Running for cover

I teach at a university where many students don’t have a mailing address. Fewer have email addresses. So at the end very semester, grades (often handwritten are) are passed out individually. If students are unable to pick them up, they can stop by in at the beginning of the fall semester in September or October. During the next week students will decide whether to accept the grades or, for about $4.50, have the grades reviewed in hopes of receiving a higher grade. Rather than going to a committee which would determine whether the grade was fair based on examination of the student’s quizzes, homework and exams, the appeal consists of a group of people double-checking the professor’s math. At no point is the student allowed to present evidence, question the teacher or in any way explain why the grade should be changed. The student isn’t even allowed to look at his/her final exam. If the appeal is successful, the student’s money is refunded. Grade changes are rare.

Even with the cards obviously being in favor of the teacher, most will stay away from campus for the next week. It’s a conflict avoidance thing. Those who do come in to work on summer projects will hide within the confines of their offices, scurrying from doorway to doorway hoping to avoid detection by their students. We look like rodents peeking out of our tunnels, watching the skies for predators which might swoop down on us at any moment.

Suddenly I have a craving for cheese…

Me, A Heart Breaker???

While walking across campus today I was stopped by a young man who, after inquiring about my health and the health of my family, my summer and the weather, began to explain that "My heart is breaking because of you." While slightly flattered but more disturbed by the comment, I needed an explanation. You see, I am straight, married and hopelessly in love with my partner.

After discussing the concern in my office with the door open (a must whenever a conversation with a student might involve matters of the hear), it became clear that his heartbreak had nothing to do with my khaki pants, Cub Scouts conditioned sense of humour (all my jokes, even now, come from old issues of Boy's Life - the official publication of the Scouts), or flatlander accent. It was all about the grade the young man had just recieved in his sophomore English class.

Yes, I'm a hard grader. At Eureka College I frequently heard from students that I expected too much from them or that I required too much work from them. My papers were written on obscure topics or bizarre comparisons ("Compare one of the central characters in Death of a Salesman to your favorite Neal Patrick Harris mini-series character). I would often spend more time grading a paper than most students spent writing it. I would take some degree of pleasure in writing essay questions that even I wasn't sure how to answer. But since moving to Africa, my standards have fallen significantly. Spelling is overrated. Grammer is just an artificial construct of rules. Sentence and paragraph structures should be fluid and fit into a jellyfish shaped outline. So it is a surprise when students complain to me about grades.

But here is does make a difference...sort of. If a student is removed from the university or simply never attends, he or she immediately begins working for the government. This could mean a job with the post office or telephone company but it also could mean teaching highschool in a village ten hours from home. Or it might get you a spot on the front lines digging trenches in 100 degree heat. It certainly would mean something more difficult than sitting in a classroom listening to some American or Indian talk about the beauty of language.

But it is only a delay. When a student does graduate, his or her fate is the same. In this case they may be digging trenches with a diploma in hand. A 3.75 doesn't keep the sun off your back any more than a 2.0 or a highschool certificate. After 18 months or two years or six years a person is released and typically placed or directed to a job a bit more suited to his or her degree. Usually.

And my grades are justified. Walking into the final all my students should be aware of what grade they will likely recieve. My syllabus is clear, my scale is defined, my requirements are logically explained. Objective and "fair" (whatever that means).

So I guess I really shouldn't feel guilty about being such a heart breaker.

Altered Perspective

This morning while on the phone I had one of those Santa Claus epiphanies. Or maybe it was more like learning that Pete Rose gambled on baseball. Or that the "Sunday Morning" guy had a secret family nobody knew about until he died.

It's tough when your perspective about someone is shattered but even more so when you realize who else is being hurt. I was bothered that Jesse Jackson had an affair not because I like Jesse Jackson or because I thought he was an exceptionally good man. I was bothered those years ago because I was thinking about his wife and if he had kids and what it would be like for them when they went to school. I wondered how much of their life together she also questioned. I thought about those people who did look to him as a moral role model.

People with secrets can claim they were decieved into decieving or that the lies they told were necessary or sacrificing. They can blame addictions or events in their past or chemical imabalances. And I do sympathize and accept that sometimes people have little control over their own thoughts or actions. But it still hurts.

I'm thankful that my wife has nothing to hide from me. Neither of us have the time or energy to be deceptive. We're barely smart enough to correctly spell charade - I know we could never pull one off.

When a perspective-altering event occurs, it's tough not to rewrite history or second guess past actions of the individual...

I don't know where else this needs to go...

So much for writing a blog saying why Pete Rose should be allowed into the Hall of Fame!?!

Money for Nuttin'

I feel like I need to start by saying that I am a skeptic about anything on the Web proclaiming "free" or "money" but I do think this site put out by the State of Illinois is worth looking into. Cash Dash is where financial institutions go when they can't find you. The government will require some paperwork but eventully you'll get your money. I found it when I was looking for my sister's blog and realized she had money owed her (or at least to her husband).

I haven't found anything due me but I think Ken B. has between $10 and $100 owed to him.

Let me know if you have any luck. I may even waive my finder's fee.

For Wafflers Only

This will make no sense to anyone who does not use a waffle maker.

My overly-simplistic global division of people is that there are waffle makers who pour in too much batter (thus, spilling batter out the sides of the waffle maker) and those of us who pour in too little (thus leaving underdeveloped half waffles with holes). I don't like having to clean up the goo. I suppose those in the other waffle camp have something against imperfection.

And I guess there are those who simply pop an Eggo into the toaster instead.

I dunno. It's just a theory.

Blessing others on accident

Sometimes Christ's love shines through me in spite of me. Last night was one of those times.

Duane (another American) and I teach a spoken English class at the university together. Since there are only six students in it we decided it'd be nice to have them over for an end of the year meal. I didn't think much of it since Amanda and I had done the same thing in Eureka for a couple of classes. But I guess it did mean something to them.

After the simple meal of local food, one of the students stood up to present us each with a gift from the class. What they gave us didn't matter; what he said did:

The night before Christ died, he invited his friends to share meal with him. This was the
most intimate connection he could offer them. Thank you for inviting us into your home.

I hadn't thought about the fact that most of these students had never been invited into a teacher's home before. None had ever been invited to the home of a forengi before. I didn't think it was going to be meaningfull or significant or important in any way. Now I wish I had invited them earlier.

I thought it was just a meal. To them it was a blessing.