Today's exams have yet to be read but I did get through Monday's exams while one class was writing. I had to bite my tongue so as not to disrupt the exam takers.
One of the exam prompts was to write a letter to the editor about the extension of unemployment benefits for those who have run up against their 99 week limit.
Student A wrote: "99 weeks is not long enough to find a job. I propose that we double that and make it the 218 week plan."
Student B wrote: "That is a long time to be sitting around not working. Too long. 99 weeks is 693 days, which is a little bit over a year. Someone could surely get a job in a year!"
Yes, Student B, perhaps teaching math to college students!
Showing posts with label teaching. Show all posts
Showing posts with label teaching. Show all posts
December 8, 2010
December 7, 2010
Hurry Up and StartFinish
Tonight I am frantically grading papers for my lit class, as their final class and "celebration" is tomorrow afternoon. I'm not sure how celebratory they will be when they see my comments on their papers. Yet, I'm not sure just how candid my comments will be. It's 11pm and I'm still grading.
I am also participating in Holidailies this year, and have yet to post something, so I'm rushing in to do just that, and then head back to the grading. A rather inauspicious start.
It would be grand if classes had some kind of flourish at the end. In all of my experience as a student, and now longer as an instructor, they do not. It is rare and the highpoint is usually buried deep on a bright and cheerful afternoon where the gestalt is just so, and I leave the classroom thinking "I just taught the HELL out of that class." The next thought is, "and they don't even know it."
No, class ends in a flustered rush of writing/reading/reviewing/testing, during which time some or all of us are freaking out at the workload. There are no high-fives, no Gatorade on the head, no applause (rumors of this at Ivy schools intrigue me).
Behind the scenes, the administrators are starting to look at the next semester, and begin sending out policy memos and dire warnings about upgrades, grade deadlines and... let's not forget the Fall Term traditions of copious amounts of sweets and even BBQ in the faculty lounge at odd moments.
Dear Administrators: How about a bar and chair massage?
Dear Students: How about you just wait for your grade to be posted, and then take it in stride?
Dear Colleagues: Quit hogging the computers, and please keep your voices down. Unless you have booze. If so, share!
Dear Me: Get back to work!
I am also participating in Holidailies this year, and have yet to post something, so I'm rushing in to do just that, and then head back to the grading. A rather inauspicious start.
It would be grand if classes had some kind of flourish at the end. In all of my experience as a student, and now longer as an instructor, they do not. It is rare and the highpoint is usually buried deep on a bright and cheerful afternoon where the gestalt is just so, and I leave the classroom thinking "I just taught the HELL out of that class." The next thought is, "and they don't even know it."
No, class ends in a flustered rush of writing/reading/reviewing/testing, during which time some or all of us are freaking out at the workload. There are no high-fives, no Gatorade on the head, no applause (rumors of this at Ivy schools intrigue me).
Behind the scenes, the administrators are starting to look at the next semester, and begin sending out policy memos and dire warnings about upgrades, grade deadlines and... let's not forget the Fall Term traditions of copious amounts of sweets and even BBQ in the faculty lounge at odd moments.
Dear Administrators: How about a bar and chair massage?
Dear Students: How about you just wait for your grade to be posted, and then take it in stride?
Dear Colleagues: Quit hogging the computers, and please keep your voices down. Unless you have booze. If so, share!
Dear Me: Get back to work!
December 9, 2009
Why I Teach
This is why I teach, because of moments like this.
I’m sitting here reading finals. I asked two essay questions. One posited some rather sweeping and outlandish proposals for “improvements” around the campus. Fewer parking spaces, reduction in tech support and access, etc.
The other prompt asked students to reflect on their writing selves - their process, their self-discoveries, how writing will help them in the future.
All of them are up at arms about the proposed changes. They are hanging on tooth and nail to keep their campus/college accessible, functional and NOT put up any more barriers to education. This is a demographic that has to fight traffic, the demands of home and work, the stigma of failure at other institutions, the delay of finishing college to come every day and get an education. They are PASSIONATE about keeping the opportunity to learn. I am moved.
One student is freakishly smart, making me wonder why he’s here. There’s a story, but I don’t need to know it. “Mark” is funny and tells me that I have saved his writing from being too dry and academic. He doesn’t need to erect that wall between his thoughts and his personality anymore. His paper made me laugh out loud. Truly.
Another student "Callie" relates the therapy she discovered, when at age 10, she witnessed her father fall into the Grand Canyon on a family trip. In therapy, she started journaling and now wants to pursue a writing career. No, she MUST pursue that career.
I slag on students, I roll my eyes, and some of them do fluffy and silly things that are entertaining. “The Teacher’s Lounge” is a figurative and sometimes real place where we vent and cackle because it is a little bit like M*A*S*H sometimes. We laugh so we don't cry or beat our heads on the desk. This semester (with hamthrax, the usual complement of grandparent death, and late late papers) has been a long strange trip, but sitting here, reading finals, moved to tears is not exactly where I thought I would end the semester.
The privilege of associating with these funny, broken and tender souls, when they finally shyly reveal themselves, is worth the weeks of frustration. My time with them is over, but I hope I said or did something so that their time with me is not over. The privilege of being an influence is very very special, and not something I take lightly. It is an honor, and I will gladly go into the classroom again in five weeks, ready to take up arms against student ditziness and stupidity, hoping there’s at least one or two Callies and Marks in the crowd.
I’m sitting here reading finals. I asked two essay questions. One posited some rather sweeping and outlandish proposals for “improvements” around the campus. Fewer parking spaces, reduction in tech support and access, etc.
The other prompt asked students to reflect on their writing selves - their process, their self-discoveries, how writing will help them in the future.
All of them are up at arms about the proposed changes. They are hanging on tooth and nail to keep their campus/college accessible, functional and NOT put up any more barriers to education. This is a demographic that has to fight traffic, the demands of home and work, the stigma of failure at other institutions, the delay of finishing college to come every day and get an education. They are PASSIONATE about keeping the opportunity to learn. I am moved.
One student is freakishly smart, making me wonder why he’s here. There’s a story, but I don’t need to know it. “Mark” is funny and tells me that I have saved his writing from being too dry and academic. He doesn’t need to erect that wall between his thoughts and his personality anymore. His paper made me laugh out loud. Truly.
Another student "Callie" relates the therapy she discovered, when at age 10, she witnessed her father fall into the Grand Canyon on a family trip. In therapy, she started journaling and now wants to pursue a writing career. No, she MUST pursue that career.
I slag on students, I roll my eyes, and some of them do fluffy and silly things that are entertaining. “The Teacher’s Lounge” is a figurative and sometimes real place where we vent and cackle because it is a little bit like M*A*S*H sometimes. We laugh so we don't cry or beat our heads on the desk. This semester (with hamthrax, the usual complement of grandparent death, and late late papers) has been a long strange trip, but sitting here, reading finals, moved to tears is not exactly where I thought I would end the semester.
The privilege of associating with these funny, broken and tender souls, when they finally shyly reveal themselves, is worth the weeks of frustration. My time with them is over, but I hope I said or did something so that their time with me is not over. The privilege of being an influence is very very special, and not something I take lightly. It is an honor, and I will gladly go into the classroom again in five weeks, ready to take up arms against student ditziness and stupidity, hoping there’s at least one or two Callies and Marks in the crowd.
March 30, 2009
Redemption
While teaching writing is not nearly as satisfying as writing, it is less work in some ways. And there is a limit to how much you can give to your students, and how long you will work on an assignment.
All that said, I am grateful to be back in the classroom, albeit on something of a lark. There has been no contract to sign, I have completed paperwork but received no official notification from anyone that I am the instructor of record. No, I just showed up with good intention, and the office staff also showed intention by making me a mail folder and being patient with my stupid somewhat irritated questions. The paperwork may come eventually, and I think I have to wait eight weeks for the first miniscule check.
I don't get paid enough, and neither do they. So we're all in this collective that decided to do this community service project, and make it look like college. The trick is that the accreditation people take this very seriously, as they should, and so we must all act like it is a very very important thing we do.
But in the end, it isn't all that important. I show up to work, I do some good, I go home. The student show up, think about stuff and go home to their lives. That's how it should be, really. I'm no saint, I'm no better than my students. I just have a body of experience and knowledge that they have some murky idea that they "need." What they want is not to spend three hours in a room with me twice a week, but if that's what it takes, then they are willing. They will gladly pay that in order to get the reward.
The best thing about these international students is that they have overcome big obstacles to get here, even if it was simply a matter of travelling many hours, filing the right paperwork and coping with the weird life here in America. One student from the Middle East appears to be from one of those mega-wealthy families, but he is the only one who has that air of entitlement, and it's hardly noticeable.
They are polite, filled with gratitude, eager to learn and somewhat shaky at the prospect of doing a full-on writing class IN a FOREIGN language where proficiency is expected rather than coached. And they show up.
So must I. But it beats asking "whip or no whip? skinny? decaf?" I too am grateful. Why? There's a darker reason.
Many years ago, in another state, I had the fortune of teaching at both community college and university in a town where writers were a dime a dozen. Swing a sack of dirty socks and you could hit a writer. But somehow I had an inside track on this shadow life of contractual employment, semester-to-semester.
Except for the time when my father had a stroke, and I missed several weeks to be by his side, cheering him with crossword puzzles and specially prepared thick soups and other things. And I missed all kinds of deadlines for re-applying for work. I was simply NOT available when the call came, and I found myself in November buying groceries on credit cards, and by December, I was buying wine on credit cards.
It was a dark time. I took temporary employment as an admin with a machine shop for three days, and walked out after lunch on the fourth day. I also made up some dramatic story why I had to quit the data entry job. I could not go into good honest labor. I felt ruined.
Somehow, someone needed an English instructor at a distant, new community college campus - some place just south of town where a large percentage of Hispanic and tribal folks took classes. In a weak and reluctant moment, I agree to teach two classes, both at the worst possible times.
Too far away from my house, too far away from my regular haunts, too far away from my recovering father who was not quite the same, not enough money to make ends meet, I felt compelled to do something unforgiveable. I was also applying for full-time jobs, and I agreed to take one MID-TERM. It was about 6 or 8 class meetings into the semester. I cannot remember if I had graded a set of papers or not.
But I quit. I told the dean, who could barely disguise her displeasure. She shifted quickly and professionally into CYA mode, finding someone to cover my classes and minimize the damage to students. My replacement was much less forgiving. I met both classes with him, introducing him and then slinking out like the ratfink I was.
I left town two weeks later to take that job, near my parents in my home town.
Though I returned to teaching four years after that, I never did penance, really. I justified and rationalized my actions. But this morning, as I prepare for class, I see clearly and objectively that I violated a near-sacred trust. I left my students in the middle of a semester. Granted my schedule prevented any other jobs, and of course the pay was horrible. I would not have been able to sustain myself for the full 16 weeks, so what happened, happened.
Many years later, though, unbeknownst to them, my students are providing me with something very important: the opportunity to meet the challenge, to foster their education, and to redeem myself on a karmic level. Even though I am compensated, it's not enough for the hours and work. But this is me paying it back (paying it forward) in a roundabout way. When the semester is done, we're even, and I can move forward.
But no way am I going to tell them that, nor should I. It will be my little secret. And ours.
All that said, I am grateful to be back in the classroom, albeit on something of a lark. There has been no contract to sign, I have completed paperwork but received no official notification from anyone that I am the instructor of record. No, I just showed up with good intention, and the office staff also showed intention by making me a mail folder and being patient with my stupid somewhat irritated questions. The paperwork may come eventually, and I think I have to wait eight weeks for the first miniscule check.
I don't get paid enough, and neither do they. So we're all in this collective that decided to do this community service project, and make it look like college. The trick is that the accreditation people take this very seriously, as they should, and so we must all act like it is a very very important thing we do.
But in the end, it isn't all that important. I show up to work, I do some good, I go home. The student show up, think about stuff and go home to their lives. That's how it should be, really. I'm no saint, I'm no better than my students. I just have a body of experience and knowledge that they have some murky idea that they "need." What they want is not to spend three hours in a room with me twice a week, but if that's what it takes, then they are willing. They will gladly pay that in order to get the reward.
The best thing about these international students is that they have overcome big obstacles to get here, even if it was simply a matter of travelling many hours, filing the right paperwork and coping with the weird life here in America. One student from the Middle East appears to be from one of those mega-wealthy families, but he is the only one who has that air of entitlement, and it's hardly noticeable.
They are polite, filled with gratitude, eager to learn and somewhat shaky at the prospect of doing a full-on writing class IN a FOREIGN language where proficiency is expected rather than coached. And they show up.
So must I. But it beats asking "whip or no whip? skinny? decaf?" I too am grateful. Why? There's a darker reason.
Many years ago, in another state, I had the fortune of teaching at both community college and university in a town where writers were a dime a dozen. Swing a sack of dirty socks and you could hit a writer. But somehow I had an inside track on this shadow life of contractual employment, semester-to-semester.
Except for the time when my father had a stroke, and I missed several weeks to be by his side, cheering him with crossword puzzles and specially prepared thick soups and other things. And I missed all kinds of deadlines for re-applying for work. I was simply NOT available when the call came, and I found myself in November buying groceries on credit cards, and by December, I was buying wine on credit cards.
It was a dark time. I took temporary employment as an admin with a machine shop for three days, and walked out after lunch on the fourth day. I also made up some dramatic story why I had to quit the data entry job. I could not go into good honest labor. I felt ruined.
Somehow, someone needed an English instructor at a distant, new community college campus - some place just south of town where a large percentage of Hispanic and tribal folks took classes. In a weak and reluctant moment, I agree to teach two classes, both at the worst possible times.
Too far away from my house, too far away from my regular haunts, too far away from my recovering father who was not quite the same, not enough money to make ends meet, I felt compelled to do something unforgiveable. I was also applying for full-time jobs, and I agreed to take one MID-TERM. It was about 6 or 8 class meetings into the semester. I cannot remember if I had graded a set of papers or not.
But I quit. I told the dean, who could barely disguise her displeasure. She shifted quickly and professionally into CYA mode, finding someone to cover my classes and minimize the damage to students. My replacement was much less forgiving. I met both classes with him, introducing him and then slinking out like the ratfink I was.
I left town two weeks later to take that job, near my parents in my home town.
Though I returned to teaching four years after that, I never did penance, really. I justified and rationalized my actions. But this morning, as I prepare for class, I see clearly and objectively that I violated a near-sacred trust. I left my students in the middle of a semester. Granted my schedule prevented any other jobs, and of course the pay was horrible. I would not have been able to sustain myself for the full 16 weeks, so what happened, happened.
Many years later, though, unbeknownst to them, my students are providing me with something very important: the opportunity to meet the challenge, to foster their education, and to redeem myself on a karmic level. Even though I am compensated, it's not enough for the hours and work. But this is me paying it back (paying it forward) in a roundabout way. When the semester is done, we're even, and I can move forward.
But no way am I going to tell them that, nor should I. It will be my little secret. And ours.
March 22, 2009
Exhausted
It's 1130 on Sunday night, and I'm tired but not sleepy. I'm in pain, and stewing over something minor. About 15 minor somethings. This is the time when it would be nice to have some anti-anxiety meds. But when you ask an MD to Rx them for you, they think you are drug-seeking. Well, duh. I am. But really? seriously? 10 last me for six months. TEN. And I split them in half.
I start a new PT job tomorrow and will have students for the first time in 7 years.
It was a good Sunday... we walked in the park with dogs and it was gorgeous and windy. No one was out because people in this town are either godly or too cool for a park where there's a tad of mud and wind. I say bring it on.
Had an awesome lunch and a beer. Had a good nap, but now? I'm a little antsy and so all the demons are right there, ready to plague me. I hope I can sleep soon, but the alarm will go off at 6am, and spring break is over.
So many bittersweet thoughts, so much sadness. I see on Facebook how people are having lives, chit-chatting, making plans with friends, reporting on events. I got nothing. I have work where no one really knows me or cares to know me. I have the new job where I'll be as foreign as my students, and I have .... not much else.
It's this untetheredness that bothers me most. It's not having someone who really cares where I am, what I'm doing, if I'm ok. I do have the compassion and friendship of some awesome online folks. I cherish that. But it's not a substitute for the RL connections. The phone calls, the plans, the events, the chit-chat, the nicknames.
This could all change, but how? I just don't know. It's been like this since we moved here. And it doesn't help that I get email from someone I used to love (and could again) that confuses me and makes me pine away. And ponder what went wrong. We are so right for each other
Time to hit the sack again, tame the aches and pains and see if sleep comes.
The lad is good... he told me that his spring break was awesome. That's solid gold.
I start a new PT job tomorrow and will have students for the first time in 7 years.
It was a good Sunday... we walked in the park with dogs and it was gorgeous and windy. No one was out because people in this town are either godly or too cool for a park where there's a tad of mud and wind. I say bring it on.
Had an awesome lunch and a beer. Had a good nap, but now? I'm a little antsy and so all the demons are right there, ready to plague me. I hope I can sleep soon, but the alarm will go off at 6am, and spring break is over.
So many bittersweet thoughts, so much sadness. I see on Facebook how people are having lives, chit-chatting, making plans with friends, reporting on events. I got nothing. I have work where no one really knows me or cares to know me. I have the new job where I'll be as foreign as my students, and I have .... not much else.
It's this untetheredness that bothers me most. It's not having someone who really cares where I am, what I'm doing, if I'm ok. I do have the compassion and friendship of some awesome online folks. I cherish that. But it's not a substitute for the RL connections. The phone calls, the plans, the events, the chit-chat, the nicknames.
This could all change, but how? I just don't know. It's been like this since we moved here. And it doesn't help that I get email from someone I used to love (and could again) that confuses me and makes me pine away. And ponder what went wrong. We are so right for each other
Time to hit the sack again, tame the aches and pains and see if sleep comes.
The lad is good... he told me that his spring break was awesome. That's solid gold.
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