Thankfulness

You’re burned out already.  You don’t normally feel this way until at least mid-March.  But this semester has been particularly trying.  You only feel a slight relief at the prospect of a few days off for Thanksgiving.

About half of your Wednesday evening section bothers to show up.  While you expected this, it galls you nevertheless.  Not even having a writing assignment due this week was enough to pull them in. 

You find their logic for missing a whole week’s material baffling.  And they’re not the only ones; the campus has been a ghost town all week.  Basically, these students have decided to parlay a single-day celebration into a seven-day weekend.  These are the same kids who, in a couple of weeks, will angrily demand to know why they’re not getting an A in the course.

Those “knowledge explorers” who have deigned to attend walk up to your desk to hand in their papers.  Inevitably, half of them will bring loose leaf papers to you and ask if you have a stapler.

“No, I don’t have a stapler.  Just like I didn’t have one the last time you asked.  If you can afford that new iPhone you’re always playing with in class, you can afford basic school supplies.  Like a stapler.”

Karen is at the front of the line.  Karen’s a cheerful young lady who brightens the classroom on those days she decides to show up.

“Here’s my paper, Mr. Scholar!  See, I stapled it this time!”

“That’s great, Karen.  Thank you.”  Karen doesn’t move along.  “Is there something you want to tell me, Karen?”

Karen hesitates, then chirps, “I can’t stay!  My grandparents are coming from out of town for Thanksgiving!  I’m so excited I couldn’t pay attention anyway!”  She consoles your obvious disapproval by placing a cupcake on your desk.  “I baked these today!” she gushes.  “See, it has a smiley face on it!”

“That’s very thoughtful of you, Karen.  I’ll see you next week.”

“Oh, I knew you’d understand!  Happy Thanksgiving!”  With that, Karen traipses happily out the door.  Hers will be the only holiday wishes you’ll receive from your students.

Jonah shuffles up next, dressed despite the cold weather in his customary athletic shorts and sleeveless T-shirt.  Jonah is a stocky boy with a head of closely-cropped black bristles that remind you of a porcupine’s quills.  “Mr. Scholar?”

“How may I help you, Jonah?”

“Uh, I scratched my eye today.  I have…pinkeye.  And I lost one of my contacts.  So, I won’t be able to stay in class, you know?”

Yes, you know.  “Okay, Jonah.  It’s up to you.  See you next week.”

Jonah disappears.  You hear a grunt from the figure lurking over your left shoulder.  You turn.  “Yes, Toby?”

“Uh-h-h-h-h…Jacob can’t make it tonight.  Family gathering.  Here’s his paper.”

Jacob Feldman is the skinny, garrulous little shit who sits in the dead middle of the front row, like Toby one of the gifted and talented kids from the high school.  You’re privately relieved to be deprived of his company this week.  You only wish Toby had decided on getting an early jump on the holiday as well.

Six thirty rolls around.  You peer balefully at the smattering of students scattered among the room’s empty seats.  You call for their attention.

“Okay, let’s get started.  Thank you all for honoring me with your presence this evening.”

Toby clears his throat and raises his hand.  “Yes, Toby?”

“How come we’re having class tonight?  It’s Thanksgiving.”

“Thanksgiving’s tomorrow.”

“But all my other classes were cancelled this week.  Even the important ones like yoga and macramé weaving!”

“And your point is…”

“Dean Kimpossible said professors could cancel class this week.”

“Dean Kimpossible isn’t teaching this class.”

“Kimpossible is a family friend,” scowls Toby.  You wonder if Toby’s dad is the kind of guy who says he knows the chief of police to get out of a speeding ticket.  Probably.

“We’re having class, Toby.”  You notice a strained tone creeping into your voice as the vivid image of waylaying this entitled little prick after class and bashing his brains in flashes through your mind.   This is worrisome; normally the homicidal fantasies don’t kick in until about February.  “Of course, you’re free to leave if the idea offends you.”

Toby replies by deepening his scowl as he slouches down further in his chair.

“Great!  Let’s get started,” you say with an enthusiasm you haven’t felt since the first week of the semester (and really not even then).

About ten minutes in, the door opens and Claire scurries inside.  Claire is another of the high schoolers, a slight, dark-haired girl who speaks so rarely that for a while you suspected she was mute.  Her quietude is her best quality, one for which you are willing to excuse her tenuous relationship with punctuality.

“Hi, Claire.  Thanks for stopping by.”  Claire manages a faint, strained smile as she takes a seat in the back. 

As class drags on, you ponder on the hard-won education you worked so diligently for, paying your way with a string of lousy minimum wage jobs and still graduating in four years, prevailing despite the skepticism (and sometimes outright hostility) of your poor, culturally stunted, and intellectually benighted family.  You think back on your anticipation each semester of studying even subjects outside your major, even the general ed classes nobody liked, and you remember feeling privileged having the chance to learn them.

You contrast this with the worldview of your own students.  The affluent kids attending Snowflake accept college as a given in their lives, just another stepping stone toward an inevitable future of material abundance and smug complacency.  You’re not sure whether they’re better or worse than the troglodytic proles jamming the classrooms at Verdant Fields, who were suckered by its marketing hook that the education it purports to offer will magically transform their dreary lives no matter how dimwitted and unmotivated they may be.

Meanwhile, the customary fifteen-minute mid-class break has failed to bolster spirits…theirs or yours.  Unable to bear the morose stares of your charges any longer, you opt to end class a half-hour early.  You tell yourself that it’s for your own convenience and not theirs, but it’s undoubtedly mutual.  Suddenly energized, they rise from their seats and begin pushing towards the door.

You hear a grunt from the figure lurking over your left shoulder.  You turn.  “Yes, Toby?”

“Uh-h-h-h, I won’t be here next week.”

Like I actually give a crap, you think.  “All right, Toby.  The final is the week after.  You’ll need to be here.”

“Okay-y-y-y…”

“Bring a Scantron form and a #2 pencil.”

“Okay-y-y-y…”

“Goodbye, Toby.”

Toby mumbles unintelligibly and ambles out the door.  You catch sight of another student in your peripheral vision.  Claire silently hands you her paper with a tentative, crooked smile.  Naturally, it’s unstapled.

“Thank you, Claire.”  You try your best to sound sincere and somehow manage to pull it off.  Claire follows Toby out the door without a word. 

Inside of a minute, the classroom is empty but for you. You savor the stillness for a brief moment, shuffle papers into your briefcase, and turn off the lights as you exit.   

Walking to your car, you promise yourself you won’t even look at their papers until Monday.

© 2013 The Unassuming Scholar