18, 19

Those are today's magic numbers. I had 18 students in the short story class: I'm pretty sure that's the full house, those who are left. I think one or two students who were absent today may be back, but I'm also pretty sure that one or two who were there today are not long for this world, so to speak. I did deliver to Mrs. Lost the "you should withdraw" letter. She made some good contributions in class (as she tends to do, though she tends to go on at rather too great length), but I hope that just demonstrates to her that I have nothing against her personally--and am not calling her stupid (which seems to be one of her main concerns). Whatever the case may be, I hope she withdraws immediately. I can't keep looking at her work; it's too painful. But if the class is indeed at 18 students, that's already significant attrition: I started with 28. Two officially withdrew within the first three days. But from 26 to 18? I'm not up to the math, but it's a noticeable percentage. And they've not even had to write their first substantive paper yet: it's due next week.

Nineteen is the number of finished essays I received from today's 102. I got them on Monday, but I just put them in order, making sure all the pieces for each submission were clipped together, and I graded the first one on the stack. Doing so made me realize I'm not entirely sure how to mark them. I want to be as brief as possible, but I also want them to see where problems persist--or where they've made improvements. As I'm figuring out this process for myself, I realize I need to re-collect the versions that I graded, but I don't have that information this go-round, so I'm having just to work from what I've got.

I'm not terribly surprised but somewhat deflated to see how many of them are missing pieces of their final submission, despite all I did to try to make clear what they needed to hand in. Well, they'll get points off for each missing piece, and I hope that's enough to make them pay better attention next time.

I was annoyed by an e-mail from a student that I received this morning (sent last night): she had left one in-progress piece on my door and wrote to ask when the final version is due. Um, Dear? Read your syllabus: it was due yesterday. I said at least four times that I would collect the in-progress bits on Tuesday with the final version. And I gave you a handout to that effect. And the syllabus very clearly states when the final version is due. So, really, where is your head in all this, student of mine?

Also annoying are the e-mails I've gotten from students saying "I don't know what to do; tell me what to add or cut." Um, Dear? Then it would be my work and my thinking, not yours. I give pretty extensive feedback in the form of questions you need to answer. Did you read the feedback?

(No, probably not.)

I also am about to either snatch myself baldheaded or turn to heavy drink when I see that despite my specifically stating that papers should NOT begin with a big generalization, despite all the work the students did in class evaluating introductory paragraphs and observing the fact that the problem with them was that they started with big generalizations--which the students know I don't want--twelve of nineteen start with (drum roll, please) a big generalization. Some of those generalizations are shorter than others, but still.

I guess this is just a "rule" of writing that has been so firmly drummed into their heads that they cannot let go of it. I mean, how much more direct can one get than to say "Do not start with a big generalization"--and then to provide specific examples of what I do not want to see, as well as what I do want to see?

Oh, heavy, heavy sigh. I have to get these graded and back to the students next week, before they have to embark on their next papers, but to do so may require significant infusions of chocolate. I need to sprinkle treats throughout the process of grading when I get to this point of semester, when I feel like the "blah blah blah, Ginger" effect is in full force. I know, intellectually, that it takes a long while, and a lot of practice, for something they understand conceptually to actually become evident in their papers. I understand, intellectually, how difficult it is to let go of what one has always done and actually take the leap into doing something new. They try the same thing, over and over, as if somehow, magically, it's going to start to work, despite all evidence to the contrary. I believe, intellectually, that such magical thinking is endemic to the human race.

But what I apprehend intellectually is not the same as how I feel about it. I feel impatient, and frustrated, and discouraged, and despairing. Repeatedly running full tilt into the side of a building seems more likely to produce some kind of positive result--and to be less painful.

Very heavy sigh.

But on the good news front, I did mark all the papers and reading journals for the short story class. I have one set of journals from them, which I collected today, but those can wait until I've waded through the 102 papers. Even better news: the discussion in 102 of the poems was among the more lively for that particular section. It's a chemistry thing: they're not bonding with each other enough to get jazzed when we go to full-class discussion. But the class is not terrible by any means; they're just not as scintillating as the other 102.

I think, despite my desire to get a good jump start on their papers, I may not mark any more today. I may not get to many (any) tomorrow, either, as I have to review sabbatical applications for P&B and am expecting a parade of students through my office from 11:30 until my class at 2:30. But one never knows. Maybe I will get through the sabbatical apps faster than I anticipate and will still have some brain energy left for grading. That would be nice.

I just had to put the blog on hold for a moment--a longish moment--while I met with a student here in Advisement. She had both a strong accent and a slight speach impediment, so I found her difficult to understand--and her lack of energy, interest, enthusiasm made me want to run around barking, just to get something happening. And, oh woe, she wants to get into the nursing program. We see this a lot: students who are desperately underprepared and lacking any sense of what it takes to be a good student hoping to apply to the nursing program. I want to make them read the applicant guidelines out loud, as so many of them manifestly do not meet qualification number 6: "Nursing students must be alert, able to think critically and problem solve ... and be able to communicate effectively in English." Her 2.0 GPA aside (a 3.0 is the bare minimum for application), the young woman I met demonstrated none of the above.

Another sigh.

Still, meeting with her made me feel useful and somewhat assuaged those faint sensations of guilt over the fact that I'm not cranking away at paper grading like I "should." And meeting with her did help a bit of time pass quickly away, so I'm that much closer to the "fold my tents" part of the evening. That's a sigh of a completely different sort.