Such a bad girl

I didn't get up super early. The alarm went off at 6:30, and I turned it off and went back to bed for an hour. I didn't hustle to get in--and had forgotten that I'd arranged to meet a student at 11. I was three minutes late--no big deal, but he was waiting. I got no papers graded for 102--though I did finish marking everything for the Native American Lit class and even reviewed the critical essay I'd assigned for homework. I was besieged by students after class, including having a rather frustrating conversation with one young man about the difference between critical essays and short stories, trying to make him understand that I wanted papers about the latter, not the former. But I got everyone straightened out eventually. I'm being lenient with most of them: the attrition rates are climbing, and I don't want to lose any more brain wattage if I can help it. Mr. Enthusiastic was back in class today, but he's fallen behind, so after class I also spoke with him for a while about what he should do to get back on track. The student I met at 11 is my former student, the one who has the smarts but can't seem to do the work. He's way the hell behind the curve, but he's finally trying to pull it together--and it was good to reassure him that it's OK to write in his homework that he's confused, that he doesn't know the answers. As long as I see him making an attempt to understand, I'll be happy--and, as I told him (and keep telling the students who are left), the errors are instructive: they help us all understand.

For example I understand that I have to rework the study questions, as apparently they are confusing--and I have to rework the paper assignments, so it is clear that the mini-papers go with the big paper topics. And even though the schedule of assignments clearly states what is primary material and what is secondary (critical) material, the students still get confused: I have to figure out if there's another way to make that distinction clear.

In any event, after class, when I got back to the office, even if Paul hadn't been here to function as a grand distraction (much more fun to talk to him than to grade papers), I could tell I wasn't going to get any work done. And, what do you know, I haven't. I spent some time writing an e-mail to a colleague who has asked me to present at the annual assessment symposium, giving a session on how the English department conducts our assessments. The presentation would be a good credit in a promotion folder (if I ever go up for full professor), but I told her that I can't honestly boast about what a great job we're doing because--although I think we're doing as good a job as possible under the circumstances--I think the whole process is profoundly flawed. Of course, if she wants me to present on the philosophical problems with assessment--and especially with TaskStream--I'd be delighted to have the opportunity to share my thoughts in a wider forum than just our departmental meetings. But I kind of doubt that's what she had in mind.

So, that took a little time. Then I spent some time finding YouTube videos of the musicians who will be playing at a concert I have tickets for on Saturday: my original date fell through, and I'm looking for someone else to come with me (or I'll not only have to go alone, I'll be out $40 for the other ticket). So I sent the clips in an e-mail to Kristin and am hoping she'll be free. If not, I'll have to scramble to think of someone else who might be willing and able to come--and fun enough to invite.

And now I've noodled around so long, I know I won't even look at those fucking papers. I will have to face them eventually, but I'm whining and throwing little internal tantrums about it.

It seems clear I simply don't want to have to work for a living--or at least not full time. If I could get by financially only teaching one or two classes at NCC and having no other work responsibilities--no committees--I'd probably be fine. (In other words, if I could be an adjunct.) But since that isn't possible (no one can live on adjunct pay), I do the work of my real, full-time job--and bitch about it.

Shifting gears, Paul and I had a good time looking at sentences in the "tale told by an idiot" paper I mentioned a few posts ago. I can't resist the urge to share one: "European conquistadores played a seminal role in the confrontational aspect of irregular comparisons of post-modern discrepancies of modern history, the role of man and his clandestine trial of inferior men can be interpreted as righteous, the Native American positions himself to a higher standard as of his counterpart; the European." Even setting aside the comma-splice errors (that's actually three independent clauses), it's not just word salad, it's chopped word salad. I mean, really, what the fuck does any of that mean?? I've read some deconstructionist theorists who sound almost like that, but somewhere in their verbiage one can faintly detect an idea--which may or may not be bullshit, but at least there is an actual thought that ostensibly is being conveyed. But what this student wrote? There is no "there" there.

And now, I'm in Scarlett O'Hara mode. Forget doing any more work: I'm finding it difficult enough to decide whether I want to return to dance class tonight or whether I still need to hide under the sofa for a while (metaphorically speaking). I have to make up my mind soon; tempus fugit. As for those papers for the 102 classes? Eh, whatever. Whenever. I'll get 'em done eventually. And I'm not going to beat myself up right now. Later, perhaps, but not now. So, yes, I'm a very bad girl, but bad girls have more fun.