Well, thank God for the Mystery course

The 102 class was a bit rough today. I realize I came on stronger than I have in the past--the fierce side of me is coming out more than has been the case to date, but Paul and I have been talking about how maddening it is to have specifically said do this, or don't do that--and the students seem to blithely ignore what we're saying. I know they're not truly ignoring it--or a few may be that lazy or truculent, but most are running into other problems. Either the old habits are so deeply entrenched that they don't even notice that they're doing them, or they just can't believe they really, truly have to let go of what's worked so well in the past.

Most of the students were working well, asking questions, but a few were profoundly frustrated--to the point where they were essentially unable to approach the work at all. One didn't even try: he sat there doodling the whole class period. (I almost told him he might as well leave.) Several students were told that what they had written simply would not pass, had it been the final version, and of those, only one had the good sense to talk to me about it. The others didn't ask a single question, ask for help, nothing. But I could feel the frustration in the room, and there is a point when frustration teeters on the brink of hostility. It isn't really hostility--and it isn't personal. I know it's about the work. More, it's about the fact that we all are what my father would have called "ego-involved" in our work: for most of the students, doing well, being good at this, matters deeply, and when they're told in no uncertain terms that the work isn't cutting it, it feels like a personal attack. I've had relatively recent experience of the sting of that myself, when one of my papers was soundly (and rightly) rejected for publication. It hurts. It's shaming. As one student said, it is indeed hard to swallow.

But that's the dreadful--and strangely also wonderful--thing about being a student, is the ways that learning requires true humility. Not self-denigrating or self-abasing: humble. I deal with it all the time in dance class, or riding lessons--especially dance, because I pride myself on my abilities as a dancer, so when I struggle with a move and feel like a bumbling idiot, it reminds me of the importance of humility. It does no good to get angry with myself or with my instructor--or my dance partner (the easiest target in a dance class). I have to acknowledge that I, even I, stumble and am dense and feel like a moron. But it passes--as long as I'm willing to swallow some pride and learn. The students in my classes have to face that same difficult task--and they're young enough that they haven't had to do it as often as I have, so they're not as inured to that genuine moment of pain.

I don't like making them feel like shit. I don't like it when they go through that emotional struggle--especially when it's particularly difficult, as it is for some of them (note the ones who were completely unready to even go there, simply checked out entirely). However, I know that I can't lie to them, or even mitigate the sting sometimes. I'll go ahead and throw diplomacy to the winds here: if something is simply bad--badly written, badly thought out, badly presented--then the students need to know that. Better they learn it now, here, from me, than later in the world when the stakes are even higher, and the consequent possibility for feeling truly, deeply shamed, even more profound.

I also don't like the way I feel I need to respond to what I experienced in that class: I get frustrated, too, which leads to a cycle of negative reinforcement. So it's going to take me a while to shake it off.

But the Mystery class helps. The class ended way the hell early--cool by me--but we had a good talk about the rest of The Big Sleep, and a few other mundane matters (I recommended the original version of Sleuth, and told them about the SF/mystery I'm reading now, China Mieville's The City and the City, which is wonderfully strange). And I promised faithfully on my honor that I will return the whole enormous pile of stuff I have collected from them on Tuesday. I'm taking it all home with me, to add to the stories I need to read for the Fiction class. I need to look at my calendar to see just how much time I have next week so I know how much of it I have to do over the weekend. I'm pretty pleased that I've gotten to this point in the semester and this is the first week I've had to take student work home with me over the weekend.

Oh, and another thing to help me reframe the day and feel more positive about it: I had a great time subbing for my colleague this morning (even though I had to get up at 5 a.m.). Larger class this time, which helped--and after the stunned moments at the beginning, as they tried to figure out who this madwoman in front of them as, they got into the spirit of the thing. At the end, one asked when their professor would be back, and I said we don't know, but that if she isn't back, she'd arrange for more subs--though I might not sub that class again. They were audibly disappointed at the thought that I wouldn't be back, so I took the moment to engage in some self-promotion: if you like the way I teach, sign up for English 281. One asked me if it would be easy, and I said I sure couldn't guarantee that (in fact, the opposite, though I didn't say so)--but I sure could guarantee it would be interesting. When my colleague is back, I may ask her if she'd mind distributing fliers for me.

And finally, I got my long-awaited medallion today. I wore it to my classes, just for the amusement factor--and joked that, having won the award, I expect them all to now call me "your majesty." The 102 students were unamused; the Mystery students laughed and joked back with me. I also have to confess, I am surprised at how moved and proud I felt to stand up on that stage and receive the medallion, receive the applause of my colleagues--and even more so to have several colleagues congratulate me after, even one whom I don't know calling congratulations out of her car as she passed me at an intersection. Once again, I'm tempted to get all my various diplomas framed--and to also frame the certificate about the award to go with them--and hang all that up in the office. Tempted, but I won't. If I ever have my very own office, maybe, but here? Not unless Paul and William join me in that display of our credentials. We all have those multiple degrees--and we all now have Chancellor's Awards.

And I have an office full of plants that need to be watered before I leave for the weekend, a stomach that needs food, and two hungry cats at home. I will, therefore, call it a night--call it a week--and return, refreshed (I hope) on Monday.