Franz Ferdinand, RIP

On this day in 1914, young Gavrilo Princip shot and killed Austrian archduke Franz Ferdinand and his wife on a Sarajevo street, ushering in the twentieth century nightmare from which we have yet to awaken.

I'm Still Here...

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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

Reality TV (Or, Millennial Hospital)

While channel surfing, I stumbled upon the latest reality TV abomination: MTV’s Scrubbing In.  The show follows a gaggle of bimbo (and himbo) traveling nurses working at an Orange County hospital.  

I couldn’t bear to watch.  I much prefer a little playlet I posted a while back about the future of medicine, which seems to have arrived sooner than anticipated.  Here it is again, for your reading pleasure:

I have this recurring scenario which runs through my head whenever I think of the day when I must entrust my health to today’s youth.  It goes something like this: I’m undergoing a major procedure, let’s say open heart surgery.  My life depends upon a successful outcome.  And the next-oldest person in the OR is twenty years my junior…

Scene: The Operating Room. 

Time: The not-so-distant future. 

The PATIENT is already prepped and on the table.  Enter DR. CHELSEA, DR. TIFFANY, DR. TODD, NURSE BRITNEY, and NURSE JOSH.

DR. CHELSEA

 Dr. Todd, is the patient anaesthetized and ready?

DR. TODD

Yeah, we good.

DR. TIFFANY

Wait…Chelsea, have you, like, ever done this procedure before?  Do you even know what to do?

DR. CHELSEA

(Scoffs)

Huh, yeah!  I totally looked it up on Wikipedia!

  

DR. TIFFANY

Oh, wow! That’s such a great idea!  I’m so doing that next time!

DR. CHELSEA

(Smugly)

Yeah, well, that’s why I was first in my medical school class!

(Turns to NURSE BRITNEY)

Scalpel, please. 

(NURSE BRITNEY seems distracted as she hands DR. CHELSEA the scalpel.)

What’s wrong, Britney?

  

NURSE BRITNEY

(Tearfully, her voice quavering…)

It’s Dr. Jared.  He…he…unfriended me on Facebook!  I…I…just don’t know what to d-d-do…

(NURSE BRITNEY’s voice trails off into a sob.  She buries her face in her hands.  DR. CHELSEA, overcome with shock, suddenly drops the scalpel.  It lands with a clatter on the instrument tray.)

DR. CHELSEA and DR. TIFFANY

(In unison…)

Oh…my…god!!!  What a jerk!

  

DR. TODD

(Scoffing)

Huh, Jared!  What a pantload!  You could do way better.

  

NURSE BRITNEY

(Sniffles, smiles behind her facemask)

Thanks, guys!

NURSE JOSH

(Abruptly, in an alarmed tone)

Aw, dude!  Check it out!  The patient’s vitals are slipping!

  

DR.  CHELSEA

(She is clearly annoyed by the interruption)

Josh, WTF!  Can’t you see Britney’s upset?  Stop being such an asshole, okay?

  

NURSE JOSH

I’m just sayin’…

DR. TIFFANY

 Yeah, well, save it for later.  The patient’s not going anywhere.  And Britney’s hurting now!

(There is a loud, steady tone as the PATIENT suddenly flatlines.  DR. CHELSEA turns around, clearly agitated.)

DR. CHELSEA

What now? Can’t this guy leave us the hell alone for two seconds?

NURSE JOSH

Aw, weak!  He’s dead!

DR. TODD

What a dick!  He could’ve at least waited a coupla minutes before bailin’ on us.

  

DR. TIFFANY

Hey, wait, this means we’re done for the day!  Let’s go out tonight!

  

DR.  CHELSEA

Omigod, that’s great!  I just bought a low-cut dress that totally shows off my new tattoo!

(DRS. CHELSEA and TIFFANY grasp each other by both hands.  They jump up and down in unison)

Omigod!  Omigod!  Omigod!  A-i-i-i-e-e-e-e-e!

NURSE BRITNEY

And let’s go to the beach tomorrow!  I just got a new thong and a bikini wax!  I am so ready to forget Jared and meet some new guys!

(DRS. CHELSEA and TIFFANY begin jumping and squealing again.  NURSE BRITNEY joins in)

DR. TODD

(Jerks his thumb toward the now deceased PATIENT)

Uh, what about this choad over here?

DR. CHELSEA

(Sighs disgustedly, snapping off her surgical gloves)

Oh, him.  I don’t know…just call it, already.

(Exit DRS. CHELSEA and TIFFANY and NURSE BRITNEY, shaking their heads in annoyance at having been inconvenienced)

DR. TODD

(Motions toward NURSE JOSH)

Dude, like, cover him up or something!

(NURSE JOSH carelessly throws the sheet over the PATIENT’S head)

So, like, what’re you doin’ tonight?

NURSE JOSH

I’m goin’ to a rager over at my cousin’s place.  He’s got this DJ playin’ there, name’s DJ Spazzz.

DR. TODD

Yeh-yeh-yeh!  I heard of him! 

NURSE JOSH

Yeh-yeh-yeh!  This dude’s, like, off the chain, yo!  You comin’?

DR. TODD

Ai’ight!

NURSE JOSH

S-w-e-e-e-t!  We outta here!

(DR. TODD and NURSE JOSH pull out their phones and begin texting intently as they amble towards the door.  Exeunt.  Fade to black…)

Fade to black, indeed…

© 2013 The Unassuming Scholar

Getting Away with It

So much for building a (nearly) perfect mousetrap.  Whilst grading a stack of written assignments, I discovered two which were clearly plagiarized.

I’d thought I was being clever with the assignment.  I had become weary of reading atrociously written research papers, so I came up with an alternative: Students were to choose two vocabulary terms from a list of six, define each term, and give a brief example of how the concepts work in real life.  Maximum length: One-and-a-half pages.  Double-spaced.  In 12-point font.

Three of these assignments make up the course writing requirement.  I thought it would preserve a degree of academic rigor for the serious students and prove a doable project for the rest.  The change has worked reasonably well in my classes at Snowflake College, where the students may be snotty, entitled brats but who are nonetheless capable of writing a coherent paper.

It’s been a different story at the school where I moonlight a couple of nights a week.  Verdant Fields Community College is an urban campus in Hickstown, a mid-sized city an hour’s drive from home.  Roughly three-quarters of the students are enrolled, if only nominally, in vocational training programs.  Since the liberal arts course I teach is required for graduation, I have a captive audience.

Verdant Fields' student body is largely made up of folks for whom the American Dream is an ever-elusive mirage.  Too many of them have been unsuccessful in their schooling up to this point, and yet somehow expect community college to be an entirely different experience.  A fair proportion of them suffer from diagnosed learning disabilities.  Many more seem to have undiagnosed learning disabilities.  I suspect a few suffer from some sort of emotional imbalance.

Each semester, I stand in front of a motley assortment of erstwhile high school fuck-ups, heavyset, prematurely aged single moms, inbred trailer park mutts, recovering alcoholics and assorted other species of addict, the occasional paroled felon, and, if the gods are smiling upon me, a handful of aspiring four-year transfer students leavened with the chance “mature” student possessing common sense, intelligence, and life experience.

Effective teaching in such a setting is a challenge for even the most skilled instructor, which I do not claim to be.  I quickly learned that a straight-up lecture class would not work.  The natives got restless pretty quickly.   

And so, I began to employ what the hacks at the teaching and learning center refer to as “active learning” techniques.  What this actually means is that I came up with ways to distract the children so I could teach the real students.   Group work, case studies, and role-playing classroom games have become my survival strategy…and it works!  Not to mention the fact that my student evaluations have improved substantially.  I even got the department’s teaching award last year.  Heck, I’ve had students tell me they chose my class because of my stellar ratings on That Website Which Shall Not Be Named.  (As a matter of principle, I steadfastly refuse to verify this.)

The downside of my new program is that my self-respect has been diminished.  I am fighting to stay afloat in the new educational marketplace where the student customer is king.  Whenever I find myself confronted with dishonest students, I get a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.  It shouldn’t be this way.  It should be the other way around; the students should be anxious.  But I know from bitter past experience that I’m going to be the one in the hot seat.

Inevitably, the cheating students, instead of being ashamed of having plagiarized, will react with indignation.  (Never mind that in each case, nearly the entire content of the paper had been cut and pasted from the internet.  As if I wouldn’t be suspicious after reading grammatical, well-reasoned responses from two morons who can barely write their own names.) 

Next, I will be threatened with being reported to the department chair for having dared single them out.  (Once upon a time, it would have been the professor making the threat along with a promise of certain expulsion for academic dishonesty.) 

In the end, in spite of their bristling and blustering to escape the consequences of their actions, the students will take a failing grade on the assignment.  (And I will have a strained discussion with the chair in which his assurances of support for my actions will be shaded by a strong implication that I am somehow at fault.)

I can’t help but tie this phenomenon, as with so much of what I see around me, to the moral hazard of the neoliberal age.  Higher ed is now part of the larger shell game the powerful play with the powerless.  College has become but a credentialing vehicle.  No matter how humble the vocation, a growing number require some kind of degree or certificate.  In other words, postsecondary training has become a barrier to entry into a workforce where good jobs are harder and harder to find. 

Both instructors and students are thus locked into a scheme which practically encourages shortcuts.  We are pressured to pass students who either can’t benefit from higher education or are unmotivated to work hard in the interest of maintaining enrollment and guaranteeing “student success” (i.e., persistence and graduation) numbers.  They, with some exceptions, mostly try to get the highest grade while doing as little work as possible. 

I reassure myself that the kind of students who plagiarize probably won’t get very far in school or in life.  And it’s true.  Most simply lack the intelligence and work ethic.  For all the extravagant promises made by its public relations flacks that attending Verdant Fields will transform their lives, for all their hopes of being underwater brain surgeons, their lot in life will be to drift aimlessly from low wage job to low wage job, overwhelmed by debt, seeking solace in alcohol, drugs, and transitory relationships, existing in a mental twilight without the least glimmer of insight into themselves or the world that produced them.               

I know I should feel some compassion for my two miscreants, and in an abstract, impersonal way I do.  But next week, those cheating little shits are going to pay.

© 2013 The Unassuming Scholar

Four Little Girls

Even the casual visitor to this blog will notice that I have a penchant for observing significant anniversaries.  This one is especially poignant.

Fifty years ago today, members of the Ku Klux Klan detonated a bomb at the 16^th Street Baptist Church in Birmingham, Alabama.  The bombing marked the climax of the Klan’s terror campaign against the city’s African-American residents generally and civil rights activism in particular.  16^th Street Baptist was at the center of Birmingham’s civil rights struggle in the early 1960s and was a natural target for white supremacist violence.

Although Robert “Dynamite Bob” Chambliss, the Klan ringleader in the bombing, claimed the bomb was meant to go off before that morning’s service when the church was unoccupied, the blast killed four girls attending Sunday school in the church basement.  Addie Mae Collins, Cynthia Wesley, Carole Robertson, and Denise McNair perished. Nearly two dozen more people were injured.

The bombing focused the world’s attention on Birmingham, a city with a white establishment determined to postpone desegregation as long as possible.  The prosecution of the bombers, whose identities were known early on, did not take place until fourteen years after the fact.  Bill Baxley, Alabama’s young Attorney General, had been horrified by the act and once in office made a concerted effort to bring the bombers to account.

Chambliss went to prison in 1978, where he died seven years later.  It took much longer to bring in his accomplices.  Bobby Frank Cherry and Thomas Blanton were finally convicted in 2001.  Cherry died in prison in 2004.  Herman Frank Cash escaped justice altogether, dying in 1994.  It took a good deal of courage for witnesses to come forward, even years later.  The late Rev. Petric J. Smith was a key witness at the trial of his uncle, Robert Chambliss.  Following the trial Smith was forced to leave Birmingham for good.  Had the trial taken place today, it’s quite possible he still would have been run out of town.  The New South may appear to have shed the darker burdens of its past, but the old attitudes lurk beneath the surface.

The memory of the 16^th Street Baptist Church bombing persists in our collective consciousness, albeit tenuously.  As our leaders are so fond of reminding us, we live under the constant threat of terror.  We should remember that on so many occasions in our history, we victimized our own. 

© 2013 The Unassuming Scholar

Remembering the March on Washington

As we look back today on the fiftieth anniversary of the March on Washington and Martin Luther King, Jr.’s landmark “I Have a Dream” speech, PBS is airing the documentary The March.  It’s viewable online at http://video.pbs.org/video/2365069476/.