I'VE BEEN asked to do a column for the school paper. I've decided to call it, "How to Talk to Your Professor." This was the first column, printed in this week's edition.
So it turns out one of my students’ aunts has the power of resurrection, which you have to admit is kind of impressive. At least I have to assume this is the case, since she died twice in one semester.
That’s right: she passed away for the first time just three weeks into class, right before our first exam. I remember because he said she had died of liver failure, which I thought was a sort of random thing for an aunt to die from. But I wasn’t about to question him: I have a solid no-question policy with dead relatives. If you’re the kind of person who wants to risk the righteous smiting of God or karma or whatever just to avoid your chemistry midterm, that’s on your head.
I was a little perplexed before the Final when she did it again. “Wow,” I said, genuinely shocked. “Both your aunts died of liver failure.” It wasn’t a question; I believed him (see my rule on death, above). It just seemed poetically unjust and rather unlikely.
I watched his eyes widen as he realized what he’d done. He stammered; his face flushed, and I feared he would spontaneously combust (I like to imagine he sort of wanted to). I guess he had forgotten he had already pulled this particular excuse with me and couldn’t save the whole mess well enough to explain why all of his aunts kept on blowing out their livers (I’m don’t know why his aunt always had to kick it, and I’m not sure why he was obsessed with liver failure - maybe he drank a lot?). Let’s just say the story didn’t end well for him. I should have been tipped off by the fact that she kept dying right before exams: another professor once theorized that they (the relatives) must literally worry themselves to death over their students’ test performance, since so many aunts, uncles and grandparents die around exam time.
The thing is, I don’t want to ask you for a doctor’s note proving that you were really having bad diarrhea. It’s insulting. But so is looking me in the eye and telling me you were mauled by a bear in Yosemite and that’s why you had to miss the exam. Gimme a break. I have a PhD and stuff.
I don’t want to lose my faith in humanity, either. We’re supposed to know that when something crappy happens to us, people – professors among them – will exhibit a little old-fashioned compassion and understanding without asking for a photo of us posing with the deceased. Likewise, I want to know that when someone elicits said compassion from me, I’m not being duped. I know that some of my colleagues insist on death certificates, and it’s not (usually) because they’re cruel and heartless; it’s because it’s become nigh impossible to separate truth from fiction. As our current president says, “fool me once, shame on — shame on you. Fool me — you can't get fooled again.” Or something to that effect.
So how do you talk to your professor when you’re behind or really missed the exam for an honest reason? Well, I can’t speak for all of us. Some professors don’t have an understanding bone in their body (or maybe only one of those really little ones in the ear. The “stapes,” or whatever). But I recommend – and I know this is a crazy idea, but hear me out – just talking to us honestly. If something bad HAS happened, we want to help you. But even if you just messed up, honesty will still probably get you the best outcome: the most honest excuse I ever got was, “I was up too late the night before, and I chucked my alarm clock across the room this morning when it went off. I can’t believe I’m telling you this, but I honestly slept straight through the exam. It’s totally my fault – trust me; I woke up panicking. This class is important to me and I was hoping you would give me a chance to make it up somehow.”
Now, I do not advise this method for everyone: the best method is to actually set three, maybe four alarm clocks, and be in your seat to take the exam. But I had a lot more respect for this student than for the auntie-killer. I was a lot easier on him when it came to grading at the end of the semester and gave him the benefit of the doubt - he put his money where his mouth was and had done decently well on the other exams. I was really impressed that he was willing to be honest and take responsibility for his own actions and I thought it should be rewarded.
So please don’t kill any unsuspecting relatives on my behalf. Really, now - how would you like it if your aunt told her boss that you had died of liver failure so she wouldn’t have to go into work on Monday? Treat me with honesty and respect and I’ll give you the same. Because I’m a person, too.
So that's how to talk to your professor.
Saturday, September 20, 2008
Sunday, September 14, 2008
[Sonnet #1]
With my head bowed, I set to paper, pen
And set, as well, my thoughts to organize
I find my writing turns to you again
Though subtle misdirection my hand tries.
In written word, I canonize your beauty
When I try to write of seasons fair
Silk and spice I ponder with grim duty
My hand betrays me, writing of your silken hair
I conjure orchids and cerulean skies
Such thoughts take wing like birds that wheel above
Helplessly, my verse extols your sweet cerulean eyes
And the warmth and purity of your love.
---When I write words that from my heart are true,
---The only thing worth writing of is you.
And set, as well, my thoughts to organize
I find my writing turns to you again
Though subtle misdirection my hand tries.
In written word, I canonize your beauty
When I try to write of seasons fair
Silk and spice I ponder with grim duty
My hand betrays me, writing of your silken hair
I conjure orchids and cerulean skies
Such thoughts take wing like birds that wheel above
Helplessly, my verse extols your sweet cerulean eyes
And the warmth and purity of your love.
---When I write words that from my heart are true,
---The only thing worth writing of is you.
Saturday, September 13, 2008
... Jedi Knights, and all the rest of y'all.
MY ROOMMATE Jon and I were talking tonight about the possibility of an earthquake and how prepared we weren't. "I don't think we even have flashlights!" I told him.
He looked at me as though I were insane. "Flashlights? We don't have flashlights?! We have lightsabers for God's sake." He's referring, of course, to the absurdly expensive pair of LED lightsabers he had purchased a few Christmases ago for both of us.
The image of us emerging from the rubble of our respective rooms with our ignited lightsabers backlighting our faces in red and blue was enough to send us into paroxysms of laughter. Better yet, we imagined other tenants' reactions as we wandered around the complex waving our humming blades in front of us to light our way:
-
"See, Billy? I told you the Jedis would come to save us."
"Jedis! I knew we'd picked the right building, Doris!"
"Oh, everthing's under control. The Jedis are here."
-
So, yeah... I think we'll probably get some emergency water and rations and make sure we have shoes under or next to our bed... but I don't think we'll be buying flashlights.
... the kind who are subtle, and this girl.
I'M TALKING about Freudian slips in class this week, when one of my female students decides to raise her hand and share the following story with the class:
"I was getting my hair done a while ago, and a friend called me and asked, 'what are you doing right now?' At the time, the hairdresser was blowdrying my hair, but what came out was, 'I'm getting a blowjob!"
[wait for it]
"... so what do you think that could mean?"
I was tempted to answer, since her slip was such a terribly opaque example - but I (probably wisely) decided not to touch it with a 10-foot... um, never mind.
"I was getting my hair done a while ago, and a friend called me and asked, 'what are you doing right now?' At the time, the hairdresser was blowdrying my hair, but what came out was, 'I'm getting a blowjob!"
[wait for it]
"... so what do you think that could mean?"
I was tempted to answer, since her slip was such a terribly opaque example - but I (probably wisely) decided not to touch it with a 10-foot... um, never mind.
Monday, September 8, 2008
... the kind that lube you up before anally raping you, and the kind that don't (lube you, that is)(the rape is inevitable).
Annoyance Factor (1-10): 9
YES, THAT'S right: anal rapage is inevitable when dealing with the customer service department. But now I'm telling you that the sky is blue and water is wet, right?
My laptop was giving me an error message when I turned it on this evening (CRITICAL ERROR: your sh!t is seriously f*cked up, man. 0x-0014412-1) and wouldn't let me open any Microsoft products. Being a professor with lectures to write and give tomorrow, this needed to be fixed ASAP. So after diddling around myself for a bit to no avail, I swallowed my natural reticence (now! with no preservatives!) and called Dell customer support.
"Thank you for calling Dell! We don't, in actuality, care diddly doo-dah about you! This message will therefore be unnecessarily long and complicated so as to make it nearly impossible to navigate successfully! For starters --"
ME: *presses zero*
"I'm sorry. That's not a valid option. We realize that 'zero' usually means 'operator, please' but we'll be damned if we're about to make it that easy...
(pause)
Thank you for calling Dell! We don't, in actuality, care diddly doo-dah about you! This message will therefore be unnecessarily long and complicated so as to make it nearly impossible to navigate successfully! For starters, please enter your Service Tag, located on the bottom of your computer."
ME: *upends computer, enters service tag*
"Thank you! Now please enter your Express Service Code, also located on the bottom of your computer."
ME: *sighs, flips computer over, enters Service Code*
"Thank you! For security purposes, what is the capital of Micronesia?"
ME: *P-A-L-I-K-I-R* (don't feel bad. I totally looked that up)
"To spend money on one of our quality products, press 1. To complain about a quality product that you've already spent money on but that doesn't technically work, press 2. If you owe us money and want Vinny McBleedy and Knuckles to stop harrassing you at your place of business, press 3. All of these options terminate with a completely automated system. If you'd like to speak to an actual human being, recite the entire Gettysburg Address from beginning to end while performing calisthenics. Or do the Hokey Pokey and turn yourself around. It won't get you anywhere - don't be absurd - but it's quite entertaining to us. Thank you."
... When I finally get a customer service guy, he immediately asks me for all the information I've just patiently punched into their system. This is irksome. It makes me think that all the button-pressing is simply a delaying tactic to make me feel as though I'm doing something productive (I feel much the same way about the button at crosswalks that purportedly changes the light to green. But that's a whole 'nother story). Nevertheless, I'm cheerful and pleasant. It's not this guy's fault, right? And being nasty to him isn't going to get me anywhere. I explain my problem, and he tells me that I need to talk to someone in technical support, specifically. He transfers me.
The woman who answers tells me she's Marilyn and asks how she can help. I explain my problem a second time and ask again for assistance.
"I'll be glad to help, sir. Can you please give me your Service Tag and Express Service Code?"
You're not surprised. I'm not surprised. Marilyn is filing her nails on the other end of the line. My teeth are gritted, but I calmly give her my codes without complaint, as well as my mother's maiden name, birthplace, driver's license number, blood type, turn-ons and turn offs (brainy girls!)(poor grammar!) and a semen sample. Brace yourself for not-surprise: Marilyn confides that she'll have to transfer me to the software department and tells me to give them my case number so they'll know how to help me. I write the 6,000 digit number down painstakingly, as though it were the DNA-coding sequence for Angelina Jolie's lip-plumpness. I listen to the bad jazz music as I'm transferred.
"Hi! This is Alicia! What can I do for you?"
ME: *dangerously cheery* Hello, Alicia! Would you like my case number?
"...Sure! I'll be happy to help. But may I have your case number first, please?"
ME: ??!?!! #!%*@??
After giving Alicia my case number, every code number ever imprinted on any portion of my laptop, and the name of my second grade gym coach, she tells me the following in a supremely perky voice:
"Did you know that Dell's Technical Support for this type of problem is a paid service?"
I take deep breaths. I count to ten. I count to twenty (which makes thirty now, but I still want to send Alicia some sort of nasty bacterial infection or at least a bad rash through the phone connection). Then,
ME: Ok, Alicia. How much is the service?
"Well, you have two options: the yearly plan is $275; or there's a per-incident plan that ranges from $25 up to about $190." (translation: I can anally rape you with lube or without, buddy).
ME: *total silence, as I send Alicia cancer with my mind*
"... sir...?"
ME: Hi, Alicia. Yeah. I'm going to go punch something now, really hard. I appreciate the help. Seriously.
"Thank you for calling Dell."
So how do I get my laptop fixed? I open up Google, type in the error message, and follow the instructions I find on some tech-geek message board. Voila! In five minutes, my computer works fine.
The moral of this story: being able to give someone a debilitating disease with your mind would be a really good super-power.
YES, THAT'S right: anal rapage is inevitable when dealing with the customer service department. But now I'm telling you that the sky is blue and water is wet, right?
My laptop was giving me an error message when I turned it on this evening (CRITICAL ERROR: your sh!t is seriously f*cked up, man. 0x-0014412-1) and wouldn't let me open any Microsoft products. Being a professor with lectures to write and give tomorrow, this needed to be fixed ASAP. So after diddling around myself for a bit to no avail, I swallowed my natural reticence (now! with no preservatives!) and called Dell customer support.
"Thank you for calling Dell! We don't, in actuality, care diddly doo-dah about you! This message will therefore be unnecessarily long and complicated so as to make it nearly impossible to navigate successfully! For starters --"
ME: *presses zero*
"I'm sorry. That's not a valid option. We realize that 'zero' usually means 'operator, please' but we'll be damned if we're about to make it that easy...
(pause)
Thank you for calling Dell! We don't, in actuality, care diddly doo-dah about you! This message will therefore be unnecessarily long and complicated so as to make it nearly impossible to navigate successfully! For starters, please enter your Service Tag, located on the bottom of your computer."
ME: *upends computer, enters service tag*
"Thank you! Now please enter your Express Service Code, also located on the bottom of your computer."
ME: *sighs, flips computer over, enters Service Code*
"Thank you! For security purposes, what is the capital of Micronesia?"
ME: *P-A-L-I-K-I-R* (don't feel bad. I totally looked that up)
"To spend money on one of our quality products, press 1. To complain about a quality product that you've already spent money on but that doesn't technically work, press 2. If you owe us money and want Vinny McBleedy and Knuckles to stop harrassing you at your place of business, press 3. All of these options terminate with a completely automated system. If you'd like to speak to an actual human being, recite the entire Gettysburg Address from beginning to end while performing calisthenics. Or do the Hokey Pokey and turn yourself around. It won't get you anywhere - don't be absurd - but it's quite entertaining to us. Thank you."
... When I finally get a customer service guy, he immediately asks me for all the information I've just patiently punched into their system. This is irksome. It makes me think that all the button-pressing is simply a delaying tactic to make me feel as though I'm doing something productive (I feel much the same way about the button at crosswalks that purportedly changes the light to green. But that's a whole 'nother story). Nevertheless, I'm cheerful and pleasant. It's not this guy's fault, right? And being nasty to him isn't going to get me anywhere. I explain my problem, and he tells me that I need to talk to someone in technical support, specifically. He transfers me.
The woman who answers tells me she's Marilyn and asks how she can help. I explain my problem a second time and ask again for assistance.
"I'll be glad to help, sir. Can you please give me your Service Tag and Express Service Code?"
You're not surprised. I'm not surprised. Marilyn is filing her nails on the other end of the line. My teeth are gritted, but I calmly give her my codes without complaint, as well as my mother's maiden name, birthplace, driver's license number, blood type, turn-ons and turn offs (brainy girls!)(poor grammar!) and a semen sample. Brace yourself for not-surprise: Marilyn confides that she'll have to transfer me to the software department and tells me to give them my case number so they'll know how to help me. I write the 6,000 digit number down painstakingly, as though it were the DNA-coding sequence for Angelina Jolie's lip-plumpness. I listen to the bad jazz music as I'm transferred.
"Hi! This is Alicia! What can I do for you?"
ME: *dangerously cheery* Hello, Alicia! Would you like my case number?
"...Sure! I'll be happy to help. But may I have your case number first, please?"
ME: ??!?!! #!%*@??
After giving Alicia my case number, every code number ever imprinted on any portion of my laptop, and the name of my second grade gym coach, she tells me the following in a supremely perky voice:
"Did you know that Dell's Technical Support for this type of problem is a paid service?"
I take deep breaths. I count to ten. I count to twenty (which makes thirty now, but I still want to send Alicia some sort of nasty bacterial infection or at least a bad rash through the phone connection). Then,
ME: Ok, Alicia. How much is the service?
"Well, you have two options: the yearly plan is $275; or there's a per-incident plan that ranges from $25 up to about $190." (translation: I can anally rape you with lube or without, buddy).
ME: *total silence, as I send Alicia cancer with my mind*
"... sir...?"
ME: Hi, Alicia. Yeah. I'm going to go punch something now, really hard. I appreciate the help. Seriously.
"Thank you for calling Dell."
So how do I get my laptop fixed? I open up Google, type in the error message, and follow the instructions I find on some tech-geek message board. Voila! In five minutes, my computer works fine.
The moral of this story: being able to give someone a debilitating disease with your mind would be a really good super-power.
... the kind that respect their professors, and the kind that attend MY university.
Annoyance Factor (1-10): 7.5
THURSDAY WAS the first day of my research methods class. It has an enrollment cap of 14, mainly because the final product of the course is a 30-page paper and I'm expected to give lots of detailed feedback along the way ("the butterfly drawings on the cover are lovely, but they're not really APA-style").
The class was full, and before it began, a student approached and asked if she could add. I thought, "well... 15 is a nice, round number! I think I can manage one more." Okay. Done.
When class is over and all the students have left, I'm gathering up my stuff to go when the door opens and a strange girl walks up to me and asks if she can add. I tell her the class is closed.
She's distraught. I just don't understand! She's a graduating senior, and this is the last class that she needs to take to graduate, and if I don't let her in, her life will be ruint. RUINT, I tell you. She REALLY NEEDS THIS CLASS. She'll do anything to get into it! Anything!!
I tell her that maybe she can get into the new methods/stats-remix class that, after this semester, will be the new curriculum. It should fulfill the same requirement. But she's already taken the stats and doesn't feel like going through that portion of it again.
I tell her that maybe she can take it a local community college and tranfer the credits. But she's not sure if it will transfer and besides, she'd rather take it here.
I think about it. One of the few perks of working at a small, liberal arts university is that I don't have to have classes with lots of students in them. I've already taken one person beyond the cap, just to be nice. Not only do I not feel like grading sixteen 30-page papers, but I don't think I'll be an effective professor with that much feedback to give. The students won't get their comments back in a reasonable amount of time. But just in case, I ask her:
"So if this class is so very important to you... why weren't you here for it?" I mean, if I really needed a class that badly, I'd be there 10 minutes early, sitting in the front row. And I also know that graduating seniors get priority registration, so I don't get how she missed out, here. Maybe she's got a compelling reason.
"Ummmm... I decided to stay later at work today," she says. I think she knows this wasn't a brilliant answer, but apparently she doesn't think well on her feet.
I think again for a minute. Finally: "well, that's really a choice you made, I guess." I feel a little like the jerky professor. But it's true. Among other things, I'm supposed to be teaching responsibility and causality and this kind of stuff, right? I actually feel a little bad, but I'm also irritated that she's put us both in this position. If she had just been in class like the girl I had already added, I would have added her instead. She had priority as a graduating senior. But she hadn't been in class, and I had already added the other gal, and I didn't want 16 students in this class. So there you have it.
She stalked off. Pout-face supreme.
The next day, my chair asks if we can talk. Sure we can talk. I wonder what it could be about? It's only the second day of class.
"So I hear you refused to add (so-and-so) to your Methods class. How come?" She steeples her fingers and peers at me over them, attempting to look sage and as though she's honestly interested in my answer. But I know better, and this isn't going to end well for me. I can't believe that this student, failing to get what she wanted, marched straight to the chair of my department and complained. I also can't believe that my chair is about to tell me to suck it up. But I know this is what's going to happen. Our students are our bosses and they know it.
I tell her the story, and she shakes her head sadly. "Yeah, so... I'm going to have to ask you add her. Okay?"
What can I say? She's the head of my rank & tenure committee. She's my boss. Sure, I'll add so-and-so. I already foolishly added one more than I wanted, and now I've got two more. Worse yet, when I come to class on Tuesday, I'll have to try and ignore the smugness waves that will be virtually radiating off of her palpably as I sign her add slip against my will. Try and tell her she can't add my class, will I? I don't know who I'm dealing with here. I'll add her and I'll like it.
Well, I'll add her, but I don't have to like it. She'll get whatever grade she earns, but I'm not her pal.
Right. Actually, I'm her employee. Nothing like being pushed around by a 19-year-old to make you feel efficacious.
THURSDAY WAS the first day of my research methods class. It has an enrollment cap of 14, mainly because the final product of the course is a 30-page paper and I'm expected to give lots of detailed feedback along the way ("the butterfly drawings on the cover are lovely, but they're not really APA-style").
The class was full, and before it began, a student approached and asked if she could add. I thought, "well... 15 is a nice, round number! I think I can manage one more." Okay. Done.
When class is over and all the students have left, I'm gathering up my stuff to go when the door opens and a strange girl walks up to me and asks if she can add. I tell her the class is closed.
She's distraught. I just don't understand! She's a graduating senior, and this is the last class that she needs to take to graduate, and if I don't let her in, her life will be ruint. RUINT, I tell you. She REALLY NEEDS THIS CLASS. She'll do anything to get into it! Anything!!
I tell her that maybe she can get into the new methods/stats-remix class that, after this semester, will be the new curriculum. It should fulfill the same requirement. But she's already taken the stats and doesn't feel like going through that portion of it again.
I tell her that maybe she can take it a local community college and tranfer the credits. But she's not sure if it will transfer and besides, she'd rather take it here.
I think about it. One of the few perks of working at a small, liberal arts university is that I don't have to have classes with lots of students in them. I've already taken one person beyond the cap, just to be nice. Not only do I not feel like grading sixteen 30-page papers, but I don't think I'll be an effective professor with that much feedback to give. The students won't get their comments back in a reasonable amount of time. But just in case, I ask her:
"So if this class is so very important to you... why weren't you here for it?" I mean, if I really needed a class that badly, I'd be there 10 minutes early, sitting in the front row. And I also know that graduating seniors get priority registration, so I don't get how she missed out, here. Maybe she's got a compelling reason.
"Ummmm... I decided to stay later at work today," she says. I think she knows this wasn't a brilliant answer, but apparently she doesn't think well on her feet.
I think again for a minute. Finally: "well, that's really a choice you made, I guess." I feel a little like the jerky professor. But it's true. Among other things, I'm supposed to be teaching responsibility and causality and this kind of stuff, right? I actually feel a little bad, but I'm also irritated that she's put us both in this position. If she had just been in class like the girl I had already added, I would have added her instead. She had priority as a graduating senior. But she hadn't been in class, and I had already added the other gal, and I didn't want 16 students in this class. So there you have it.
She stalked off. Pout-face supreme.
The next day, my chair asks if we can talk. Sure we can talk. I wonder what it could be about? It's only the second day of class.
"So I hear you refused to add (so-and-so) to your Methods class. How come?" She steeples her fingers and peers at me over them, attempting to look sage and as though she's honestly interested in my answer. But I know better, and this isn't going to end well for me. I can't believe that this student, failing to get what she wanted, marched straight to the chair of my department and complained. I also can't believe that my chair is about to tell me to suck it up. But I know this is what's going to happen. Our students are our bosses and they know it.
I tell her the story, and she shakes her head sadly. "Yeah, so... I'm going to have to ask you add her. Okay?"
What can I say? She's the head of my rank & tenure committee. She's my boss. Sure, I'll add so-and-so. I already foolishly added one more than I wanted, and now I've got two more. Worse yet, when I come to class on Tuesday, I'll have to try and ignore the smugness waves that will be virtually radiating off of her palpably as I sign her add slip against my will. Try and tell her she can't add my class, will I? I don't know who I'm dealing with here. I'll add her and I'll like it.
Well, I'll add her, but I don't have to like it. She'll get whatever grade she earns, but I'm not her pal.
Right. Actually, I'm her employee. Nothing like being pushed around by a 19-year-old to make you feel efficacious.
Thursday, September 4, 2008
... the kind of people who blog, and the kind of people who don't.
SO FAR, I've been the kind of person who doesn't. But I've been impressed and entertained reading the random blogs of others at 2am (by which I actually mean, Gina's blog). So I thought: Iiiiiiii want to provide a charming place for bleary-eyed insomniacs to entertain themselves in the wee hours while the world sleeps. So if you're reading this between the hours of 7am and midnight, you're misusing my blog. Stop the madness.
So this is it. A blog. Blog. Blooggg. What an ugly word. It looks like the phoenetic spelling of the sound one makes when they vomit. I had some bad tuna. Blog.
You probably deserve the past 45-odd seconds of your life back, but I didn't make you read this. What do you want? It's my first blog ever. I need reinforcement. Leave a comment telling me how reading this brought you spiritual enlightenment or cured your scabies. Don't worry, it doesn't have to be convincing; I don't differentiate.
So this is it. A blog. Blog. Blooggg. What an ugly word. It looks like the phoenetic spelling of the sound one makes when they vomit. I had some bad tuna. Blog.
You probably deserve the past 45-odd seconds of your life back, but I didn't make you read this. What do you want? It's my first blog ever. I need reinforcement. Leave a comment telling me how reading this brought you spiritual enlightenment or cured your scabies. Don't worry, it doesn't have to be convincing; I don't differentiate.
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