.
He didn't know, but his parents were there with an ambulance.
"Do you need to be with your family right now?" I asked.
He hesitated again, before saying yes, "but what about the assignment?"
I gave him an alternate way to complete it and then sent him on his way.
I've read my fair share of professor's tales of student excuses. I've also heard my own share of borderline-plausible-but-probably-false tales of woe. It never hurts to take things with a grain of salt, but cases like these...
They're the ones most entitled to an exception or an extended deadline, and they're the last to ask (and that's an "if"). It's a good reminder not to let cynicism take over completely. It's also a reminder to me of how much power is invested in the role of "teacher." As students have reminded me, sometimes in a positive context, sometimes negatively, our impact goes beyond the classroom. It's worst case scenario, I know, but I would hate for something to go wrong and for my student not to be there because of a one-paragraph assignment that I gave.
Students like these humble me.
Monday, September 17, 2007
More signs
Well, it's official--I am a Master of English. The diploma came in the mail the other day. It is, like most diplomas, very impressive looking. The filigree in the university name is lovely, and the text is sort of...raised? somehow, and even better, it's got my name on it.
My family and friends are impressed by it. My response has been more low-key. "It's just a piece of paper," I mumbled. And it is a piece of paper, true, merely a signifier for the two years of blood, sweat, tears, and internalized pressure that I voluntarily subjected myself to.
I don't mean to denigrate my degree; goodness knows there are enough people ready to do that. No, what I meant was, and I clarified on a couple of occasions, as far as I was concerned, my degree was complete the moment I hit send to e-mail my prof the last paper. But that still isn't quite what I meant. What I think I meant was, "OK, this is sort of a big deal, but I still don't know what to make of it, so I'll play it cool."
Graduation, the actual ceremony, was a numb experience for me. There were friends and family there, all wishing me the best and praising my efforts. There were other people I knew, too, fellow GA's who still had one more year to go, classmates I may never see again, professors who wished me well and urged me to keep in mind a PhD somewhere down the road, a former student who gave me a congratulatory hug. There was an air of celebration, yes, but there was also an air of finality and farewell and impending change. I smiled when I was supposed to, shook hands and hugged people I wouldn't otherwise admit into my circle of personal space, but they were just motions. I wasn't really "there."
I went home that night and scribbled out a poem expressing my graduation angst:
Fear of change, when I look at it honestly, is what drove me to grad school in the first place. I may have whined about the podunk campus and the commute and the student body as a whole, but it was familiar, and it bought two years to postpone any big decisions. Fear of change is at least 50% of what prompted me to take this job, teaching at the college I started out at, with colleagues who know me. It's what paralyzes me when I think about What Comes Next, when I think about whether to put down (or more accurately, maintain) roots here, or take a chance on something new.
As a grad assistant, I had a new role with new responsibilities, but while I was transitioning into the role of "teacher," I still had one foot firmly on the "student" side of the equation. Now, I'm solidly on the side of "teacher." That thought really messes with my head when I let it. I've watched with wary interest as my high school classmates have been moving away and marrying off and having children within the last few years, thinking to myself that they're going places, changing, and that they're not irresponsible youth anymore. Somehow, I'd managed to detach myself from that equation--I may not have moved away or made too many changes in my personal life, but my education and work have indeed moved me past some invisible line between... whatever I was and whatever comes next.
My diploma is a reminder that a door has shut behind me and a sign that things have changed and will continue to change. An arbitrary sign, perhaps, but a sign nonetheless.
...Who knew semiotics would be useful to understanding post-graduation angst?
My family and friends are impressed by it. My response has been more low-key. "It's just a piece of paper," I mumbled. And it is a piece of paper, true, merely a signifier for the two years of blood, sweat, tears, and internalized pressure that I voluntarily subjected myself to.
I don't mean to denigrate my degree; goodness knows there are enough people ready to do that. No, what I meant was, and I clarified on a couple of occasions, as far as I was concerned, my degree was complete the moment I hit send to e-mail my prof the last paper. But that still isn't quite what I meant. What I think I meant was, "OK, this is sort of a big deal, but I still don't know what to make of it, so I'll play it cool."
Graduation, the actual ceremony, was a numb experience for me. There were friends and family there, all wishing me the best and praising my efforts. There were other people I knew, too, fellow GA's who still had one more year to go, classmates I may never see again, professors who wished me well and urged me to keep in mind a PhD somewhere down the road, a former student who gave me a congratulatory hug. There was an air of celebration, yes, but there was also an air of finality and farewell and impending change. I smiled when I was supposed to, shook hands and hugged people I wouldn't otherwise admit into my circle of personal space, but they were just motions. I wasn't really "there."
I went home that night and scribbled out a poem expressing my graduation angst:
Future beckonsIt made me smile wryly as I realized just how melodramatic it was, but that encapsulated my mood. I'm surprised now to realize that even in my self-indulgence, I had pinpointed what made graduation so jarring--fear of the future. It still drives me, this fear. Oh, it tries to disguise itself as a cool dislike of change and nostalgia for the past. That's what I told myself as I gloomily cleared everything out of my former cubicle, remembering all the random discussions with my fellow grad assistants, ranging from what X Prof said to the merits of Metallica to what our students had the audacity to do to What Came Next. I didn't know if I'd ever get the chance to work with such a neat group of people again, or so I told myself. I was scared stiff of moving on, of searching for a job and risking rejection, or equally frightening, finding a new job and having to adjust accordingly.
with crooked finger
mocking, seducing
all at once
leave all you've known
take a leap, come
you'll learn to swim
soon enough
Fear of change, when I look at it honestly, is what drove me to grad school in the first place. I may have whined about the podunk campus and the commute and the student body as a whole, but it was familiar, and it bought two years to postpone any big decisions. Fear of change is at least 50% of what prompted me to take this job, teaching at the college I started out at, with colleagues who know me. It's what paralyzes me when I think about What Comes Next, when I think about whether to put down (or more accurately, maintain) roots here, or take a chance on something new.
As a grad assistant, I had a new role with new responsibilities, but while I was transitioning into the role of "teacher," I still had one foot firmly on the "student" side of the equation. Now, I'm solidly on the side of "teacher." That thought really messes with my head when I let it. I've watched with wary interest as my high school classmates have been moving away and marrying off and having children within the last few years, thinking to myself that they're going places, changing, and that they're not irresponsible youth anymore. Somehow, I'd managed to detach myself from that equation--I may not have moved away or made too many changes in my personal life, but my education and work have indeed moved me past some invisible line between... whatever I was and whatever comes next.
My diploma is a reminder that a door has shut behind me and a sign that things have changed and will continue to change. An arbitrary sign, perhaps, but a sign nonetheless.
...Who knew semiotics would be useful to understanding post-graduation angst?
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
Adding up the signs
A few weeks ago, I started noticing fallen leaves in the grass. The spiders also returned, spinning large webs that make venturing out onto the deck at night a dangerous prospect. Autumn, I realized, was on its way. Recently, the heat's started giving way to crisp, almost chilly mornings. When I tread through the grass in the morning on campus, my feet (still in summer's flip-flops) get wet from the dew, and the chill is enough to make me consider the possibility of pulling out more "practical" footwear, or at least, consider walking on the designated paths.
The calendar may not say so, but I think autumn is here. I can never decide which is my favorite season--autumn, or spring? During spring, I enjoy the emerging green and the flowers, and the promise of summer and its break. But fall is more suited to my temperament, I think. A friend once said that autumn was great for curling up with some Poe. I knew exactly what she meant. It's deliciously melancholy--just enough to indulge in, but not as depressing as the extended bleakness of winter. There's just a sense of things coming to an end--leaves, flowers, the year itself. It's fun to go crunching through the leaves, but the barren tree branches are a reminder that their once glorious splendor of green, then yellow or red or purple, has passed. Right before the first true freeze, the leaves start to turn to rot under the faintly grey-tinged sky. It's sort of shiver-inducing, when you stop to think about it.
And what better to ward off the shivers than a hot cup of tea? I'm quite partial to coffee, true, but evenings are for tea. I love drinking out of clear mugs, all the better to see the shades of red or amber, depending on the tea. Right now, I'm keen on a blend of black currants and vanilla, a beautiful vermilion in the cup nestled in my hands. Through the open window, I can hear the crickets chirping and the whoosh of passing traffic. A bit of a breeze blows through the still-mostly-clad trees, rustling the leaves. The temperature is just a smidge on the cool side, but it's a comfortable cool, not bracing like air conditioning, and the tea helps warm me. It's pretty peaceful, and right now, so am I.
Yep, I'm pretty sure it's autumn.
The calendar may not say so, but I think autumn is here. I can never decide which is my favorite season--autumn, or spring? During spring, I enjoy the emerging green and the flowers, and the promise of summer and its break. But fall is more suited to my temperament, I think. A friend once said that autumn was great for curling up with some Poe. I knew exactly what she meant. It's deliciously melancholy--just enough to indulge in, but not as depressing as the extended bleakness of winter. There's just a sense of things coming to an end--leaves, flowers, the year itself. It's fun to go crunching through the leaves, but the barren tree branches are a reminder that their once glorious splendor of green, then yellow or red or purple, has passed. Right before the first true freeze, the leaves start to turn to rot under the faintly grey-tinged sky. It's sort of shiver-inducing, when you stop to think about it.
And what better to ward off the shivers than a hot cup of tea? I'm quite partial to coffee, true, but evenings are for tea. I love drinking out of clear mugs, all the better to see the shades of red or amber, depending on the tea. Right now, I'm keen on a blend of black currants and vanilla, a beautiful vermilion in the cup nestled in my hands. Through the open window, I can hear the crickets chirping and the whoosh of passing traffic. A bit of a breeze blows through the still-mostly-clad trees, rustling the leaves. The temperature is just a smidge on the cool side, but it's a comfortable cool, not bracing like air conditioning, and the tea helps warm me. It's pretty peaceful, and right now, so am I.
Yep, I'm pretty sure it's autumn.
Thursday, September 6, 2007
Drifting
I feel a bit like a transient lately, belonging neither here nor there. Two of my classes are late-start, which means right now I'm only on campus to teach for an hour or run copies (or pinch-hit for a couple hours in the writing center), and then I'm gone again. My cubicle hasn't been assigned yet, so I could do like some of the other adjuncts and just commandeer a spot. Perhaps I should, to get to know people a bit better. Heck, I should probably just hang around more, period. I did for a bit last week, just shot the breeze with several other faculty members, exchanging tales from the trenches and speculations on the time-space continuum on campus (it's possible to leave one building at 8:55 and arrive on the other side of campus 10 minutes earlier...it also works in reverse, to many an instructor's chagrin). It reminded me of the pleasant times in the GA office, swapping tales of what our "little darlings" had done that day. It's both establishment of common ground and light-hearted grousing, always a fun combination. And yet, I don't feel quite at ease here yet.
I know most of the department already, whether they were my instructors back in the day or whether I tutored their students during my work at the writing center, and some I met through the infinitely helpful new adjunct orientation I went to (seriously, 20 minutes on the mission statement and only 10 on exactly which of our dozen log-in-and-password combinations will get us into Blackboard...). It's still awkward for me, though, because half of my now-coworkers are in my mental file marked "teacher," not "colleague." They're all too happy to treat me as a colleague, even trying to recruit me to different committees (yeah, no cynical comments, please--I'm aware of the double-edged sword of committee involvement); it's just me. There's a ready community there if I just put forth a little more effort.
That's the situation with "my" campus; one class is on another campus downtown. The first time I went to go teach there was the second time I'd ever set foot in the place. It is by far the strangest campus I've been on. I can only speculate that it was designed during a late-night planning session, with the assistance of a copious amount of some sort of mind-altering substance--classrooms aren't numbered chronologically, hallways lead off into dead ends, stairwells are in strange places, it's actually two attached buildings and that's it... I normally have an uncanny sense of direction, but this place throws me. When I can find it, there is an office available for adjuncts, but it's dim and empty in the evening and I'd just as soon not stay longer than needed. I've met members of the administration for the campus, but other than them, I don't know anybody there. Most hallways are vacant, save for few occasional students--it just doesn't have the feel of a campus at all.
I'm not actually unhappy with this; these are just a few observations I've made regarding my feelings of not being settled. I barely had time to transition from vacation to the new semester, so I'm just now able to start to process things. It's only week three, after all.
I suspect the first of several composition meetings this Friday will take care of my last traces of disconnectedness.
I know most of the department already, whether they were my instructors back in the day or whether I tutored their students during my work at the writing center, and some I met through the infinitely helpful new adjunct orientation I went to (seriously, 20 minutes on the mission statement and only 10 on exactly which of our dozen log-in-and-password combinations will get us into Blackboard...). It's still awkward for me, though, because half of my now-coworkers are in my mental file marked "teacher," not "colleague." They're all too happy to treat me as a colleague, even trying to recruit me to different committees (yeah, no cynical comments, please--I'm aware of the double-edged sword of committee involvement); it's just me. There's a ready community there if I just put forth a little more effort.
That's the situation with "my" campus; one class is on another campus downtown. The first time I went to go teach there was the second time I'd ever set foot in the place. It is by far the strangest campus I've been on. I can only speculate that it was designed during a late-night planning session, with the assistance of a copious amount of some sort of mind-altering substance--classrooms aren't numbered chronologically, hallways lead off into dead ends, stairwells are in strange places, it's actually two attached buildings and that's it... I normally have an uncanny sense of direction, but this place throws me. When I can find it, there is an office available for adjuncts, but it's dim and empty in the evening and I'd just as soon not stay longer than needed. I've met members of the administration for the campus, but other than them, I don't know anybody there. Most hallways are vacant, save for few occasional students--it just doesn't have the feel of a campus at all.
I'm not actually unhappy with this; these are just a few observations I've made regarding my feelings of not being settled. I barely had time to transition from vacation to the new semester, so I'm just now able to start to process things. It's only week three, after all.
I suspect the first of several composition meetings this Friday will take care of my last traces of disconnectedness.
Tuesday, September 4, 2007
Five blogs I read
I found an article on Yahoo about BlogDay. I'm a bit late with this, but better late than never, eh? So, here are five blogs I read and why.
- Scrivenings - When I was considering grad school, I stumbled upon his blog. I've been lurking faithfully since (actually, I may have popped up once or twice under any infinite number of possible pseudonyms...). There's a bit of everything--teaching, life issues, kid stories, art, and pictures. And he had green hair at the time, if memory serves, which struck me as pretty cool.
- Writing as Jo(e) - I believe I found this one through Scrivenings. Beautiful storytelling and accompanying pictures. I've probably been lurking just as long at her blog, too. Not very good manners on my part. Whenever I try and convince people that the world of blogging is more than just 13-year-olds with Xangas or people with too much time on their hands and the convenience of a ready Internet connection, Jo(e)'s is the first one I link them to.
- Cranky Epistles - Get yer fix of snark here. I honestly don't remember when I first stumbled on her blog, but there's a good chance my computer monitor does.
- Joshua's Walkabout - I knew Josh through the campus peace group I was part of during my senior year. For anyone (like myself) who's ever thought about the Peace Corps, it's an interesting chance for the vicarious experience. Lot of food for thought on this one.
- Postsecret - This one may technically be cheating, but I don't care. It's not one person's blog, but it's more of a collective baring of the soul. The idea is that people send in their secrets anonymously, and the result is an interesting mixture. They run the range from heartbreaking secrets about abuse or being in the closet to declarations of having found happiness to the sometimes bizarre. It's fascinating to see how much in common we have with our fellow humans, whether for good or ill.
Sunday, September 2, 2007
The beauty of silence
Over this summer, I've been reading voraciously--"literary" fiction, children's books, whatever I can get my hands on. I can never quite silence my English major's analysis as I read, but I've been marking passages of books that struck me as especially beautiful or thought-provoking, learning once again just to savor the words and ideas and images.
To break up the gloom of my latest Cormac McCarthy binge, I'm working on Norton Juster's The Phantom Tollbooth. I missed this one as a kid, but now's as good a time as any to rectify that. Many passages either make me chuckle or groan with their puns and wordplay, but I found this one thought-provoking:
To break up the gloom of my latest Cormac McCarthy binge, I'm working on Norton Juster's The Phantom Tollbooth. I missed this one as a kid, but now's as good a time as any to rectify that. Many passages either make me chuckle or groan with their puns and wordplay, but I found this one thought-provoking:
Milo walked slowly down the long hallway and into the little room where the Soundkeeper sat listening intently to an enormous radio set, whose switches, dials, knobs, meters, and speaker covered one whole wall, and which at the moment was playing nothing.A bit didactic, perhaps, but it never hurts to be reminded.
"Isn't that lovely?" she sighed. "It's my favorite program--fifteen minutes of silence--and after that there's a half hour of quiet and then an interlude of lull. Why, did you know that there are almost as many kinds of stillness as there are sounds? But, sadly enough, no one pays any attention to them these days.
"Have you ever heard the wonderful silence just before the dawn?" she inquired. "Or the quiet and calm just as a storm ends? Or perhaps you know the silence when you haven't the answer to a question you've been asked, or the hush of a country road at night, or the expectant pause in a roomful of people when someone is just about to speak, or, most beautiful of all, the moment after the door closes and you're all alone in the whole house? Each one is different, you know, and all very beautiful, if you listen carefully."
Saturday, September 1, 2007
Places I didn't mean to be
"You were meant to be a teacher," a friend told me the other day. It's not the first time someone's told me that, and given the number of close acquaintances who've had to sit through one of my classroom recap narratives, I know where the impression comes from. And yet...
I've never felt a calling to any one profession. Several years ago, pre-grad school, I sneered at everyone who suggested that I could use my degree in English to teach. I'd never do that, I thought. I didn't know what I was "meant" for, but teaching certainly wasn't it. I was too free-spirited to work within the confines of established curriculum, and really, formal education is an exercise in following directions, and I'm so not a public speaker, and I don't have the patience to deal with kids, and besides, my degree was a B.A., not a B.S.E., so you see, it really wasn't feasible. I had a litany of reasons why I wouldn't be caught dead in front of a classroom.
With graduation looming ahead and few (desirable) job prospects, I decided to ward off the existential crisis in the stereotypical way--I ran back for more school. In my second year, I landed a position as a teaching assistant. As is the case with many public universities, I had full responsibility for my classes. I loved it. I hated it. It charged me. It drained me.
Soon, another graduation loomed ahead. Mid-summer, I decided I needed to step back from academia in order to assess my goals and gain some new perspective before committing to it ("committing"...hmm...it fits). This adjunct position literally fell in my lap, though--I took it, against a backdrop of reservations.
I have a post sitting in my draft folder, where I was trying to chronicle some of my reservations about this gig. I may return to it, or I may just sit down with my personal journal and write it out--but some of them are lifting. And that has to do with the experience of being in the classroom.
However overwhelming the back work is, from lesson plans to grading, the classroom experience is unique. I do enjoy how it's possible to teach the exact same lesson plan to two different classes and have completely different experiences, whether it's due to different classroom dynamics or perhaps slightly different discussion tangents. It adds an element of uncertainty, to be sure, but it also keeps me on my toes. It's a challenge to figure out how to hold their attention and how to rescue a dud class. I get a bit frustrated with my morning class when they're zombies, but frankly, their teacher's not a morning person, either. However, one off-the-cuff student comment or the excitement of succeeding with a new approach is enough to give me a charge for the rest of the day, as surely as the cup of coffee in my hand.
And then there's always the dream class--I think I'm in love with my first one-night-a-week evening class. It's pretty small, and two weeks in, they've got wonderful rapport with each other and with me, and they're on top of their reading, and they have stories to tell and interests that will probably teach me about new topics this semester. They have doubts about this scary "writing" thing, but I also love them for that, too. They're mostly returning students who have outside jobs, too, so it's a new dynamic for me, but having started out at the same community college I now teach at, I understand some of what they're facing.
As I drove home the other night, wired by the experience, I couldn't help but think, "So this is why I teach." I still can't say one way or another if it's what I'm destined to do, but here and now, it works for me.
I'm willfully ignoring the fact that grading looms ahead.
I've never felt a calling to any one profession. Several years ago, pre-grad school, I sneered at everyone who suggested that I could use my degree in English to teach. I'd never do that, I thought. I didn't know what I was "meant" for, but teaching certainly wasn't it. I was too free-spirited to work within the confines of established curriculum, and really, formal education is an exercise in following directions, and I'm so not a public speaker, and I don't have the patience to deal with kids, and besides, my degree was a B.A., not a B.S.E., so you see, it really wasn't feasible. I had a litany of reasons why I wouldn't be caught dead in front of a classroom.
With graduation looming ahead and few (desirable) job prospects, I decided to ward off the existential crisis in the stereotypical way--I ran back for more school. In my second year, I landed a position as a teaching assistant. As is the case with many public universities, I had full responsibility for my classes. I loved it. I hated it. It charged me. It drained me.
Soon, another graduation loomed ahead. Mid-summer, I decided I needed to step back from academia in order to assess my goals and gain some new perspective before committing to it ("committing"...hmm...it fits). This adjunct position literally fell in my lap, though--I took it, against a backdrop of reservations.
I have a post sitting in my draft folder, where I was trying to chronicle some of my reservations about this gig. I may return to it, or I may just sit down with my personal journal and write it out--but some of them are lifting. And that has to do with the experience of being in the classroom.
However overwhelming the back work is, from lesson plans to grading, the classroom experience is unique. I do enjoy how it's possible to teach the exact same lesson plan to two different classes and have completely different experiences, whether it's due to different classroom dynamics or perhaps slightly different discussion tangents. It adds an element of uncertainty, to be sure, but it also keeps me on my toes. It's a challenge to figure out how to hold their attention and how to rescue a dud class. I get a bit frustrated with my morning class when they're zombies, but frankly, their teacher's not a morning person, either. However, one off-the-cuff student comment or the excitement of succeeding with a new approach is enough to give me a charge for the rest of the day, as surely as the cup of coffee in my hand.
And then there's always the dream class--I think I'm in love with my first one-night-a-week evening class. It's pretty small, and two weeks in, they've got wonderful rapport with each other and with me, and they're on top of their reading, and they have stories to tell and interests that will probably teach me about new topics this semester. They have doubts about this scary "writing" thing, but I also love them for that, too. They're mostly returning students who have outside jobs, too, so it's a new dynamic for me, but having started out at the same community college I now teach at, I understand some of what they're facing.
As I drove home the other night, wired by the experience, I couldn't help but think, "So this is why I teach." I still can't say one way or another if it's what I'm destined to do, but here and now, it works for me.
I'm willfully ignoring the fact that grading looms ahead.
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