The Usual Suspects...

I once got an email from a friend. It was one of those random joke emails that clutter all of our inboxes. This particular chain included a collection of Barbie doll typologies that had been altered into stereotypes that were meant to be moderately offensive, and just as moderately funny. Career Barbie and Malibu Barbie had been replaced with Lesbian Barbie and HBIC Barbie (and if you're unfamiliar with this reference, you obviously don't Love New York...). 

Okay, so moderately funny was probably a gross overstatement. But it got me to thinking. There are definite typologies among my students, and they remain relatively constant. And by this time in the semester, with the Visitors gone, the regular crew in each class becomes more recognizable.

There is a definite strata to the crowd. Take the front row, for example. There's always a "Tries Too Hard" Barbie. If you teach, you know the type. First to shoot the hand in the air. Offers comments rather than questions--which are sometimes (but not always) on topic. Always sincere, but talks just for the recognition. In my classes, TTHB never quite gets that people aren't really laughing with her.

Next to her, you'll likely find "Fights for One Point" Barbie. This is the student that will not only argue with you over half a point, but is usually cleverly disguised as "Blow the Curve" Barbie. She's the close cousin of "Overachiever" Ken. When they're not dickering over one or two points, you can easily recognize them by the cool articles they've found that are related to lecture they carry in their backpacks.

Move one row back, you might catch a glimpse of "Hypochondriac" Barbie. If the Kleenex and the Purell don't give her away, it's probably because she's not there, recouperating at home from her latest ailment that has kept her from turning in her homework on time. But don't fear. If you're lucky, her seat will be kept warm by "Tool Time" Ken, who proudly proclaims on his paper that his name is John "The Shizzle" Doe. And yes, names have been changed to protect the ignorant.

The dark recess of the back row is where the real fun begins. Wedged between "Texting her Boyfriend" Barbie and "Asleep and Drooling" Ken is my personal favorite pair. This, of course, would be "Giggling" Barbie, and her companion, "Booty Call" Ken. Hiding in the back, they're unaware that their primitive and often bizarre mating rituals are being observed by virtually everyone in the room. And while he comes into the room empty handed, BCK will most likely leave with her number.

Once in a while, someone comes along who surprises me. But generally the crowd is the same. The faces may change, but they are variations on a theme that plays out every 20 weeks or so. And who am I to complain. This bunch makes my classes more interesting, and I'm happy to see them each semester. After all--they are coming to class...which is more than I can say for some of their peers.

Let the exodus begin...

The Visitors are back.

Or should I say, the Visitors are gone.

It's well into the fourth week of the semester, and the exodus has begun. It happens every term. One by one, two by two, students stop coming to class.

I know, I know. Shocking. College freshmen, not going to class at 11:00 in the morning. Call the papers.

People who knew me in college (especially those reading this) are probably thinking "are you kidding?" I'll admit, I didn't always have a perfect attendance record. I'm thinking specifically of the Southeast Asian Studies class--an add/drop special that I picked up at the last minute that happened to be scheduled at the same time as my favorite television show. But I look at my own foibles as a learning experience. I did fail that class. I know the dangers of not going to class, even though I learned them the hard way.

This is exactly the point that I try to convey to my classes each semester. At the start of each term, I tell my students that attendance is mandatory, but that I won't be taking attendance. No rosters or rolls, no ten minutes spent on calling out names at the beginning of class. This always causes some confusion...a confusion that is often compounded when I tell them to look around the room. You won't see some of these faces again until the midterm, I say. Then I tell them that if they expect they'll be one of the missing, I remind them they still have a week to drop the class.

So why do I tell them these things? Call it a warning. Call it a public service. I really do want people to succeed in my class. And the best way to do that is to...wait for it...come to class!

I know my approach may sound a bit unorthodox. But as I've mentioned, it doesn't take much to pass my class. Half the battle is showing up, and that's something that I can encourage, at the very least. But despite my warnings, there are those who choose to entertain themselves in other ways during the time they should be in class.

These people. The empty desks. The MIA. These are the Visitors.

To a certain extent, I can't say that I blame them for not coming to class. After all, I understand. I was there. And honestly, I don't really miss them, either. I have no tolerance for those that come to my class and do homework for other classes, or who read the paper. And those who try to make a booty call on the cutie to their left? I feel no guilt about kicking these should-be-Visitors out of my class.

So here at end of the fourth week, the Visitors are gone...for now. Come midterm time, they'll be back. And they'll be sorry. Not for what I am going to do to them, but for what they're doing to themselves...

its wurse than u think…

It’s been almost ten years since I started teaching general education classes. And I like to think that my expectations are fairly realistic. I expect that students should come to class. I expect that they should do the work. I expect that they should be able to write. They have been accepted to the University, after all, and the logical assumption is that they’ve completed high school. Following this logic, there are certain things that I assume are taught in high school classes that…well…aren’t.

At the risk of sounding like my grandfather, who used to love what I call the “uphill-in-the-snow-both-ways” stories about what things were like when He Was My Age, when I was in high school, we were taught some pretty important grammatical things. Like spelling. Conjugation. Punctuation. Capitalization. Hell, we were even taught how to write business letters, memos, and other forms of professional correspondence. Something that seems to be constant today, however, is the fact that neither my students nor myself were ever taught how to apply these skills to email.

Now in my own defense, when I was in high school, computers were rudimentary beasts, at best. In the land of the Apple 2C and the 80/86, a computer that was “online” was plugged into the wall and powered on. But in an era when the Post Office is being considered for the endangered species list, proper grammatical etiquette--especially electronic etiquette--is taking a pretty serious hit.

I understand that there’s going to be a certain amount of technological lag, as “what we should do” catches up with “what we can do”. But call me crazy, I think that an email between a student and a professor should be professional. Hell, at this point, I’d settle for legible. Unfortunately the norm seems to be something that leaves a bit to be desired. I receive emails on a daily basis that would make a former proofreader like myself run for the hills. While the misspellings and typos are bad enough, my personal pet peeve is when I receive emails that are written in "text-speak". Note to my students...I don't want to know that "u can't make it 2 class b/c u r sick" or that "u wont bee in cls 2mrw :)".

Take for example, the email I received toward the end of last semester. This email was from a student that wanted to know what he could do to pass my class. This is not an uncommon question at the end of the semester. In addition, the student, by his own admission, hadn't been to class in a while. Also, not unusual. Sadly, what was also not unusual was the fact that the email was written so poorly that I could barely read it. It was written in all one paragraph, in a chaotic mix of English and text-speak, with next to no punctuation. There were misspelled words, and enough typos to make any respectable educator reach for the nearest bottle. But what made this email memorable was the fact that this student--who I may remind you, my gentle readers, was trying to salvage his grade--misspelled his own first name.

Yeah. You heard me correctly. His. Own. Name.

After telling this story (over more than one drink), a friend of mine asked me "how did you know his name was spelled wrong? You said he never came to class." A fair question. However, the student email system that my university offers puts the student's first, middle, and last names in the message header. So either he spelled it wrong in his paperwork or typed it wrong in the email. In any case, the error was made.

Now in his defense, it could have been a typo. Gods know we're all capable of that. But honestly--is it really that hard to glance something over before you hit 'send'?

Oh yeah, in case you were wondering how I replied to that particular gem of an email? Well, after checking the gradebook and determining that it was, in fact, mathematically impossible for this student to pass my class, I told him to cut his losses and try again next semester. I never received a reply.

I'd love to tell you that this was an isolated incident. Believe me...I would. However, as of this post, I've already had another student misspell his first name in an email. I'm sure it won't be the last. So a note to all you students out there, whether you're my students or not...don't "b srprzd if i don't email u bk". Hell, I may even send them to my friends so we can "LOL @ U"!

16 weeks of Simon...

Remember the old game Simon? The one with the colored buttons that looked like Close Encounters, the Home Game? Everyone had it, or at least had some strange facisimile of the game. Ours was small and white and sounded a little like someone was putting a squirrel through a meat grinder. But again, I digress.

Sitting at the bar with a friend the other day, I came to the realization that a semester of my class is like a 16 week long game of Simon. You give them a tone--a concept. One concept is easy to remember, especially in a class that's not rocket science to begin with. I would love to kid myself and say, "no, this class is harder than it looks," but it would be a lie. A monkey could pass this class if they came everyday and could manage to read the text. So start with one tone--one concept--and everyone's with you. I love the first weeks of class for that reason. It's a good feeling to introduce a concept and see in people's faces that they get it.

Then comes week two, and now you have two tones to remember. Most people are still with you at this point. And that's like the game. Unless you're playing Simon the Drinking Game, most people can get through two, or three, or even four tones without too much trouble. But then the challenge begins. You start to lose people the higher you go, and for me, that starts about week five or six.

So for now, as the end of week two is on the horizon, I'm still seeing recogition in people's eyes. I'm trying to be optimistic because this seems like a good group. But I'm a realist as well, and I fear its only a matter of time before the accusatory buzzer sounds...

Sixteen weeks of Simon. We'll see how long they last...