The Pissed Off Professor

I’m not sure why other people teach, and there are days I don’t know why I do, but I’m willing to bet none of us does it as a means to undermine the success of students.

There is very little joy derived from students who don’t succeed, and even if the lack of success is completely out of my control, it’s never pleasant to inform students they’ve fallen so far behind the end isn’t just near—it has arrived.

That’s how I spent part of my Wednesday: advising several students (each of whom had failed to write a 4-page paper in three weeks’ time) they could no longer pass the course.

I’m amazed by the number of students who are shocked by my telling them they can no longer pass the class. I clearly state it on my course syllabus in the section dedicated to “How to pass this course.” One of the items is “all formal writing assignments must be completed in a manner timely enough to receive credit.”

I repeat this statement on my essay prompts, and I discuss it when I pass out the assignment.

There is always a group of students who ignore all of this because the first essay is worth only 5% of the final grade. (This is after I’ve explained it as my way of making certain everyone has the chance to get settled in, to learn my standards and expectations, but that failing to turn in that paper in a manner timely enough to earn credit will result in an automatic failure.)

It doesn’t matter: somewhere in between the multiple chances students are given in high school, in other college courses, and in life, they just don’t get that sometimes a deadline is a deadline.

I am, of course, personally responsible for their lives falling apart because I:

• a. am so mean.
• b. am completely inflexible.
• c. don’t understand what it’s like.
• d. All of the above

Because the answer is “d,” it also follows my sole purpose in the classroom is to undermine my students’ success.

Because it’s my fault they couldn’t write four pages in three weeks’ time.

Because I had the audacity to ask them to write an essay in the first place.

In a composition class no less!

I have to go plot my next scheme now: I have more lives to ruin.

Maybe another essay?

A reading response?

No—how about part of a research paper? Yes, that’s it!

Muwaaaaaaaaaaah.

I used to try to hold regular class meetings on the days formal writing assignments were due, but I’ve learned how foolish it is to expect the average (i.e. procrastinating) student to finish up a paper and read something for a class discussion.

I’ve come up with a few ways to solve this issue:

• The quick meeting: I collect papers, go over any pressing details, and dismiss the class.
• The in-class workshop: I assign an in-class reading and a discussion follows.
• The trip to the library: I escort my students to the mysterious brick building that takes up one end of the campus and show them what’s inside.

The first solution serves a dual role: I don’t have to put on a show for an entire period, and late students miss turning in their work—this leads to stiff penalties. The second solution is a bit dicey: the brain drain of paper-completion usually means even in-class work goes poorly. The third solution works reasonably well, but most students notice if I take them to the library more than once per semester, and this is confusing for them.

Monday, was a paper due date, and I went for option #3, so it was a hi-ho hi-ho it’s, off to the library we go day.

Monday’s task was to introduce the class to the wonders of online databases. The utter joy of being able to access full-text articles from a computer—even while seated in one’s home—is lost on most of my students because they have lived their entire lives in a world in which the internet was always at their fingertips. Most have never looked up a book using a card catalog. (Actually, most have never checked out a library book. Ever.)

I get downright giddy over online databases, but I’m a bit of a geek.

They didn’t get very giddy, and I just don’t get it: they have research papers to write, and being able to complete some of their research online is such a big gift, they ought to be celebrating.

Perhaps they were so overwhelmed by seeing thousands of books in one location they simply couldn’t take in the databases.

Grading essays is such an odd task: it combines evaluation with instruction, but each message is often lost on its audience. Marking papers is a time consuming and exhausting process, and not getting paid to do it only becomes more frustrating when I consider the effort is probably going to be ignored by the student who wrote the crappy paper to begin with. (After all, had the student paid any attention in class, the paper wouldn’t be bleeding.)

There are all kinds of theories floating around regarding how best to grade/mark papers including how much to say; how to say it; and whether or not using red ink will somehow destroy the psyche of students.

I find discussions in this area rather comical because no one ever discusses how many red marks a math teacher ought to put on a paper. I’ve seen plenty of math exams with big, fat zeroes on the top of them, yet no one looks at the math teacher and shakes a head over the damage done to that student’s self-worth.

After all, math is an exact discipline, but English is subjective.

That’s a load of crap. Picking up a novel is subject to likes and dislikes, but grading an essay is absolutely not. How can I be so sure? Who in her right mind would actually choose to read a 10-page research paper written by a first-year college student? There is so little chance any student of mine is going to fill page after page with enlightening information that if I were operating on a subjective level, I’d toss all the pages away and be done.

I’m not saying I don’t get chills over well-written papers: I do. I’m not even saying I don’t get the occasional new idea: I get those, too. What I am saying is there are only so many ways a particular rhetorical assignment can be written given the level of challenge I can attempt in a first-year, GE course.

A math teacher doesn’t just ask her students to fill a sheet of blank paper with every formula, equation, and theorem known to them any more than an English teacher turns students loose to write anything and everything.

There are areas of focus whether in a math class or an English class, and those are concrete, easily weighed, exact things.

But grading essays is still an enormous undertaking, and the more I can refine the process, the better.

I’ve tried many things, but I may have hit on something this time: samples.

For the first paper, I asked students to focus on framework; specifically, a solid thesis with logical, analytical support. Not surprisingly, some students succeeded and others failed.

Because we had thoroughly discussed and practiced these things prior to the paper’s due date, marking all the stuff students didn’t do—after being taught/told to—seemed wasteful and redundant. So I didn’t do the same level of marking I usually do.

I chose five of the best and five of the worst papers, took the thesis sentences and the major point of support from each, and placed them in pairs on a handout. (The writer’s remained anonymous.) I placed “The Good” on one side of the page and “The Not So Good” on the other. (Look: I coddled!)

I prepped the class for the handout by telling them what was coming and explaining anonymity would be retained as long as no one revealed himself/herself.

I noticed an immediate straightening up in seats. I also noticed several students who were on “The Not So Good” side of the handout turn a bit green.

We went over each pair of “The Not So Good” work first. I allowed the class to discuss the problems in each example, and I forced them to work with the language from the handout I provide regarding thesis sentences. I also had them refer to the grading rubric to reinforce how significant a thesis is to an academic piece.

From there, we moved to “The Good” and followed the same pattern. I saw lots of nodding and plenty of note taking.

Once we’d completed this exercise, I passed out papers, and for the first time in many, many years, I got no complaints, no under-the-breath grumbles, no snide remarks. Instead, I was asked relevant, specific, logical questions by the very students who needed to ask.

Of course, the degree of effectiveness of this exercise remains to be seen: if the essays due Monday show improvement, I may have just learned something.

I collected my students’ first formal written assignment yesterday, and I’ll begin the grading process later this evening.

One the positive side, I had a show-up rate of about 90% which is very high on the day an assignment is due, and the first reads I did yesterday evening showed promise.

On the negative side, the death toll has already begun: so far, four grandparents, one aunt, and one “good family friend” have succumbed to the grim reaper. (Each of these sudden deaths occurred either Saturday or Sunday, and each required the student be out of town on paper-Monday.)

Real death is a significant loss, but the continued and predictable death-in-conjunction-with-due-dates makes it hard for me to believe anyone.

The first essay is due next Monday. I wonder: should I post my class list to allow my readers to ascertain whether or not they might be related to one of my students and by extension, be nearing death?

The title of this post sums up the outcome of my dealings with the student who said to me,

. . .you can be as evil as you wish because I have favor with God. I can make it with out the belief of others. See you in class Wednesday and also…. thanks for nothing!

As happy as I am to be rid of that problem, I am not at all impressed by the way in which things transpired.

Simply disrupting a class over two consecutive periods and then sending a threatening e-mail are not sufficient grounds to send a student packing, nor does anyone on my campus think the student needs counseling—in fact, my suggesting such was met with warnings from very well-meaning people that “[I’d] be going down a dangerous road” for suggesting such a thing.

Remember, this student is a grown adult who had been verbally aggressive and abusive in class, and who has military training.

While I don’t want to blow things out of proportion here, can anyone say Virginia Tech? The irony of events such as those at VT is that no one claims to have seen the thing coming until it was all over. During the same week that lots of fingers were being pointed at instructors and administrators at VT, I was telling the people at Sacramento City College I had a volatile student in class, and all I heard was a warning of how to act so as not to have the student complain about me.

At one point, the discussion turned to whether or not other students in the class would report this student’s behavior as disruptive. (Unfortunately, I’d left my crystal ball at home that morning, and I had forgotten my word wasn’t sufficient.)

This student called me EVIL.

This student implied I HAVE NO FAVOR WITH GOD.

The subject line of the e-mail read “Thanks for nothing. . . BITCH.

Yes, I can see where I might have difficulty explaining my reasons for feeling threatened by this student’s behavior.

The student is someone else’s problem now: arrangements were made to move the student out of my class and into someone else’s.

The message: treat your instructor as the pile of shit you think she is, and if the instructor expects something different, we’ll take care of you.

Having basically sung the praises of my first week of school, the bottom dropped out this morning when I received a particularly vicious e-mail from one of my students.

I’m posting the correspondence below, and it’s verbatim save for the student’s name which has been changed because I don’t want said student getting even five seconds of fame for being such an incredible ass.

The only background necessary is to point out the way a class is built at my school which is different from most colleges.

Our PeopleSoft system cannot determine the eligibility of a student to enroll in classes with prerequisites, and all but one of our English classes has a prerequisite. This means students enroll freely based on assigned registration dates, and Student A (who is not eligible for a class) can take a seat from Student B (who is eligible for the class) by virtue of an arbitrarily assigned enrollment date.

It is up to each instructor to check eligibility and shuffle students accordingly.

To make matters worse, each class—regardless of class cap—has an automatic waiting list feature that allows 20 students to “wait” for a slot. This is the reason I showed up to my first day of English Writing 100 and had close to 60 people jammed into my classroom: 28 enrolled, 20 waiting, and about 10 more bodies begging and pleading for a seat.

There is no good way to deal with this, but I have a routine that is as fair as I can make things: people who are present—regardless of any list—get preference over those who fail to show. Those who return the following class session with proof of eligibility then get preference over no shows and those without proof. By the third class, I set my students and dismiss the stragglers.

The student in question was on my waiting list, and she showed up for the first day but arrived late to the second session, disrupted the class to give me papers (including eligibility), and then ran out to “go to court.” (Less than one hour later, she had sent me her first e-mail, and anyone who knows this city and its court systems will likely find this timing improbable.)

It must also be noted that it is not uncommon for students to enroll in a required number of units to secure loans/grants/aid and either never show up for a class or show up only long enough to add a course and never return.

I do not hold/give seats to these people while other students are waiting to learn.

Here are the e-mails in order of their arrival:

Hello,
My name is STUDENT. I am in you engwr100 class from 12 to 1:20pm and i would like to know if you have a permission number I can use to fully enroll myself in the class. I don’t know if you received my last message but this is just to update. I need that number to give to the Veterans Aid so I can receive my money for books and other school supplies. Thank You and please email me as soon as possible.

[My reply]

STUDENT,

This is the first message I’ve received from you.

I’m curious: how were you able to leave campus, get to court, take care of things, and e-mail me all within an hour?

When you come to class on Wednesday, I’ll have a permission number for you. Until you are able to get your supplies, make use of the reserve textbooks in the library to complete your homework and keep up.

Professor Hansen

[The Student’s Reply]

Good morning.
I was able to go to court after I RAN to your class to turn in assignments asked for. Whether you want to believe it or not I am a trustworthy and reliable student. I needed that number to get my check right with the veterans office and you are of no help. Fortunately I will be in class on Wednesday and you can be as evil as you wish because I have favor with God. I can make it with out the belief of others. See you in class Wednesday and also…. thanks for nothing!

Needless to say, I’ve already contacted my dean, and I’ll be filing disciplinary paperwork on this student to toss said student’s ass out of my classroom.

Because I am “evil.”
Because I “have [no] favor with God.”
Because somehow this pig-headed “student” thinks this is the way to act.

As an aside, while this “student” was able to mouth off via e-mail (and later, in class the following period), the one-paragraph writing task and set of flash cards assigned were too much for him/her to complete.

Having hit the first wall, I quickly introduced myself, told everyone to hang tight, and scurried back downstairs to the dean’s office to start the process of switching rooms.

I love beginning a semester in chaos.

Now, switching rooms makes finding a shady parking space right next to the building look like child’s play—getting it done is like winning the World Series of Poker, say, five times in a row.

I had been dealt some very good cards, however: first, the room holds only 22 and the class cap is 28. Second, there is a mandatory grammar and punctuation component, and the room has no chalkboard. Third, there is absolutely no desk space, and note-taking at the level I am teaching in that class is paramount.

The process was begun, and my dean is reliable, so I felt certain I’d get a change, but the inevitability of time—as in it’ll take time to find a room or switch a room, so you’re stuck there for now—was unavoidable.

I walked back upstairs slowly: I had about one minute to reorganize my day’s plans in my head, and while reorganizing, I had to consider the distinct possibility I’d be stuck in that room for a week or two—all of which made my plans very confused: I needed a chalkboard.

Not surprisingly, every single seated student was busily surfing the internet, chatting, and/or gaming by the time I returned. After asking everyone to shut down his or her machine, I climbed over and around bodies to shut down the machines of those to whom “please power off the computer in front of you” meant nothing.

Returning to the front of the room, I spread the word that a location change was in the works, and then I went about the task of getting rid of fifteen bodies: those who were not enrolled and/or who were not in the top five on the waiting list.

While this trimming of students came with many of the routine pleads to “let me stay: I really need this class,” I was spared the “why do I have to leave? There are plenty of empty seats in the room” remarks.

By 12:30—in a class that began at 12:00—I had settled the 33 students (the cap plus five) and begun reviewing the course syllabus and assignment sheet. I was unable to begin the overview of writing I use on the first day because I feared writing on the freshly painted wall behind me might be frowned upon by someone somewhere, and orally, the information simply isn’t worthwhile.

I figured I’d give it another session, and if I didn’t have a new room by then, I’d insist on a purchase order for a sandwich board and a commercial roll of butcher paper. If I were refused, I was simply going to write on the walls in dry erase markers—really.

Fortunately, by the end of the day, I had been reassigned to a new room—in the Business Building. (Think getting soaked in rainstorms. Think loads of papers and journals causing shoulder injury. Think a room too far from my office to run back to should I forget something. Oh well.)

I’ve taught in several rooms over in business, and they apparently have more money than the English Department. Their rooms are nicer, larger, and decked out with great desks and really big, long white boards.

When Wednesday dawned, I wondered just how lucky I’d get with parking: it was going to be another hot day in the state capitol, and as much as I hoped for shade, what I really wanted was close. (Yeah, right—like that was going to happen again.)

But it did: I didn’t score shade, but I scored close to my building—again. The rest of the morning was just as uneventful as Monday had been, and other than needing a key I didn’t yet have to get into my new room, all was bliss.

(The key story will need to wait, but it’ll be worth it, I promise you.)

The room to which my class was reassigned was new to me, and when I walked in, it was a bit like entering a mansion.

I can get rained on for this, folks.

I began taking care of the administrative things that bog down the first few days of class beginning with sending away new arrivals and those who were in the wrong place. That taken care of, I checked prerequisites while my students completed a little writing assignment.

One student—who I think will provide a positive dose of levity to the course—gasped when I ask they take out paper and write.

“Now? Already? But we haven’t learned anything yet!”

Before I needed to point out to her that writing was something she’d been doing for a few years, she caught herself and began to giggle. The giggle was infectious, and we all laughed.

Several minutes later, I stopped the writing and began returning eligibility forms: I reinforce names and faces by passing things back to students, and while returning forms, I realized that although I had excused those who hadn’t been present on the first day because the class was full, I still had a new face in the crowd.

Generally, I recognize faces after the first day, but on occasion, I’ve mistaken a “new” face for one that simply didn’t stick, so here’s what transpired:

“Excuse me, you in the checkered shirt.”
“Who, me?”
“Yes. Did I call your name this morning?”
“No.”
“Well, as I said earlier, I don’t have any room to add anyone in this class. I’m sorry.”
“Oh, that’s okay. I’m not trying to get into the class.”
“Okay, well, I’m going to need you to pack up your things and leave.”
“Why?”

There it was: my first moment of the semester during which I have no idea what to say or do. I begin to get pissed off, and my students start staring at this guy and rolling their eyes. I breathed and thought and recovered.

“Why do you need to leave? Well, oddly enough, because you’re not part of this class. Beyond that fact, you need to leave because I asked you to.”
“But I don’t want to.”
“Look, I’m not going to ask you again. Gather your things and get out of here, and do it now.”

I begin to lament leaving my cell phone in my office, as I feared I would soon need to get the campus police involved. Goodie.

“But it’s really hot out there, and it’s nice and cool in here.”
“I think you’ll find the library has a similar environment, but if you don’t get out of my classroom right now, I’ll make sure campus police helps you.”
“Seriously?”

I have two returning students in this class, so I ask one of them to go around the corner to alert the Business Department Dean to call the campus police. She gets up and leaves.

“So, you’re serious? I can’t just sit here?”

I’m not going to engage him anymore, so I look at the remaining students and shrug my shoulders.

“Sorry guys, it looks like we’re going to have to wait for the cops to drag this guy out of here before we can get on with class. I’d like all of you to look at him, wave, and say ‘thanks’.”

My students love that we are a team, and to a person they turn, wave, and ‘thank’ him. Some of the ‘thank you’s’ come out sounding a bit like other things, but what can I say?

“Whatever. I’m out of here.”

Our visitor gathers his things while muttering under his breath and then walks out. As he opens the door to leave, standing right in front of him are two campus police officers—who says there’s never a cop around when one is needed?

After air-conditioning boy mutters a shit under his breath, the campus police officers take him aside and away. (My student was standing with them and did the ‘that’s him’ thing.)

I was trying to think of the best way to get things back to normal when the writing-phobic student from earlier blurts out sarcastically,

“Dang—he got to sit here and didn’t even have to write.”

The grin was still spreading across her face when another student remarked,

“Seriously.”

We all cracked up, and for the remainder of the period seriously was the mantra.

This group has real potential: I seriously hope I can keep up.

On this day in 1957, an equal education was important enough for nine students to risk their lives for nothing more than the right to attend Little Rock High School.

Forget sports greats. Forget movie stars. Forget all of the people whose financial status and/or success makes them the stuff of envy and admiration. These are real heroes.

Take the time to meet the Little Rock Nine, and ask yourself if the approach you take to education (teaching or learning) does them justice. I know I can answer YES.

I also recommend the book Warriors Don’t Cry by Melba Pattillo Beals–one of the Little Rock Nine. I received the book as a Christmas gift from my mom and dad in 1994, and it stands as one of the best history lessons I’ve ever had.

The first day of the semester began with such smoothness, I thought I was dreaming. Not only did I find a spot in the small lot right next to my building, but also it was in the shade.

Each of these items separately is something akin to winning the lottery, and I scored on both counts. (Did I mention the predicted high for the day was 104°F?)

The next phase was photocopying a few things I needed, and that, too, went without incident.

I settled in, ate a bit, reorganized things, and found even after grading a large stack of assessment essays, I had time to do a bit of non-teaching related work.

When the noontime hour approached, I gathered my things and headed upstairs to my first classroom—that’s right, this semester my classes were scheduled for rooms in the English Department building! (Think rainstorms without getting soaked. Think loads of papers and journals without shoulder injury. Think rooms close enough to run back to my office should I forget something.)

I’ve taught in room RS-311 several times, and I know it’s a decent location—decent meaning sufficient seats for the class cap (28) and a chalkboard of reasonable size—so I was taken completely aback when I walked into a room transformed into a 22-seat computer lab with long tables where once desks had ruled and absolutely no chalkboard.

Of course, when I walked in, all I was immediately aware of was the 50+ bodies packed in the room like sardines, but once I gulped my share of the diminishing oxygen, the transformation hit me.

So much for the shine of day one.

- Read Part Two -