I don’t know how it happened, but I ended class a week and a half early. Last Wednesday I collected my students’ final papers, graded them, and posted their semester grades online. This Monday, when I went to clean up my office for the summer, I noticed that all the classrooms were still full. Students were milling the halls and teachers were conferencing with students in their offices.
I asked one of my colleagues about it, being careful not to admit my mistake. She said Wednesday would be her last day of class and then she’ll give her students this Friday off to finish their papers.
As I thought about it, it did seem odd when my students were turning in their final papers while I still had two weeks of graduate classes left. But I had too much on my mind at the time to play Sherlock Holmes with the schedule.
I finished cleaning up my office, but then I felt like I should pretend to be grading papers or something, so folks wouldn't realize I had already started my summer vacation.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Sunday, May 3, 2009
My New Teaching Assignment
I’m teaching technical writing to a class of engineering students next semester, which has me concerned for two reasons: I don’t know the first thing about technical writing, and I’m terrified of engineers. I’m thinking of assigning Engineering for Dummies. I won’t tell them it’s a joke. I’ll just put it out there and ask for a report on it, standard format, and see what they come up with. Then I’ll write on the top of each report, “I’m not sure I like your tone.” It’s good to keep them on their toes. Plus it might divert attention from the fact that I’m teaching in a distance learning lab but can’t figure out how to work the projector.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Ride Along
I started out my shift on a ride along with the Durham police. I couldn’t find the regular stuff, so I ate a box of children’s Dramamine and then sat for three hours with my forehead pressed against the passenger window while the sergeant drove around in circles pointing out frat houses and stop signs. Durham doesn’t have much going on, especially on a Wednesday night. We pulled into the parking lot of a run-down apartment complex. “You should see this place on a Friday night,” he said. “Or a Saturday. Or even a Thursday. It’s crazy.”
But it wasn’t a Friday or a Saturday or even a Thursday. It was Wednesday, the town was deserted, and I was starting to see things.
We headed south toward Great Bay until the air became thick and smelled like week-old egg salad. It made me hungry. I thought I saw a heard of buffalo sleeping in a pile. The sergeant pulled over and pointed beyond an electric fence. “See that herd of buffalo sleeping in a pile?”
They have farms for that sort of thing in New Hampshire.
As we headed back to town, we saw a deer who apparently wasn’t affiliated with a farm standing on the side of the road. And a bunch of trees. A rock. Another stop sign.
We ended the night by stopping at Dunkin Donuts. I peeled my head off the window and got out of the car. Three hours of sitting and staring mixed with Dramamine and sheer boredom resulted in a bad case of the jelly legs. I tried to walk to the front door, but stumbled in a large half-circle to the middle of the parking lot. I thought the sergeant was going to make me touch my nose and walk toe-to-toe before continuing on. But he was already inside, slightly leaning over the display case, rubbing his hands together, considering the possibilities.
But it wasn’t a Friday or a Saturday or even a Thursday. It was Wednesday, the town was deserted, and I was starting to see things.
We headed south toward Great Bay until the air became thick and smelled like week-old egg salad. It made me hungry. I thought I saw a heard of buffalo sleeping in a pile. The sergeant pulled over and pointed beyond an electric fence. “See that herd of buffalo sleeping in a pile?”
They have farms for that sort of thing in New Hampshire.
As we headed back to town, we saw a deer who apparently wasn’t affiliated with a farm standing on the side of the road. And a bunch of trees. A rock. Another stop sign.
We ended the night by stopping at Dunkin Donuts. I peeled my head off the window and got out of the car. Three hours of sitting and staring mixed with Dramamine and sheer boredom resulted in a bad case of the jelly legs. I tried to walk to the front door, but stumbled in a large half-circle to the middle of the parking lot. I thought the sergeant was going to make me touch my nose and walk toe-to-toe before continuing on. But he was already inside, slightly leaning over the display case, rubbing his hands together, considering the possibilities.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Elliot's Pink Comb of Horror
I was watching Family Feud when Elliot came up to me with a hot-pink comb and asked if she could brush my hair. I put her on my lap, took off my hat, and told her, “Sure.”
She grabbed a fistful of hair, stabbed me repeatedly in the forehead, and then ripped the clump of hair out.
"Be careful!" I yelled.
She dropped the comb, grabbed two fistfuls of hair, yanked them alternately, and sang “Shake your booty!”
I told her that was enough and set her on the floor, but in an instant she climbed back up, recovered the comb, and attempted to saw my ear off. I yelped, pushed her aside, and ran to the bathroom. I wasn't bleeding, but things were looking a bit thinner up there.
I didn’t dare come out. I could hear her on the other side of the door. She walked back and forth, dragging the comb across the door, quietly singing: “I comb your hair. I comb your hair.”
“Go away!” I yelled.
After a minute or so, she went quiet. But I knew she was there, pink comb in one hand, clump of hair in the other. I turned out the light, slowly opened the door, and peeked into the hallway.
There was no sign of her.
I didn’t know if I should run for the bedroom or stay put. But then, to my relief, I heard Griffin squeal from the family room, “Get off of me! You’re hurting me! No shake your booty! No shake your booty!”
She grabbed a fistful of hair, stabbed me repeatedly in the forehead, and then ripped the clump of hair out.
"Be careful!" I yelled.
She dropped the comb, grabbed two fistfuls of hair, yanked them alternately, and sang “Shake your booty!”
I told her that was enough and set her on the floor, but in an instant she climbed back up, recovered the comb, and attempted to saw my ear off. I yelped, pushed her aside, and ran to the bathroom. I wasn't bleeding, but things were looking a bit thinner up there.
I didn’t dare come out. I could hear her on the other side of the door. She walked back and forth, dragging the comb across the door, quietly singing: “I comb your hair. I comb your hair.”
“Go away!” I yelled.
After a minute or so, she went quiet. But I knew she was there, pink comb in one hand, clump of hair in the other. I turned out the light, slowly opened the door, and peeked into the hallway.
There was no sign of her.
I didn’t know if I should run for the bedroom or stay put. But then, to my relief, I heard Griffin squeal from the family room, “Get off of me! You’re hurting me! No shake your booty! No shake your booty!”
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Future English Teacher
I woke up early this morning to finish writing a book review. I was plugging away at the computer, book open in my lap, when Miles, my seven-year-old son, walked over to see what I was doing. He leaned against the computer desk—pajama-clad with wild hair—looked at the screen, down at the book, and back at the screen. “You know it’s illegal to copy out of books,” he said.
“Oh,” I said, and continued typing. “Where did you hear that?”
“My teacher told me.”
“Well I’m not copying,” I said. “I’m writing about the book.”
“Hmmm…” he said. “So you’re like quoting and putting it in your own words and stuff?”
“Yup," I said. "That’s what I’m doing.”
“Good,” he said. “Just making sure.”
“Oh,” I said, and continued typing. “Where did you hear that?”
“My teacher told me.”
“Well I’m not copying,” I said. “I’m writing about the book.”
“Hmmm…” he said. “So you’re like quoting and putting it in your own words and stuff?”
“Yup," I said. "That’s what I’m doing.”
“Good,” he said. “Just making sure.”
Monday, March 2, 2009
Procrastination
Hypocrisy isn’t something to be ashamed of. We should recognize it and embrace it. If we ever truly convince ourselves that we’re not hypocrites, then we have lost our ability to be self critical, which is a sad state of affairs.
My weekly hypocrisy comes in the form of procrastination. I’m writing this, in fact, while avoiding two papers that I should have finished and emailed to my professor five hours ago. I could blame Will.I.Am blaring on my PC speakers (“I like ‘em Chunky”), or the episode of Medium playing in the other room, but the real culprit is this deep-seated feeling of “I don’t want to, and you can’t make me!”
I sent an email to my students a few weeks back where I actually told them, “Please don’t wait until the last minute to write this essay. Take your time and have fun with it.”
Take your time and have fun with it? I’m working on my third English degree and I’ve never taken my time and had fun with any writing assignment. I even capped off the email with, “Leave yourself plenty of time to revise, because that’s when the fun really starts!”
I wrote that. For reals. Exclamation point and all. I would have hated myself as a teacher. Pile on the homework, give me strict deadlines, make me respond to boring articles, but don’t send me happy emails with exclamation points saying it’s going to be fun.
The world doesn’t need another writing cheerleader.
Maybe I should take a more realistic approach in my next email:
Class –
Your essay is due in a few hours, and I’m sure you’re just getting started. I know that writing this paper sucks, but just think of how badly it sucks for me having to read them. You only have to write one of these stinkers. I have to read twenty-five of them. So please, for the love of all things holy, try to make them interesting. If that’s not possible, just staple a twenty to the back and call it good. Either way, you’re all getting a C.
P.S. If you’re having fun writing your essay, you need help.
P.P.S. I put office hours on my syllabus because my boss told me to. My door really isn’t open—please leave me alone.
My weekly hypocrisy comes in the form of procrastination. I’m writing this, in fact, while avoiding two papers that I should have finished and emailed to my professor five hours ago. I could blame Will.I.Am blaring on my PC speakers (“I like ‘em Chunky”), or the episode of Medium playing in the other room, but the real culprit is this deep-seated feeling of “I don’t want to, and you can’t make me!”
I sent an email to my students a few weeks back where I actually told them, “Please don’t wait until the last minute to write this essay. Take your time and have fun with it.”
Take your time and have fun with it? I’m working on my third English degree and I’ve never taken my time and had fun with any writing assignment. I even capped off the email with, “Leave yourself plenty of time to revise, because that’s when the fun really starts!”
I wrote that. For reals. Exclamation point and all. I would have hated myself as a teacher. Pile on the homework, give me strict deadlines, make me respond to boring articles, but don’t send me happy emails with exclamation points saying it’s going to be fun.
The world doesn’t need another writing cheerleader.
Maybe I should take a more realistic approach in my next email:
Class –
Your essay is due in a few hours, and I’m sure you’re just getting started. I know that writing this paper sucks, but just think of how badly it sucks for me having to read them. You only have to write one of these stinkers. I have to read twenty-five of them. So please, for the love of all things holy, try to make them interesting. If that’s not possible, just staple a twenty to the back and call it good. Either way, you’re all getting a C.
P.S. If you’re having fun writing your essay, you need help.
P.P.S. I put office hours on my syllabus because my boss told me to. My door really isn’t open—please leave me alone.
Monday, February 2, 2009
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