4:45 p.m. – I arrive on campus, ease my car
into a parking spot, and head into the classroom building. The building’s quiet as there aren’t many
people about for the day classes. The
admin assistant at the front desk waves hello to me as I walk in.
5:00 – The start of my office hour. I come in a few minutes earlier than usual
because a student emailed me earlier in the day. He has to meet with me before class—it’s urgent, he tells me. No problem, I reply. I’ll be glad to meet with you.
5:15 – No sign of the student. I’ve checked my email and reviewed my class
notes for the evening. I turn my
attention to a few remaining homework assignments from last week that need
grading.
5:35 – The last of the papers are
marked. Still no sign of the
student. I begin to aimlessly surf the
web. A You Tube clip briefly holds my
attention.
5:40 – I’ve given up on the student coming
in. The afternoon lull has begun to lift
as daylight fades and students and faculty arrive for evening classes. A light snow is falling outside, and a narrow
band of white begins to frame the borders of my office window. I watch transfixed as the snow falls past.
5:55 – There’s quite a bit of activity
now. My office is next to the faculty
work room, and the sounds of footsteps, muffled voices, opening and closing
doors, and the whir of the copier meld into an amorphous drone. Aroused from my window gazing reverie, I halfheartedly
start a game of blackjack on my computer.
6:10 – Time to head to class. With a resigned sigh I gather my books and
papers, lock my office, and walk down the hall.
6:12 – The classroom seems rather empty, with
maybe eight or ten people lolling in their seats. There are officially 27 students in the
section. Four or five went AWOL weeks
ago and I don’t even count them as part of the class anymore. Shaking my head, I switch on the classroom
computer, load my presentation, and arrange my notes.
6:14 – The student who just had to see me
during my office hour shuffles in. I ask
him why he didn’t stop by. He shrugs
listlessly and sits down. A few more
people file in behind him and take their seats.
6:15 – The appointed class start time. As I open with this week’s announcements, I’m
interrupted by a clutch of stragglers.
They’re impervious to my dirty stare.
I hand back last week’s homework and collect
this week’s papers from those who bothered to write them. Despite the generally lackluster quality of
the submissions, I attempt to put a positive spin on things: “I’ve noticed a
substantial improvement in your essays,” or something like that.
6:20 – Announcements made and homework
returned, I begin my lecture. As I
speak, my eyes survey the class. It’s a
fairly typical cross-section of Snowflake College’s “knowledge explorers.” There are a few “mature learners” (i.e.,
those older than 25), as well as a couple of high school students earning
college credits. The quotidian
demographic are the ones commonly referred to as “millennials.”
In the front row, to my left, are Jeremy and
Matt. While I find both of them excruciatingly
annoying, Jeremy is by far the more abrasive.
Not that I fully grudge him his shortcomings. I, too, was once eighteen, spotty-faced, and
childish. The main difference is that I
didn’t disrupt my professors’ lectures with inane chatter unrelated to the
class. Matt is quieter than his
boyfriend, probably his only virtue. Unlike some of their peers, they attend class
faithfully. I suppose I should be more careful
about what I wish for.
Also sitting in the front row is
Jackson. (Just so we’re clear, Jackson
is his first name.) Jackson is a slow talking, slow witted boy
who invariably sports Wranglers and cowboy boots. He added the class late, telling me up front he
didn’t want to be here and that he was only going to college to make his
parents happy until he can join the military.
Jackson talks a lot about his career ambitions. He’s dismayed at our withdrawal from Iraq but
looks forward to taking on the terrorists in Pakafghaniran, or wherever it is we’re
fighting right now…that is, if he doesn’t shave his head and climb a water tower with a rifle first...
Lurking in the geographic center of the room
are Britney and Tiffany. B & T are normally
quiet during class, absorbed as they are with answering texts, sending tweets, and
otherwise fiddling with their phones.
They’re both bright enough, though not exceptionally so, and they could
be “A” students if they would only bother to apply themselves. Sitting cattycorner to their right is Linda,
a gaunt, middle aged redhead who is mutely perplexed by her surroundings.
And then there’s Todd…a petulant fellow with
bad skin and a bored-with-it-all demeanor.
The inevitable product of years of self-esteem programs in public
school, Todd treats the class as an unjust waste of his time. When Todd looks in the mirror every day, he
sees the center of the universe. When I
look at him, I see a pimply little weasel.
I suppose it’s a matter of perspective.
Oh, wait…I have to pause here. Madison just walked in the room! He slouches past me, muttering something
about having had to work late. Madison
is a diminutive youth who, if you dressed him in green, would be a dead ringer
for a leprechaun. His androgynous name
caused a couple of embarrassing moments at the start of the term. Madison sidles over to an empty seat, sits,
and promptly lays his head down on the desk.
He’ll remain in this position, unmoving, his face in a small puddle of
drool, until class ends.
Let’s see…where was I? Three of my best students ever actually sit
in the back row. Steve, Paul, and James
are in their late thirties or early forties.
Each brings a wealth of real-world knowledge and common sense to the
table. Their comments and writing are
clearly reasoned and articulate. Students
like them are the main reason I haven’t quit teaching in a fit of black
despair.
Melissa is seventeen, the youngest member of
the class, and she’s probably the student I admire most. Melissa is an only child helping care for her
chronically ill single dad while working part-time, attending high school, and taking
college classes at night. These
challenges have made her just a bit more self-disciplined, not to mention
kinder and more considerate, than her peers.
I wish someone would clone her.
Ashley sits in middle of the far right row,
near the door. A stereotypical
tree-hugger in Birkenstocks at first glance, she’s the antidote to the run of
the mill student. Quiet and insightful,
I always look forward to Ashley’s in-class comments and her well-written essays.
I’ve just described the standouts, of
course. The rest are faces without names
or names without faces. Over time,
they’ll all fade into undifferentiated fragments of memory and I’ll wonder why
I let them get on my nerves so. At
least, I hope so…
9:20 – I’m back at my desk. I check my email. Sandwiched among the belated excuses from absent
students is a message from Jessica, the student association president. The very thought of her triggers a twinge in
my duodenum. I delete the message unread
and lean back in my chair.
9:45 – A soft knock on my half-closed
door. I awaken with a start. It’s the building security guard. “Hey, Unassuming, you about done? ‘Cause I gotta lock up.”
“Yeah, okay,” I mumble. I pull on my coat and grab my briefcase. I make my way outdoors. My car and the security guard’s are the only
ones left in the lot. Driving slowly
through the accumulating snow, I head home.
© 2012 The Unassuming Scholar
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