Penultimate

I probably could have finished up today, except I'm waiting for assignments to trail in from two students from the Lit courses. One is the young woman from Nature in Lit, who came so far, I would hate for her grade to take a nose-dive because of missing journal-logs. The other is Shining Star, who was in an abject panic yesterday. Somehow, what got saved on her flash drive was a rough draft of her final paper: she'd lost all the work she'd done to finish and polish. In another student, I might sneer at the excuse, but I do believe her. In any event, she deserves the chance to submit the best possible paper. She was miserable about having lost the work, saying that what she'll hand in "won't be what it was." No, I said, but that doesn't mean it will be worse: it could, in fact, be better. In her reply e-mail, she said she chose to believe that the universe didn't like her paper as well as she did and was therefore forcing her to try again. Yeah, let's go with that.

That whole group was lovely yesterday. They all felt they'd learned a lot, but the most moving part to me was that one student in particular said she felt she was a better person for having been exposed to the philosophies and ethics underlying Native cultures. They all admitted the course was wildly difficult, but they all also said that as a consequence, it was the course they cared most about doing well in. (Nice confirmation, that.) And when I opened the discussion up to anything they wanted to talk about, the one who'd been my student last semester said, "I want to know about your road." I asked if she meant in the semester, but no: she wanted to know how I got where I am. So I gave them the Cliff's Notes version--and showed them my dissertation (it's nice for me to trot it out from time to time so I remember the accomplishment that was--and how much I loved it). I truly am going to miss them all, and I hope they keep in touch. I don't think they'll join the ranks of former students who have become friends of one sort or another (well, Shining Star could, possibly), but I want to know that they're doing well.

Today was largely about finishing up reading final papers for the lit courses and beginning to crunch numbers. I also decided on a course of action for the definite plagiarist. Even though I said the students needed to check for a message from me (one was so conscientious that she double-checked via e-mail, as her phone is out of whack), she didn't--so I wrote her a letter. It has a "more in sorrow than in anger" tone--or at least that's what I was aiming for--but I told her A) I'm going to give her one and only one chance to fix the problem. Consequently, she is getting an Incomplete for now. B) In order to fix the problem, the first thing she has to do is contact me via e-mail to set up a meeting. Then, she has to fix the offending bits of her paper and resubmit it no later than June 6. C) If she doesn't contact me, or doesn't adequately fix the problem, or misses the resubmission deadline, on June 7 I'll submit a change of grade form and change her grade from an Incomplete to an F. If she does abide by all the stipulations, her final paper grade will be reduced 10 points from what it would have gotten if she'd done it right in the first place, but I'll include the final paper when I calculate her course grade and, again, submit the grade change on the 7th. I went back and forth about whether to send the letter to the Dean of Students and ultimately decided not to. I think the chances that this young woman would repeat the error are microscopic, so I prefer not to involve any higher powers in the situation.

But I also sat here crunching numbers and waiting for Mr. Shrug and Smirk and Ms. Lovely to show up to collect their final papers with my comments. I made Mr. S&S read my comments and then tell me what he thought his grade on the paper should be. His estimation matched mine, so that's what I gave him. He passed the class with a C--and he's got the potential to be an A student, in terms of his intelligence, but the work part is severely deficient. He actually was lucky to get the C; if I'd counted his absences against him, he'd have failed. But he was very sweet, in his gawky, awkward, socially inept way; clearly he's been humbled by being in my class, and clearly he appreciated the experience; he sort of didn't want to leave, but as he did, he awkwardly stuck out his hand for me to shake. I think he really wanted a hug, but I don't offer those--and would be uncomfortable about it with someone like him in any event. (He seems to need a Mommy, poor dear, but I ain't gonna fill that role.) Ms. Lovely also read over the comments, and when I told her she'd get a B for the class, she was thrilled. She also said she might e-mail me with questions about my comments (she didn't have any as she was sitting here), and that would be cool. I love it when students don't want to stop learning. (I love that about people in general, in fact.)

So I'm all but done. I have some Assessment business still to do--not my own assessment of my Native American Lit students, which took all of two minutes to do, but helping put together the department's annual report (generally speaking, a tedious and snorting pain in the ass). That plus evaluating those last bits of student work to come in, crunching the last of the numbers, and filling out the forms will take me off with a bang and a couple of sobs (as said in some British murder mystery I've read a zillion times; I can't now even remember which one). I plan to stay here through the time when I would normally hold class tomorrow afternoon, but with any luck at all, most of the day I'll either be helping Bruce with adjunct scheduling or (even better), I'll be cleaning out files and maybe even (dare I say it?) cleaning out the rat's nest that is my bookcase. And please God let nothing suddenly appear snarling on the doorstep, needing to be tamed at the last minute. I want to head into next week, and the scheduling of full-time faculty and gathering of requests for adjuncts' desk copies of text books, with nothing but that to do.

So tonight, I can sail off to a steak and scotch blow-out with Paul. He almost couldn't do it, as he is still buried under papers to grade (and was thinking he needed to provide comments; I'm afraid he needs an intervention). But he decided that a man needs to eat anyway, and that the couple of hours to decompress might be exactly what he needs. I'm glad he came to that on his own, as I didn't want to resort to emotional blackmail. Now I don't have to, and I still get the treat of one of our decadent evenings.

Speaking of which, it's time to get in the car and roll.