from the workforce, pt. 2: neurosis is...

I probably spend too much time worrying about student behavior, that is, when I’m not crushed by my own inadequacy, which is often. I had a dream this week that I asked a student to put his phone away, and in response, he cursed me out, threw a desk, and punched me in the mouth. Even though it’ll probably never happen, I’m now putting together a strategy to dodge the desk, and the right hook.

Aside from averting violence, I want students to learn and enjoy my class. This can cause me to be a bit of a pushover. And because I’m a pushover, I sometimes rehearse the occasional, hypothetical harangue I’d deliver to my students for not completing their reading. They’re not speeches I never hope to give, but I’m learning that I’m much more likely to either give in or flip out without such a script.

Sunday’s St. Patrick’s Day Parade put me in a strange funk, and it probably contributed to my suspicion that I’d show up to a crowd of unprepared students. But to be fair, this panic wasn’t totally unfounded. Earlier this week, a student in class posed this question:

“Do we have to, like, watch Metropolis?”

“Yeah. You, like, do.”

I didn’t say that, of course, because it’s rude. But I think my eye-roll was audible, and deservedly so. Seriously, guy, we’re half way through the semester. Figure life out.

With this brief conversation in mind, I spent my time in transit to school running through a few scenarios.

Scenario the first, wherein everybody’s prepared:

Me: I hope you all had a terrific Spring Break. Lets get right into Metropolis. Everybody watched the film, right?

Students: Yes. It was really interesting.

Me: Wonderful. And you all read the criticisms?

Students: Yes. Also interesting. We’re all prepared to share insightful articulations in an organized fashion.

Me: Wonderful! Let’s light this candle!

Scenario the second, wherein half of the students are prepared:

Me: I hope you all had a terrific Spring Break. Lets get right into Metropolis. Everybody watched the film and completed the readings, right?

Students: Various sounds of hesitation.

Me: Some yes, some no?

Students: Uh...

Me: Okay, raise your hands if you watched the film and read the criticisms.

Half of the students raise their hands, and my face turns pink. 


Me: Hmmm…Two things, guys. This class ain’t SparkNotes. It’s not my responsibility to summarize what you should have learned through your reading. This portion of class is designed for discussion and analysis, something we can’t do if you haven’t read. Also, it’s not fair to your classmates who are prepared, so those of you who didn’t do the reading, you’re dismissed. You have a lot of work to do. 


And I’d spend the remaining 45 minutes trying to lower my heart rate, curious if anyone will show up the following Friday, and wondering how I’d live with the guilt of kicking students out of class.

Scenario the third, wherein nobody's prepared:

Me: I hope you all had a terrific Spring Break. Lets get right into Metropolis. Everybody watched the film and completed the readings, right?

Students: Pure, unadulterated silence.

Me: Anyone? Did anyone complete the reading or watch Metropolis? Raise your hand if you did.

Nobody raises their hand.

Me: Nobody did the reading. Okay, then everybody take out a piece of paper and a pen. Do it now. I want you to write a paper, a five paragraph essay, arguing why you don’t have to do your reading. Three reasons. And I’d better be convinced by the end of it, because you’ve clearly convinced yourselves. Pens move the entire 50 minutes. Turn it in to me at the end of class. Go.

And then I’d probably throw up. Also, I haven’t quite mapped out how I’d react to the mutiny that would inevitably follow this exchange.

My projection of the third and most extreme scenario wrapped up just as I walked into class where I realized (once again) that I’m not badass enough to follow through with the two latter exchanges. I hung my coat and scarf over my chair, wrote out the agenda on the chalkboard, and organized my notes. When D and L sat down, they extracted their readings, highlighted and annotated, just as readings should be. I relaxed a bit.

Though class was not without one strange hiccup—a detour into Soviet history?—it followed Scenario One closer than expected. I spent the ride home evaluating the mental stability of a woman who lived the above entry.

I got home and confessed to my roommate/good friend how I spent my commute. “I sound crazy. And not crazy like quirky, but crazy like certifiable.”

“You’re not crazy,” she replied. “You just...have an active inner-life.”

Cheers to Fridays, and to friends who tell all the right lies.

from the workforce:

Every Friday, I teach a section of Intro to Cinema. I’ve got a good group, I think, though they were particularly unresponsive this last Friday. I’m blaming it on Spring Break because even I wanted to check-out early. But I didn’t, because we were discussing an article about how art is political, a thesis with which I agree completely. So I arrived upbeat and, dare I say, bouncy.

“I know these articles can feel like a bit of a slog,” I said as I stood in front of the class, “and I know you’re all looking forward to tearing out of here today, so where would everyone or anyone like to start? Who wants to take the wheel? What arguments did you buy or not buy?”

I stood, eyed wide with chalk in hand, ready to scribble their insights all over the board. I wanted an eruption, a crackling debate, or even a sign of comprehension. But instead they dead-fished me: mouths open, eyes glazed, and bodies barely upright.

Finally S raised her hand and said, “I guess I don’t understand why he thinks the frame story of the film changes the main story so much.”

“Thanks, S. That’s a great place to start, and it’s probably a common confusion, so let’s dive right in. What do we think?”

We hammered out the main story in which a very average Joe bucks authority and exposes the madness inherent in said authority. The frame story, however, situates this average Joe as not so average. He’s crazy, in fact, and has been diagnosed and is being healed by the very authority figure he’d put away in the main story. Not so subversive anymore, eh?

There was some light debate about whether or not the man was actually crazy. I asked how the story might change if he was or was not crazy. One student raised his hand and said, “We’ve done that, though—put people away because they didn’t fall in line, not because they were crazy.”

“Of course,” I said. “Can anyone think of an example?”

“Homosexuals.”

“You bet. Scarily recent, too.”

“And women, right?” asked another student.

“Yes.”

“When did they put women away?” asked a boy.

“It wasn’t limited to just one specific time period,” I said, “but one example was when women got really tired of just ironing and breastfeeding and cooking all day, and the medical community was all, ‘How can you not be fulfilled doing this? You’re biologically wired to perform these tasks. Oh no, you’re hysterical!’ So naturally the answer to all this irrational hysteria was to, you know, lock them bitches up!”

And then I had a flash of what unemployment might feel like. But the class laughed and I worried less that one of them would report me to the school authorities.

At 12:50, I cut them loose. I hope they spend the week sleeping in and watching good and bad movies—and maybe they’ll think, just once, about its political agenda. And I hope I have a job to come back to.

too personal and not about Boston, really.

Wednesdays were designed to build character. Of this, I am sure.

I don’t much care what happened today, though—some good, some less than—because I came home at near 11 p.m. and had mail: Comcast bill to pay this month, my credit card bill, and a square letter with actual blue, hand-written ink.

Today I got a card from Heidi.

Heidi’s my BFF (an acronym I find revolting in any other context) from Utah. She and I met at UVU’s Writing Center and took an ass-kicking class together, and we’ll always be friends for a number of reasons: she is, without a doubt, one of the most genuine people I know. Sweet, kind, and way too hard on herself. Someone’s gotta keep her in check and I nominate me. Also, she’s seen me lose my temper and butterfly kick a garbage can down the school hallway. Okay, it wasn’t a butterfly kick; it was a generic side-kick only elevated by its motivating fury. Post-garbage can, Heidi and I cranked out final papers together and spent hours at the Barnes and Noble Starbucks working, chatting, and ranting over tea.

We keep in touch via e-mail, but everyone knows that a card is different. Mostly because I can so clearly see her with a squishy-grip pen composing the most direct and kindest of “thank yous”, and because her last-second decision to pass on a little “social update” likely underwent much debate before penning the exchange she outlined.

So now it’s on my board with a card from my adopted Serbian sister, a note from my sister, K, pictures of family and friends, concert and game tickets, and the string of beads my brother S gave me when he was 5. In Boston, I keep my heart on my wall.