The Perils of Trexting

Every semester, I talk about the concept of cultural lag in my introductory classes. This is the idea that material culture--our gadgets, for instance--evolves at a much faster rate than the norms and rules for using these gadgets. To ram the point home, I talk about a particular gadget that everyone's familiar with--cell phones. Every few months we're given a great new cell phone that can do everything but cook for us, but very rarely will you find the "rules" provided with the directions.

As I tell my students, its the difference between "can we" and "should we". For instance, yes we can text our BFF about the hot guy that tried to get our phone number in Biology class. Should we do it while hurtling down the expressway at 75 miles an hour? Probably not, as several state legislatures have now confirmed. Sadly, this is a restriction that you may not find in the manuals of those early phones and PDAs.

Cultural lag is the reason that identity theft came before the laws to prevent it, or why many states now have reactionary "no texting while driving" laws on the books. Its taken some time, and now we know better. Unfortunately, its because we've learned our lessons the hard way.

I see examples of the perils of cultural lag on a daily basis on campus. And again, cell phones are usually the common denominator. For example, this semester I happen to be teaching in a building across campus. It's a bit of a walk, but not one that I mind. Not only does the walk get me out of my office, but it's a daily stroll down memory lane. My walk takes me back to the days when I was one of the masses I so often talk about. There's something novel about mingling with the throngs of students as they flock across the quad, like lemmings heading toward the cliff.

One of the differences I see with students now, however, is that you don't see many faces as you walk from place to place. You're more likely to see the top of someone's head, or the brim of a ball cap as they furiously stab away at their cell phones. Occasionally someone will peek over the top of the phone, making minor course corrections or dodging to avoid oncoming foot traffic. Most will stop before crossing the street, just to check that the coast is clear. But there's always one or two that plow through the throngs like a bulldozer, their eyes never once leaving the screen.

For some of these students, this practice of "trexting"--the ability to compose a text while trekking from point A to point B--is innate, and after years it becomes second nature. For others, however, it's the technological equivalent of walking and chewing gum. Take, for example, a girl I saw one morning last semester. I was walking a short distance behind her, heading to my office. The sidewalk we were on curves around a building in a wide arc, and like many on my campus, is lined with light posts. Each post about six inches across, sits five feet from the edge of the sidewalk, and is made of pebbled steel. In other words, they're hard to miss, especially during the day.

To say this girl was in her own little world was an understatement, but this wasn't the reason I noticed her. After all, trexters are a dime a dozen. She caught my eye because of her ability to juggle a towering stack of books, a large coffee and still manage to text with both hands and cruise along at a pace that may have doubled as a cardio workout. But while her ability to balance a heavy load at high speeds was apparent, her navigation skills were not as well-honed.

As the curve in the sidewalk became more pronounced, I watched as she drifted into a direct collision course with an upcoming light pole. At first, I wasn't concerned, given the fact that even if she veered off the sidewalk, the poles were in the grass, and certainly, she'd notice the difference under her feet.

As you may have guessed at this point, I was wrong. She hit that pole head first at full speed. The stack of papers and coffee exploded around her like a charge had gone off in her hands, and I could hear the clang from 30 feet away. It looked like something out of an old black and white comedy, and it was all I could do not to laugh.

The collision was enough to get the attention of several passersby, who helped her to her feet and to gather her scattered belongings. And except for an impression of the pole on her forehead, the only real injury was to her ego. I'm sure that's what she was texting about as she walked away from the scene.

I see the lemmings everyday, trexting their way to the cliff. And while she was the first one I've seen actually go over the edge, so to speak, I'm sure she won't be the last.

Can we do it? For most, that's a yes. But should we?

I guess that depends on who you ask.

A glimmer of hope...

I realize that I spend a great deal of time complaining about my interactions with what author Jean Twenge has dubbed "Generation Me". Sometimes it seems like jaded and bitter is my default position, but something happened the other night that gave me hope that my efforts may not have been in vain.

Every year our department sponsors a week-long series of lectures, workshops and presentations, given by alumni and directed toward students that are interested in careers in the field. Some students attend out of sheer interest, or at least, self-interest--getting tips on what to expect when their college career is complete. There are also those that want to be seen attending by their professors. But there are many are lured to these events by the siren song of extra credit--those elusive two or three points that could mean the difference between passing and failing in the mind's eye of those who are on the bubble.

I don't like to bribe students to attend events like this, but I'm certainly not above it. My motivation, however, is not to provide a lifeboat for sinking students. Rather, I gently nudge them toward attending in hopes that they may be able to experience something different, or at the very least, get a glimpse of what is "next". Sometimes this backfires, and like many classes, the lecture hall becomes a haven for texting, naps, and attempted booty-calls. But sometimes I'm surprised at how engaged these point-seekers become, despite their best efforts at apathy. And occasionally, a student will surprise me for reasons that defy prediction.

Case in point: during our most recent round of alumni guest speakers, I once again offered a little bit of extra-credit for attending and providing a brief written summary of the event. I even truncated my planned lecture for that day to allow students the time to attend without missing class. When I arrived at the lecture, I was pleased to see that the room was full, and fully half of the faces in the room belonged to students from my various classes.

As the speaker began, I sat quietly in the back, listening and scanning the crowd. The speaker was engaging, and before long, many of the students were hooked. But after about 25 minutes or so, I noticed that some people were starting to drift. Little conversations popped up like weeds in a garden, and predictably, cell phones began to appear, their screens consipicuous in the dim light of the lecture hall. Needless to say, I was disappointed but also not surprised.

It was then that I noticed a student from one of my classes seated two rows ahead of me. I watched as he leaned over to a student on his right--a young woman who was furiously stabbing the keyboard of her Blackberry loud enough for me to hear from my vantage point. At first I thought he was going to start chatting with her. Imagine my shock when my student firmly told Ms. Blackberry that her texting was distracting and rude, and could she please either put her phone away or text somewhere else.

I couldn't believe my eyes, and it was all I could to keep from hugging my student and then doing a little happy dance. Finally, I thought, someone gets it. And not only do they get it, but they've embraced it enough to pass along to a peer. Whether it was relief or pride, or something else, I have to say, it felt damn good.

This may not sound like much to someone who's unfamiliar with the daily sorties of a college classroom, or the sheer Herculean effort it takes to keep the attention of students in an On-Demand world. But to have something you've said not only sink in, but be passed along?

Well.

I'm not ready to say my job is done. But sometimes the little victories are the sweetest.

A question of priorities...

I like to think of myself as good natured. Easy going. And above all, tolerant. I used to think I was patient, too, but lately, my patience has been put to the test.

At some point this semester, I came to the realization that the students are getting bolder. Not smarter. That would be too much to ask. But they're certainly not afraid to press the limits of what their professors will and won't put up with.

Case in point. I received an email today from a student. He wanted to know if he could email an assignment to me. This is a common request, and one that usually gets an unequivocable "yes" answer. But the logistics of this particular assignment made it very hard to accept via email, and I asked him to bring a hard copy to class. I was even willing to overlook the fact that he blatantly ignored the big bold line in the assignment instructions that said "This assignment will NOT be accepted via email."

Before I emailed him back, I decided to look him up in the gradebook. I do this often, as I like to be able to pre-emptively address any issues that could come up. But in this case, the student's name was vaguely familiar to me. When I looked at the roster, I realized why. While there were grades for all the "emailable" assignments, there was a conspicuous line of zeros in anything that was administered as an in-class only or participation grade. Flipping through the folder of papers to be handed back, all of those emailable assignments AND the student's midterm grade results were in the stack of papers that had yet to be picked up.

In short, this student was a Visitor.

In my email response I told the student that he would need to bring a hard copy to class, and that I actually wanted to talk to him about his grade. The email was polite and short, and sent without much hope that I would see either this student in class OR a hard copy of his assignment.

Sure enough, I got an email back. But while I was expecting a fumbling excuse and an attached file, I wasn't ready for what was ACTUALLY in the email. Apparently this student, concerned about MY concerns with his grade, checked his own scores online and discovered that not only had he missed six in-class assignments, his chance of earning anything higher than a D for his final grade was a near-statistical impossiblity.

The email stated--in a manner that was decidedly less than polite--that he didn't think it was fair that I penalize him for not coming to class. He then demanded that I allow him to make up the six missed assignments. Not asked. Demanded.

He went on to explain that he worked most days at 3:00 p.m. Granted the job was part time, but he liked to have the extra spending money to pay for his car. Apparently his boss is even more unfair than me, as he expects his employees to show up on time for work and not leave early. I can respect this. In fact, this boss and I would likely be fast friends (see my previous blog).

I know that many of my students work. And whether its out of necessity or by choice, I'm willing to make the occassional exception when someone's work schedule unexpectedly changes. Real life can get tricky, and normally when students come to me with these types of issues, I'm sympathetic. However, by this student's own admission, he took this job and chose his schedule after enrolling for my class, and therefore after learning of the nature of my course and its collection of Draconian policies. Never mind that on the first day I explained my attendance policy. Never mind that I described the class as one that is primarily lecture-based. And never mind that on day one, I explained that in-class assignments would happen, would not always be announced, and could not be made up without a viable, documented excuse.

Oh yeah. He also took this job knowing that my class starts at 3:30.

Had he provided proper documentation of his job and let me know in advance of his work conflict? No worries. Had he asked nicely? I still would have considered it. But demanding that I break my well-established rules because he's not responsible enough to balance his own schedules?

Not gonna happen.

I don't know when it happened. Somewhere along the line, something happened to these students. Not all of them, mind you. I do have many that are bright, consciencious, and able to balance the rigors of work and family and school and, you know, successfully read a clock and a time schedule. But the boldness--the sheer audacity of some of these students--never ceases to boggle the mind.

Lateness Rules

When I was growing up, my dad had a saying. To be early was to be on time. To be on time was to be late. To be late was unacceptable.

As a kid, this mantra seemed intolerable. I remember being the first car in every parking lot, usually waiting for someone to unlock the doors. You can imagine my surprise when I finally realized that now, as an adult, I find myself reluctantly adhering to this advice--at least to a degree. I'm not generally the first one in the parking lot anymore, but I'm rarely late, and when I am, the guilt is unbearable.

My penchant for punctuality is something that seems foreign to some of my students. For those that decide to show up, most seem to find their desks in time to receive my opening salvo. Nevertheless, I usually ease into the lecture. An announcement here, a funny story there...but within no more than ten minutes, I'm diving head-first into my lecture for the day. After all, I have a finite amount of time to talk, and in a world of sound-byte driven attention spans, I have to make the most of my time.

There are a few different types of tardy that we in academia experience. The most tolerable are the courteous ones that let you know at the beginning of the semester that they have to trek from the end of the earth, or work, or commute, and who also come in quietly and sit in the back. While I’m not a fan of “late”, when students make an effort, I'll take courtesy as the compromise.

Not all students are late all the time. Some fall into what I like to call the “Oh my gods there’s a paper due today!” crowd. These are the ones that realize as they’re walking out the door that they’ve forgotten their assignment. For those who’ve simply forgotten to stash it in their bags, they may not be all that late—if they’re late at all. The student I have a problem with is the one that forgets the assignment entirely, and shows up once they have slapped together something--anything--that will garner them a couple of points.

Now I will tolerate the courteous and the "forgot my paper" crowd. What I do have a problem with are the people that stroll in 30 minutes after class has started, stopping at every third desk as they come in to say hi to their friends. Or the person that chooses to sit up front and makes such a ruckus that the class comes to a grinding, screeching halt. I can't take credit for experiencing the best of the worst, though. That title belongs to a colleague of mine, who was forced to admonish a student who strolled in 15 minutes late. Not that his tardiness alone was the issue. It was more the fact that he strolled in the room and continued to talk on his cell phone--despite the fact that her lecture had already started.

I don't know when or how it happened, but somewhere along the road my father's mantra got mangled. When along the way did late become on-time, and on-time become unacceptable?

If you have an answer, I'd love to hear it. Just be sure catch me before I leave for class...

Excuses excuses...

It's that time of year again. Midterms have come and gone, and the papers are starting to roll in. And with those papers come the inevitable parade of excuses as to why those papers didn't get done on time...or didn't get done at all.

I am firm believer that college is a proving ground for the rest of your life. I tell students that once they leave these ivory towers, bosses and clients tend to be lot less understanding of why you couldn't get your presentations done on time. You can always retake a failed class. A pink slip, on the other hand, is a different story altogether.

To reinforce this believe, I do not accept late papers under any circumstances. On the surface, this policy may seem harsh, especially given that most of my classes are of the introductory variety. But I balance this by giving my students options. I accept papers via email. I accept papers early. And I do my best to give students the assignment information as close the the first day of class as I can manage. For most students, this policy is not a problem.

Regardless of my best laid plans, real life has a funny way of rearing its head. Printers fail. Hard drives crash. People get sick and relatives die. Things come up, and these types of unexpected events are the reasons why I post assignments early, preach against procrastination and remind my students often--both in class and online--of impending due dates and deadlines. And while I don't tell my students this, they're also why I will accept late papers in the most extreme of circumstances when I deem an excuse to be valid. However, if there's one thing I've learned in my brief "non-tenure" of teaching, it's that my students and I often have wildly divergent ideas on what is and what is not a valid excuse for missing a deadline.

My general rule is one of "totality of circumstances" when deciding whether to accept a paper late. I'll consider all extenuating factors involved before making my decision. And these rare exceptions always--always--require some sort of documentation. In some cases, requiring documentation works to the student's advantage. In others, it helps me weed out the legitimate excuses from the sketchy attempts to work the system. 

Sometimes the most valiant efforts to substantiate a sketchy excuse backfire in spectacular fashion. The best example of this came from a student I had in class about four years ago and a garden-variety research paper, topic to be chosen by the student. On the morning the paper was due, I received several emails from students, all outlining their excuses and begging for clemency. All but one received my standard reply of "no" with a reiteration of my assignment policy. 

This email was short and hastily written, with a time-stamp of 3:00 a.m. This particular student was up late working on the aforementioned paper. During a break, he and his roommate got in a fight. After a harsh shove from his roommate, my student had a close encounter with his desk and knocked out his front tooth. He had penned the email while waiting for the ambulance to show up.

The Cliff's Notes version of this story is that he didn't finish the paper because he was in the emergency room for the remainder of the night. And before you think me cruel and heartless, in most circumstances, being the victim of an assault and battery that results in an emergency room visit is enough to trump even my "no late papers under any circumstances" rule.

This was not one of those circumstances.

A fight and an ambulance ride are easy to verify, and even the most oblivious of students aren't likely to lie about easily-verified facts. So I sent a quick reply telling him to bring me documentation and copy of his completed paper when he returned to class and I would consider accepting it late. Had this student brought me a receipt from his ER visit, I probably would have accepted his paper and sent him on his way with a stern warning about procrastination. But this particular student decided to cover all his bases. Unfortunately, in doing so he crossed that invisible line between "just enough proof" and "way too much."

Wanting to show that wasn't making up the incident, he sent me a follow up email further explaining his sitation. This is where the wheels came off the wagon. Strike one was his admission that he had started the paper that night, despite the fact the paper had been assigned nearly four weeks prior. Strike two--his detailed explanation of the fight, which was less of an assault and more an attempt at Monday Night Raw, the Home Game. But the final nails in the coffin containing this excuse were the two pictures attached to the email. This first was a close up of the bloody tooth. The second was a wider shot of said student, pointing to both the bloody hole where the tooth had once been and the offending desk. This creative, albeit gruesome, documentation was meant to save him. Unfortunately it would have been much more effective had he moved the empty bottle of Jagermeister and collection of shot glasses off the desk before he had posed for the picture.

Game...set...match.

This student learned a powerful lesson that day--one you can't find in a textbook. Documentation isn't always your friend, and a good story for the frat house is not necessarily a good story for the professor. Totality of circumstances can work both ways.

Did I accept his paper late, you ask?

What do you think?

If all else fails, run...for office!

Last night I happened to be flipping channels and landed upon a political debate between two unlikely--and at least one reluctant--national celebrities. Chris Coons (D) and Christine O'Donnell (R/TP) were slugging it out on CNN, pleading their cases on a national stage about who would make the better Senator of the great state of Delaware.

After watching the debate from front to back, I know very little about what either candidate is actually going to do for Delawarians if he or she is elected. I do know quite a bit about their opinions of each other and just how each candidate's opponent will unleash a either a plague of Draconian reproductive restrictions or rampant tax & spend policies on the unsuspecting public. I know who's not a witch, and who's not a bearded Marxist, and my money's on Kristen Wiig for the three-peat in the SNL spot you know is just over the horizon.

None of this surprises me, mind you, given the bloodsport that is politics in my home state. But there was one part of the debate that struck a resonant chord with me, and scared me to death. Not because I expect O'Donnell to get elected. Not being a Delawarian myself, beyond the comedy-factor, this election means very little to me. But something Ms. O'Donnell said--or rather didn't say--during the course of this debate reminded me of my students.

Check out this clip, courtesy of the Huffington Post:

I'm familiar with that look. I see it on my students' faces every time I give an exam. That look that says, "Oh shit. She expects me to know something."

I'm also familiar with her initial response. "Gimme gimme gimme, so I can regurgitate it and sound like I know what I'm talking about." Kudos to Nancy Karibjanian for not giving her what she wanted. And the cop-out at the end may as well be "I'll do some extra credit."

Finally, there's the dance--an elaborate cross of grasping at straws and pulling information out of the air, akin to some arcane ritual dance. Sometimes this results in a nugget of information that could get you a pity-point or two, but the substance of the issue?

"I'll put it up on my website. I promise you."

Now anyone following this particular political case--or any political case--may not be surprised by any of these non-answers or political spin. But what I saw last night highlights a trend I'm seeing more and more in the classroom.

Christine O'Donnell could have been any one of my students on test day. I'm always alarmed when students are asked provide proof of subject mastery and demand that I "give them a hint." Not ask. Demand. And when I don't give them what they want, the resulting answers would make any politician proud.

At the risk of sounding like my grandfather after a few too many, I'm a little scared that the students I'm teaching now are the Christine O'Donnells of the future. Sure, there are some good ones, as I've said many times. But the trend toward the trifecta of dumbfounded-demanding-dancers is making retirement in Manitoba an appealing option.

Subject mastery. Right. Most days, I'd settle for complete sentences. But hey. If it doesn't work out in my class, there's always the U.S. Congress.

On the fence...

Working on a college campus is never boring, and the scenery always changes.

Sometimes this change of scene is by choice. Parking in a different space. A short cut through an unfamiliar building. Taking the road less traveled or getting off the beaten path.

Sometimes this change of scene is by chance. A crazy poster hanging on a light post. Two groups arguing on the quad. Debates scribbled in brightly colored chalk on the sidewalks underfoot.

Sometimes that change of scenery is panties on a fence. Notice I didn't say it's always pretty.

Three simple steps...

So it's almost midterms again.

This time last year, I was lamenting over my low test scores, particularly in my Intro classes. Don't worry. I'm off that particular soapbox for now. Not that the scores have gotten better, mind you, but we're filing that one in the 'some things never change' category.

Low test scores are like the flu. They both suck and no one wants 'em. But given a few preventative measures, both can be easily avoided.

Every semester, on the first day of class, I give my students three simple tips to healthy grades. First and foremost--and this one seems like a no-brainer--don't skip class! I know, I know. It's a radical idea, but it is one that will exponentially increase your chances of success. Even those Visitors, who show up only for exams, seem to know this fact. Case in point, the conversation I overheard just today between two students, one of which is a Visitor. When asked about how he did on a recent exam, his response was that "I think would have done better if I had gone to class more." At least he learned something from not going to class.

Another easy step? Read, read, read. See my earlier rant about the necessity of buying required textbooks. But it's not enough, I've learned, to require students simply to buy the text. At the end of every semester, I always have a student brag to me how they got more money back than anyone when selling back their book because it had never been used. First off, don't tell me this. I don't want to know. Secondly...really? Doesn't that defeat the purpose? Finally, don't brag about selling back a new book in the same breath that you complain about your grade. That gives me the right to point, laugh, and walk away.

Finally, if you really want to avoid those pesky low test scores, you may want to consider sleeping at home, not in the back of my classroom. Crazy as it sounds, it's not enough to simply be a butt in the chair. Your chances of taking in the information increase exponentially if you are conscious. I am not a subliminal learning tape, and you will not learn the material through osmosis. I once had a student argue that she should have passed the test because she was in every class. And I told her I knew she was there. I could hear her snoring all the way in the front of the room every day.

By following these few basic steps, that 63.5 would nothing more than an ideal temperature on a sunny autumn day. So I tell students this on day one. I'm sure they hear me. I just don't think they listen.

Once again: Here's the water. Here's the horse. Don't even think about leading it there.

The grass is always greener...

So this past May was the 10th anniversary of my return to academia. It started with grad school and quickly morphed into a teaching gig. And if you've read this blog, you know a little about my current experiences in this field. To the untrained eye, one could even make the assumption that I was unhappy, despite my many statements to the contrary.

Nothing could be further from the truth, for as much as I tend to complain about this job, it is nothing compared to the job I left.

I've always wanted to teach, and my plan was to follow in the footsteps of a mentor or two and teach middle schoolers the finer points of the English language. To that end, I pursued and ultimately received a teaching degree--ironically from the institution at which I am now a teacher. But somewhere between my decision to teach and walking across the stage in a long black robe, I began to question this career choice.

I can't pinpoint exactly when it happened, but I've narrowed it down to sometime after my first clinical experience. This particular experience required us to observe a week of classes in our chosen age level and field at the school of our choice. This choice--for me, at least--was a no-brainer. I arranged to go back to my middle-school alma mater to sit in with my favorite former teacher, who was also the inspiration for my decision to teach. Her class was exactly as I remembered--right down to the smell of the books and her gentle way with the students. The off-hour in the teacher's lounge, however, was enough to give me pause.

Ask any kid under 14 and you're likely to find that very few have ever set foot in this inner sanctum for those who teach, and even fewer know what really goes on in there. As it turns out, there's a reason for this--one which I observed first hand on that initial day of clinicals. It's kind of like seeing a movie, or hearing a song--one that you've previously only experienced in its 'edited' for television or radio version--in its original, unaltered form. Once the doors to the teachers' lounge swing shut, the kindly science teacher is suddenly the drunken sailor, and the math teacher that greeted everyone with a smile is now railing about his students in a way that makes you wonder why they do it. And as a former student of most of these people, I had to wonder, good gods, what did they say about me? 

I would love to tell you that things improved after that. But after a disasterous and disheartening experience as a student teacher, followed by an unsuccessful job search, I found myself in a series of consulation-prize jobs before I found what I thought would be a permanent home in the corporate world. This job involved a peripherial use of my college degree, a daily train ride to the city and a laid-back atmosphere that appealed to my own casual nature. 

Throughout this foray into corporate America, I never lost the bug to teach. I knew I didn't want to teach middle school. I didn't want to be a babysitter, and middle school students aren't much more than hormones with feet. One of my friends--a college professor herself--suggested that I look into teaching at the university level, and when the crazy deadlines, clashes with management, and increasingly frequent travel to less-than-glamorous locations became too much, I began to explore my options.

Since my teaching certificate had long since expired, this same friend recommended that I think about returning to graduate school. So I applied. I even subjected myself to the torture of the Graduate Record Exam and the associated humiliation of not remembering that "pi" is more than a tasty treat after Thanksgiving dinner. But eventually, my acceptance letter came, and I tendered my resignation that day. Two weeks later, I was able to bid the corporate grind a not-so-fond farewell over many vokda-tonics with my soon-to-be-former coworkers.

If there ever was a poster child for being in the right place at the right time, I'm it. In my second year of grad school, I was given the opportunity to teach the same Introductory class I still teach today. This part time gig turned into a full time job, and one that I wouldn't trade for anything.

Teaching at the university is the best of both worlds. There's a wonderful freedom knowing that I can kick my students out, I can't deal with their parents by law, and if I accidently drop an F-bomb in class, I won't be facing the business end of a law suit. Sure, there are downsides. If you don't believe me, go back and read the rest of this blog. And I give anyone who does choose to teach those rowdy middle-schoolers all the credit in the world. But given what I hear from my friends in corporate America, what I see in their faces, and my own experiences, I'm not trading my current gig until they boot me out of my office, kicking and screaming at anyone who'll listen.

I often think back to that first clinical experience. Hell, I talk about it in my classes. It was a rude awakening, to be sure, but one from which I learned a valuable lesson. Teachers are human. We don't sleep in coffins. We get pissed off and frustrated. And while we may appear jaded and bitter--and deep down maybe we are--for many of us it's a defense mechanism. It just took me seeing life from the other side of the chalkboard to realize it. Bitching with colleagues--or venting on a blog--is the miracle cure that can save your sanity and keep your affection for the job intact.

So will I stop complaining? Probably not. Luckily we have our own version of teachers' lounges. Except we call them pubs.

Back in the saddle...

Its a new semester, full of hope and promise. The students have returned, fresh-faced and eager for knowledge, enthusiastic about participating in the phenomenon of higher education.

Oh wait. I'm sorry. I must have drifted off and been dreaming again...

While it is a new semester, and the students have indeed returned, I have yet to see the student I dream about. At least, I have yet to see more than one or two of them per class. What I'm more likely to encounter is a string of Visitors and a collection of Barbies and Kens, stumbling their way from class to class. Most of the knowledge gained is accidental, and happens despite their best efforts to the contrary.

Don't get me wrong. I am always hopeful for the students, and I do have some that stand out. But it's now six weeks into the Fall semester, and things are beginning to go downhill fast. If you've been following this humble string of rants and raves, you know what my thoughts are on the engagement level of the student population. But now what I'm seeing is a trend toward the frightening, as things are getting worse.

Take, for example, the student who came up to me after class the other day. As we are nearing the midterm, I had spent a significant amount of time in class talking about the importance of reading the textbook. After class, this student wanted to know if it was necessary to purchase the textbook. At first I thought she was kidding. When I realized she was serious, all I could do was shake my head.

Call me crazy, but when I was a student, I never questioned the word "required" when it came to things like reading, attendance, or--oh, I don't know--purchasing a textbook. Today, however, all bets are off.

I'm trying to think positive. I really am. And in my own defense, I actually made it to week six before I started to fall off the optimism wagon. But I do have hope, despite the stink of apathy in the air, because as I've stated time and again on this very blog, I really do love my job. It may be tough love at times, but I'm okay with that.


At least they're learning something...