The Pissed Off Professor

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 -

The Pissed Off Professor will be participating in Blog Action Day, and if you have an ounce of intellect, you will too.

New books—new pens—new lunch packs—new folders: ah, the start of a new semester. (These are my new things: I wonder what new things my students will have?)

California has a budget—that makes things a bit easier, but the shuffle, bustle, and confusion of the first and second class meetings are always a challenge.

This semester, we’ve changed to a sixteen-week schedule—down from eighteen weeks in the past. In addition, most classes meet only twice each week. (Until this change, classes were traditionally M-W-F or Tu-Th.)

The sixteen weeks, two-days-per-week schedule is supposed to be a better fit all around: students prefer two-days-per-week classes (as do many instructors), and as impacted as the district is, more classes can now be crammed into the same amount of space.

Fridays are now free to hold one-day-per week classes, and like Saturday courses, these are very popular with working adults—not educationally beneficial in most cases, but popular.

The fewer weeks and days also means class meetings have been extended. Previously, M-W-F courses were 50 minutes in length, and Tu-Th classes were 75 minutes in length. Now, courses are 80 minutes long.

As a teacher, I love this: 50 minutes is far too short to do much good. By the time one takes roll, 5 minutes are gone; wrapping up is another 5 minutes, and that leaves only 40 minutes of class time. It’s tough to cover two things well in that amount of time: especially if one of the things is a reading discussion, but it’s a bit too long to use for just one thing. 75 minutes is better: once the 10 minutes of fluff are excised, it leaves just over an hour of class time.

80 minutes means I have those brains for an hour and ten minutes of scholarship: wow—now that is teaching time.

Of course, one of the things I’ve begun to notice when teaching the 75 minute classes is the issue of failing attention spans: students simply can’t sit still and/or focus for more than about 30 minutes of time. Now, I have to figure out a way to get them to stay with me for longer than ever.

I use all of the teaching tricks: breaking things into smaller units of activity, participation versus lecture, calling on people, etc. These are Band-Aids: the clock watching will inevitably begin after the first 20 minutes has passed, and in most modern classrooms (on my campus, anyway), the clocks almost always face the students not the teachers.

If only I were a hottie.

Last month, Gregory tagged me, and I’ve spent much of the time between then and now debating how I might respond.

First, thanks Gregory: even if you admitted to struggling with the names of blogs to mention, I think it’s cool that of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, [you] walked into mine.

Second, here are the rules of tagging and being tagged:

• Post eight random facts/habits about yourself.
• Tag eight people who should then write their own blog entry about their eight things and post these rules.
• Leave a comment alerting the chosen bloggers they’ve been tagged.

Now, on with the show!

Here are eight (8) random facts about me:

1. While between careers, I seriously considered going to school to become a mortician.
2. As a pre-teen, I was a member of the Sacramento Unicycle Club, and I rode a 6-foot tall unicycle in parades—often I juggled as I rode.
3. I cry whenever I hear Peter, Paul, and Mary sing Puff the Magic Dragon.
4. When I was eighteen, I competed in the Ms. California Golden Bear contest at the California State Fair—it was a women’s body building contest, not a beauty pageant.
5. If I won the lottery, I’d quit teaching to write fulltime and play poker on the side.
6. When I was in my late twenties, I walked on coals.
7. My first grade teacher and I remain friends; in fact, we have the same birthday. For the past 15+ years, we’ve met up on our day and celebrated together. This year, I’ll turn 43, and she’ll turn 79.
8. I have said the perfect thing once in my life: about ten years ago, just before my first Cirque du Soleil experience (Mystère), I was wandering the floor of the Treasure Island Casino when I (literally) bumped into Alex Trebek. With no hesitation, I looked him in the eye and said, “What is, excuse me?” (Fortunately he laughed because his circle of body guards was not in the least amused by my having run into their charge.)

Here are eight (8) blogs I’m tagging; however, I’ve placed them into categories for reasons I think will be clear.

Blogs whose britches are too big to pay attention to a little gnat of a tagger like me:

Wil Wheaton: Yes, he played Wesley Crusher on Star Trek: The Next Generation, but the guy found his real calling when he became a writer.

dooce: Among the other really great (and often edgy) things you’ll find here, Heather Armstrong writes a monthly newsletter to her daughter—they are some of the most touching reads around.

Blogs for which the rules of tagging simply won’t fit:

Indexed: little cards—big thoughts, and when Jessica Hagy is on, she is really on.

TwitterLit: Twice each day, Debra posts the first sentence of a book. (Yes, she’s an Amazon affiliate, but how does that diminish such a cool idea?)

Blogs I love that have already been tagged:

red Ravine: This site reminds me of the sub-title of Anne Lamott’s wonderful book Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life. Their tag post is here.

The Heart and Craft of Lifestory Writing: Sharon Lippincott shares tips, tricks, advice, and experience geared towards discovering who you are and how you got there via lifestory-telling.

Blogs I lurk at and thus cannot really announce “I’ve tagged you”:

Paperback Writer: Beyond having the best name on the Web, this site is filled with great reading—the blog kind and the book kind, and it’s just plain fun to hang around there.

I, Who Can’t, . .Teach: Another teacher telling it like it is, but this one deals with kids—makes it clear to me where some of mine come from.

And there you have it!

From this morning’s AP wire:

California’s budget is again overdue, and education is at the heart of the delay. While one side refuses to allow more cuts in the area of education, the other is demanding more cuts be made. The result: the members of the state legislature are embroiled in a tug-of-war that appeared to have no end nor hope of compromise in sight—until yesterday.

In what will undoubtedly be hailed as the state’s most important decision in education thus far, the California Education Consortium offered to act as non-partisan mediators to the state legislators. Having reviewed the issues presented by each side of the debate, the CEC has awarded control of California’s higher education to RateMyProfessors.com.

Beginning immediately, all aspects of course curriculum, instructional practices, and hiring/firing will be based on the evaluations left online. The CEC has determined the changes in educational quality will be profound and immediate, and it believes the first wave of change will be seen with the upcoming fall semester. Additionally, by relocating administration, peer evaluation, standards-maintenance, and course-overview to the virtual world, the anticipated monetary savings have been described as substantial.

When I read this, I found myself overcome with joy, and for the first time in my life, I had to review my status: after all, I was going to get the chance to go back to high school—where popularity (not substance) ruled!

Here’s a snap shot of what I found on the index page of the site:

I was pleasantly surprised to see that as I read from top to bottom and left to right, the first listings were the hottest professors—as we all know, it’s absolutely essential to education that a student be attracted to his or her instructor.  Fortunately, right next to the hotties were the instructors with the most smiley faces. (I wonder, are those smiles a result of the students being turned on?)

Sadly, I am neither hot by my students’ standards, nor am I overrun by smiley faces.

Here’s what I found about me:

It seems reports of my evil-doings are exaggerated by some readers of this blog. It also seems no one from my summer classes has rung in—sheesh! Last semester, it appears four students had something to say: two bad and two good.

Here are the rest of the pages:

So, of the twenty-two (22) entries, fourteen (14) are “Good Quality” ratings, four (4) are “Average Quality” ratings, and four (4) are “Poor Quality” ratings.

Let’s see if I can manage to do a bit of math: 64% of the reporting students think I’m good; 18% of the reporting students think I’m average; and 18% of the reporting students think I’m poor.

It’s too bad I don’t put any stock in this site given the majority of reports on me are above average—well, except no one reporting thinks I’m hot.

I can’t help but shake my head in disgust at the attitudes of some teachers. Here’s a wonderful example: in response to my last post, Sven wrote,

I dunno…some of this IS pretty bitchy. If I may offer a couple of cliches by which I try to live in dealing with students: pick your battles, and don’t sweat the small stuff. Really, not bringing one’s own stapler to class (thus making the poor beleaguered professor do some stapling–the horror!) becomes 25% of the exam grade? If I were one of your students, I’d be pretty pissed off about that too.
Personally, I always accept late assignments without penalty (remarkably, this policy is very seldom abused). My assignments are not busywork, and the idea is to do the work and thereby learn something; I don’t see how the learning process is encouraged by iron-fisted enforcement of a completely arbitrary deadline. 90 minutes late? Come on–who cares?

Let’s just take a moment to review this writer’s points:

• Pick my battles

Are you kidding me? What planet are you from? When did it become okay for students to “battle” their teachers?

Shame on you—for declaring the classroom a battleground or allowing it to be.

• Don’t sweat the small stuff

News flash: everything about college is small stuff—unless an armed gunman takes people out, and even then, unless you are personally involved, it remains small stuff—the rest of the world goes on as if nothing happened. In fact, most of what takes place in one’s life is small stuff. That doesn’t change the fact that each of us is obligated to deal with a whole lot of small stuff on a daily basis: for the student, the small stuff includes following the rules; for the teacher, it includes making them. Being successful with the small stuff is what makes life great because the small stuff is what life is all about.

Shame on you for acting as if anything that goes on in your classroom is big and for failing to educate your students about the importance—the joy—of small stuff.

• Thus making the poor beleaguered professor do some stapling

As opposed to the poor, beleaguered student? Good point.

Shame on you—for not recognizing the time of a teacher is supposed to be used for teaching—not stapling.

• If I were one of your students, I’d be pretty pissed off about that too.

And from what I read here, you’d misdirect your anger just as my students do. You should be pissed off, but not at me—at yourself for failing to following instructions.

Shame on you—for failing to educate your students: you are obviously under the misguided notion that the real world protects, coddles, and excuses sub-par behavior and work and attitudes.

Oh, wait, I guess in many ways it does.

Shame on you—for promoting this downward spiral.

5. Personally, I always accept late assignments without penalty (remarkably, this policy is very seldom abused).

If this is true, you are lucky. Or don’t teach general education courses. Or have been teaching for five minutes. Or are lying.

Shame on you—for setting standards and failing to follow through thereby slapping the faces of the responsible students who budgeted their time, prioritized their days, and had respect for your words. And another shame on you—for once again failing to educate your students.

• My assignments are not busywork.

Yes they are. Nothing one does in college isn’t. I haven’t used a single assignment from my college life in the classroom or in my real life. Have you? Doing the work, and budgeting the time, and following the guidelines are what makes each assignment worthwhile. That is all part of real learning. It is the struggle to do it—to be in that moment—to overcome the procrastination, the lack of understanding, the desire to do something else that makes completing the assignment feel good.

Shame on you—for thinking your assignments will change students’ lives and likely passing that lie on, and for robbing your students of true, personal success.

• 90 minutes late? Come on–who cares?

Gee, Sven, I dunno, but I dare you to arrive 90 minutes late to each of your classes for a week and see if anyone cares.

Shame on you—for insulting the students who worked hard to be on time and for failing again to educate your students by implying that being timely isn’t important.