The Pissed Off Professor

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.

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.

Like many Californians, I’ve been keeping my eye on the budget standoff—not because it’s a new phenomenon: it happens just about every year—but because of the impact it will have on my upcoming classes.

While sums of money too large to comprehend are spent on political campaigns and blowing people up, and those who refuse to solve the budget problem continue to get paid ridiculous salaries, students who have qualified for a variety of education-based assistance haven’t received their money.

This creates a significant problem for instructors: trying to teach classes with students who may or may not be able to afford their books and supplies. There’s no way to tell who’s telling the truth and who’s lying when it comes to situations like this—well, other than the fact that those who really haven’t yet received their money are far less likely to make this fact known than those who are simply using the unresolved budget as an excuse not to spend their money the way their parents intended and/or they way they should.

And let me tell you: having done this for a number of years, my classes will be filled with students who will claim not to be able to buy what they need because they haven’t received their checks.

The amount allotted to community college students is miniscule (approximately $1,500/year) compared to the amount allotted to students at other types of colleges ($6,000 and up/year), but the difference in these figures reflects the difference in cost to attend a community college versus that to attend other types of schools.

Here’s where it gets really neato: at the community college level, tuition for a year costs about $600, and that’s for a full-time student—a rarity in community college. That means of the $1,500 allotted for the year, only $600 of it is to cover tuition: the rest ($900) is for all that other stuff I mentioned above—you know, the stuff one needs to actually sit in a classroom and be productive.

Most schools have tuition waivers in place to solve part of the problem; however, these waivers do not extend to parking passes, textbook purchases, or minimal school supply fees. This seems foolish to me: if you waive tuition fees for someone but do nothing to deal with what is needed in the classroom, what’s the point?

Here’s my guess: waiving tuition guarantees the school gets its money from the government, but the school does not profit from the other stuff, so the other stuff gets no consideration. Lovely.

• I can’t put my class on hold until the budget gets resolved and checks are received.
• I can’t purchase books and supplies for my students.
• I have made an extra copy of each of my textbooks available for short-term use at the library, but this is something I’ve always done.

Maybe instead of essays, I ought to have my students write nasty-grams to their illustrious California politicians: “leaders” whose college-student children are not wanting for anything, I’m certain.

Until then, I’ll get to listen to all of the excuses—the few that are real and the many that are not—and I’ll have no choice but to go on with the show.

Somehow, the state’s inability to do its work will trickle down to me and my obligation to teach at the pace required to complete the semester, and because I have no control over the situation, I’ll be branded insensitive, and unreasonable, and a variety of other pleasant things by some of my students—and most likely Celia and her colleagues who never have issues because they are so darn perfect—and all alone in my evil, black hole, I’ll just remain Pissed Off.

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.

More and more, I am faced with students who are certain their failures are my fault or out of their control due to a variety of stumbling blocks the world sets out as a means to foil their otherwise responsible intentions.

Many of my students have been conditioned to believe that if they don’t like something, they should ignore it or argue about it. (Under no circumstances should they accept anything not completely satisfactory to them.)

This leads to a variety of problems in the classroom, several of which came to a rotten head a few days ago.

I have to preface some of this with a few facts:

1. Many students do not staple multiple page papers together unless specifically required to do so.
• When it is required, they still don’t get the staple should be in-place before papers are collected—even if this is expressed on the course syllabus and the assignment’s handout (see #2).
2. Many students do not actually put stock in handouts, lectures, statements, etc. unless said things serve their purposes.
3. Many students feel their errors are not actually errors but “honest mistakes” for which they should be forgiven.
• This is especially true if items from #2 have been ignored and the work has subsequently been penalized accordingly.
• Failing to “forgive” these “honest mistakes” is indicative of a teacher who is “terrible.”
4. The phrase “I didn’t know” is a panacea for all things student-related.
• Ironically, most students don’t know what “panacea” means.
• Looking up words is for dorks.

It was midterm day, and the task was to write. (This was met with some complaints initially, and even after I reminded students they were in a composition course, a few thought an in-class writing task was unreasonable.)

I had prepared them in terms of what the exam would cover (a handout and a reading), what they needed to bring (all of their regular supplies plus plenty of binder paper, several pens, a dictionary, and a stapler) and what things I wouldn’t tolerate (tardiness, sharing materials, failing to follow instructions, or cheating).

Several students came to class without textbooks or handouts; others arrived without sufficient writing supplies; one student swore I said the midterm was the following week.

The ogre in me came out right away: when one of these students tried begging supplies from his classmates, I asked that he stop. (My explaining it was not fair to put his classmates in such an awkward position—to share or not share—not only fell on deaf ears, but also led to several students expressing their shock at my inflexibility.)

Fine, who am I to try to protect the classroom environment?

I let the beggars do their thing, and after fifteen minutes of wasted time, I reminded the class of what I thought was obvious: that time would have to come off of their exam time. (That another class uses the room after ours isn’t relevant—just ask my students—it’s merely my desire to undermine their whole lives for reasons arbitrary.)

Just before passing out the exam, I collected their reading journals. The cries of several students who hadn’t bothered to bring them wasted several more minutes. (After all, it’s not really a class day—it’s midterm day—why would they have their bring-them-with-you-every-day-we-meet-no-exceptions journals? See #2.)

Having passed out the prompt for the exam, three students asked me for copies of the handout they were to use as they hadn’t brought theirs. I didn’t have extras. I am evil because of this.

The end of the exam brought with it a number of students who hadn’t bothered to bring their staplers—a required supply as stated on the course syllabus—so began classmatus interruptus. I stopped the brain staple-less students, took their papers, stapled them with my stapler, and marked them for a 25% grade reduction. (I am such a bitch.)

The pinnacle of my evil was reached when I refused to accept the journal of one student at the end of the class period.

Several odd things fell into magical place as exam and journal were passed my way:

1. This student had whined about not having brought her journal.
2. I had caught the student text-messaging while the great beg was taking place.
3. This student had abruptly arisen from her seat and left the room about 15 minutes after the exam had begun.
4. Coming back from what I thought was a bathroom break, she had a notebook with her.

I had put several pieces of a lovely puzzle together, and the picture I’d formed wasn’t a pretty one: she’d left her journal at home, so she text messaged someone to deliver it, and when the someone arrived, she left the classroom to get it, so she could turn it in at the end of class.

I don’t take late journals, and they had been collected 90 minutes prior.

According to the student, she’d found the “journal” in her backpack while putting her things away, and it was just unreasonable of me not to take it. (To avoid more arguing while several students struggled to finish writing their exams, I took her notebook.)

I’ll leave it to you to guess her reaction the following Monday when she saw her “journal” hadn’t been evaluated or given any points. I’ll also leave it to you to imagine the conversation I was forced to endure regarding her notebook not being a journal as described on the course syllabus.

I think now is the time to begin soliciting votes for teacher bitch-of-the-year!

Having made it through the whirlwind of WEEK ONE of summer school, here’s where things stand:

THE GOOD
Each of my classes is full, and most of my students appear to be motivated for the rigors of summer session.

It only took three days to get the keys I needed to get into the classrooms I’m using.

The parking situation isn’t nearly as bad as I’d thought it would be considering most of the main faculty lot is a pile of rubble right now.

In terms of my teaching game, I seem to be right on, and I have been each day so far—that’s a weird kind of miracle, and it feels good.

THE BAD
The bookstore decided to order 15 book sets for my 28-student classes. This has created some interesting problems in terms of students trying to study and do homework and in terms of how much scanning I have to do.

One of my students decided the textbooks I put on library reserve were for her alone, and despite the steep fees for failing to return said books after the two-hour limit, she still has them in her possession.

One of my returning students thought summer session started this week not last week.

Another student from last semester—a student who clearly hated me—showed up this morning asking to be added, and since each of us knows she hates me, I asked her why she wants to take another class from me. At least she had the guts to tell me that “while I’d love to avoid ever taking another class from you, I really need this credit, and you’re the only teacher teaching the class. I suppose you could call me desperate.” How could I not let her in?

THE UGLY
The student who has been hogging the reserve textbooks found out today that her overuse was going to cost her about $60 in fees, so she asked me to write a note to the library asking that her fines be waved since no books were available in the bookstore. When I refused, she stomped her foot and called me mean. She began to cry over not being able to afford the fines. She cried through the first 10 minutes of today’s quiz. She failed the quiz, and to me, this adds a bit of insult to injury: the fines are obviously not going to be money well spent.

I had two problem students in my 8:00 am class: one was a sit-in-the-back-and-sleep problem, the other was a I-can’t-get-to-class-before-8:15 problem. On Wednesday, I kicked sleeping guy out, and as he left, he made certain everyone in the room understood that in his opinion I was a “fucking bitch.” Without my class, he won’t be eligible for his sport, so today, his coach was kind enough to ask for a meeting to “talk” about how his athlete might get back into my class. I’m not sure the coach appreciated my ending the conversation with, “Well, there’s really no need for a meeting as your athlete has zero chance of returning to my class: I am, after all, a ‘fucking bitch’—at least that’s what your athlete called me as he exited the room.” Pregnant pause. “So,” says the coach, “I guess that’s a ‘no’?” Uh, yes. . .no.

Mr. Late guy got his first warning on Wednesday, and on Thursday, I informed him another tardy at any point would be cause for his being dropped. Guess who was late today? You got it, so while textbook girl was crying, I was kicking late dude out.

All things considered, it has been a good first week—no, really, it has.

Summer Session Countdown: T-Minus 6 Days

I spent the better part of yesterday revamping the Web site I use to augment my English classes. It is one of the things I seem to do on an almost semester-by-semester basis, yet someplace in the back of my mind, I know the site doesn’t get used to the degree it should.

Honestly, it’s a waste of my time, but I pretend it’s going to help a few people.

And, I suppose it might. Maybe. Right?

One other class-related task I did was checking enrollment, and I discovered the lists for the Fall Semester has been added to the database.

Imagine my surprise when I saw two of the students who are enrolled in my fall English Writing 300 class are students who failed my course this past semester.

One of them is the I-chose-my-job-over-my-class student, and the other was one of the post-Spring Break disappearing acts. Both were solid students, but each gave up.

I’m still trying to figure out why these two students decided to retake my class. I see two possibilities: one, the students figure they know what to expect and have some of the work done already; two, the students liked my class.

I wonder: could the second possibility be true?

Summer Session Enrollment Watch:

ENGWR 100 (College Writing): 30/28 (Change = +1)
ENGWR 301 (College Composition and Literature): 32/25 (Change = -1)

It appears my worries regarding whether or not my summer classes were going to fill are over. With more than two weeks remaining before the session begins, both of the courses I’m teaching are full, and each has a waiting list.

This means I have to get down to the business of really planning things, and it’s a job I both love and hate.

I love it because there is such a feeling of newness, and there is always an opportunity to do something different, but I hate it because I generally get that so-much-to-do-and-so-little-time-in-which-to-do-it feeling which has got to be the educational equivalent of a panic attack.

This feeling is magnified, say, tenfold when summer session is at issue—and that’s exactly the issue here.

The first few meetings are important: they set a tone for the entire semester, and finding the proper ground between maniacal bitch and oh well is always a challenge. (Given my natural lean toward maniacal bitch, I really have to work at this.)

The 100 course is roughly one-third grammar / punctuation and two-thirds writing. The challenge is easing students into the grammar and punctuation because going at it too hard too early freaks people out. The problem with this in a six-week session is there is very little time to ease into anything. Additionally, because the course requires building blocks and their application, putting off the grammar and punctuation is a delicate matter.

M.C. Escher’s image of a hand drawing a hand is exactly what I mean.

The 301 course is reading heavy, so picking the correct initial reads is crucial to getting the course off to a bang. I have read and reread the texts for the 301 class, and I’m nearing a point where I think I know which selections I want to assign first, but it’s still a roll of the dice. I know two things: I can’t start with Black Maria because it’s poetry, and like grammar and punctuation, poetry freaks most people out. I also don’t want to start with the graphic novel (i.e. comic book) because I think it might send the wrong message.

It’s got to be story that’s shorter than long, not too gory, but absolutely engrossing.

This, my friends, is the nitty gritty of teaching.

Summer Session Enrollment Watch:

ENGWR 100 (College Writing): 29/28 (Change = +10)
ENGWR 301 (College Composition and Literature): 33/25 (Change = +3)

Summer school is an odd beast. It’s a period during which an eighteen-week semester is crammed into six-weeks’ time. That means each day in summer session is equivalent to about three-days’ of class, or each week of summer school is equivalent to about three weeks’ of school.

It is not for the faint of heart, the overly-busy, or the average student.

The same holds true for teachers: the pace is such that even the most productive and disciplined among us are frazzled most of the time.

Unfortunately, many of the students I see in summer session classes are attending to get a particular class over with. They are not generally students who are strong in their English skills, and often, they are students whose ability to transfer rests on passing my class. (Translation for that last part: if they don’t pass, I have ruined their lives and/or destroyed their scholarship opportunities.)

Intellectually, I am opposed to summer school as even the good students (and teachers) must cut certain corners and make certain concessions to make it through the class in the allotted time. (The less advanced the course, the more detrimental this fast-paced, corner-cutting becomes.)

Far too many students have been told (or presume) summer session is shorter; therefore, summer session is easier. I try to set my students straight on the very first day by asking them whether they want a whole grade or merely one-third of a grade. (It’s an excellent test of which students are strong thinkers: the strong students make the connection, but the weak students do not.)

I do break it down for those who can’t do it for themselves by assuring everyone that while shorter in time, my class isn’t shorter in terms of assignments or expectations. I emphasize that to earn a full grade, one must complete the full amount of work.

That’s what I say, but this is what many of them hear: “blah-blah-blah.”

I’ve tried to approach this truth in a number of ways—none of them very successful—because many students are merely stuck in the rut of getting their classes done so they can get on with their lives.

Fair enough: I was once there myself.

This summer, I’m going to try something new: since the majority of students hear “blah-blah-blah” when I talk about the pace of summer session, I’m going to skip that speech.

I’m going to save my breath, pretend I don’t need to insult anyone’s intelligence, and move along to other things. I’m certain it will save me a good deal of frustration in the end.

After all, these are adults I’m dealing with, and the real world doesn’t come with a syllabus: it only comes with an assignment sheet.