The other shoe...

And here we are again, at the dawn of a new semester.

Okay, so maybe not new. But with a few weeks under my belt, I've been able to get the lay of the land, and for once in a great while, the view ain't all that bad.

For those of you who've been following this blog for a while, you know how these "First Post of the Semester" entries usually read. And believe me...for a while I thought of just creating a template--something like the old "Mad Libs" games, where I could write most of the script and fill in the blanks with the small variations that are bound to occur.

This semester I was expecting more of the same. Apathy in the classroom. Dwindling attendance. Visitors as far as the eye can see. And this is part of the reason why I waited several weeks to write this post. Fall semester is a funny beast. It always starts off well, but soon enough, the other shoe drops, and we're back to the same old same old. But this fall, something happened that I didn't expect.

The other shoe has yet to drop.

In my classes, attendance--at week four--is still up. Assignments are being completed on time. There have been no mad texters, or drooling snorers, nor have I had to boot any students out of the classroom for cause. Hell, they're still laughing at my jokes, although I have yet to decide whether this is a good or bad thing. But for better or worse, at this point in the semester, they're still around and they're still interested.

I'll take it. Gods know I'm due.

This is not to say that everything's perfect. I still have students that can barely spell their own names. Most of the emails I receive still read like text messages. But as Forrest told us, stupid is as stupid does, and that part won't be going away anytime soon. But this semester--for now, at least--I'm pretty happy with my box of chocolates.

But don't worry, gentle readers. Midterms are coming, and I'm sure reality will hit soon enough. For now, however, I'm not looking this particular gift horse in the mouth.

That's "Entertainment"...

I received an email from a dear friend this morning. Knowing I was administering my last final today, he wished me well, stating that he hoped the final I was giving would be successful...or would, at least, be entertaining to him.


Well, my friend, this one's for you.


So for the last two weeks of class, I announced the date, time and location of the final exam, for all of  my sections. That I repeated myself at the start of every class actually became something of a joke in most of the sections. And to be honest, these were NOT the people I needed to remind ad nauseum of where and when they needed to be ready to roll for the exam.


The reason for my slightly anal-retentive concern was twofold. First, for at least two of the classes, the scheduled exam time was an hour earlier than our normal class meeting time. Were it up to me, this would not be the case, but I, like others, am at the mercy of the University when it comes to exam schedules. And second, this is not my first time at this particular rodeo. Someone ALWAYS comes late. But I decided that this was going to be the year. The year that everyone followed directions. The year that no one showed up as I was turning off the lights with a sob story and a desperate look in their eyes.


I'm still waiting for that pony, by the way.


In order to make this dream a reality, I tried to cover all the bases. In addition to the daily reminders, I also posted announcements on the course website. The date and time were in bold red letters, screaming out from the page every time a student bothered to log in. And if that wasn't enough, a copy of the announcement was sent to all students in the course via email.


Now I KNOW the Visitors are handy with the email. I refer you to my earlier blog entry for proof.


Until today, I was optimistic. Besides the normal cavalcade of creative excuses (see my LAST entry), no one had showed up late. In fact, things started off smooth today, and I actually remember thinking how nice it was going to be to disappoint my friend.
Maybe that was my problem. After all, pride goeth before the fall, and karma is a spiteful bitch.


The exam period runs for an hour and a half. Given the structure of the exam, most students finish in well under half that time. Even those who diligently check and recheck their answers, and those who sit in a puddle of sweat praying for some sort of divine educational intervention tend to clear out within an hour. Today, with 25 minutes to go, there was one of each left in the room.


Trusting that these two were wrapped up in their exams, I stepped out briefly to use the restroom. As I left, I noticed two students I recognized from the class waiting quietly in the hall. They politely said hello (but nothing else at that time) as I passed. I figured that they were waiting on one of the stragglers.


I was wrong.


When they were still there after I returned, I asked if there was anything else I could do for them. They looked at each other, and then just as politely asked if it was too late to take the exam.


In case you were wondering, yes. They were Visitors. In fact, one of them was not only a Visitor, but a Repeater, having failed this class last semester, placing him squarely in the "Should Have Known Better" category. Regardless, I reminded them--sternly, and loudly--that this was precisely why it was important to show up to class once in a while. Without batting an eye, the Repeater looked at me and said that he just assumed the exam would be at the same time as class. And while subtler than a big scarlet "V" on his tee-shirt, this answer told me all I needed to know about the last time he had attended class, checked the internet, or hell, even read his email. At least Visitor #2, while equally clueless, tried to stammer out a coherent excuse before again asking if he could still take the test.


Against my better judgement, I caved. I knew they realized there was still technically time left, and that there were still two students taking the exam. And if past experience has taught me nothing else, even students who are willfully negligent about staying informed can find the initiative to complain to my boss. Covering my bases, I told them that they could still take the final on the condition that when the scheduled time to take the exam was up--a time, mind you, that was only 20 minutes away at this point--I was kicking them out the door.


I set them in the first row and gave them the test materials. As it turns out, I didn't need to worry about kicking them out at the end of the period. I barely had time to turn around before Visitor #2 was handing me his "completed" exam. Repeater was not that far behind. Ironically, they both finished before the last two stragglers in the room.

As Repeater was leaving, I noticed that he had hadn't actually completed the exam. He had the nerve to give me the stinkeye when I asked him to fill in the missing responses.


Now I don't want praise, and I've long since stopped caring about my online reviews. But I don't think common courtesy is too much to ask.


I'd love to provide a clever denouement to this story. Or some heartwarming last minute revelation, as the Visitors realize the error of their ways. But honestly, I'm spent, and looking forward to a few well-deserved months of rest.


However, fear not, gentle readers, because if I've learned anything from the last few years, it's that Visitors are consistent. So M, my dear friend, just know this--as long as I have a job, you'll be entertained...

Marrying Rich...

It's that time of year again, when panic flows freely through the ivory tower and all of its hallowed halls. And as I slog through exam week, I thought it might be nice to look back on the last ten years, to some of the more creative excuses I've heard for why my students needed to reschedule their exams, or reasons why they missed them entirely. So sit back and enjoy the fact that this is NOT your job. Unless this IS your job, in which case I offer my apologies...


Excuse #10. My friends didn't know what time the exam started.
They were probably too busy jumping off that bridge over there. Please don't let me keep you... 

Excuse #9. There's a Yankees game at the same time as the exam. Can I take it tomorrow?
I would have been willing to consider this one if the student hadn't used it for the December finals... 

Excuse #8. There was a final?
Well, not for you...  

Excuse #7. I forgot to study, and didn't want to disappoint you.
Too late. 

Excuse #6. I thought I was failing and it wouldn't matter anyway.
Ironically, this is the first time THIS student got an answer correct all semester... 

Excuse #5. The bar didn't have wi-fi and I couldn't check the website to see when the exam began.
To this student's credit at least they tried to check... 

Excuse #4. I spilled beer on my day planner and couldn't read what I had written down.
Actually from the same student who gave #5 above. If only effort was enough... 

Excuse #3. I got married yesterday and lost track of time.
In that case, I hope you married rich. And if you're wondering who Rich is...you better find him. Quick! 

Excuse #2. I forgot where the classroom was. Can you give me directions?
Sure. It's that building across the street with the big golden arches on the roof. (Don't judge. He's a Visitor. And let's face it...at the rate he's going, he's probably going to end up there eventually. I'm just eliminating the middleman...) 

Excuse #1. I didn't realize I was in this class until three days ago. Can you get me up to speed?
Forgetting what time the exam starts is one thing. I'm even willing to forgive that you don't know how to find the classroom. Forgetting that you're IN a class in the first place? That goes beyond Visitor, and falls into the ever growing category of Things That Are Not My Problem. Cut your losses and try again next year.

Perhaps this clip--a caricature of actual conversations I've had with students--sums it up best. 

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go find a quiet corner and weep for the future... 

Be Careful What You Wish For...Revisted!

I administered my midterm exam not too long ago. And as anticipated, the average score was right what I expected (see my previous post for all the gory details). And also as expected, the emails flowed. Most were from Visitors, or Visitor-wannabees. Some were from people who pretend to attend, but usually slide out of the room the first time I turn my back to the class. Was there going to be extra credit? How many points were left? Was there ANYTHING that could be done to save their grade? Even some of the so-called "good" students joined the fray.  


In short? They wanted more opportunities to get points. Begged for them, in some cases, in order to redeem themselves for their overwhelmingly abysmal performance on the exam. While it meant more work for me, I was generally happy to oblige. 


In the week after the exam--which also happened to be the week after Spring Break--I offered a whopping 60 points worth of assignments, which amounted to almost 2/3rd the value of the exam. The points came in the form of a take home quiz, an in-class assignment, and an online assessment. The first and last options were open book, and the in-class work was a gimme. You did it, you got the points, as there were no right or wrong answers. All told, this opportunity for points was the equivalent of a big loping softball. All people needed to do was stand there and catch it.


Lots of points. Nearly free of charge. Exactly the chance the many people needed to counter the horrorshow that was the midterm exam.


In a perfect world, I would have been the hero. Perhaps even the subject of happy drinking songs all over campus. Hell, a simple "Hey, there, Doc...thanks for throwing us a bone" would have sufficed. I would've even accepted the usual sullen non-response I've grown to expect from this particular crop of students. However, as you may have gleaned from reading this blog over the course of the last few bitter years, I live in a world that is far from perfect.


What did I get instead, you ask?


Angry emails. And LOTS of 'em.


Much like the first batch of emails, the authors and tone was remarkably similar. How DARE I assign work after Spring Break? And three assignments? In one week? That's just not fair.  And from those who MISSED the assignments entirely because they didn't check their email or show up for class? Well to them, I was just plain evil.


In retrospect, I should have guessed there'd be a catch. Students begging for more work? That just doesn't happen in a relatively low level class. It turns out my students wanted points, but they didn't want to work for them.


The next day in class, I mentioned in passing that assignment grades had been posted. A general murmur ran through the crowd. I asked if there were any questions, and  a student raised his hand. He then informed me that he didn't appreciate being punished for not coming to class, and that he thought I should give him the points that he had missed.


Now.


It's takes quite a bit to render me speechless. And there are not many instances where I snap in class. But this did the trick quite effectively.


What seems to be escaping them is that I don't give assignments to be vindictive. This is not the Simpsons, and I'm not going to stand you at the board and make you write "I will not be an entitled lazy bastard!" a thousand times. And I certainly don't give assignments because I'm bored and want to fill my evenings by grading papers. I give assignments because deep down, I want you to learn something. I give assignments because they pay me to teach, and you pay to be taught. I give assignments because this is COLLEGE, and that's how we roll.


But most importantly, in this instance, and the one thing they ALL seemed to forget...


I gave them this work...


...because they ASKED for it.


This is exactly what I told my class. Loudly. And for several minutes.


In retrospect, I feel a little bad. After all, the ones who show up aren't the problem. It's the Visitors that don't remember where the classroom is, but sure are handy with the email that were the main target of my wrath. But my point was made, and word got around. Emails are down and attendance is up. Hell, even the Visitors have come out of hibernation.


The moral of this tale? Be careful what you wish for. You just may get it. But don't bitch to me when you do.


I'm sure I'll still be mentioned over a drink or two. And I'm also sure it won't be in song.

Email Do's and Don'ts...

Finals are done. Grades are posted. And the emails are rolling in.

At the end of every semester, a good friend and I place our bets as to how long it will take for the first angry "why did you fail me" emails to show up. This semester, I barely had enough time to place my bet before the first message popped up in my inbox.

After 10 years of this, I'm used to the emails. I'm even used to the speed at which they show up. And though the students' names change each semester, the emails stay relatively similar. Most involve some modicum of begging or pleading. Others are riddled with disbelief. Some are just plain ballsy. Take, for instance, the email I received shortly after posting my grades today. To his credit, this student hadn't failed. But he told me that he felt that he had learned a lot, and asked if I would just give him the next grade up so he could save his GPA.

Yet another student took offense at an exam questions. In less than polite terms, he demanded that I credit him two points on his exam, because in his mind, there was more than one answer that had been correct. And that one I would have considered, if he hadn't chosen the one WRONG answer for that question. 

The best of the bunch this semester, as I've seen in the past, was the student that spent almost a full page going on about how she felt that her hard work and effort warranted a higher grade. But while her desperation was apparent, her writing skills were not, as there was not one bit of punctuation or a capital letter to be seen. To her credit, though, she DID spell her own name right. The same couldn't be said about mine.

This time of year, when emotions and stress tend to trump common sense, what students really need is a list of Email Do's and Don'ts--a little checklist they could tape to their computers or smart phones. Maybe even a cool little app that pops up before they click send, just to make students think before they shoot off those messages that make their professors shake their heads and sigh.

The checklist could look like this:

DO...think before you send that email you wrote IMMEDIATELY after learning that you tanked the final and failed the class. I'm not going to change your grade anyway, but when you yell and scream at me in an angry email, it makes me wish there was a "G."

DO...spell things correctly and use punctuation. You look pretty silly when you beg for a higher grade, but can't string three coherent sentences together in the process.

DON'T...tell me that you should have come to class more often. That falls under the category of "your problem, not mine." After all, I get paid whether you show up or not.

DON'T...whine. It may be bad karma, but I don't care that you had a rough semester, or that your GPA is a little too low for comfort. These are things you should have thought of BEFORE you slept through the first half of the semester, or spent each lecture making a booty call on the cutie to your left.

DON'T...tell me that you thought my class was going to be easy. I thought you were going to make an effort. Sucks to be us, but it's not gonna make me change your grade.

And finally, DON'T ask me why I "gave" you an F. I didn't give you anything. You earned that failing grade all by your lonesome.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go check my email.

And the winner is...

It's that time of year again. The leaves have fallen. There's a chill in the air. Hell, it snowed the other day. And the panic is so thick you can smell it from a mile away.

Now that I officially find myself as a member of the student body again, I have rekindled my appreciation for how stressful the end of the semester can be. Believe me...I get it, as any of my new colleagues who read this can surely appreciate. And I consider myself to be a pretty diligent student. Not that I'm perfect. I've been known to forgo my reading in lieu of a good third and long. But I can honestly say, with no reservations, that I've made a valiant effort to...you know, at least go to class.

I can only imagine how scary this time of year is for those people who haven't. And yes, Visitors. I'm talking about you.

If you've been following this blog for any length of time, you know who the Visitors are. They're like the C&E churchgoers that showed up for holidays, weddings and funerals. But in every Visitor's semester, there's that moment. That "oh shit, I'm FAILING!" moment, that's akin to the C&E that realizes on their deathbed that the guy with the funny collar wasn't kidding. It's like Bill Cosby used to say about his mother. "You are looking at an old woman who is trying to get into Heaven now." This is how I feel around week 14 of the semester as I look around at the Visitors, who reappear in droves. These are not the same people that blew off my class all semester. These are the students that are trying to get out of the grade basement.

When the Visitors start to trickle back in, the real fun begins. The front row fills up, as if being seen is enough to make up for the previous three months. Some even raise their hands and try to sound like the reason they haven't been in class is because they've been so enraptured with the material that they've been unable to tear themselves away from their textbooks to make it to class on time. And every semester, one Visitor pulls away from the pack, like that last minute long shot who ends up winning by a nose.

Well, kids, we have a winner.

During this time of year, Visitors are often fill my appointment book, and I thought nothing of it when a student with a name I couldn't match to a face sent a polite email asking if we could meet. When he showed up for our appointment today, he launched into a soliloquy of how he's been President of This, and a Member of That, and somewhere in the mix, he'd forgotten to come to class.

As I started to pull up his grades, I asked if he remembered the last time he'd been to class. "Well, that's the thing," he said. "I haven't."

"Haven't what?" says me.

"Haven't come to class."

Before I can reply, my computer screen refreshes and confirms what I've just heard. Midterm: 0. Paper, 0. Zeros across the board.

As anyone who knows me will attest, it takes quite a bit to render me speechless. I almost wanted to give him some credit just for that.

He proceeded to tell me that as he was going through his notes in preparation for finals, he noticed that although he knew he was registered for six classes, he only had notes for five. It was then that he realized that he had forgotten to come to my class. Not once, or twice, or even since the midterm.

He admitted point blank that because he'd been so busy with his other responsibilities he'd forgotten to come at all.

Now this isn't the part that put him ahead of the pack. This is not the first time in over 10 years that I've had a student regale me with the same story. It was his next request that catapulted him to the level of "This is going in the blog tonight."

I mentioned that there was nothing I could do to help him at this point. But he interrupted me and said that he thought there was something I could do to help. Intrigued, I asked what that could be. He then proceeded to tell me that he had cleared his entire Saturday for me, and could I just meet with him and fill him in on what he had missed. And before I could decide whether to point and laugh or burst into tears, he said that this, of course, would be enough to prepare him to make up the midterm that he had missed.

There was no request. No pleading or begging. As if the assumption that not only would I be willing to give up my Saturday for someone who couldn't be bothered to remember he was a student in my class wasn't enough, he simply assumed that I would be dumping my entire policy on "no late assignments or make up work".

Imagine his surprise when, with a slightly bewildered smile, I stood and thanked him for stopping by, and wished him luck with the classes he had bothered to show up for.

Thanks for playing. Enjoy these lovely parting gifts of forfeiture of any second chance to take this class with me, and of course, a big fat and well-earned F for the semester.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go and hug a Visitor. At least they make the effort once in a while...

A lost art...

So now you're thinking, twice in a week? In 24 hours? Aren't you in law school or something?

Well, yeah. But that's a blog for another day.

I'm back because of a conversation I had with a friend while driving home from work. I was regaling my  friend--one my oldest and dearest, and frequently the recipient of both both my rants and my wrath--with my latest "this is going in the blog" story.

The topic--as it is more often than not these days--was the constant state of wonder in which I find myself after talking to my students. And I'm not talking about that innocent "snow-falling-on-cedars" type of wonder. I'm talking "I wonder what I did in a past life to deserve this" kind of wonder.

It's that time of year again, and later this week I'm collecting term papers. With the papers due in two short days, I'd like to think that most people's papers are done, and they will be spending these next few days leisurely and thoroughly proofreading and reviewing their work.

Yeah, and while I'm dreaming, I'd also like a pony.

The more likely reality was driven home today by the student that came up to me after class, practically in tears. She was just getting ready to start writing her paper, was one source shy of the five that I require, and was at her wit's end. There's nothing online, she said. I've looked everywhere.

When I asked her where exactly she had looked, she recounted a frantic weekend filled with Google searches and Wiki-reading, and trips down a variety of other cyber-dead ends. By the end of her tale, she was visibly rattled. I almost felt bad for her, until I asked what she had found in the library.

She blinked, and looked completely baffled. The library? she asked, looking honestly and completely baffled.

Now I've been here a while. And I'm not ashamed to admit that I ache when it rains, need glasses to read, and still bust out the cassette player from time to time. But I've never felt as old as when this told me she didn't know that she could use a book as a research source.

There's an article that appeared in The Atlantic a few years ago. I make my students read it every semester. Called "Is Google Making Us Stupid?", it details how the web is slowly but surely "chipping away" at our ability to concentrate on anything slower than the speed of the Google search. No wonder the library's becoming obsolete.

Not that it stopped me from literally presenting my class with a map to the library, and ensuring them that yes, books are fine. Books are good. Archaic, perhaps, but in my class, they'll never be turned away.

Wanna see what I mean? Stop by my class anytime. Or check out the article:

http://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2008/07/is-google-making-us-stupid/6868/#

Now if you'll excuse me, I think I'm going to curl up with a good book and call it a night.

What's in a name, anyway?

It's now week twelve of the semester. At this point, the end is closer than the start, "panic mode" is just around the corner, and students have begun to turn every class into a math class, calculating that crucial ratio between the points they've earned and the points that are left, in a desperate effort to determine the magic number they need to get an A, a B, or simply to survive the course.

I'd love to help them with that. I really would. But seeing that I can barely balance a checkbook, I don't think they'd want my help anyway.

For those--like me--who are either unwilling or unable to do the computations for themselves, this is the time of year where they fill my email box fills with requests for meetings, or questions about assignments. And while I'm not the best with names myself, I'm always amused at who my students THINK I am.

Now I'm hardly one to throw stones in this regard. After all, my ineptitude with names is  the stuff of Rate My Professor lore. As one of my former students wrote, "she'll never get your name right, but she'll always mispronounce it with a smile."

That student should count herself lucky. I ALWAYS remember the bad ones...

Now in my own defense, learning names when you teach a full load is a Herculean undertaking. Fifty-plus students times four classes, and they're lucky I know my OWN name. And I know who most of them are by the end of the semester. Unfortunately that's when everyone leaves, and the cycle begins anew.

Students, however, have it easy. Even those with a full load have six, perhaps seven names to learn. You'd think given those odds, by the middle of the semester, they'd get those names straight.

You'd be wrong.

I've long since given up trying to correct people. After all, I'd rather have them in class to get my name wrong, than correctly identifying me from afar. And most people at least make an effort. Some students even come close. Others get good at faking it, relying on titles alone.

When talking about this with a friend of mine--one NOT in academia, I might add--she shook her head. "Can't they just look you up on the Internet rather than risk becoming a topic for your blog?"

I shrugged and agreed. But even that's not always foolproof, as a colleague of mine learned earlier this semester.

The course listings at our school are not always updated regularly. Not surprising, given that our state could give Greece a run for its money--no pun intended. And while the professors of record are usually updated at some point, every once in a while a generic listing of "staff" is overlooked. 

Sure enough, this colleague received an email addressed to Dr. Staff. This would have been understandable, too, if her name wasn't in her email address.

So students, take the "A" for effort. It may be the only one you see...

Saskatchewan, here I come...

I've said it before, and I'll say it again. I don't like where we're headed.

It's midterms again. They snuck up on me when I wasn't looking. Granted, I've been a little busy these days, as I'm now firmly entrenched in the wonderful life of a 1L (see my last, long-ago post). But I'm oddly comforted knowing that despite the quasi-psychosis that is my life of late, some things never change.

Take the exam I gave today for example. Five minutes before the exam was to start, a student came in and approached the lectern. I didn't remember seeing him before, but that wasn't unusual. After all, on exam day, all the Visitors come out to play. However, he strode to the podium with the unbridled confidence of a man on a mission, and one that was certain that he'd be getting his way.

I'm sure that's how he was picturing it in his OWN mind, anyway. But again, I digress.

He reached the lectern and proceeded to tell me that he wasn't prepared for the exam and he wasn't going to take it today. It wasn't a question of could he skip the test. He was set on doing it.

He was quite upset when I informed him that wasn't how it worked.

My exam policy is simple. Barring some extreme exigent circumstance or strange act of whatever god you believe in, you take the exam on time, or you don't take it all. Of course, I relayed this information using smaller words and slower diction. His response?

Crickets.

After a moment, he blinked and shook his head and informed that he hadn't been in class for a while. However, when I asked him if the absence was excused, he wasn't even able to come up with a good lie. He simply reiterated that he hadn't been in class, and furthermore I wasn't being fair for making him take the exam with the rest of the class.

Yet again, I'm not fair. Silly me.

I guess in a way, given the insanity I'm facing this semester, it's oddly comforting that some things never change.

And for the record he did take the exam. Or at least, he filled in the bubbles on the scantron form. Unfortunately they were the answers for the person sitting next to him, who was taking a different version of the exam, but that's a blog for another day.

 Am I scared for the future? You bet your ass.

Saskatchewan, here I come...

New Directions...

And...we're back.

While I had planned to take a small hiatus, I'd hoped to be back much sooner than this, regaling you all with witty anecdotes from my summer classes. Thanks to budget woes in my home state, however, my class got the axe, and I got an impromptu and elongated summer vacation. But now I'm back, and while I'm not necessarily better than ever, I'm going to have my work cut out for me this coming semester.

A little background, if you will.

I've been teaching for about 11 years. And despite the rants and raves and visions of disillusionment held within this blog, I love my job. But I also love to learn. I often look out at my students, envious of the opportunity they have to expand their educational horizons. I think back to my own undergraduate career and wonder how we survived without smart phones and the Internet. I remember having to physically go to the library. Many of my current students can barely locate the structure, let alone claim to have set foot inside of it. If I had then what my students have now...hell, who knows. Maybe my office would be a shape other than a square.

Well, okay. That's a bit of an exaggeration. And after the drama of late, I don't want that job anyway.

Flash back to about two years ago. A friend of mine mentioned in passing that she was thinking about taking the LSAT. For those of you who aren't versed in the alphabet soup of academia, that stands for Law School  Admissions Test, the gateway to acceptance to Law School. If you're not a fan of standardized tests, look away now. This one is a doozy, complete with nearly incomprehensible reading comprehension sections, logic skills, and my personal torture device--the deadly Logic Games section.

Games. The most tragically misnamed element ever.

When I think "games", I think of something that is mildly entertaining at the least. Logic games--no so much. Imagine a word problem, like the ones from your middle-school math class. Joey leaves San Francisco going 30 miles an hour at the same time Mike leaves Los Angeles going 50 miles an hour. In logic games, not only do you have to know when they're going to meet, you have to know what they're wearing and what they've had for breakfast for the last three days.

And if you're thinking, "hey, that DOES sound like fun...", the next LSAT is being administered in December. I still have my study guides if you want to borrow them.

Despite the horror of taking yet another standardized test, I told my friend that I would take it with her. This action  was not necessarily a whim, or a polite action to support my friend. The classes I teach are closely related to the legal profession, and I've knocked around the idea of attending law school for many years. I just needed a good kick start, and my friend's offer was exactly what I needed to gear up for the next chapter in my own education. To that end, I studied for, and ultimately completed the LSAT. Ironically, my friend who spurred me on has yet to take the test, as she fell victim to a collection of career and personal obligations. 

I knew I wanted to keep my teaching job, so I applied for part time status at several local law schools. My LSAT scores were good enough, but not great--a category a dear friend of mine calls "meh". With 'meh'-scores and the constraints of homeownership, a career, and the like, I wasn't optimistic about getting in.

To my surprise, I was accepted at my alma mater, which happens to also be my current employer. I remember turning the acceptance letter over and over in my hands, vacillating between excitement, delight, and abject terror. Just like that, I was going to be a student again. Class of 2014--or whenever my part-time status gets me out the door in a cap and gown.

Here's where this blog comes in.

I originally named this blog the way I did because I've taught these classes for many years, and teaching them comes naturally. Now, however, I'll be juggling not only a full time teaching schedule, but life as a "1L"--the common designation for first year law students. You'll be happy to know the terror has subsided a little. I expect, though--at least for a little while--that teaching in my sleep is going to take on a whole new meaning as I tackle the university from both sides of the desk.

So don't be surprised if, from time to time, you see a smattering of my own experiences within this space. Although, I make no guarantees on the frequency or coherency of blog posts to come. If nothing else, they should be fun to read.

Wish me luck. Something tells me I'm going to need it...

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.