"I love my alma mater" or something

Just in case you missed it, most American universities I know of have a school song. And with school song I mean an official, bonafide, musically sound song with lyrics and music and the whole kit and kaboodle. Not some drunken slur that a fraternity once made up during their weekly drinking night, and that every freshmen now learns during their freshman orientation, which is usually how European students will define "school song".

Our university, being a tried and true American institution, has one too, a fact of which I was blissfully unaware until my first commencement when all faculty and students were expected to rise and sing the dang thing. For the past four years, I feel as though I've finally gotten the song down by the time we're done with verse two, only to realize at the next commencement that I still can't remember much more than a slightly off-key humming.

Now my students can sing that song like they were born doing nothing else, and for the past four years, I've wondered how that's possible. Our school song is not easy, unlike some school songs I know (take UT's "The eyes of Texas are upon you", sung to the melody of "I've been working on the railroad"), and it's really long too boot as well. I mean, how can students remember all the key changes, ancient lyrics, and strange hand motions, but they struggle to remember classroom policy and deadlines?

As of two weeks ago, you'll be delighted to know, I have found the answer. You see, that's when a strange singing from the classroom next to my office brought me out into hallway. Was there a music class in our building? A sorority practicing for rush? A teacher using a new pedagogical tool? No, it was a freshman leadership orientation class. A class that I always assumed was used to teach students about leadership skills, study skills, and other useful skills. Well, supposedly it does all of that, after the students have learned the school song. Which is why, for the past three Mondays/Wednesdays/Fridays at 11am, I have heard about forty voices rumbling uncertainly to the tune of our beloved school tune.

So there you have it. What is the first thing our new freshmen learn when they come to walk among our hallowed halls? Plato? Aristotle? Heidegger? The history of the African diaspora? No. They learn the school song. And of all the things they immediately forget upon passing a class, that is the one thing that, judging by their enthusiasm during the song at commencement, they never forget.

Yay for school spirit. Sad face for academics.

Oh for crying out loud...

..really, people.
It's one thing to have students demand that classes be as fascinating as the latest Tyler Perry movie they saw, as intriguing as that Assassin's Creed game they're all addicted, and as interactive as Twitter, but when faculty start weighing in on this crazy snowflake-driven push towards college-is-like-kindergarten-have-a-balloon!, you know I'll have something to say about it.

My rant, this time, was caused by this article. Published on a website with the dubious name of "Faculty focus" (what's that? Like Focus on the Family for faculty?), the title "What does your syllabus say about you" is enough to make me cringe. Not only does the title sound like an article in Cosmo ("What does your wardrobe say about you!"), I struggle with the notion that my syllabus says anything other than what students need to do to pass.

Please, read the article. I beg you. I'll wait.

OK, I'm going to assume that about half of you just kept on reading, so let me, very quickly, summarize what the author had to say. Basically, she's asking all professors to critically review their own syllabi and ask themselves to following questions:

1. How would you characterize the tone of your syllabus?
2. Does your syllabus convey the excitement, intrigue, and wonder that's inherently a part of the content you teach?
3. Does your syllabus indicate that all the decisions about the course have been made? (Is there room for students to make some decisions regarding the course?)
4. Have you ever asked your students for feedback on your syllabus?


People, a syllabus is a multi-page document that explains the objectives, schedule, and rules associated with the class, complete with a contract at the end that students sign. It's not Maya Angelou's latest tome on spirituality, nor is it a missing episode from the Oprah show. It's a document used to facilitate the teaching of the course.

So what is the tone of my syllabus?
Well, business-like probably captures it well. I say things like, "Because tardiness is unacceptable in a professional environment, the instructor will deduct points from your participation grade for tardiness". Straightforward, to the point, no frills, bells, or whistles. According to the article, it's supposed to be "friendly and inviting", so I'm guessing that particular sentence is to be replaced with, "If you could come on time, that would be ever so wonderful?"

Does my syllabus convey excitement and wonder?
Uhm, what? Wonder? Isn't that something we associate with children around Christmas time?
Anyway, I'm going to be blunt here, no, probably not. Now do I convey excitement when talking to my class the first time? Yes. Does my syllabus "openly state the enthusiasm you feel about teaching this great subject"? No, but it's more of a, hey, you try to get away with x, y, or z, and this will happen feel. I'm guessing I need to sound a little more excited about the possibility of academic probation in the case of plagiarism, "Doesn't that sound like fun?!"

Does my syllabus indicate that all the decisions have been made?
Heck yes it does. Last time I checked, I was the one with the Ph.D., I was the one in front of the classroom, and all my students get to do is decide whether or not they want to buy the books or not. This is not a democracy. Isn't that what students pay me for? To tell them what they need to know? Or did I miss the memo that universities were now switching to a "user-based approach"?

And finally, have I ever asked the students for feedback?
I would, if the majority of them hadn't misplaced the syllabus by week two.

So yes, that would be a clear zero for Dr. D. A zero that I'm proud of, as I refuse to join in on the "I'm a rainbow unicorn and I love you all!" chorus that seems to be the general expectation among students now.

Don't get me wrong, I am all for interactive learning strategies, student engagement, and learning by doing. But I have enough experience to know that without clearly outlined rules, written down in a syllabus, and acknowledged in a contract, no one will be doing much learning at all.

So, what does my syllabus say about me?

Well, obviously, that I'm none other than Professor Coldheart himself.

De koffietent

Ik heb de afgelopen dagen zeker drie posts bedacht, over rijles-nemende zonen, flitspalen, en verhuizende vriendinnen. Geen van allen hebben het, helaas, gered tot het toetsenbord. Dus toen ik vandaag de kriebels in mijn vingers voelde, en wist dat er echt weer een post geschreven moest worden, nam ik de drie onderwerpen onder de loep. En besloot in plaats daarvan te schrijven over iets dat van werkelijk belang is: koffie. En om wat specifieker te zijn: de nieuwe koffietent op de campus.

Ik weet dat er in Nederland een gezond vooroordeel heerst dat Amerikaanse koffie niet te drinken is. Het zou slap zijn, een beetje slootwater zou het beter doen, en echt wakker zou je er ook niet van worden. En soms is dit ook best wel waar. Onze lokale buffet restaurants maken koffie die bijna hetzelfde kleurtje heeft als een kopje thee, en ook mijn schoonvader drinkt het liefst water met een kleurtje.

Aan de andere kant is de koffie cultuur die Nederlanders zo "typisch Nederlands" vinden ("Zullen we even een bakkie doen?"), eigenlijk net zo Amerikaans, als niet meer. Want terwijl Nederlanders 's middags mischien overstappen naar een kopje thee, drinken de Amerikanen een bak koffie. En terwijl Nederlanders onderweg in de auto een pakje appelsap drinken (want dat is gezond!), stoppen de Amerikanen bij een benzine station om een sloot koffie te kopen. En ik kan u tegenwoordig uit ervaring vertellen dat die koffie toch best wel Nederlands is hoor. Niks geen slootwater met een kleurtje.

Vroeger was ik niet zo'n koffie kenner. Vroeger dronk ik namelijk eigenlijk nooit koffie. Ik vond het helemaal niet zo lekker, en zag het nut er niet zo van in. Wakker was ik van mezelf al. Maar ja, dat was voordat ik besloot om 90 mijl van mijn werk af te wonen, en een tenure track positie aan te nemen. En sinds een paar jaar is het hele koffiedrinken er dus langzaam maar zeker ingeslopen.

Het begon met een klein kopje tijdens de tentamen weken, wanner ik maar een paar uur geslapen had. En toen werd het "gezellig" koffie drinken bij de Starbucks in het dorp met vriendinnen. En toen begon ik 's avonds, als ik moest werken, ook koffie te drinken. En toen ontdekte ik dat de koffie die de secretaresses een gang verderop zetten toch wel erg lekker was. En jawel hoor, nu drink ik dus bijna elke ochtend een kopje koffie.

Nu zijn ze bij ons op de campus de laatste jaren in sneltreinvaart allerlei nieuwe gebouwen aan het neerzetten. Onze school groeit nog al, en dus hebben we behoefte aan meer klaslokalen, meer dorms, en meer restuarants. Jawel, Amerikaanse universiteiten hebben ook restaurants. En dan bedoel ik niet alleen de Mensa, maar ook zaken zoals een Subway, Taco Bell, Wendy's, Pizza Hut, en meer van dat soort fast food ketens. Ik werd persoonlijk niet warm of koud van alle nieuwe constructie, totdat ik hoorde dat er in nieuwe studenten center ook een heuse Einstein coffee and bagels restaurant zou komen.

Een heuse koffietent. Met echt koffie (en bagels!). Op loopafstand van mijn werkplek. Ik denk echt dat dit voortaan een van mijn secundaire arbeidsvoorwaarden gaat worden.

Nog een nachtje slapen, dan gaat-ie open, die koffietent....

Barefoot

As those who know me in person (I like to think that my online persona is a little more restrained, and possibly refined) will gladly tell you, I like to take everything just one step up from normal.

So if my high school spirit week included a pajama day, I would not just dress up in my jammies, I would bring a pillow and a blanket, and pretend to take naps under my desk. Does my employer demand we dress "business casual" from Monday through Thursday? I will look like the next presidential hopeful with my black pumps, grey dress suit, starched button down, and French twist. Did you just share a slightly salacious joke? I'll tell you one that would make sailors blush. I'll stop right there, but you get it, I'll one-step-up just about everything. At times, maybe even two steps up. Or three. However, many, it's always to the extent that people around me wonder what I'm thinking (or not thinking, obviously).

And today I believe I might have taken another American custom up one step. Or perhaps a step-and-a-half. The American custom I'm talking about is to keep a pair of nice shoes in the office, and wear old flip flops/sneakers on the commute to and from work.

I used to never partake in this custom, not even when living in the US. Not even when I had to walk five blocks. Not even when it's a 100F outside. Not even when I had navigate a gigantic parking lot, weighed down with a bookbag, laptop bag, purse, lunchbox, and a coffee mug. Never. As a European raised with the idea that sneakers are for sports and flip flops for the beach, I would never ever ever ever ever wear anything other than nice leather shoes to and from work. I had perfected my ability to run in heels of any height (permanently shortening my achilles' tendon in the process, I'm sure), and knew how to use those same heels to create a little space for myself on a crowded train, bus, or subway. So when I moved here, I continued the custom. I would totter and trip, and my feet pounded by the end of the day, but (say the following with gritted teeth) I was not wearing sneakers to work.

Well, then came summer. And our dress code relaxed. And I decided that for the one day a week I would go into work, I could wear a nice pair of flip flops. But the moment August 1 rolled around, I broke out my pumps and just told myself to grimace and bear it.

But somehow this past summer, when August 1 came up, I just wasn't quite ready to fire the flipflops just yet. So until this past Monday, when our students came back, I sauntered around in my flipflops. And although I brought my pumps in on Monday, I decided to drive and walk to my office in those same flipflops. And then when time came to go home Monday night, I decided I might as well leave my pumps in my office, and walk out in my flipflops again. On Tuesday, I went as far as to only put m pumps on when I was teaching, and conduct my necessary walks to various offices across campus in my flipflops. And today, well today I really took it all one step up. When I took my two-inch heels off after teaching class, instead of putting my flip flops on, I just left both pairs of shoes in the corner, and sat behind my desk in bare feet.

Yes, bare feet.

Now, in all honesty, my desk hides most of my legs and my feet, but still. It feels quite revolutionary to be talking to students who are completely oblivious to the fact that I'm stretching and flexing my toes as I'm talking to them. My feet love this sudden freedom, and I do too.

Now I just need to make sure I don't step out of my office barefoot. As that is one extra step I'm not sure my employer would appreciate. 

Reading 101

If "Knock three times on the ceiling if you wa-ant me!"had been written for my life, it would have gone something like this, "Knock endlessly outside office hours and the door is clo-osed!"Honestly.

Before you all think I'm nothing but an ornery curmudgeon who absolutely detests students, allow me to explain.
In my current department, faculty is expected to hold ten office hours per week.
Yes, ten office hours. A fourth of our workweek. Ten. Hours.

While at most universities students are lucky if their professors can be found in their offices for maybe two hours on a Wednesday afternoon, we are expected to be available to students two hours each day. If you consider that most of us teach two classes per day (or three or four, if you're the lucky bug who got stuck with the overload), are expected to publish, and then have committee responsibilities as well, you can imagine that two hours is a lot. But we suck it up and do it. This year I actually decided to meet the increasing demand for face-time, and schedule in twelve office hours per week.

Twelve hours people. Add it all up, and it's a day and a half each week.
Granted, all my office hours are  in the morning, which might be a tad earlier than students would like, but you know, I got stuff to do just as much as they do. Stuff that is technically essential to both their academic progress as well as my job security.
But I digress.

So in order to facilitate students' usage of my office hours, I have posted a sheet on my door with both my classes and my office hours on it. It's even color-coded, so students don't have to search for the word "office hours", but can instead look for the pretty purple boxes.

Now in previous years, I used to leave my door open outside of office hours too. I like a little bit of fresh air, to keep tabs on what's going on in the production lab down the hallway, and didn't mind students dropping in to ask a quick question if I had time. But last year, this "quick question" thing got a bit out of hand, and instead of showing up to my office hours, students would show up whenever they wanted to, which left me prepping classes, writing articles, and grading papers at home. Dr. D. did not like that at all. And Dr. D's husband liked it even less.  So last semester, I started closing my door when I didn't have office hours, a practice I started up again today.

And let me tell you, it has been one tough learning curve for my darling snowflakes. They knock, and when I don't answer, they knock again. Then they'll knock even louder, and sometimes they'll even call out my name. On a few occasions they've even yelled, "I know you're in there!', or called my phone from right outside my office, demanding that I talk to them "just real quick, I promise!"
Usually I just ignore them, and they'll eventually go away. A few times, when the yelling got so loud that co-workers started to peek out of their offices trying to find out what was going on, I've opened my door and told them in very succinct terms when my next office hours were, and then closed the door on them again.

I realize my students think I'm not "nice", but I really don't understand why this has taken such a long time for them to understand. There's a sheet on my door, my office hours are on my syllabus, and you would think that my ignoring them would give them a very obvious clue. I've debated putting an even larger sign on my door that says, "If the door is closed it means office hours are over. Don't knock". Or perhaps the more brief but more abrasive, "Don't bother knocking if the door is closed" will work.

Then again, if those devastating test results were correct, the whole reading thing may be the problem. Perhaps the solution is just to take a sheet of paper, draw a big arrow on it, write "READ" next to the arrow, and hang it beside the schedule posted on my door. Who knows, it might work. After all, don't they say that hope springs eternal?

The woes of education

Although I like to grip about life in the south, I'd like to think that my concerns are mostly trivial, exaggerated, and definitely things that can be overcome. I mean, yes, although it's annoying that southern drivers feel that they must come to a complete stop before making any sort of turn, it's definitely not something that is going to impact my life or that of my children. Neither will the fact that the bugs here are the size of small babies, nor will people's inability to say no. But every great once in a while, I hear or read about something that is really does worry me. In other words, something that makes me pick up the phone, dial husband-dear's number, and beg him to please take us all far, far away.

On Wednesday I heard just such a story on NPR. A recent study that investigated states' performance on a national reading test, found that Georgia's 8th graders scored lower than pretty much every other state in the country. To quote the news broadcast, "A Georgia 8th grader found proficient in reading could move to almost any other state and fail state reading tests there". Reassuring news, when you have two kids in Georgia schools, wouldn't you agree?

I would say something like how this explains why my students, at times, have a hard time following directions, if it weren't such dire news. I mean, I knew that Georgia wasn't exactly at the top of the list when it came to student performance on reading, writing, and math, but sheesh people, we're apparently producing middle school students who struggle reading with the back of cereal boxes.

And why is this, you ask? Well, I'm not entirely sure myself either. I would love to argue that it's because our educators make so little money the state struggles to keep good people employed, but according to these two reports, the opposite is actually true. I suppose it could be the endless budget cuts, or the fact that our apparently less than mediocre 8th grade students don't exactly make the best education majors either, but neither one of these reasons compute either, if you consider that other states face the exact same budget cuts and combination of good and not-so-good universities.

So that leaves two possible reasons, both of which are infinitely more depressing than the reasons offered above. First, it could be that Georgians suffer from an overall lower social cultural capital. Without boring you all to tears with Bourdieu's theory, the idea behind his writings is that people from a higher social economic background usually possess more cultural/social capital (e.g., read more books, newspapers, go to museums and theaters), which allows them to better prepare their children for success in school. The lower one's social and cultural capital, the less likely one's children are to perform well in school. In short, it could be that Georgia's enthusiastic dislike of museums, out-of the-box books is in fact what is hurting students' performance.

A second possibility is that people just don't appreciate education, i.e., they think books and studying are not half as important as, say, learning how to play football, or win the first chair in the concert band, or make it to state with the marching band, or get the lead in the school musical, or win prom queen or the junior beauty pageant. So it could very well be that all those kids who would fail the 8th grade reading states in any of the 49 other states, are awesome wide receivers, cheerleading captains, Broadway stars-in-the-bud, and the next Ms. America. Although this is great news for uga-the-bulldog, Glee, and any of the million reality shows on TLC , it's possibly not so good for educators statewide.

The bottom line is, I don't know. But I do know that this is Not Good and Must Be Fixed.

Private school anyone?

Listen carefully...

...for I shall say this only once

Michelle ~ Allo, Allo

After four years at my current school, and ten years of teaching in higher education, I have can now confidently claim to know the key to academic success:

Listen.

Lame? Absolutely not. Obvious? Don't think so.

Yes, you need intelligence. And the ability to plan and prioritize. Not to mention a healthy dosage of work ethic. But above all, you need to listen, and listen well. Don't just look at me as though you're listening, but really open your ears and pay attention.

Seriously, if students were to do this, their life (and mine) would be so much easier. For one thing, there would be no need for me to repeat where the registrar's office is three times to the same student. Freshmen advisement sessions would last thirty minutes at best, and not need to take hours and hours because students had not listened properly and thus did not know what to do. Forms could be explained once, and that would be it. In short, advisement would take half the time it does now.

And if advisement were to be this affected by carefully listening students, imagine what it would do to my classes! We would actually have time to debate some of the concepts introduced in the classroom, as there would be no need to repeat due dates, minimum page requirements, book titles, and group assignments.

In case you think I'm joking: the staff member in the office next to mine has been able to tell students what they wanted to know about advisement and my class for about a year now because she's heard me repeat myself over and over and over again. Even husband-dear knows my class deadlines better than some of my students. And after one long phone-advisement session, the kids, much to my merriment, were able to repeat my "please make sure you take such and such form to this and that office" mantra without any mistakes.

Some days I think I should just create a set of note cards with some standard answers that I can just hold up when students come in. Or simply hand them the handbook and make them read it front to back until they found the answer themselves.

Instead, however, I've (well, a co-worker found it here) found something far better. I'm going to give my students a "how well do you pay attention" quiz at the beginning of the semester. It may not focus on listening, but paying attention is pretty close. For your amusement, I have pasted the quiz below. And those of you who read this entire blog and scoffed? Take it, please. And let me know how well you did.

Three minute timed test.

1. Read everything before doing anything.

2. Put your name in the upper left-hand corner of this paper

3. Circle the word "name" in sentence two

4. Draw five small squares in the upper left hand corner of this paper

5. Put an X in each square

6. Sign your name under the title of this paper.

7. After the title write "Yes, yes, yes."

8. Put a circle around sentence seven.


9. Put an X in the lower left-hand corner of this paper


10. Draw a triangle around the X you just put down.


11. On the back of this paper, multiply 70 by 43.


12. Call out your first name when you get this point in the test.


13. If you think you have followed directions up to this point, call out "I have"


14. In your normal speaking voice, count from ten to one backward


15. Punch three small holes in the top of this paper with your pencil


16. If you are the first person to get this far, call out loudly "I am the first person to get to this point, and I am the leader in following directions!"


17. Underline all even numbers on the side of this page


18. Put a square around every number written on this test.


19. Say out loud, "I am nearly finished, I have followed directions!"


20. Now that you have finished reading the directions, do only number 2.

Drukmakerij

Ik kan me heel erg goed drukmaken. En dan bedoel ik niet zozeer dat ik het heel vaak doe (alhoewel dat soms zeker van toepassing is), maar dat ik echt heel goed ben in mijn analytisch vermogen gebruiken om allerlei ieniemienie gebeurtenissen op te blazen totdat ze een potentieel levensveranderend effect hebben.

Neem de financiele crisis bijvoorbeeld. Nadat men vorige week eindelijk tot overeenstemming was gekomen omtrent het schuldenplafond van de Verenigde Staten, was hier het nieuws van de dag meteen dat het Pentagon honderden biljoenen dollars moest bezuinigen. Nu geef ik zonder enige gene toe dat men bij het ministerie van Defensie heel goed op het een en ander kan bezuinigen, maar waar ik meteen aan moest denken was de komst van een eventuele BRAC (Base Re-Alignment and Closure), met andere woorden, de mogelijkheid dat men militaire basissen gaat sluiten. Let wel; het hele woord is nog door niemand in de mond genomen, onze basis is de laatste jaren alleen maar uitgebreid, en dient op het moment zelfs meer krijgsmachtonderdelen dan alleen de luchtmacht, maar dat maakt voor mijn neurotisch brein niets uit. Ik was er afgelopen week van overtuig dat onze basis zou gaan sluiten.

Nou ja, en als ik eenmaal zoiets in mijn hoofd heb, dan ga ik altijd het "en dan" spel spelen. Ik heb ooit ergens gelezen dat dit zou helpen met het om zeep helpen van onrealistische zorgen. Het idee is geloof ik dat de "en dan's" op een gegeven moment zo onrealistisch worden, dat de zorgenmaker niet anders kan doen dan zichzelf hartelijk uitlachen.

Alleen werkt het bij mij niet echt.

Want toen ik het "en dan" spel speelde, kwam ik op het volgende uit: En dan wordt manlief overgeplaatst. En dan moeten we hier weg (joepie!). En dan moeten we ons huis verkopen. En dan zijn de huizenprijzen zo gekelderd dat we ons huis aan de straatstenen niet kwijt kunnen. En dan zitten we of de komende twintig jaar aan een onverkoopbaarhuis vast, of kunnen we ons failliet laten verklaren. En dan, nou ja, en dan zou ik toch best wel pissig zijn.

Niks onrealistisch aan, vond ik zelf. Gezien de huidige staat van de Amerikaanse economie vond ik dit zelf eigenlijk best wel een realistisch plaatje. Hoeveel Amerikanen zitten op het moment niet in precies dezelfde situatie momenteel?

Dus besloot ik om mijn zorgen met manlief te delen. En, geheel onwetend, geeft hij het meest therapeutische antwoord denkbaar. In plaats van dat hij gaat tegensputteren dat het zo'n vaart niet zou lopen (waarop ik een heel arsnenaal aan uitgedachte discussiepunten kon loslaten), reageert hij met, "Hm. Goh. Sja. Daar heb je een punt. We kunnen eigenlijk best dit huis nu gewoon te koop zetten, er een leuke prijs voor vragen en dan ergens gaan huren totdat we weggaan."

Stilte.

Ik keek bijna verbouwereerd om me heen, naar de keukenmuren die we zelf hadden geschilderd, de houten vloer waar we zo trots op zijn, en realiseerde me in een keer dat ik dit huis toch eigenlijk best wel leuk vond. Te leuk om zo maar te koop zetten omdat ik me weer eens druk maak om iets.

Dus. Er worden geen huizen verkocht. Niet nu ten minste. En als de wereld om ons heen instort, nou ja, dat zien we dan wel weer.

Ontsmettingsgevaar

Toen hier in Amerika de paniek omtrent de Mexicaanse griep (of de varkensgriep, zoals deze hier ietwat politiek correcter genoemd werd) opkwam, leek het wel alsof de hand ontsmetters niet aan te slepen waren. Op elke muur, naast elke deur, op ieder gangpad in de supermarkt kwam zo'n ding te staan. Ook hier op mijn werk verschenen van de ene op de andere dag honderden van die handige bakjes met handontsmetter. Naast elk klaslokaal, naast het snoep automaat, in elke toilet, werkelijk overal kwam je ze tegen. Voeg daar aan toe dat op alle WCs op de universiteit, de supermarkt, en de mall ook in een keer bordjes verschenen over hoe men de handen het beste schoon en proper kon houden, en u begrijpt: De gemiddelde Amerikaan had nog nooit schonere handjes gehad.

Alhoewel ik helemaal voor het niet ziek worden ben, ben ik zelf eigenlijk helemaal niet zo'n voorstander van al die ontsmettende middeltjes. Natuurlijk wil niemand iets engs oplopen, en al helemaal de Mexicaanse griep niet, maar ik ben zelf toch echt meer van het ouderwets handen wassen met zeep en water. En niet alleen omdat ik van al dat ontsmettingsmiddel enorm droge en gebarsten handen krijg, maar ook omdat ik (door mijn verpleegkunde-slash-moeder) opgevoed ben met het idee dat een beetje bacterieen juist goed voor je zijn. Krijg je een sterk immuunsysteem van enzo. En persoonlijk kan ik dat op geheel anecdotische basis dan ook helemaal beamen: ik ben namelijk nadat ik meerdere jaren in een studentenhuis gewoond heb, waarvan de keuken het best als een kwekerij voor allerlei nieuwe vormen van penicilline geclassificeerd kon worden, werkelijk nooit meer ziek geweest.

Dus ik gebruik handontsmetter alleen als er geen water en zeep in de buurt is, en lysol doekjes (doekjes met een bacterie-dodend middel) worden alleen ingezet wanneer alle andere middelen falen, of de Georgia clay weer eens bijzonder hardnekkig is.

Verder ben ik eigenlijk meer een voorstander van je omgeving schoon houden. Handen ontsmetten is harstikke leuk, maar heeft volgens mij weinig zin als je daarna de deur naar je klaslokaal openmaakt met een klink die sinds de opening van het gebouw niet meer is schoongemaakt. Je handen braaf een minuut lang wassen maakt weinig uit, lijkt mij, als je daarna een telefoon hoorn of een muis vaspakt die de schoonmaker in geen jaren heeft aangeraakt.

En daar zit het 'em nou net: dat gebeurt hier dus ook niet. Als ik mijn toetsenbord omkeer (en ja, dat doe ik regelmatig, ik heb namelijk een draadloos geval dat zo nu dan ge"reset" moet worden, met een knopje dat, jawel, op de onderkant zit), dan vallen er genoeg kruimels uit om een hele maaltijd van te maken. De telefoon ziet er smoezelig uit, en mijn, de stoflaag op mijn printer is zo dik dat-ie bijna op dieet kan. En voordat u nu collectief roept dat Amerikanen "dus" grote viezerikken zijn; dit is op geen enkele universiteit waar ik gewerkt of gestudeerd heb ooit anders geweest. Alle kantoren zijn altijd stoffig en een beetje smoezelig. De toiletten zijn om door een ringetje te halen, maar alle werkplekken zien er altijd uit alsof ze eens een goede poetsbeurt zouden kunnen gebruiken.

Dus eens in de zoveel tijd leen ik de lysol spray van het secretariaat en neem mijn kantoor onder handen. Dit tot groot vermaak van de collega's, want die kennen mij als de vrouw die nooit de handontsmetters in de hal gebruikt, nooit een flesje "hand sanitizer" te leen heeft, en in plaats daarvan liever naar het toilet loopt om haar handen te wassen, en die dan ook nog eens lyrisch kan debatteren over hoe slecht al die ontsmettingsmiddelen wel niet zijn.  Maar ja, als ik vingerafdrukken van studenten op mijn witte deur kan zien, dan weet ik dat het weer eens tijd wordt voor een kleine schoonmaakbeurt.


Dit is eigenlijk een heel lang verhaal om te vertellen dat ik vandaag mijn perforator liet vallen. U kent ze wel, van die handige dingen waarme je gaatjes in papier maakt, maar die helaas ook zo'n reservoir vol met uitgesneden rondjes hebben. Ik hoef u natuurlijk niet te vertellen dat mijn vloer nu bedekt is met confetti. En toen ik me afvroeg of ik morgen misschien onze stofzuiger mee naar het werk moest nemen om dat op te ruimen, besloot ik in een keer dat ik het hele "in een kantoor kijken en even een doekje zwaaien is schoonmaken" eigenlijk helemaal beu ben.  Ik heb thuis al werk zat om het huis toonbaar te houden, en ik heb er eigenlijk geen zin meer in om dat op mijn werk ook nog eens te moeten doen.

Ik bedoel, dat schoonmakers je spullen niet mogen verschuiven, dat snap ik. Maar mijn bureau is altijd opgeruimd aan het einde van de dag, en nog zit het onder het stof. Dat schoonmakers niet aan je computer mogen komen, snap ik ook. Maar waarom kunnen ze nou niet even mijn telefoon hoorn opppakken en afdoen met een doekje? Of even de deurklink afnemen? Als we hier binnen 48 uur vijfhonderd handontsmetters opgehangen krijgen, dan kunnen we ook best onze schoonmaakploeg leten hoe we een kantoor goed schoonmaken. Vind ik dan.

Noem me gerust een Truus de Mier, maar ik zou het toch wel erg fijn vinden als mijn werkplek qua reinheid iets meer in de buurt zou komen van mijn handen. Maar ja, daar ben ik vast de enige in.

Tuut-tuut-tuut-tuut.

p.s. En als iemand me zou kunnen vertellen hoe "hand sanitizer dispensers" in het Nederlands heetten, dan zou ik die persoon eeuwig dankbaar zijn, want zelfs Google wist het niet.

The end of summer...really

All good things must come to an end. I don't know who came up with this proverb, but apparently it's true both for Dutch and English speakers, and subsequently, I went back to work on Monday.

I mean, yesterday.

I honestly think the reason I wrote "Monday" instead is because it feels as though I've been back for weeks. Months, even.

Needless to say, after three months of teaching one measly online course, floating around in my pool, doing triathlons, traveling, entertaining friends, and spending far too much time at our local coffee establishment, I am really not ready to go back to work. Just the thought of dealing with emails, students with their million-and-one questions, classes, syllabi, research projects, conferences, just thinking about it all is enough to wear me out.

Personally, I blame the three months off for this. Until I moved to Georgia, I'd never had three months off straight. A week or two, a few days here and there, that was about it. And you know, when you take just a week off at a time, your body doesn't get the opportunity to get used to this whole laid-back, stay-at-home-stepmom/housekeeper thing. Every morning that you don't have to go to work feels like a surprise, and so whenever you go back to work, you're like a wound up coil, ready to spring back to into action.

But give someone three months without serious work-related responsibilities, and they just become major sloths. At least I do. Sure, I'll write an article here, and a research paper there, and teach a class or two, but there's really no pace to speak of, and any sense of urgency or pressure goes right out the window. I'll sleep hours after husband-dear has left for work, waking up at such daring hours such as eight in the morning. I'll wander around in my pajamas, wear old clothes and really short shorts, spend hours on the phone, let my hair run wild, and generally just slow down. A lot. Oh, and worry about things like, should I clean the fridge today? Or tomorrow?

Yesterday, when I noticed that our fridge drawers had, in my absence last week, become somewhat of a mess again, all I was able to do was close them, and move on, as I had to get to work.

And do you have any idea how hard that is? Especially when you're wearing nice pants and a dress shirt for the first time in months? I had no idea those items of clothing were that confining.

I'm not saying I want to be a stay at home anything, at least not out loud. Or to strangers. But, let me tell you, right now, that's looking pretty good. Not in the least because my kitchen needs me. Possibly more than my students do.
It's a good thing I was born with a true sense of Dutch-Calvinist work ethic.
I think.