“It’s cold out here in the hallway,” whines one
of my young charges, anxiously rubbing her arms with exaggerated vigor to
emphasize her distress.
“You know, you could have asked one of the
custodians to let you in,” I offer. “You
don’t have to wait for me to open up.”
“But you’re
supposed to be here, and you weren’t!”
I sigh resignedly and unlock the classroom
door. The students shuffle in listlessly
and take their seats. It’s getting
toward late fall, and most are clad in snowpants, fleece tops, and Sherpa caps. There’s a nice covering of snow outside, at
least a foot after last weekend’s storm, and a few people stare longingly out
the window.
Not bothering with the usual opening pleasantries,
I read off the week’s announcements.
“All right, settle down, please. The New Age Club will be selling
dreamcatchers in the student lobby Thursday from 3:00 to 5:00, to raise money
for their summer pilgrimage to the Sivanada Ashram. Contact Karma Smith-Jones-Abramowitz for more
information.
“As many of you know, Charisma
Smith-Jones-Abramowitz twisted her ankle snowshoeing the day before yesterday. Dr. Kimpossible has arranged grief counseling
services for those of you affected in any way by this unfortunate incident.”
A disturbed murmur erupts. “Charisma’s hurt? “ “Omigod!”
“You mean, you hadn’t heard?” A
couple of students abruptly grab their bookbags and hustle for the exit.
“Um, bye?” I venture, puzzled.
“We gotta go see Charisma!” explains the last
one out over his shoulder, the door closing behind him. I wait expectantly, figuring at least a
couple more students will capitalize on the Charisma tragedy by leaving. But for some fidgeting, however, the residuum
of the class stays put.
My fears of an empty room allayed, I continue
with the announcements. “I guess I
should add that the varsity Transcendental Meditation team will hold a candlelight
vigil for Charisma tonight at 8:00 on the quad.”
I tense momentarily, sensing this might
trigger a second exodus. No one
moves. After a pause, I ask for this week’s
homework. There are twenty-some students
in the room. Three hastily scrawled
sheets of notebook paper eventually make their way to the front of the
room. I frown.
“You were aware that your research paper outlines were
due today?” I am met with silence,
broken by a couple of muffled coughs and the sound of bodies shifting in seats.
“Mr. Scholar?” a thin, nasally voice calls tentatively.
“Yes, Mallory?” Mallory is a slight young woman of about
eighteen, maybe nineteen. Mallory is
articulate, perhaps even intelligent, and she speaks more frequently than
anyone else in the class. She represents
a particular type of today’s college student, the kind raised by indulgent
parents to treat her elders as equals. The
resulting air of adult self-assurance Mallory projects serves
puerile ends, however. Because for
Mallory everything is up for negotiation, including her grades. Especially her grades. I’ve come to dread Mallory approaching me
after class, knowing she’s seizing yet another opportunity to cadge a couple of
extra points on an assignment or argue about her test scores.
“Don’t you remember Dean Kimpossible’s new
policy? You know, the one that says we
don’t have to turn in our work if we’re stressed?”
Mallory hands me a preprinted card she’s
filled out. I groan inwardly…it’s a “stress
card,” part of Kimpossible’s initiative to raise Snowflake College’s retention
and graduation rates by creating a more nurturing environment. If a student hands you a stress card you have
to excuse him or her from an assignment, no questions asked. And with no grade penalty, of course.
“Any others?” I ask, knowing full well what’s
coming next. Thirty seconds later, I’m
holding a stack of stress cards.
Undaunted, I move on to the day’s lecture. True to form, they’re not having it. My efforts to start a discussion are met with
complete, cricket chirping apathy.
“…And so we find in the literature that…that…Oh,
hell, I’m even boring myself!” I pull
down the projection screen over the whiteboard.
“Let’s watch a movie.”
Now, that
cheers them up. For a moment or two,
anyway. The film is a documentary, not exactly
something that would pique their interest.
But at least I can relax a while, knowing I won’t have to entertain the
precious darlings for the rest of the period.
The film ends, I turn up the lights. Everyone rubs their eyes as they adjust. “Okay, last order of business…I’ve got your
midterms graded.
“As a class, you did well.” There’s an ironic inflection in my voice,
which naturally goes unnoticed. In the
general spirit of safeguarding their fragile self-esteem, I’d allowed them to
work on their exams in small groups. This
accounts for the high grades. For the
first time, their countenances lift.
They actually believe they all earned their “A”s. And who am I to dissuade them?
I hand back the exams, and the class slowly
disperses. One last student hangs
back. It’s Ian, next to Mallory the most
shameless grade-grubber in the group. Ian
hands me his test paper, a bubble-in form.
“Hey, Mr. Scholar. I got #23 wrong. I answered “D.” But, I meant to answer “B.” I did—see, I erased “B” before I bubbled in “D.” Can I get credit for answering right?”
Give
‘em an inch and they’ll want a mile, I remind
myself. I try not to show my annoyance
as I reply.
“I don’t think so. I mean, you got to take your test with a
group. What more do you want? Next time, make sure you’ve checked your work
before handing it in.”
This is not the answer Ian expected to
hear. He turns on his heel, stalking
away muttering, “Epic fail!” I suspect he is referring to me. Too bad the stress card rule wasn’t in place last
week when I gave the exam. I suppose it will make the final interesting.
Looking up at the clock, I see that I let the
class go five minutes early. Time was,
not so long ago, I would go back to my office and catch up on my work. But not today.
I congratulate myself on having gained a few minutes of free time and lock
the classroom door as I leave.
© 2012 The Unassuming Scholar
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