In the gym today, I was treated to a little show called "Young, Beautiful, and Vanished: 15 Unthinkable Crimes." As the title suggests, it was a parade of stories about pre-adolescent blond girls who were kidnapped, raped, and eventually found. But not recovered--oh no. As the show's TV psychologist (whatever that is) smugly remarked of one of the girls, "Elizabeth will never get over this."
Get over being raped by your father and confined to a cell for however many years? No, I should say not!
And of course we only want to watch re-enactments of young, beautiful girls being kidnapped and raped! Nothing titillating about an older woman, or one of only middling attractiveness. Or, God forbid, a boy. That would be, like, gay or something.*
The worst, though, was that this bit of hideous misogynistic trash was on the Entertainment network.
And that's why I like to pretend that 21st-century pop culture simply does not exist.
*I don't mean to imply by this that the viewership was necessarily straight men. In fact, I expect that it was largely female. But the sexual objectification of women means that women, faced with sexual imagery, frequently inhabit a masculine perspective: Sexualized women typically signify (hetero)sex, to men and women alike; sexualized men typically don't, or at least not as readily. In other words, I think that straight women could be as titillated as straight men by the stories in the show, and that both sexes would find a re-enactment of the abduction and rape of a young boy more jarring than the same story about a young girl.
Showing posts with label screeds. Show all posts
Showing posts with label screeds. Show all posts
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Monday, November 23, 2009
The little-known secret of Composition courses
....
..
.
..
nothing
works.
I hope, I only hope, that I am speaking too soon. There is still one chance for my students to redeem themselves this semester.
But oh, God, if I could physically insert the drive to cite sources into their heads, then maybe we'd get somewhere.
Does this happen to you? Do you find yourself becoming obsessed with some one thing, some single obvious thing that 80% of your students simply won't do? Like cite their sources? In a research paper???? I can't think of anything else. It's practically all I read for anymore.
OK. I will stop. I've been raging about this for two weeks now (6 conference days in 10 days, yes indeedy, that'll make you nuts). And tonight I made the mistake of figuring out that I spend about 200 hours a semester (or thereabouts; this was a highly unscientific calculation) working on comp when I teach two sections of it, as I normally do; that's five full work-weeks. And really, I'd be cool with that, if I honestly felt that it resulted in significantly improved writing. But I don't. And I'm frustrated.
Or maybe it does work, and they're all learning, but I just can't see it. Maybe. And maybe they'll continue to develop in the directions I've pointed them long after this semester ends.
The thing is, when I meet with them one-on-one, my frustration fades and I want so badly for them to get it, to succeed, to write kick-ass papers and do really really well. And I hate to hand them Ds and Fs. But love can't make them write any better, no it can't. And neither, apparently, can the textbook, multi-stage assignments, in-class discussion, group work, endless activities, feedback on a neverending series of papers, peer workshops, individual instruction, email reminders, checklists, or anything else I can come up with.
Sigh. Oh well. I'm off tomorrow night for Thanksgiving with the in-laws, and my computer will be staying home. Have a nice week, all.
..
.
..
nothing
works.
I hope, I only hope, that I am speaking too soon. There is still one chance for my students to redeem themselves this semester.
But oh, God, if I could physically insert the drive to cite sources into their heads, then maybe we'd get somewhere.
Does this happen to you? Do you find yourself becoming obsessed with some one thing, some single obvious thing that 80% of your students simply won't do? Like cite their sources? In a research paper???? I can't think of anything else. It's practically all I read for anymore.
OK. I will stop. I've been raging about this for two weeks now (6 conference days in 10 days, yes indeedy, that'll make you nuts). And tonight I made the mistake of figuring out that I spend about 200 hours a semester (or thereabouts; this was a highly unscientific calculation) working on comp when I teach two sections of it, as I normally do; that's five full work-weeks. And really, I'd be cool with that, if I honestly felt that it resulted in significantly improved writing. But I don't. And I'm frustrated.
Or maybe it does work, and they're all learning, but I just can't see it. Maybe. And maybe they'll continue to develop in the directions I've pointed them long after this semester ends.
The thing is, when I meet with them one-on-one, my frustration fades and I want so badly for them to get it, to succeed, to write kick-ass papers and do really really well. And I hate to hand them Ds and Fs. But love can't make them write any better, no it can't. And neither, apparently, can the textbook, multi-stage assignments, in-class discussion, group work, endless activities, feedback on a neverending series of papers, peer workshops, individual instruction, email reminders, checklists, or anything else I can come up with.
Sigh. Oh well. I'm off tomorrow night for Thanksgiving with the in-laws, and my computer will be staying home. Have a nice week, all.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Do I have time for any of this? Why no, I do not!
Nor do I have the patience!
Does anyone else simply lose patience at about this point in the semester? Ooh, I have been a Cold Bitch to my comp students this week, and have felt absolutely no remorse. (In fairness, I was only a Cold Bitch to about three or four of them, and they were being singularly annoying, in their various ways.) But oh! The papers I am grading! They are atrocious! My comp-teaching colleagues and I have decided to truly Uphold Standards this semester, and I am--disturbingly, weirdly--reveling in giving Fs and Ds to the truly F- and D-deserving papers. Normally I agonize. Am I being mean? She tried!! It's not his fault that he can't write a sentence!! But this time, I think: Can I genuinely pass this student on to a colleague with my writerly stamp of approval? Why no, I cannot!
It helps, I'm finding, to have some clear guidelines. E.g., use 5 or more sources, at least 3 of which must be books or peer-reviewed articles. So when a student uses 5 newspaper articles or websites, boom! No! Fail! (Or a seriously lowered grade.) When a 5-7 page research paper has 3 citations in it, total, wham! Demotion! It's all so shockingly...easy.
The thing is, we've spent--in one way or another--six weeks on these damn papers, including three or four peer workshops and two conferences with me. I've told them what to do. I've told them that you can't write a good research paper if you write it first and then go looking for "stats" to support it. (How I loathe "stats," and "facts," too, for that matter.) The good thing here is that, while this paper is worth 20% of their grades, they now need to write a new research paper on the same topic, but directed towards a different audience--and this will also be worth 20% of their grades. So they can fail this one and, if they work their asses off, maybe redeem themselves next time.
Tomorrow, therefore, we will not discuss the reading (which is on style, and I don't much like the chapter anyway, as it tells students to write in their own voices and not try to sound more formal--well, that's a little unfair, but it does say that, and frankly writing too formally is not a problem that besets the majority of my froshes). We will, instead, discuss Why Passing Composition Is Important, and Why Blowing Off This Course Is A Huge Mistake. I actually have some good thoughts on this, I think. See, they might know, in their hearts, that they can do research. But my responsibility is to ensure that they can do research, and so, if they don't show me that they can do it, they can't pass. Easy! We will then Review The Goals Of The Course (which include things like, "Appropriately use MLA or APA citation style"--really difficult, people, and we did spend, what, two or three weeks on this? Lordy). And then--then!--I will give them an exam. Yes, a surprise composition exam! It is genius. It will ask them to do things like cite, and create a topic sentence, and use signal phrases appropriately. It will ask them what a research-driven paper is. And, at the end, it will ask them to please tell me what it is that they're struggling with, and where they'd like more instruction. For ultimately the exam is an assessment tool, even as it is also there to scare them into giving one little damn about their next papers.
Oh, and in the meantime, one of my heart-monitor reports alarmed somebody who contacted my electrophysiologist, and starting tonight I will need to take a twice-daily heart medication "to get things under control." Dudes, my heart has pounded away since I was born, but okay, whatever. I don't mind. It's only until the surgery. The downside, though? The medication causes fatigue. And man, I have me some fatigue. Siiiiiiiiiiiiigh.
(Otherwise, all is well on the Mihi front, I promise.)
Does anyone else simply lose patience at about this point in the semester? Ooh, I have been a Cold Bitch to my comp students this week, and have felt absolutely no remorse. (In fairness, I was only a Cold Bitch to about three or four of them, and they were being singularly annoying, in their various ways.) But oh! The papers I am grading! They are atrocious! My comp-teaching colleagues and I have decided to truly Uphold Standards this semester, and I am--disturbingly, weirdly--reveling in giving Fs and Ds to the truly F- and D-deserving papers. Normally I agonize. Am I being mean? She tried!! It's not his fault that he can't write a sentence!! But this time, I think: Can I genuinely pass this student on to a colleague with my writerly stamp of approval? Why no, I cannot!
It helps, I'm finding, to have some clear guidelines. E.g., use 5 or more sources, at least 3 of which must be books or peer-reviewed articles. So when a student uses 5 newspaper articles or websites, boom! No! Fail! (Or a seriously lowered grade.) When a 5-7 page research paper has 3 citations in it, total, wham! Demotion! It's all so shockingly...easy.
The thing is, we've spent--in one way or another--six weeks on these damn papers, including three or four peer workshops and two conferences with me. I've told them what to do. I've told them that you can't write a good research paper if you write it first and then go looking for "stats" to support it. (How I loathe "stats," and "facts," too, for that matter.) The good thing here is that, while this paper is worth 20% of their grades, they now need to write a new research paper on the same topic, but directed towards a different audience--and this will also be worth 20% of their grades. So they can fail this one and, if they work their asses off, maybe redeem themselves next time.
Tomorrow, therefore, we will not discuss the reading (which is on style, and I don't much like the chapter anyway, as it tells students to write in their own voices and not try to sound more formal--well, that's a little unfair, but it does say that, and frankly writing too formally is not a problem that besets the majority of my froshes). We will, instead, discuss Why Passing Composition Is Important, and Why Blowing Off This Course Is A Huge Mistake. I actually have some good thoughts on this, I think. See, they might know, in their hearts, that they can do research. But my responsibility is to ensure that they can do research, and so, if they don't show me that they can do it, they can't pass. Easy! We will then Review The Goals Of The Course (which include things like, "Appropriately use MLA or APA citation style"--really difficult, people, and we did spend, what, two or three weeks on this? Lordy). And then--then!--I will give them an exam. Yes, a surprise composition exam! It is genius. It will ask them to do things like cite, and create a topic sentence, and use signal phrases appropriately. It will ask them what a research-driven paper is. And, at the end, it will ask them to please tell me what it is that they're struggling with, and where they'd like more instruction. For ultimately the exam is an assessment tool, even as it is also there to scare them into giving one little damn about their next papers.
Oh, and in the meantime, one of my heart-monitor reports alarmed somebody who contacted my electrophysiologist, and starting tonight I will need to take a twice-daily heart medication "to get things under control." Dudes, my heart has pounded away since I was born, but okay, whatever. I don't mind. It's only until the surgery. The downside, though? The medication causes fatigue. And man, I have me some fatigue. Siiiiiiiiiiiiigh.
(Otherwise, all is well on the Mihi front, I promise.)
Sunday, November 8, 2009
Technical problems
Field's webmail system has been down all weekend.
My first-years have major drafts due tomorrow.
A few of them need to redirect their papers in ways that I made clear via email.
They cannot read my emails. They cannot reply. They cannot ask questions.
Last weekend, webmail was down on Sunday, and that was plenty annoying. But really? Two full days? I know that this is probably part of the big server migration blah blah blah I don't know what that means that's happening, but oh my God, we're worried about retention and here we are making EMAIL inaccessible to students and faculty every ten days or so.
And might I mention that this shut-down, like many of the others, was unannounced? We'll probably get a message at noon tomorrow telling us that webmail was inaccessible for a few hours over the weekend, or something. Thanks, man.
Sigh.
My first-years have major drafts due tomorrow.
A few of them need to redirect their papers in ways that I made clear via email.
They cannot read my emails. They cannot reply. They cannot ask questions.
Last weekend, webmail was down on Sunday, and that was plenty annoying. But really? Two full days? I know that this is probably part of the big server migration blah blah blah I don't know what that means that's happening, but oh my God, we're worried about retention and here we are making EMAIL inaccessible to students and faculty every ten days or so.
And might I mention that this shut-down, like many of the others, was unannounced? We'll probably get a message at noon tomorrow telling us that webmail was inaccessible for a few hours over the weekend, or something. Thanks, man.
Sigh.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
An hour a day might be too much
I composed a whole post in my head today (on my way to and from the eye doctor--it is just possible that the Endless Eye Problems of 2009 are resolved, and that I was just allergic to my new contacts) on the whole just-write-for-an-hour-a-day-and-you-will-be-an-accomplished-scholar! thing. But I don't think that I'll try to reconstruct it here. For one thing, no one is holding a gun to my head and insisting that I be an accomplished scholar right now (Field certainly isn't; I could roll into tenure with my few publications). Nor is that rhetoric actually out there to justify my 4/4; it's just trying to help carve some space for writing and to get around the excuse of not having time. So my attack was on something of a straw man.
But you know, this month has been exhausting. My talk two weeks ago went well, by the way. None of the questions were wackadoodle and it was fun to introduce people to my field. I felt poised and polished. My slides were gorgeous.
And then that weekend we went to a wedding in Northern City, and the next day my eyes (contact allergy!!!!) were so red and sore that it hurt to open them.
And then on Tuesday of that week TM had a formal dinner for eight in our home for a visiting speaker, because the only restaurant in town is Pizza Hut and so if we want our 7:30 pm speaker to have a decent meal, it's pretty much that or the dining hall. (He did all the cooking, but there was the cleaning/arranging/general hectic-ness of getting eight people into our wee dining room.)
I have no memory of Wednesday-Friday, but I'm sure it was busy.
Was that really just last week? This weekend I sort of crashed and just read for class, finished my article, cooked, and didn't grade.
Next week is a big Honors "banquet" that I'm organizing from scratch.
The day after the banquet, we're up for hosting the division meeting in our living room for the second time this semester. This means cleaning, snacks, wine, furniture rearranging. (I fully support the off-campus division meetings, but I like them best when they're in other people's homes.)
Tomorrow I'm flying to DC for this conference thingy (not presenting or anything).
I've had to grade papers from pretty much all of my classes in the last two weeks.
Spent three days conferencing with freshmen (Thurs, Fri, Mon).
Spent two afternoons watching Teacher Ed presentations (two to come next week, too).
You know I'm teaching four classes, right? As are most of you all, I know. This is not (despite appearances) a busier-than-thou post. In fact, this week--or at least today through Saturday--could almost count as a lull. But I. am. tired. So tired. I've found that I cannot be up past 10 or I am incurably cranky in the morning, and this is not fair to TM.
So what does this have to do with the hour-a-day business? Well, as I told myself in the car this afternoon, yes I sometimes have an hour to spare (although I cannot really reduce the time spent prepping my courses, as this is pretty bare-bones other than the seminar, and I think that I owe it to my students to prep well for that; and my service commitments are not optional; and I am the Honors program at this point, so that's got to keep going; and at my college, on my campus, if a student wants to meet to talk about a paper, you meet with him, although of course you can set boundaries for when that happens, but honestly some days are so booked up--for both of us--that there aren't many options other than 8 am or 4 pm; and I feel ethically bound to attend actual academic events on campus, since we have so few of those and so much that is fluff and there are so few faculty and even fewer who show up for lectures; so really those hours aren't all over the place--and no I don't watch TV, though we cram in an episode of Rome, these days, at 10pm on Saturdays when we're tired of working, and I find it hard to work on Fridays after 5, and yes we spend some time on the weekend hanging laundry and raking and cooking, but that's important; and did I mention that I'm up by 6:30 every morning? Yes I swear this isn't a busier-than-thou; I am simply very tired this week and must bitch). So Yes, I have an hour some days when I could write or read. Once in a while I even do write or read for my research.
But often, when I have an hour, I want to go to bed early because I'm exhausted, or I want to go to a yoga class, or I'd like to talk to my husband or play with the cats. (Or blog. Or, more likely, read your blogs.)
No one disagrees with me. I know.
I just have a tendency--going back to my youth, at least high school, though it was decidedly latent in college--to feel that if something could be done, I should do it. Or else I was a slacker.
So I read all the "write for an hour a day!" stuff, and I totally endorse it, and in moments of energy I embrace and proselytize.
And then I get exhausted, and stop. And I feel bad about that, like some kind of slacker.
And that's not right.
(Humor me, all. This is a long, pointless, fighting-the-straw-man whine. But I need it.) (Oh, and hey, lookee here! I composed the post I was not going to compose. Evidently I have some spare time on my hands, eh?)
And I wonder, too: How the hell do people do this with kids?
(And all the while I do genuinely love my job, in all of its parts, even comp, sometimes. I'm just...tired today. And yesterday. This week.)
(Oh, and I will not be taking my computer with me Thurs-Sat. I will take the pomo novel I'm teaching next week, and Wolf Hall, which will be pure fun, and 17 Brit Lit papers. It will rock.)
But you know, this month has been exhausting. My talk two weeks ago went well, by the way. None of the questions were wackadoodle and it was fun to introduce people to my field. I felt poised and polished. My slides were gorgeous.
And then that weekend we went to a wedding in Northern City, and the next day my eyes (contact allergy!!!!) were so red and sore that it hurt to open them.
And then on Tuesday of that week TM had a formal dinner for eight in our home for a visiting speaker, because the only restaurant in town is Pizza Hut and so if we want our 7:30 pm speaker to have a decent meal, it's pretty much that or the dining hall. (He did all the cooking, but there was the cleaning/arranging/general hectic-ness of getting eight people into our wee dining room.)
I have no memory of Wednesday-Friday, but I'm sure it was busy.
Was that really just last week? This weekend I sort of crashed and just read for class, finished my article, cooked, and didn't grade.
Next week is a big Honors "banquet" that I'm organizing from scratch.
The day after the banquet, we're up for hosting the division meeting in our living room for the second time this semester. This means cleaning, snacks, wine, furniture rearranging. (I fully support the off-campus division meetings, but I like them best when they're in other people's homes.)
Tomorrow I'm flying to DC for this conference thingy (not presenting or anything).
I've had to grade papers from pretty much all of my classes in the last two weeks.
Spent three days conferencing with freshmen (Thurs, Fri, Mon).
Spent two afternoons watching Teacher Ed presentations (two to come next week, too).
You know I'm teaching four classes, right? As are most of you all, I know. This is not (despite appearances) a busier-than-thou post. In fact, this week--or at least today through Saturday--could almost count as a lull. But I. am. tired. So tired. I've found that I cannot be up past 10 or I am incurably cranky in the morning, and this is not fair to TM.
So what does this have to do with the hour-a-day business? Well, as I told myself in the car this afternoon, yes I sometimes have an hour to spare (although I cannot really reduce the time spent prepping my courses, as this is pretty bare-bones other than the seminar, and I think that I owe it to my students to prep well for that; and my service commitments are not optional; and I am the Honors program at this point, so that's got to keep going; and at my college, on my campus, if a student wants to meet to talk about a paper, you meet with him, although of course you can set boundaries for when that happens, but honestly some days are so booked up--for both of us--that there aren't many options other than 8 am or 4 pm; and I feel ethically bound to attend actual academic events on campus, since we have so few of those and so much that is fluff and there are so few faculty and even fewer who show up for lectures; so really those hours aren't all over the place--and no I don't watch TV, though we cram in an episode of Rome, these days, at 10pm on Saturdays when we're tired of working, and I find it hard to work on Fridays after 5, and yes we spend some time on the weekend hanging laundry and raking and cooking, but that's important; and did I mention that I'm up by 6:30 every morning? Yes I swear this isn't a busier-than-thou; I am simply very tired this week and must bitch). So Yes, I have an hour some days when I could write or read. Once in a while I even do write or read for my research.
But often, when I have an hour, I want to go to bed early because I'm exhausted, or I want to go to a yoga class, or I'd like to talk to my husband or play with the cats. (Or blog. Or, more likely, read your blogs.)
No one disagrees with me. I know.
I just have a tendency--going back to my youth, at least high school, though it was decidedly latent in college--to feel that if something could be done, I should do it. Or else I was a slacker.
So I read all the "write for an hour a day!" stuff, and I totally endorse it, and in moments of energy I embrace and proselytize.
And then I get exhausted, and stop. And I feel bad about that, like some kind of slacker.
And that's not right.
(Humor me, all. This is a long, pointless, fighting-the-straw-man whine. But I need it.) (Oh, and hey, lookee here! I composed the post I was not going to compose. Evidently I have some spare time on my hands, eh?)
And I wonder, too: How the hell do people do this with kids?
(And all the while I do genuinely love my job, in all of its parts, even comp, sometimes. I'm just...tired today. And yesterday. This week.)
(Oh, and I will not be taking my computer with me Thurs-Sat. I will take the pomo novel I'm teaching next week, and Wolf Hall, which will be pure fun, and 17 Brit Lit papers. It will rock.)
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
The fine example we set
OK, really, I'm tired of this. It seems that virtually every flier that gets put up around campus--and not by students, I might add, since students have to go through a complicated process to get fliers approved and therefore don't seem to post any, ever--has some trivial but appalling spelling mistake.
To wit:
Semester after semester I try to teach my comp students that yes, there is a difference between "your" and "you're," or "there"-"their"-"they're," that getting them wrong makes you look unprofessional and sloppy, that you need to follow conventional spelling, and that proofreading is important. Is it any wonder that my weak little message doesn't sink in, when this is what their college models as acceptable communication?
Sigh. It's 8:23 in the morning, and I'm just about done.
To wit:
- "your" for "you're"
- "insite" for "insight"
- "verses" for "versus"
Semester after semester I try to teach my comp students that yes, there is a difference between "your" and "you're," or "there"-"their"-"they're," that getting them wrong makes you look unprofessional and sloppy, that you need to follow conventional spelling, and that proofreading is important. Is it any wonder that my weak little message doesn't sink in, when this is what their college models as acceptable communication?
Sigh. It's 8:23 in the morning, and I'm just about done.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
It happens so fast
Dear Students,
I fear that we have reached a certain point in the semester. You might have seen it coming, or you might have been so blinded by my encouraging smiles that it will leave you scarred and trembling beneath your desks, unable to complete your midterm papers. Those of you who've had me before, however, you know what's happened: We're at the point where I turn from a kind, cheerful, helpful teacher to an imperious bitch who hates your wretched, slimy, excuse-generating guts.*
To the student who's two and a half weeks late handing in a form:
What the hell is your problem? I see that you read my emails--the shiny red about-to-explode-with-urgency emails, the emails that tell you to PLEASE email me because I CAN HELP YOU with whatever is holding up this process. WTF? Why aren't you answering them? What is the problem, nutso? Don't you realize that not replying to me is absolutely the worst thing that you can do in this situation? You can't avoid me. I direct this program. Answer my goddamn emails al-fucking-ready.
To the slacker who sent me several emails asking for unreasonable extensions, and who replied to my lengthy explanation of why those extensions were unreasonable with a terse, "I'm sorry that my requests upset you,"
Good lord. You didn't "upset" me. You irritated me, and your sense of cheerful entitlement was rather perplexing, but I'm not "upset." Now, of course, I am a little more irritated than I was previously, so perhaps that will make you feel better? Anyway, as I clearly stated, you had plenty of time to do these assignments--and maybe if you gave me any indication that you had even acquired the books for this (literature!!!) class, I'd be more disposed to help you out.
To the 90% of my composition class who is not currently in the "A"-range,
FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, READ THE FUCKING ASSIGNMENT SHEET. How can you complete an assignment if you don't know what it is? What the hell are you writing in your drafts, anyway? And here's a tip: If I say in the prompt that you cannot use websites as sources, then you can be pretty confident that I won't accept websites as sources. Who do you think grades these papers, anyway? What's your damage? Jesus! I write out a full page (longer than most of your actual papers, btw) explaining how to complete the assignment, and all indications suggest that fewer than half of you even get through the first paragraph. My prose isn't that tortured. You can do it. One page! READ IT!!!!
And, as a special bonus, let's excoriate IT while we're at it! Dear IT,
What have you done to my webmail? Why is it so slow? It makes me want to kill myself. Really. If I am found dead, it will be your fault. I hate everything. And you did this to me.
All right.
Sigh.
Most of you are fine, really. But if you want to take any of these characters outside for a little beat-down, be my guest.
*I don't, actually. In case a reminder was needed. But this is the point where I get pretty damn irritated, and I fear that my carefully polite emails to students might reveal the rage that I, in my careful wording, am working so hard to conceal. Here, however, in the interest of therapy, I am writing the emails that I would really, truly like to send (but I'm pretty sure that I'd regret it in the morning).
I fear that we have reached a certain point in the semester. You might have seen it coming, or you might have been so blinded by my encouraging smiles that it will leave you scarred and trembling beneath your desks, unable to complete your midterm papers. Those of you who've had me before, however, you know what's happened: We're at the point where I turn from a kind, cheerful, helpful teacher to an imperious bitch who hates your wretched, slimy, excuse-generating guts.*
To the student who's two and a half weeks late handing in a form:
What the hell is your problem? I see that you read my emails--the shiny red about-to-explode-with-urgency emails, the emails that tell you to PLEASE email me because I CAN HELP YOU with whatever is holding up this process. WTF? Why aren't you answering them? What is the problem, nutso? Don't you realize that not replying to me is absolutely the worst thing that you can do in this situation? You can't avoid me. I direct this program. Answer my goddamn emails al-fucking-ready.
To the slacker who sent me several emails asking for unreasonable extensions, and who replied to my lengthy explanation of why those extensions were unreasonable with a terse, "I'm sorry that my requests upset you,"
Good lord. You didn't "upset" me. You irritated me, and your sense of cheerful entitlement was rather perplexing, but I'm not "upset." Now, of course, I am a little more irritated than I was previously, so perhaps that will make you feel better? Anyway, as I clearly stated, you had plenty of time to do these assignments--and maybe if you gave me any indication that you had even acquired the books for this (literature!!!) class, I'd be more disposed to help you out.
To the 90% of my composition class who is not currently in the "A"-range,
FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, READ THE FUCKING ASSIGNMENT SHEET. How can you complete an assignment if you don't know what it is? What the hell are you writing in your drafts, anyway? And here's a tip: If I say in the prompt that you cannot use websites as sources, then you can be pretty confident that I won't accept websites as sources. Who do you think grades these papers, anyway? What's your damage? Jesus! I write out a full page (longer than most of your actual papers, btw) explaining how to complete the assignment, and all indications suggest that fewer than half of you even get through the first paragraph. My prose isn't that tortured. You can do it. One page! READ IT!!!!
And, as a special bonus, let's excoriate IT while we're at it! Dear IT,
What have you done to my webmail? Why is it so slow? It makes me want to kill myself. Really. If I am found dead, it will be your fault. I hate everything. And you did this to me.
All right.
Sigh.
Most of you are fine, really. But if you want to take any of these characters outside for a little beat-down, be my guest.
*I don't, actually. In case a reminder was needed. But this is the point where I get pretty damn irritated, and I fear that my carefully polite emails to students might reveal the rage that I, in my careful wording, am working so hard to conceal. Here, however, in the interest of therapy, I am writing the emails that I would really, truly like to send (but I'm pretty sure that I'd regret it in the morning).
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
Could this be why I'm so grouchy?
My colleague across the hall, whom I otherwise like very much, has taken to playing hir radio ALL the time. ALL the time. Even when ze is out of the office. With hir door shut and my door shut, I can still hear the muffled muttering of the voices. Others can hear it, too, but I definitely bear the brunt of the racket.
It is driving me INSANE.
Can I say something? If so, what? (That won't make me look like the irritable control freak that I am?)
It is driving me INSANE.
Can I say something? If so, what? (That won't make me look like the irritable control freak that I am?)
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
I wrote a strongly-worded letter to my Secretary of State
I wrote this--yikes--more than a month ago. But my outrage is ever-present.
*************************************
Dear Secretary of State:
Today I received in the mail your pamphlet detailing the proposed referendum. Thank you for sending this information to the citizenry; I read it with interest, and I applaud your efforts to disseminate this material to the state’s population.
One thing concerned me about the mailing, however. The pamphlet that I received was addressed to “Residential Customer, [State].”
That word—“Customer”—has left me baffled and disturbed. In what sense am I a “customer,” either of the government or of the state? What services am I purchasing? What consumer decisions am I making by being a resident (and a voter, and, more importantly, a citizen) of [State]?
Semantics matter. The vocabulary of the marketplace is permeating our culture, and we need to ask ourselves whether this is a good thing. When the language of consumerism is applied to our political and educational systems, to social and civil services, what are the consequences? What are the costs? Although our government is elected, its actions are not “market-driven.” Citizens are not customers, consuming the product that the government supplies, their grievances dealt with by a department of customer service.
Not only does this language produce inapt metaphors, but we are not all equally empowered in the economic marketplace. Using the language of “customers” or “consumers” to describe the citizenry undermines a key tenet of our democracy: the notion that even individuals with little or no “purchasing power,” or who inhabit minority groups that do not “buy” the “product” approved by the majority, deserve recognition and a voice in our society. I therefore object strongly to your application of “customer” to the voting citizens of [State].
I truly hope that you will consider revising your mode of address in future mailings. We are not your customers. We are your citizens, and we deserve to be recognized as such.
Sincerely,
Heu Mihi, Ph.D.
Professor of English
Field College
************************************
And I don't think that it's just my increasingly curmudgeonly nature that makes me take offense at this. (I also think that this is a perfectly appropriate dropping of the "Assistant" from my title, no?)
*************************************
Dear Secretary of State:
Today I received in the mail your pamphlet detailing the proposed referendum. Thank you for sending this information to the citizenry; I read it with interest, and I applaud your efforts to disseminate this material to the state’s population.
One thing concerned me about the mailing, however. The pamphlet that I received was addressed to “Residential Customer, [State].”
That word—“Customer”—has left me baffled and disturbed. In what sense am I a “customer,” either of the government or of the state? What services am I purchasing? What consumer decisions am I making by being a resident (and a voter, and, more importantly, a citizen) of [State]?
Semantics matter. The vocabulary of the marketplace is permeating our culture, and we need to ask ourselves whether this is a good thing. When the language of consumerism is applied to our political and educational systems, to social and civil services, what are the consequences? What are the costs? Although our government is elected, its actions are not “market-driven.” Citizens are not customers, consuming the product that the government supplies, their grievances dealt with by a department of customer service.
Not only does this language produce inapt metaphors, but we are not all equally empowered in the economic marketplace. Using the language of “customers” or “consumers” to describe the citizenry undermines a key tenet of our democracy: the notion that even individuals with little or no “purchasing power,” or who inhabit minority groups that do not “buy” the “product” approved by the majority, deserve recognition and a voice in our society. I therefore object strongly to your application of “customer” to the voting citizens of [State].
I truly hope that you will consider revising your mode of address in future mailings. We are not your customers. We are your citizens, and we deserve to be recognized as such.
Sincerely,
Heu Mihi, Ph.D.
Professor of English
Field College
************************************
And I don't think that it's just my increasingly curmudgeonly nature that makes me take offense at this. (I also think that this is a perfectly appropriate dropping of the "Assistant" from my title, no?)
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
You know?
Clothes from [letter] [letter] [legume] are fine. Really. I own a couple of things--a coat, a sweater--and I like them. Sure.
But I despise their catalogues. The people in them: with their sweeping blond hair and matronly khakis, the button-down shirts tucked all the way in, reclining stiffly against a railing while smiling fondly at the antics of dogs--or laughingly trekking across a mountaintop in a sweater-set and "barn coat" (whatever that is)--the men grinning bashfully at the attractively leaf-strewn ground whilst running a hand through their tousled hair, their chinos neatly pressed and their flannel shirts well-starched--oh, they make me itch.
Yes. Okay. Had to get that out of my system.
But I despise their catalogues. The people in them: with their sweeping blond hair and matronly khakis, the button-down shirts tucked all the way in, reclining stiffly against a railing while smiling fondly at the antics of dogs--or laughingly trekking across a mountaintop in a sweater-set and "barn coat" (whatever that is)--the men grinning bashfully at the attractively leaf-strewn ground whilst running a hand through their tousled hair, their chinos neatly pressed and their flannel shirts well-starched--oh, they make me itch.
Yes. Okay. Had to get that out of my system.
Monday, November 19, 2007
More Stress than We Need
I need to get some work done tonight, so I can have a grading-free Thanksgiving, but I'd like to take a moment to register my protest of this new job-market wiki.
I mean really, what purpose does it serve? Is it helpful to know that someone else already has an MLA interview scheduled when you yourself might not? To calculate the application-to-interview ratio of a total stranger?
The job market is competitive and unpleasant enough without our encouraging one another to undergo this kind of comparison.
I had a brief--brief--moment in which I considered posting my current stats, because my current stats are actually making me really happy (I've been getting some responses). But then I looked at that impulse, and rejected it. I could post my stats, but why? So that someone else can feel sad at not having had as good a response at this point (which is totally meaningless, of course)? So that someone else can feel smug for having had a better response?
The purpose of this new wiki page eludes me. It's just another way for this process to be hateful and emotionally destructive.
My intention is to ignore it, but I'm pretty sure that I'll give in to curiosity now and again. Still, I protest this site, and will not post anything on it.
Or is there something I'm missing? Have others among you looked at this page and found it useful/interesting/not generative of self-loathing?
I mean really, what purpose does it serve? Is it helpful to know that someone else already has an MLA interview scheduled when you yourself might not? To calculate the application-to-interview ratio of a total stranger?
The job market is competitive and unpleasant enough without our encouraging one another to undergo this kind of comparison.
I had a brief--brief--moment in which I considered posting my current stats, because my current stats are actually making me really happy (I've been getting some responses). But then I looked at that impulse, and rejected it. I could post my stats, but why? So that someone else can feel sad at not having had as good a response at this point (which is totally meaningless, of course)? So that someone else can feel smug for having had a better response?
The purpose of this new wiki page eludes me. It's just another way for this process to be hateful and emotionally destructive.
My intention is to ignore it, but I'm pretty sure that I'll give in to curiosity now and again. Still, I protest this site, and will not post anything on it.
Or is there something I'm missing? Have others among you looked at this page and found it useful/interesting/not generative of self-loathing?
Friday, November 16, 2007
Two Brief Instances of Gender Prescriptivism
1. Scene: The dentist's office.
Receptionist. Where are the toothbrushes?
Hygienist. In the closet over there. The women's toothbrushes are on the bottom shelf; the men's are on the top.
Receptionist. Women's and men's?
Hygienist. I segregate 'em: the purple and pink on the bottom, the blue and green on top. Otherwise, everyone takes the blue and green--even the women--and the men are left with pink and purple. So I just separate them to make it easier.
(I, meanwhile, am being prodded and scraped by said hygienist, which makes it impossible for me to either laugh or twist my face in incredulity.)
2. Scene: The local cafe.
Woman: They have a great playground with lots of equipment, and a costume area--the boys can dress up like superheroes, and there's a princess area for the girls.
(I actually had to stifle the urge to join in the conversation at this point. How I hate, hate, hate the "princess culture" that little girls are forced into these days! And I can say with some certainty that I would have hated it as a little girl, too--I wanted to be Luke, not Leia. Or, better yet, Darth Vader. Or even a storm trooper. I was a militaristic child.)
Receptionist. Where are the toothbrushes?
Hygienist. In the closet over there. The women's toothbrushes are on the bottom shelf; the men's are on the top.
Receptionist. Women's and men's?
Hygienist. I segregate 'em: the purple and pink on the bottom, the blue and green on top. Otherwise, everyone takes the blue and green--even the women--and the men are left with pink and purple. So I just separate them to make it easier.
(I, meanwhile, am being prodded and scraped by said hygienist, which makes it impossible for me to either laugh or twist my face in incredulity.)
2. Scene: The local cafe.
Woman: They have a great playground with lots of equipment, and a costume area--the boys can dress up like superheroes, and there's a princess area for the girls.
(I actually had to stifle the urge to join in the conversation at this point. How I hate, hate, hate the "princess culture" that little girls are forced into these days! And I can say with some certainty that I would have hated it as a little girl, too--I wanted to be Luke, not Leia. Or, better yet, Darth Vader. Or even a storm trooper. I was a militaristic child.)
Friday, October 19, 2007
A freshly minted plum
I hereby declare myself officially tired of the following words and phrases:
Und so weiter. There are others. Perhaps I'll add them later. But right now I really need to be prepping for the class that starts in 36 minutes, not thinking of words I hate. Do you have anything to add?
Also, please see my preceding post and sign up for presents, please.
- freshly minted, esp. in reference to Ph.D.s*
- plum (adj.)*
- outside the box (yes, I know, everybody's been sick of this one for years, and yet apparently some people didn't get the memo)
- didn't get the memo
- create a buzz, buzzing
- student learning
- learning environment
- student-centered (thank goodness my teaching philosophy is already written, eh?)
Und so weiter. There are others. Perhaps I'll add them later. But right now I really need to be prepping for the class that starts in 36 minutes, not thinking of words I hate. Do you have anything to add?
Also, please see my preceding post and sign up for presents, please.
Friday, June 29, 2007
False History
A while ago I mentioned that a movie was being shot in my neighborhood, and that the movie people had converted an empty store into a very convincing hardware store for the shooting. Well, the movie folks are long gone, but the hardware store isn't--or rather, the contents of the store are gone but the storefront is still there.
This bothers me. Not just that the signs are still there, but that they're deliberately designed to look old--one of them even since "est. 1957." I don't feel any particular nostalgia for the actual old store. It was a liquor store with these ridiculous, semi-phallic bottles painted over the front glass. But still, it was really there; I'd been to that liquor store, it was real. This 1950s hardware store never existed. And yet the sign still hangs over the sidewalk, and the plate-glass window announces a totally fictional sale.
It's just not...real. It creates a false sense of what this neighborhood was, and has been; even if it's creating the image of a nicer, more charming and homey neighborhood than this actually is, it still isn't what existed, what was. And I've started to resent it. And to resent the Bigshot Hollywood People who didn't see fit to remove the sign they'd put up in my own neighborhood.
Okay, that last sentence was overstated, but after all hyperbole is a rhetorical tool. Effects are created. Just like 1950s hardware stores can evidently come into being ex nihilo in 2007.
Why is this bugging me?
(It's not bugging me a lot, or anything. It just feels weird to walk past this manufactured bit of "history." Someone moving into the neighborhood would believe that Hal's Hardware, A Good Place For Tools, had in fact been there in the 1950s and had maybe only recently closed. It's easy to imagine that story eventually coming to replace the real, if totally uninteresting, story of that particular shop.)
This bothers me. Not just that the signs are still there, but that they're deliberately designed to look old--one of them even since "est. 1957." I don't feel any particular nostalgia for the actual old store. It was a liquor store with these ridiculous, semi-phallic bottles painted over the front glass. But still, it was really there; I'd been to that liquor store, it was real. This 1950s hardware store never existed. And yet the sign still hangs over the sidewalk, and the plate-glass window announces a totally fictional sale.
It's just not...real. It creates a false sense of what this neighborhood was, and has been; even if it's creating the image of a nicer, more charming and homey neighborhood than this actually is, it still isn't what existed, what was. And I've started to resent it. And to resent the Bigshot Hollywood People who didn't see fit to remove the sign they'd put up in my own neighborhood.
Okay, that last sentence was overstated, but after all hyperbole is a rhetorical tool. Effects are created. Just like 1950s hardware stores can evidently come into being ex nihilo in 2007.
Why is this bugging me?
(It's not bugging me a lot, or anything. It just feels weird to walk past this manufactured bit of "history." Someone moving into the neighborhood would believe that Hal's Hardware, A Good Place For Tools, had in fact been there in the 1950s and had maybe only recently closed. It's easy to imagine that story eventually coming to replace the real, if totally uninteresting, story of that particular shop.)
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
I cannot be satisfied
I've been in the library for 2 hours (2 to go!), and I am freezing. Freezing! The brassy 92-degree heat outside is looking kind of appealing....
Oh, and do people not keep their voices down in libraries anymore? I just had to listen to a woman pace around the stacks talking on her cell phone for the last 15 minutes. And now I hear some other, rather shrill voice--although judging by the level of shrillness, it might be that of a small child. Still. As a small child, I was told to shut up in libraries. Or is it because it's the summer and no one thinks that anyone else is around?
--Okay, I just spotted the child, and she's like 7. Unacceptable!
Oh, and do people not keep their voices down in libraries anymore? I just had to listen to a woman pace around the stacks talking on her cell phone for the last 15 minutes. And now I hear some other, rather shrill voice--although judging by the level of shrillness, it might be that of a small child. Still. As a small child, I was told to shut up in libraries. Or is it because it's the summer and no one thinks that anyone else is around?
--Okay, I just spotted the child, and she's like 7. Unacceptable!
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
In which I anatomize various tedious general-audience films.
I spend a lot of time on buses, owing to the fact that my partner lives about 4 hours away. Two years of generous fellowships from my university have allowed me to be the primary commuter, going to visit him twice a month for almost a week at a time. It's a great arrangement, with the only major drawback being the 16 hours a month that I must therefore spend on the bus.
On this particular bus circuit, they usually show a movie. Now, while I'm well aware of my further good fortune in having built-in entertainment (I can't read on buses or in cars without feeling sick), after a year and a half of these journeys I feel that I've earned the right to complain, at length, about the selection of movies to which I have been exposed. I certainly understand that the bus companies have to select films that will be appropriate for younger viewers, although I've never actually seen a child on any of these bus trips--which is odd, now that I think of it. But really, these movies are, by and large, SO BAD. Perhaps most child-acceptable movies are just terrible. I don't know.
Anyway, on my most recent journey, I was subjected to a film about soccer enthusiasts in the early twentieth century. I have no idea what actually happened in this movie, since the sound at my seat was mercifully broken, but it got me thinking about how most of the bus movies I've seen fall into one of several, rather limited, categories. The categories, with approximate distribution percentages, are as follows:
1) romantic comedies (10%)
2) movies about an intense affective bond between a human and
an animal (10%)
3) miscellaneous--e.g. "Akeelah and the Bee," "Big Fish" (10%)
The remaning 70% are about evenly split between the following:
4) cartoons about baby animals seeking the approval of their fathers
(35%)
5) tales of Impassioned Athletes of Yore (35%).
Category 4, which constitutes a recurrent theme in animated children's movies, is pretty weird. For one thing, the baby animals' mothers are almost always absent (and usually unmentioned), in order for the baby-father relationship to be as uncluttered as possible, I guess. "Chicken Little" and "Wild" (which I've now seen twice) are the most recent contributions to this category.
The fifth category--Impassioned Athletes of Yore--is the one into which the soccer movie falls. These are far and away the most tedious films to which I've ever submitted. They all seem to have essentially the same cast of characters: old men who dispense wisdom, young men who seek to excell at X boring sport despite the totally uninteresting odds that are apparently stacked against them, middle-aged men who scratch their chins and scrutinize the young hopefuls on the field. Because this is Yore, there are no female athletes,* but there's usually a Woman To Be Won who is, for whatever reason, out of the Impassioned Athlete's league and who spends a lot of time cheering discreetly on the sidelines. And, of course, there's always a Supportive Mother to balance out the inevitable Discouraging Father (whose approval, incidentally, Impassioned Athlete craves).
The worst of these of movies--which I have seen three times, although I only turned on the sound at essay no. 3--was an atrocious two-and-a-half-hour golf flick set in early-20th-century Boston. The young golf enthusiast has a cantankerous working-class Discouraging Father with an outrageous French accent, and a rapturous Supportive Mother with an outrageous Irish accent. "Oh, Francis," she would swoon, clasping her hands together at her bosom, "that was glawrious, Francis, glawrious!"
The sheer badness of these movies wouldn't be so distressing if it weren't for the fact that I feel strangely compelled to watch them (unless, as was the case last time, the sound doesn't work at my seat. Despite my strategically positioning myself to have a good view of one of the monitors, I'm always somewhat relieved when that happens). On the other hand, at this point, disliking these movies and categorizing the reasons for my dislike have become a sort of hobby. Some good comes out of everything, right?
*I rather enjoyed "Bend It Like Beckham," so this isn't an anti-sport prejudice on my part pure and simple.
On this particular bus circuit, they usually show a movie. Now, while I'm well aware of my further good fortune in having built-in entertainment (I can't read on buses or in cars without feeling sick), after a year and a half of these journeys I feel that I've earned the right to complain, at length, about the selection of movies to which I have been exposed. I certainly understand that the bus companies have to select films that will be appropriate for younger viewers, although I've never actually seen a child on any of these bus trips--which is odd, now that I think of it. But really, these movies are, by and large, SO BAD. Perhaps most child-acceptable movies are just terrible. I don't know.
Anyway, on my most recent journey, I was subjected to a film about soccer enthusiasts in the early twentieth century. I have no idea what actually happened in this movie, since the sound at my seat was mercifully broken, but it got me thinking about how most of the bus movies I've seen fall into one of several, rather limited, categories. The categories, with approximate distribution percentages, are as follows:
1) romantic comedies (10%)
2) movies about an intense affective bond between a human and
an animal (10%)
3) miscellaneous--e.g. "Akeelah and the Bee," "Big Fish" (10%)
The remaning 70% are about evenly split between the following:
4) cartoons about baby animals seeking the approval of their fathers
(35%)
5) tales of Impassioned Athletes of Yore (35%).
Category 4, which constitutes a recurrent theme in animated children's movies, is pretty weird. For one thing, the baby animals' mothers are almost always absent (and usually unmentioned), in order for the baby-father relationship to be as uncluttered as possible, I guess. "Chicken Little" and "Wild" (which I've now seen twice) are the most recent contributions to this category.
The fifth category--Impassioned Athletes of Yore--is the one into which the soccer movie falls. These are far and away the most tedious films to which I've ever submitted. They all seem to have essentially the same cast of characters: old men who dispense wisdom, young men who seek to excell at X boring sport despite the totally uninteresting odds that are apparently stacked against them, middle-aged men who scratch their chins and scrutinize the young hopefuls on the field. Because this is Yore, there are no female athletes,* but there's usually a Woman To Be Won who is, for whatever reason, out of the Impassioned Athlete's league and who spends a lot of time cheering discreetly on the sidelines. And, of course, there's always a Supportive Mother to balance out the inevitable Discouraging Father (whose approval, incidentally, Impassioned Athlete craves).
The worst of these of movies--which I have seen three times, although I only turned on the sound at essay no. 3--was an atrocious two-and-a-half-hour golf flick set in early-20th-century Boston. The young golf enthusiast has a cantankerous working-class Discouraging Father with an outrageous French accent, and a rapturous Supportive Mother with an outrageous Irish accent. "Oh, Francis," she would swoon, clasping her hands together at her bosom, "that was glawrious, Francis, glawrious!"
The sheer badness of these movies wouldn't be so distressing if it weren't for the fact that I feel strangely compelled to watch them (unless, as was the case last time, the sound doesn't work at my seat. Despite my strategically positioning myself to have a good view of one of the monitors, I'm always somewhat relieved when that happens). On the other hand, at this point, disliking these movies and categorizing the reasons for my dislike have become a sort of hobby. Some good comes out of everything, right?
*I rather enjoyed "Bend It Like Beckham," so this isn't an anti-sport prejudice on my part pure and simple.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)