Uhm, October?

Seriously, how can it already be the middle of October? What happened to September? Or August? Or summer in general for that matter? And even more importantly, how can it be Sunday already, and I have yet to have a moment of peace and quiet this weekend?

I don't know what is going on with life lately. Maybe it's just me, and I have once again managed to say "yes" to way too many things. Or maybe the world is slowly going by faster and faster. I don't know. All I know is that it's the middle of October, and at the rate work is going, I should probably be planning my Christmas shopping real soon, or it's never going to get done, and OMG, when I am going to find time to do that.

OK, deep breath.

So I'm sure that everyone knows about the mess that is the US government right now, right? (And no, I am not changing the topic, this is going somewhere, I promise). And we all know how because they can't seem to work it out like most normal people can, close to a million people have been sent home this past week. In fact, in our street, we have several working couples who got to make do without a paycheck this week. The same couples who just spent all their savings surviving the furloughs this summer. And in case you were wondering, husband-dear is still heading into work each day, and still getting paid. We think. But although we all know that is sad and bad and just not-good all around, is there anyone else out there who, like me, secretly wishes they too would get sent home? Am I the only one who wishes that they too could get furloughed? Anyone?

When I was younger, you know, not too long ago, I knew I was driven. And motivated. And possibly slightly neurotic about doing well. But I figured it would pass as I grew older and more mellow. Because that's what people do, right? They mellow out, slow down, and stop to smell the roses more? Well, the rosebushes in my front yard have literally become an unholy mess this summer, because I haven't taken the time to smell nor to trim them. For me, it would appear that aging means an even greater desire to prove that I am good enough. And nice enough. And smart enough. Which entails saying "Yes! Great idea!" to everything everyone proposes. Research project on the side? Sure! Chair of the IRB? I'd be honored! Another research project? Of course! Co-writing a grant with a local hospital? Absolutely! Chair the international fair on campus! Naturellement!
It just never ends.

Obviously, the solution is to just start saying "no". Or at least checking my calendar/my gut/my conscience (aka husband-dear) before enthusiastically galloping away with another time-sucking responsibility. But people, I am just like Ado Annie from Oklahoma! I can't say no. I just can't. I would, so it seems, rather spend a Sunday afternoon grading than mountainbiking with the husband because I spent so much time on side projects during the week, than tell someone no. Is the world going to come to an end when I say no? Obviously not. I know my students won't care if their midterm grade doesn't include this paper. Neither will my chair. Or the dean. No one will care. Except me.

So where does this pressure come from? Honestly, I have no idea, but I see women around me doing the exact same thing I do all the time. They might not do it in their career, but they might be killing themselves trying to be the best, coolest, most educated mom out there. Or they might be holding their bodies to some randomly set, impossible to maintain, pre-neanderthal standard. Or they might be pushing themselves through school to get that oh so coveted second degree. Or trying to be the most hip blogger the intertubes have ever seen.

People freak out because they're furloughed, but are they freaking out because they aren't getting paid, or because they now suddenly have to face themselves without the safety of their careers to hide behind? I'm sure losing a paycheck doesn't help, but let's be honest, how many of us say things like, "If I win the lottery, I'd have work at something or I'd lose my mind"? (and yes, I am one of those people).

I guess my point, if there is one, is that of all the things I like to think I'm good at, I suck at the most important thing: being OK with doing less. Or, gasp, nothing at all. And I think, looking around me, I may not be the only one. So how about we all just a day off next week and do absolutely nothing? We can call it a demonstration against postmodern cultural demands or something equally intelligent, but we'll all know it's really just an old-fashioned pajama day. I say we synchronize planners and find a day that works and make it happen. Only I can't do tomorrow. Or Tuesday, I have to chair a meeting that day. Oh, and Wednesday is midterms, and on Thursday I'm surveying a class. OK, so how's next week looking for everyone?

Ik ben een meisje van negen jaar...

Of zestien dan. Of, als ik me bijzonder volwassen voel, eenentwintig. Maar dan heb je het ook wel gehad. Nooit, maar dan ook nooit voel ik mij mijn ware leeftijd (29. Al jaren. Echt). En ik voel me al helemaal nooit "Dr", of "professor". Laat staan "de vrouw van". En laten we het maar helemaal niet hebben over dat hele stiefmoeder gedoe. Ik ben negen. Of zestien (of 21), en als ik later groot ben wil ik brandweervrouw worden.

Ik heb zo eens rondgevraagd, en klaarblijkelijk hebben wel meer, voornamelijk vrouwelijke, collega's hier last van. Het geval dat je veel jonger, veel onervarener, en ook veel minder slim bent dan dat je bent. Of dat men denkt dat je bent. Of dan de indruk die jij hebt achtergelaten. Volgt u het allemaal nog? Stiekem zijn we allemaal 'frauds' die nog lang niet klaar zijn om een 'working professional' te zijn, en die hun PhD bij elkaar gespaard hebben met de zegeltjes van de Becel. Of, om cultureel-relevant te blijven, met de pakjes Cracker Jacks.

En soms is dat best wel lastig. Want dan word je in een keer voor dingen gevraagd waar je als negen (of 16) jarige nog helemaal niet aan toe bent. Of denkt te zijn. Zo werd ik van de zomer gevraagd om "chair" van de IRB aan mijn universiteit te zijn. En uiteraard riep ik meteen ja, want naast dat ik klaarblijkelijk moeite heb met tellen, ben ik ook nog eens een ontzettende type-A persoonlijkheid, die altijd moet bewijzen dat ze toch echt slim is. En weet wat ze doet. En alles kan.
Maar ja, dan zit je daar dus. Als kersverse chair van de IRB. Dan in een keer word jij geacht leiding te geven aan het orgaan dat onderzoek goed- of afkeurt. En dat onderbouwd met bewijslast uit federale stukken. En meer van dat soort moeilijke dingen. En alhoewel je dat best kan, want sja, je bent al vier jaar lid van de IRB, roept je hoofd steeds dat dit natuurlijk helemaal geen taak is voor een meisje zoals jij. Je bent veel te jong, veel te onervaren, en die PhD, dat was natuurlijk gewoon puur toeval. Je had gewoon een paar jaar lang even niks anders te doen.

Vandaag moest ik er echter echt aangeloven. Mijn eerste vergadering. Met de secretaresse naast me, die me zo nu en dan dingen toefluisterde als "Vergeet de motie om goed te keuren niet", riep ik hele professionele dingen als "Do we have a second?" en "Can you design a policy for that?", en deed alsof ik precies wist waar ik het over had.
Pfft.


En toen bedacht ik me, wat als iedereen zich nou eens zo voelt? Wat als iedereen die leiding geeft stiekem een acht-jarig meisje of elf-jarig jongetje is, die er toevallig uitziet als een volwassen man of vrouw? Wat als iedereen nou het gevoel heeft dat ze maar "wat doen", maar dat gewoon leuk, of stoer, of streng verpakken? Wat als iedereen nog steeds droomt over hoe het zijn om politie agent te zijn, of boswachter, of brandweervrouw? Zijn we dan eigenlijk allemaal niet heel druk bezig om te doen alsof we weten waar we het over hebben, en is er eigenlijk niemand die -echt- weer hoe het moet? Does everyone just make it up as they go along?

Stiekem, he, stiekem denk ik dus dat dat het is. We doen allemaal maar wat. Alleen de slimme onder ons hebben geleerd om dat heel professioneel te verpakken. En daardoor denkt de rest van ons dat zij het wel weten, en wij niet. Maar dat is dus eigenlijk helemaal niet zo. Om in de woorden van Brigitte Kaandorp te blijven, "Het hoeft niks te zijn, als het maar wat lijkt."

Als ik er zo over nadenk, dan valt dat chair-schap eigenlijk nog best wel mee.
Bring it.

Tir Na Nog

And now for something completely different (no pools, no toes, no hips), let's talk about Ireland.

Does anyone remember the show The Mystic Knights of Tir Na Nog?  Or was I the only nerdy graduate student who wasted her time watching a show about battles for ancient Ireland? And who, on a side note, also wasted a lot of time with Mork & Mindy and Are You Being Served ("are you free, Captain Peacock?") reruns? Imagine if I had spent all that time studying! I could have actually gone somewhere and made something of myself!...oh..wait..well..)

Anyway, the Mystic Knights of Tir Na Nog was my first encounter with Ireland. Well, that and the lovely mother from Titanic who, as the ship is sinking, puts her children to bed and reads them a story about, there you go again, Tir Na Nog. Growing up in Europe, I was, of course, more than familiar with the ongoing "troubles" in Northern Ireland (and possibly even more familiar with the music about that era), but the rest of Ireland was always little more than a haze of green fields, rain, druids, Celtic women in large dresses singing old songs, and stories of immigrants trying to get across the ocean to the US.

Fortunately, my ignorant little soul is going to get an opportunity to educate itself on Ireland, as next week I will be at a conference to Dublin. There are a lot of downsides to my job as a professor, the crappy pay, the long hours, the difficult students, the crappy pay, and well, you are all more than familiar with the long list of woes, but one of the major perks of working in academics is the opportunity to travel. Granted, you do need to conduct some research, turn it into a paper, and then get it accepted by said conference. And you also need to make sure your university is willing to pay for at least part of the cost, but once you've achieved all of that, this traveling gig is a real perk.

In my case, the paper that landed me at the major international conference to be held in Ireland focused on the study that involved research assistants and Steve, my former colleague who is busy finishing up his PhD at his Big Midwestern University. Much to our surprise, we found some pretty interesting things, and fortunately, the reviews at the major conference agreed, and so this Saturday I will be on my way to the airport. The conference doesn't start until Tuesday night, and since exploring a country by myself isn't half as much fun as exploring it with a friend, Mary, she of running awesomeness (who in a less awesome move, transferred to Italy) is flying up to meet me, and we will exploring this rainy, green, druid-filled country together. Not only has Mary been to Ireland before, she's an even better planner and tour guide than I am (as proven by the fact that she's already figured out which bus to take to the airport to pick me up), and she's pregnant and has already threatened to buy me every single drink she wants but can't have. This is what I would call a win-win situation, people.

To be honest, not all is well in Dixiechick-travel-adventure-land. Lately, I've become a little freaked out by my accommodations. Because my university is generous but not exactly in a Daddy Warbucks kind of way, I'm having to pay a considerable chunk of the expenses for this trip out of my own pocket. And back in February, when I booked everything, saving on accommodations seemed like a great way to go. So I booked a room on campus. A single person dorm-room. Back then it sounded great, it cost only 43 euros a night, included breakfast, I'd have access to a kitchen, the campus gym and pool, and did I mention it was only 43 euros a night? But now, as my departure date inches closer I'm starting to feel a little queasy. What if I'm surrounded by partying students? Or worse, man-sized roaches? Or a really, really nasty bed? According to husband-dear, this is a) slightly ridiculous, and b) probably still a remnant from the accommodations trauma I endured in China last year. In order to assuage my fears, he suggested I look at pictures online, as it really couldn't be that bad. And so I did. People, I am paying 43 euros for a monk's cell. Or, if you're from Holland, a prison cell. Cinder blocks, a bed, a desk, and a bathroom so small I have the feeling I'll be standing on the toilet to take my shower. Fortunately, reviews call it "clean", "modern", and make no mention of bugs or dirt (although some did complain about partying Italian students), but still, part of me wishes I had just splurged and checked into a nice hotel downtown (although, as husband-dear points out, I would still be freaking out about bedbugs, and he is so right).

But accommodation-fears aside, I am excited to finally see Tir Na Nog with my own eyes, meet up with a good friend, catch up with former colleagues at the conference, and, of course, present Steve and my work to the academic community at large. I will keep you posted.

The Office: Your home away from home

Last week I did something I should have probably done five years ago: I bought a coffeemaker and set it up in my office. No more begging secretaries for their coffee, no more trips across campus to the decadent and overpriced coffee shop. From last week on, I am able to brew my own fancy coffee in my very own office using my very own Keurig coffeemaker.

As far as bringing personal items to work, I’m somewhat of a strange one. While fellow faculty members regularly cart in lamps and tables and chairs, the only times I have to borrow our departmental dolly, it’s to carry in books. And more books. Or maybe some journals. So when a staff member saw me hauling a crate into the elevator, he joked, “Do you have any room left for more books?”
“I don’t know, but this is a coffee maker.” I said.
“Ah, you’ve finally caved in.”

And he’s right. I have caved in. Into the desire to have caffeine at my fingertips whenever my body is pleading for it I need it. And into the trend that appears so visible on this campus, and all other American campuses of which I have been a part, namely to bring own one’s things into one’s office. I don’t know what it is about American academics, but they just love to turn their office into their home away from home. Granted, they also don’t receive the ergonomically correctly adjusted chairs, desks, footstools, and mouse pads that Dutch academics get on their first day on the job, but still. I can’t think of any Dutch professors who bring in their own furniture. The most one might see a Dutch scholar carry into his or her office is a plant, or an electric kettle (in case the departmental kitchen is only outfitted with a coffeemaker), or, if the scholar is the lucky recipient of a couple of kids, some art.

Now let’s look at the offices in my “regular” building, the one I’ve been living in for the past five odd years. When Steve still occupied the office next to mine, I remember being completely surprised when he ordered and paid for some framed art to hang on the wall. Why anyone would want to pay to decorate a space they don’t own was beyond me. But he did. And while I taped my infamous collection of quotes over my printer, Steve called facilities to hand his pictures for him. And he liked it. Then when Steve left, his replacement not only brought in her own art, she also carried it on her own lamps, television, and bookcase. The professor across the hallway has brought in a sideboard, a filing cabinet, and a fridge, while another professor down the hall has adorned her office with an eclectic collection of rugs and inspirational posters. Yes, I said rugs.

It’s even worse in the building where I work on my grant. When I moved into my office two months ago, it had a desk, a small side table, a desk chair, two chairs, and a filing cabinet. I was told to order new furniture, and I did. With university machinery moving at the speed of lightning, as it always does, I am still waiting on said furniture. And as of today, my office contains a desk, a small side table, a desk chair, two chairs, a filing cabinet, a printer, some office supplies, an extra extension cord, a tub of Lysol wipes, a small candle, and one picture cut out from a Dutch calendar. It’s bare. I love it. My neighbor has the exact same office, with the exact same standard furniture. He, however, decided to make his place more homey, and has thus added: two rugs, three lamps of varying sizes, but all three match the rugs, a sideboard, a cozy reading chair, several framed paintings, four or five plants, a humidifier, a fridge, a coffeemaker, an electric kettle, and a portable AC unit. Another colleague decided he did not like to colors of his walls (academic white), so he painted them one summer. One is green, the others are beige, and he’s decorated the green wall with a framed collection of pictures of his favorite authors.

Don’t get me wrong, whenever I see these offices, I wish mine looked like that. They’re cozy, they make you feel at home, and they do a great job reflecting the personality of the person working there. But then I realize that getting my office to look like that would entail, a) purchasing all these things using my hard-earned money, b) getting it all into my car, across a parking lot, and up three flights of stairs, and c) taking time out from fun activities such as grading to decorate my office. And then I realize I don’t have the money, the desire, or the time, to do any of that. Plus, I don’t want to start liking my office too much. I mean, it’s one thing to spend a lot of time there because you have work to do, but I don’t need to fall in love with the place, you know? Before you know it, I’ll never come home again. Especially when you consider that my new building is outfitted with showers too. It’s just too risky.

So I’m guessing that the coffeemaker will remain my one concession to this American trend. Unless someone has always had a burning desire to decorate offices. Then you’re more than welcome to try your luck on my two little cells.

At ease

You know all those lame sayings your mom your grandmother totally random old people who start talking to you as you're walking down the street always say to you? Phrases like "the more things change, the more the stay the same?", "a bird in the hand is better than two in the bush", "good fences make good neighbors", and "The way the clock ticks at home, it doesn't tick anywhere else"? OK, so that last one is actually not something a random American elderly lady would say to you, as it's Dutch. Or Dunglish, to be more specific. But you all get my drift, you know, "there's no place like home" or "you can pick your nose, you can pick your friends, but you can't stick a spatula up your butt and jump over an electronic fence". Sorry. That last one was also not something an elderly lady would randomly tell you. Unless she's secretly a teenager suffering from Asperger's and a wicked sense of humor.

Anyway.
Sayings like that, ones that are annoying because they are true.
Well, today I was able to disprove two of them. Yes, two. First, there's "the more things change, the more they stay the same". As you all know, I've been working on an NIH-funded project, and a result have only had to teach two classes this semester. It's been a wonderful experience. But in spite of that, today still looked like this:

8:30-9:15am-Faculty meeting
9:15--9:45am Student appointment to retake midterm
9:45-1pm - Classes
1-2pm Presentation run through with students attending undergrad conference
2-3pm Committee meeting
4-5pm Taping interview

And that's not including a 7:45-8:30 class prep, three five minute meetings with students regarding their need to re-prioritize their lives in lieu of their recent midterm grade, five IRB proposals to evaluate, a long phone call to plan a lunch meeting, a brief meeting with the chair regarding an upcoming conference, and two treks across campus to get to the various meetings and back.

It sounds a lot like my life before the grant. And it was. But it wasn't. It could not have been more different. Not only because several of the meetings included people asking me for my opinion or advice, but also because I was happier than I ever remember being at work. Busier too, but definitely happier. When I was walking across campus to yet another meeting, stopped for the third time by a student who had a quick question, waved to a faculty member who called out a "hi" across the quad, and realized it had taken me ten minutes to traverse maybe half a mile because of all the people I knew who wanted to call out a greeting or exchange a few ideas, I knew why. It was because I, for the first time in a long, lone time, felt at home. I was surrounded by people I knew and who knew me, people who appreciated me, and for whom I would gladly drive three plus hours every day. Faculty members who wanted to collaborate, share a coffee, and who asked me for advice. Students who, even though they complained and griped the whole way, never ceased to come back and visit me after graduation. Students whom I would gladly describe as royal pains in the behind, but who were, above all, MY royal pains in the behind, and whom I would gladly encourage, cajole, pester, push, and call out until the moment they walked across the stage at graduation.

I'm almost afraid to say, lest I jinx it, but for the first time in a long time, I felt at home. No, we still haven't found a church home, or friends who mean as much to us as the ones who left, or whom we left behind. I still don't like living in a subdivision, and I also still don't understand why this town does not have a proper book store, an independent movie theater, or a downtown. But this afternoon, on that sun-filled quad, with half a day full of meetings and students and faculty, it all suddenly came together. This place is home. It may not be like any home I've ever known or will know. It may be the most unlikely home I have ever had. But I like it.

4, 3, 6, 5: On the importance of research assistants

I'm not dead, haven't sunk into a depression, and I haven't given up on blogging either. I promise. I've just been a little overwhelmed. Oh, and busy giving myself road rash while running. But anyway, whenever I get overwhelmed, I do what has worked so well in the past decade of academia, I man the hatches, hunker down, get 'r done, and pretty much fall off the face of the earth. Ask husband-dear, he's barely seen me in the past ten days. And if he hasn't seen me, you know it's bad.

In case you're expecting the standard "classes started and life got busy" spiel I give you guys twice a year, I can triumphantly tell you that that is not the case. Nope. Well, sure, having 70% of my advisees realize that, oh, hey, classes have started, and I'm not registered yet! didn't help, but it wasn't the crux of my absence. Nope. That can be blamed on the baby-drama, my new project, and Steve*.

First of all, everyone around me is pregnant. Honestly. If you're reading this, and you're not pregnant, you better be sure, because everyone else is. In fact, if you want to become pregnant, just make friends with me, and I guarantee you a pregnancy within six months to a year. Promise. Although after three-plus years after no-baby-gate, I'm really sort of OK with the no-baby thing most of the time, being surrounded by nothing but glowing, pregnant women has not been easy. So over Christmas break, when my period was on a three-month hiatus, and I was sick, sicker, and sickest, I couldn't help but wonder if maybe, just maybe, maybe-maybe-maybe, a miracle had occurred.  Well, obviously (as otherwise I would have probably been so excited I would have called each and everyone of you in person), there was no miracle. And although one would think one would get used to this sort of disappointment, this particular time was rough. It didn't help that even though husband-dear and I had not said a word about this to each other at all, when I asked him to add tampons to the grocery list because my period had started, he started to cry. In spite of knowing better, he had been hoping for the miracle too.
So to say that put me in a bad mood would be an understatement. Add to that the fact that my entire reader seemed to be overflowing with pregnancy/baby tales, and the fact that I believe in writing what you know while not wanting to write about this again, and you might see why my brief blogging break turned into a somewhat lengthy hiatus.

Then there is the new project. I mentioned this before Christmas break, and people, it's awesome. I'm only teaching two classes, and have been able to spend the rest of my time working on this new health communication initiative, designing outcomes, trying to understand NIH requirements, and talking to as many experts and interested parties as possible. As your classic type-A, overachiever personality, you can see how I can make this really big, really quick, and I did. The thing has got so much momentum, there are times when I'm not sure where to begin. People love the initiative, want to help, give feedback, collaborate, and OMG this could be huge if I just get everything done right now.
Right.
So lots of hours poring over ideas, spreadsheets, schedules, and research proposals, and a head filled with things to do, people to talk to, concepts to consider.

And finally, there's Steve. Or more accurately, there's a project Steve and I have been working on. We started it last semester, and because I apparently had a brainwave of awesome proportions before the summer, I commissioned a few research assistants. While Steve and I played with the questionnaire design, concept mapping, and data analysis, they collected and entered all the data for hundreds of respondents. It was awesome. Then the semester ended, the research assistants graduated, and Steve send me much-dreaded email, "The results are not clear enough. We need more data."
Steve, you see, works for a research institution. A place where people teach two classes per semester, if that. A place where there's an army of graduate assistants dying to help you with your projects. But the data collection is taking place at my institution, where everyone teaches at least four classes, and graduate assistants are hard to come by.
So I cussed Steve out, told him to get creative, but it was to no avail. He was right. We needed more data. With my research assistants out in the real world, and no new candidates, you can guess who has spent the better part of last week visiting lectures, administering surveys and entering lots and lots of numbers. Exactly. Me. The deadline we're trying to make is in two weeks, so we have some time, but still, the pressure is on.

So there you have it, three reasons why I've been somewhat absent. I will be back, I promise. But right now, I need to go print out my latest and greatest project outcomes for a meeting I have in ten minutes, after which I need to haul butt to administer surveys to three back to back classes.






*Steve, for new readers, is a former colleague who decided to head for greener pastures and get his PhD at a Big Midwestern University. After three years of talking to each other through our paper thin office walls, we continue our conversation through gmail chat and Facebook, and continue to produce mind-boggling important research. Sort of.

Grading, grading, grading, gra-done!

In previous semesters, I always made sure to not turn in my final grades until the day they were due. I'm not sure why I did this, because in all cases, I was done grading the day of the last final, and could have turned in my final grades the very next day. Instead, I would draw out the grading process, take long lunch breaks, long coffee breaks, go home on time, and do whatever it took to turn in my grades with all of my other, far-more-harried colleagues on Friday.

Why? You may ask. Well, I'm not entirely certain myself, but two reasons come to mind. First, I felt bad for turning in grades early and, not having a reason to be at work anymore, skipping out of work the days before commencement. Missing work are two words that just don't go together in the Dixiechick lexicon. Second, I didn't want people to think that the reason I was able to turn my work in early was because I'm one of those slacker professor who doesn't "do" final papers and whose finals are nothing more than twenty true/false questions. In case you were wondering, yes, I am aware that I am possibly crazy for thinking these things. Especially considering the fact that unlike my harried colleagues, I spent the weeks and weekends prior to finals furiously grading papers, senior theses, and final projects. While I don't know what my fellow professors do in the weekends leading up to finals, I do know that my family has dubbed the last two weekends before commencement my "hell weekends" (which, yes, always include either Thanksgiving or my birthday, thankyouverymuch), since I spend at least several hours each day up to my elbows in grading, creating finals, and calculating final grades.

So this semester I decided to change things up. And I started by turning in my grades when I was done grading, that is, on Wednesday right after lunch. When I triumphantly exited the department office, and ran into two fellow professors who sighed that they had yet to start grading, I realized that my fear of looking like a slacker all those years was completely unfounded. I'll refrain from passing judgment, but let's just say, I wasn't the one slacking. So instead of driving into work yesterday to work on my grading a little and look busy, I sat on the couch and watched the entire Today show. And today, there's no need to drive to work, make a great show of printing out my final grades and roll book, and turn them in, nope. My plans for today include printing out the pictures I took at Disney and going for a swim. And possibly doing some laundry. Maybe. And the lesson learned? Caring about what other people think is never worth as much as having two days to yourself. Ever.

While we're talking about change, I'd also like to talk about next semester. Next semester, people, is going to be different. Not just because I -finally- implemented the changes in deadlines I should have made five years ago, so that not all papers are due in the last week of class, but also because I got a grant and have received 50% release time. Fifty percent release time, for those of you wondering, equals two classes, which means that next spring I will only be teaching two classes. Two. Not four, or five, or even six, nope. Two. And the even better news is that I got to pick the two I wanted to teach. That, my dear readers, is the bees' knees of academics, the cat's pajamas of scholarly life. It's right up there with paid sabbaticals and book royalties. 
Now this doesn't mean I get to spend the other twenty hours of the week sitting around drinking coffee. No, instead of teaching and dealing with important questions such as "why do we have to write two papers?", and "why is this class so hard?", I get to develop a cross-disciplinary research initiative in the field of health communication. None of us on the grant are exactly sure what we'll be doing, but our first task (after I get to furnish my...wait for it...new office) is to developed measurable outcomes, so I'm sure we'll be fine.

So I am excited this semester is over? Yes, three times yes. I weather a tenure portfolio deadline, conducted a large scale quantitative survey, taught five classes, dealt with a child in marching band, two major meltdowns,  and one student going into early labor, so I am ready for a break. But I can also assure you that I am more than ready to come back in 2013.

Aaaand she's back!

(again).

It is with great joy, pride, and relief that I'm able to inform you that my four inch promotion and tenure portfolio was turned in yesterday at approximately 9:25am. Three weeks minutes six hours in the making, with every free hour spent on compiling all the work I've done in the past five years, lots of nightmares about lost letters, misplaced tabs, and random natural disasters destroying my binder, and I still managed to turn it in a day early. Take that, leaders who told me I wasn't up until 2013. You might make me cry, but that won't stop me from turning in a beautifully labeled, militarily organized, and narrated portfolio.
Yes, I'm a nerd.

For those of you who missed the drama: I was always under the impression I wasn't up for promotion and tenure until 2013. Until I, in all of my anal-retentive-type-A awesomeness, decided to attend the p&t prep meeting a year early, and found out, that, guess what! Not only was I up in 2012, but the application, i.e., a portfolio with all my work from the past five years organized into the four categories of teaching, achievement, research, and service, was due three weeks from that day. Today. In case you were wondering why I was absent for three weeks, that's why.

What was most amazing about putting together my portfolio (aside from the fact that I was able to get it done at all) is that I had no idea I had done this much stuff since 2007. No idea at all. Every time I couldn't immediately think of something to fit a specific category (such as "Service: National and International"), it would take just one dive into my filing cabinet for me to realize that hey! I've actually served as a consultant for a Dutch university on the formation of their IRB...cool! Or, oh yeah! I did go to that workshop in DC, I remember now. I had to grade online homework on the breaks. You get the idea.
At any rate, it does finally explain why I'm so tired all the time.

The second amazing finding is that I've finally realized that being a triple-type-A personality with a slight case of OCD is actually really, freaking awesome. From now on, I'm going to no longer mock myself for creating to-do lists for everything, organizing the children's closets based on color, season, and usage, or any of the other things that most people find slightly peculiar. I might even declare September 7 national-love-your-quirks day, in fact. And why? Well, because without my tendency to worry about things years in advance, and organize everything I can get my hands on, I would have not already had a folder labeled "promotion and tenure stuff". A folder in which, for the past two years, I have been tossing everything that might, someday (like, oh, in 2013) be relevant for my portfolio. A folder which, on Thursday night, after I used all of my self-control to not break down during the promotion and tenure prep meeting (known in the DixieChick house as The Meeting), I picked up out of my drawer, took home, and which became the backbone for all the work I did over the next three weeks. I had certificates in there for things I had forgotten all about ("oh, wow, the Air Force gave me this volunteer appreciation certificate. Oh yeah, for working with the airmen. I got a certificate. Honey! Did I ever tell you I got a certificate from the base?").

So now that the blessed thing is out of my hands, the waiting game begins. Officially, we won't hear anything until early January. Unless we're denied, in which case I'll hear something in either September (if the Chair denies me), October (if the Promotion and Tenure committee denies me), or November (if the Dean or Provost denies me). But unofficially, the grapevine around our college works very well, and I should know something within the next month or two.

With the type-A/anal retentive/OCD personality outlined in the previous paragraph, you would think I am on pins and needles to find out the results of the process. Heck, I  would expect me to be on pins and needles. But strangely enough, I'm not. (well, not yet, anyway). I actually feel pretty confident right now. Not only was my confidence boosted by the fact that apparently a lot of people on campus really like me, if judged by the ease and speed with which everyone I asked wrote these glowing letters of recommendation for me, and by the sheer volume of the stuff I was able to put in the portfolio, but also by the fact that if the committee sticks to the rubric they give to candidates, I should get somewhere around a 108%.

I'm sure that within the next few weeks and days (heck, even hours, knowing me), I'll change my mind, and convince myself that there is NO way any one is ever going to give me tenure, let alone promotion. But for now, I'm feeling pretty OK.

So with that thought (and the promise of lots of stories about bathroom rhymes to come this week), I'll wish you all a very awesome weekend!

Pie en Tie

Pie en Tie - dat is sinds afgelopen donderdag het centrum van mijn leven. De reden van mijn bestaan. Daar sta ik mee op, en ga ik mee naar bed. En soms droom ik er zelfs over.

Pie en Tie staat natuurlijk voor "promotion and tenure", het gevreesde "maken of breken" moment van elke Amerikaanse academicus. Waar je in Nederland na een jaar een vast contract krijgt, mits je niemand vermoord hebt, de secretaresse te vriend hebt gehouden, en je studenten ook niet gillend weggelopen zijn, is het hier in Amerika een heel ander verhaal. Hier mag je na zes vijf jaar bewijzen, door middel van een enorme portfolio, dat je een mega-geweldige onderzoeker-slash-onderwijzer-slash-community-activist bent. Kan je dat, dan krijg je promotie (naar Associate Professor) en "tenure", oftewel, het felbegeerde vaste contract.

Volgens mijn planning de planning van mijn vakgroepsvoorzitter zou ik in 2013 opgaan voor "p & t". En mijn planning hield dus in dat ik de hele zomer voor de deadline mezelf bezig zou houden met het in elkaar zetten van een prachtige portfolio. Ik zou een mooie, zakelijke-maar-simpele map uitzoeken. Er zouden bijpassende tabbladen bijkomen, met mooie geprinte labels. Ik zou de tijd uittrekken om elk stuk bewijs, elk certificaat, elke inhoudsopgave, elke studentenevaluatie te scannen en van pagina nummer te voorzien, zodat alles makkelijk te vinden was. Ik zou een wel-doordachte afweging maken over welke zwaarte ik aan welke categorie zou toekennen (onderwijs, onderzoek, academische ontwikkeling, service). En ik zou mooi de tijd er voor nemen. Ik zou, met andere woorden, niet alles tot het laatste moment laten liggen en moeten stressen.

Juist.
Toen ik afgelopen donderdag dus vernam dat mijn vakgroepsvoorzitter een cruciale berekeningsfout had gemaakt, en mijn portfolio op 7 september af moest zijn, vielen al die mooie plannen in een keer in duigen. In plaats van een mooie, zakelijke maar simpele multomap, heb ik een zwarte three-ring-binder bij Staples gekocht. Mijn tabbladen vond ik in de keukenla die we normaal gebruiken voor de schoolspullen van de jongens, en de nummering doe ik gewoon met de hand. Ik hoop en bid dat ik met mijn gekozen percentages mezelf niet al teveel in mijn vingers snij, en probeer ondertussen vooral te blijven lachen. Want dit is natuurlijk, voor een triple-A-persoonlijkheid als mijzelf de allerergste nachtmerrie.

Maar als ik eerlijk ben is dit eigenlijk heel erg goed nieuws. Want of ik weet dit jaar of ik tenure heb, en me dus niet meer met onbeschofte studenten hoef bezig te houden, of ik hoor dat ik volgend jaar op zoek mag naar een nieuwe baan, en dan hoef ik me dus ook niet meer onbeschofte studenten bezig te houden.

Eigenlijk is het dus gewoon een win-win situatie.

Nou ja, een beetje dan.

One heck of a start...

This semester is going to be one of its kind. How do you know, you ask? Well, it wasn't the sophomore advisee who barged into my office without knocking this morning. It also wasn't the fact that she demanded I printed out a form that I told her she needed to bring in two weeks ago. And it also had nothing to do with the fact that when I told her no, she proceeded to lament about the fact that she had no money at all, and I was being incredibly unhelpful. Nope. It was her telling me to kiss her ass right as she swept out of my office five minutes later (on her way to the office to complain about me). As my next-door-neighbor told me later, that had to be some sort of record. Asses were already being whipped around, and it wasn't even nine in the morning yet.

I would love to say something funny, ironic, or deeply insightful about this, but after five years of being told to kiss ass, show some sympathy, be reasonable, and stop dressing like a banker, I've run out of smart comebacks. I honestly thought that whenever I wrote about incidents like these several years ago, that would be the one and only time they would happen to me.

Unfortunately, they're not.
There was the student who threw a chair across the classroom when he found out that due to our class rotation, he wasn't graduating that semester. There was the student who, upon hearing her graduation portfolio did not meet the requirements, threw such a tantrum that people from adjacent departments stepped in to see what was going on. There was the student who was so mad at his quiz grade, he tore a sheaf of papers out of my hand, and then wouldn't let me pass him on my way to the office (campus police had to come in and deal with him). There were countless other incidents were students were rude, disrespectful, or just downright mean. And at one point, writing (and reading, I'm sure) about them is just not funny anymore.

So, why do you stay? You ask.
I would love to say it's the students. It used to be all about the students. Many of our students are fiercely bright, and deserve a chance at college, at a career, at life. These students used to be the reason I would deal with the crazy outliers. But in recent years, it seems as though these crazy outliers have become the dominant group on campus. They're customers, and they'll behave every damn way they please, because they're paying our salaries, thankyouverymuch.
So as I ponder another semester, I can't help but wonder if this year's batch of sophomores will be better, smarter, more respectful, less demanding, less myopic, easier to like. If they'll be the ones to restore my hope in this particular generation, my career, and whether or not what I do actually makes one iota of a difference.

I sure hope so.

Tassle time

Five classes
Three copies of the Banner gradesheet
Two copies of my gradebook
A copy of my roll
Three copies of the syllabus, all tests, and quizzes.

Granted, it takes a lot of paper, a lot of stapling, and a lot of double-checking, but eventually all the semester's hard work, all the grading, the emails, the endless questions, the sleepy students, the long days and short nights, are stuffed into one manila envelope and triumphantly carried across campus to the departmental office.

And then there you are. Your desk is clean. The hallways are oddly devoid of laughing, yelling, texting students, and although you know you have several research projects waiting for you, for now, you have nothing left to do. You go through the stack of papers that has collected on the edge of your desk over the past few months. You clean out your coffee mug, which is about a weekend away from playing host to a colony of penicillin, and then you decide to venture outside. With no apparent purpose, other than to feel the sun on your arms, and see who else is outside, walking off the final grades stress.

Suddenly you notice that the crape myrtles have sprouted leaves. Big, deep green leaves. But you don't remember seeing them in bloom, even though you walk by them every day. You notice the grass is no longer yellow and stubbly, but luscious and green, and bicycle racks have appeared out of nowhere by every building. The bubble that's surrounded you for the past four months is gone, and you're finally part of reality again.

Once again, the semester has flown by, and now that it's over, time appears to catch up with you and stand still at the same time. There are phone calls to be made. Emails to write. Meetings to schedule. A commencement to get ready for. But for now, all you want to do is soak up the sun, and let time pass you by for a change.

Freaking serious

Somehow I and everyone else on campus has made it through the past sixteen weeks, and while we're still shaking our heads in surprise at making it out at the other end relatively unscathed as well as the sudden twenty degree spike in temperature, we also realized we need to strap in, place our table trays in the upright position, and brace ourselves for finals.

I need to be honest though, I don't know if word has finally gotten out that I kick butt and take names, but this semester, once again, the drama has been minimal. No one has lost their temper, only two students had a full-on, hiccuping, tears-and-snot breakdown in my office, and only one student forgot to show up for finals. It's great for my well-being, but not so great for my blog. Because what is there to write about when all is well in academe?

Fortunately, there are my online students. My spring online students are usually fresh-faced sophomores who somehow, in spite of the student handbook, their checksheets, and their advisors, forgot to take the mandatory COMM 2001 Intro to Mass Comm class in the fall. Fortunately, these students do quickly  realize that the only way to stay on track for graduation is to take the class online in the spring. The problem these students face is two-fold, a) they have never met me, and obviously have not heard about the "kicking butt and taking names"trope, and b) although I write lots of forceful explanations and guidelines ("You must turn in your work at 11:55pm EST. Anything turned in even one minute late will be rejected by the system. As you know all your deadlines in advance, I will accept only the most radical of emergencies as excuses"), they're just not as scary as having me blare it out in front of a full classroom.

So each year, this online class produces a hilarious collection of emails and online messages. For your reading pleasure, I selected my top three of "Snowflaky*" emails..

The second runner-up in this year's competition goes to the student who sent her final paper (worth  30% of her final grade) in a good twenty-four hours late. The excuse, as cited in the email, "I, for some reason thought that yesterday was only Wednesday and today was Thursday, and since your deadline said the Thursday, I thought it was due today. I didn't realize it was actually the Friday today until I tried to upload the paper and the system wouldn't let me."

Perhaps I'm too much of a curmudgeon here, but remembering the days of the week would seem to be one of those things vital to surviving life. But, you know, that's just me. And my standards are probably too high.

The first runner-up is a student who goodness-only-knows-professor! really, really tried his best. But the class was just so, very, very hard. And so I got about three emails from this contestant, all of which read something like this, "I want you to know I'm really trying, but it's just sooooo hard!!!! Is there something you can do about that because I really need to pass this class." When the person then did not pass the class (due to lack of turning in assignments), his final email read, "Well, I guess I just wont be taking any more classes with you."

Hm. Let's think about that. You failed the class, so guess what, you'll need to retake it. And guess who teaches this class all year round? Yes! Me! Oh, and also, who teaches the mandatory methods class? Yep, me again. And what about that mandatory philosophy class? Yes! It's me again! Sonnie, you might have a problem.

But the award, the first place trophy in most Snowflaky email goes to someone who also sent me the shortest email I received this semester. Someone was way back in the pack, but who caught up fast with the brilliant one-liner he sent me after I informed he had plagiarized on his final paper (and thus received a zero): "Are you FREAKING serious?"

Yes, dear, yes. I am.

So for all the peace and calm that symbolized this semester, I got a good laugh in at the end after all. 




*Snowflake: A student who has been told, and thus believe that s/he is completely unique, beautiful, and very, very special, but who, by token of the name is likely to melt when come under the least amount of heat.

Terrifyingly, confusedly elated

I'm not sure if the phrase "terrifyingly elated" makes any sense to you, but that's pretty much what I feel like right now. Actually, let's add "confused" and "nervous" to that. So "Nervously confused and terrifyingly elated". I did not think it was possible to feel all those things at once, and judging by the rumbling in my stomach, my body isn't very happy about it, but there you have it.

Let's start with the confusion. When I started to write this blog, I was merely terrified, nervous, and elated. But then, lo and behold, the change that Blogger has been threatening to implement is here, and oh-my-god-what-happened-to-my-dashboard. Everything is white, light, spacious, and, worst of all, completely different from how it used to look. It's just like with running shoes - you found a pair you like, and before the year is up, the maker decides to "improve" the "running experience" by "further adapting" to "today's runners' needs". Or whatever. I liked my blog the way it was, and now it's weird, different, and I'll have to relearn my way around it. And honestly, living in the south is confusing enough as it is. I don't want that on my blog. Call me neurotic, a type-A personality, whatever you like, a) you're probably right, and b) it doesn't change the fact that I don't like it.

Alright then, time to put Sheldon Cooper away, and move on to the elation. For a half-empty-gal like myself, just typing that word is odd. But it's true. I have been feeling elated. And for not just one, but two reasons. First of all, yesterday I heard that I had been nominated for and won the "Excellence in teaching" award at work. Apparently, several of my students nominated me, and I won.
I won, people. I never win anything. And now I not only won something, but I won because in spite of all the huffing, the puffing, the eye rolling, the whining, the complaining, my students like what I do. Enough to nominate me. That is enough to make me want to cry. Again. It makes it all worth it.

Second, I also just found out that Jimmie has made the high school marching band. In the south, where high school bands are on a par with football teams, that is a Big. Deal. Everyone who can't play football and isn't a girl (as cheerleading is still very much for girls around here), wants to be on the marching band. And so did Jimmie. He had been practicing his trumpet around the house for weeks, much to the joy of all of especially his four-legged housemates, but apparently all the loud screeches, the endless scales, and the constant hunt for chapstick for his cracked lips was worth it, as this morning the band director emailed us that he was in. And just because I am one proud momma, I'm going to tell you that our high school marching band is one of the best in the state, has won several championships, and marches like no other. I have not looked at the fee schedule, the summer camp schedule, or the weekly training schedule yet, as I'm sure those will take away some of my elation, but for now, I'm happy for Jimmie. For the little kid who used to get picked on so bad he didn't want to ride the bus to school. That same little kid who is now going to march with the best.

And the terrified part? Well, for some reason I don't remember myself, I will be getting up at around 4:30 tomorrow morning (pending negotiations with husband-dear regarding departure times), and together with several hundred other people swim 1.2 miles, bike 56.1 miles, and then finish it all off with a nice 13.1 mile run. Hopefully within eight hours. And it looks like it's going to rain. Terrified doesn't even begin to describe it.

So there you have it, it is possible to be happy, confused, and scared to death all at the same time.

Heaven help me

So the reason I've been somewhat absent on the blogging front lately is the same reason I'm grading papers at 9am on a Sunday morning. Easter Sunday morning, no less. It's because I once again do not have enough hours in a day to do all the things I promised I would. And also because husband-dear and I decided that there would be no better way to start our day than by getting up at 5:45am to attend the 7am Sunrise service. I figured that once my soul and body had been adequately fed (the sunrise service leads into a huge, scrumptious breakfast), I would be more than ready to face the latest slew of student creations.

I was wrong.

Not wanting to bore you with yet another list of heinous writing errors, I'll just remind you that not too long ago I posted about how Georgia students' scores on standardized tests had dropped again in the past years. It would seem that some of those students have made it into college now. I'll also remind you of all those times I complained about students not knowing the difference between "there", "they're", and "their". How I wish that was my biggest concern right now. I just finished grading two papers where I spent two pages debating if the students were high when they wrote the paper, turned in an assignment for another class, or had merely slept through all of my lectures. It wasn't just the lack of paragraphing or proper sentence structure. It was a complete and total lack of direction. It was the squirrel-dog from "Up" on speed.

I've considered following the path of the least resistance, the one favored by probably smarter non-tenured co-workers, and one that will probably ensure my tenure is a shoe-in. The one that would guarantee that I would be done with this by noon, and could still enjoy some semblance of Easter. All I would have to do would be to give everyone a passing grade. Not all As, mind you, there would be some Bs and Cs in there too. But no Ds, and definitely no Fs. Not even for the worst of the plagiarists. I would just write short little comments about major oversights and letting the "smaller" issues (like paragraphing, proper citations, and clarity) go. If a student plagiarized, I would pull out my blue (red has been proven to negatively affect students' self-esteem) pen, and write in an exclamation mark and a constructive little comment like, "Try not to do this in the future!". And if a paragraph makes absolutely no freaking sense, one might pen in something positive yet directive like, "Reread this paragraph, it might need some work."

My co-workers and most of the employees at the advising center call this type of feedback "student-centered" and argues that it takes the student's limitations into account, only pushing them on those areas in which they show the potential to improve. In practice, it means that if Sandy can't write a proper paragraph to save her life, just let it go. She's already indicated she wants to go into television production, so what does her inability to organize a paper matter? And if John keeps plagiarizing, it obviously means the instructor has not done a good job explaining how to avoid plagiarism. It all comes back to the instructor, after all. As for me, I say it means that you've given up. You've given up on your students and their ability to learn. You've given up on yourself as a teacher, your own morals and integrity. And you've given up on the idea that only really hard work pays off.

So if I believe all of that, and I know it's true, why can't I just grit my teeth and show these kids (again) how to write? Why am I tired, worn out, and starting to believe that maybe it's me, and maybe I'm not the inspiring and smart teacher I like to think I am? Why I do yearn for the days I taught at a Dutch university and all of my VWO-graduates would freak out if their paper was two pages over the maximum? Wow, how I miss my over-achieving, nitpicking, self-starting, and above all, motivated VWO-students. The kinds of kids who need just a "that's not quite what I was talking about" to completely rip their paper apart and start over. Not that I don't have students like that over here, as I do. It's just that the majority appears to hold me personally responsible for their progress or lack thereof.

You all know me long enough by now that I will keep grading. And I'll keep telling my students things like, "Writing "because" does not prove causality" and "you must quotation marks around a direct quote". And I'll keep believing in their ability to become great writers, thinkers, and scholars. Because I think that in spite how much they might have been shortchanged by the education system in the Great State of Georgia, they can all be as good if not better than my little VWO show-offs. It's just that every once in a while, I just want to shake each of my little darlings individually, give them their paper back, and tell them, "Now don't turn it in until you know it's good enough for Dr. D."

Maybe I just need some coffee.

Spring break: Yay! Oh wait...

Spring break is this week, and since this was the first time since we've moved here that we had nothing going on this week, I had all these grand plans. No family was coming to town (2008), I wasn't traveling to Holland (2009), we weren't traveling to Holland together (2010), and we weren't cruise-bound either (2011). It was going to be awesome. Excuse me, AWESOME.

I was going to start by relaxing. A lot. Then I was going to take a lot of naps. Then I was going to spend a lot of time watching all those movies I'd meaning to watch on On Demand. Oh, and visit Starbucks a lot. Probably to wake me up from all those naps. And once I got all that done, I was going to do a whole host of useful things as well, such as finally clean our fridge (if anyone can tell me how the shelves get dirty when all you do is put closed stuff such as milk and containers of salad on them, I'd be ever so grateful, as this continues to boggle my mind). I was going to get my dry cleaning done, catch up on my ironing, my grading, and my reading. I was going to get my pictures from the past year (!) developed, get the dogs groomed, and master our new bread-machine. I was going to revise an article, weed the front yard, get some good exercise in, and spend plenty of time getting ready for Friday's conference, so that I would not be rushing my ironing and presentation prep at the last minute.

So can someone tell me WHY it's almost 8pm right now, and I JUST finished my presentation? And I still have to iron my shirt? And I feel positively frazzled?

Never mind, I can tell you why. The short answer would be that I'm a workaholic idiot, but a half-a$$ed one at that. An alternative short answer is that I started spring break by writing a ridiculously long to-do list in the first place. A third alternative answer is that there was no way I could have done all of those things in a week. The long answer is that I reversed the list in the previous paragraph. I didn't start by relaxing, watching movies, and catching up on my sleep, thus being fully prepared to tackle my insane list. Oh no, heavens forbid, of course not. The sky will fall and birds will obviously stop singing if I were to ever attempt that. No, I started by getting the dogs groomed, doing a 70-mile bike ride, baking three loaves of bread in two days, getting pictures developed, grading mounds and mounds of student papers, and cleaning the house. And then I swam some, ran some, took the car in for an oil change, did groceries, graded some more student work, and going to the physical therapist. And then I realized, crap, it's Thursday evening, and I just ran out of time.

Long story short; the fridge is still dirty, I still have not revised my article or read any of those articles I needed to, and the front yard still needs weeding. Oh and those movies and naps? Yeah, I never got around to those either. Not only did I not get my list completely done, I also did not get to unwind. In short, a  double-plus-failure. If you're going to be a workaholic, you need to be completely absolutely gung ho about it, and complete you freaking list. If you're going to be a sloth, be a total and complete bump on a log.
Note to self: You can't be both.

Next year we'll just have to fly across the world or take a cruise again. It apparently is the only way to get me to unwind.
Now excuse me while I go finish some last-minute things.

Collegiate anthropology

It's been far too quiet on the my-job-drives-me-to-the-brink-of-something front lately. For those of you who have been wondering whether my endearingly dramatic students have suddenly seen the light and started behaving well, turning in work on time, and participating in class: no, I'm sorry, but they haven't. I just figured there's only so many times I can write about terrible spelling, perpetual tardiness, and the other misery that plagues college professors all around before it gets old.

There has, however, been a new type of behavior that's been on the rise this semester. One that woke up the budding anthropologist inside of me, and definitely warrants closer attention. For lack of a better word, I'm going to call it the "eye-sigh".

The eye-sigh. A complicated physical expression, which holds a plethora of social meaning. For those of you wondering what on earth I'm talking about: the eye-sigh usually starts with a roll of the eye, which is coupled to a head thrust back, and ends with a loud and forceful sigh or snort. From my, however limited, observations it is mainly used by students of the female gender, although the males do have an equivalent behavior. The male version eschews the head thrust and exchanges the sigh for a grimace or a short hiss. The meaning, however, is the same and can best be translated as "Are you freaking kidding me?!"

Whereas previous student cohorts would express their dissatisfaction with a new assignment, the announcement of a test, or my request to turn off a cellphone in a most verbal manner, this year, non-verbal has been the way to go. Although eye-rolling has always been a part of a standard student response, I've never had students replace verbal protesting with such elaborate posturing. In fact, one of the reasons this semester as well as the previous one has been so much less drama-filled is because I've received almost zero spoken in-class feedback.

You would think that as the person in front of the class, I love the fact that my students have stopped trying to argue deadlines, assignments, and other rules and regulations. And three years ago, I probably would have agreed with you. But in all honesty, the eye-sigh has been driving me batty. It's not the fact that students aren't happy with the latest project, grade, or enforced rule, since they very rarely are, it's the fact that it's so incredibly passive aggressive.

See, for all my dishing out, I can take it pretty well too. I will tell students how it is ("if you have a hard time getting up for class at 9:50, how do you think that morning-drive-DJ-gig you're vying for is going to work out?"), but I have no qualms dealing with their comebacks either. It opens up a dialogue, allows me to explain myself, understand their point of view, and most of the time we all end up with a good laugh. I think I can actually state with confidence I enjoy the banter. I mean, just last week I had the following gem of a conversation with a student:

"Katie, please don't play with your phone."
"I don't have my phone! See it's not on my desk."
"No, it's in your lap."
(Student surreptitiously takes phone into hand), "No it's not, see! My lap is empty."
"That's excellent. In that case, please stop staring at your lap. Call me silly, but that's really distracting."

Who wouldn't prefer that over the eye-sigh? It reinforces my rules, makes the point, and entertains Katie's peers. What more could an instructor want? We laugh, we learn, we move on. It's great.

But when all students do is the eye-sigh, you've got nothing. Nothing to respond to, nothing to explain, nothing, except the feeling that perhaps you're not entirely appreciated right then. I've tried addressing it both seriously ("please don't roll your eyes at me") and in a pathetic attempt at humor ("What was that (insert awkward imitation here)?"), and the best I've gotten is either a second eye-sigh or a "I wasn't rolling my eyes. My contacts were bothering me/There's something in my eyes/My eyes are really dry."
People, does it get any more passive aggressive than that?

I've been thinking. Maybe it's me. Maybe I'm too scary, too intimidating. Maybe I have too many rules, and need to my students be the free spirits that they are.
And then I think some more. And decide that maybe, well, maybe not. 

Indoctri..squirrel!

For those of you who fortunate enough to not be confronted with news about the ongoing, seemingly never-ending battle for the Republican Presidential nominee, first of all: a heartfelt congratulations. I am certain that unlike the rest of us, you still have faith in the democratic system, and think of the upcoming Presidential election with nothing but wide-eyed anticipation. Second, and this can be seen as both a blessing or a curse, you have probably also missed the second faux-pas of the century by Presidential hopeful Rick Santorum. Yes, the second. The first "oh dear Lord what did he just say" moment was a few weeks ago, when Mr. Santorum decided to use the Netherlands as an example why euthanasia is wrong. And evil. And really on a par with geriatric genocide. The second gaffe of the day occurred last week, when Santorum decided to tackle Obama's perspective on college education.

Before I go any further, however, a brief disclaimer might be in order.
As you have probably noticed, I try to be decidedly a-political on this blog. I avoid talking about politics, just because things get polarized in a heartbeat, and before you know it, your quaint little blog has been taken over by a flame war between the hippy-skippers on the left and the bible-beaters on the right. For this one particular post, however, I am making an exception. And not because I dislike Santorum, or have a preference for any of the other candidates, or because I do really like Santorum, and think all the others are losers, and am trying to hide it by writing a vitriol-filled post about him.  I am making an exception solely based on the, well, wonderment I experienced when I first heard Mr. Santorum's view on college education.

You see, Rick Santorum, former senator of Pennsylvania, believes that the only reason President Obama wants every American child to be able to go to college is so that they can be "indoctrinated to a secular world view". In fact, according to Rick Santorum, colleges can be best described as "indoctrination mills". (sources can be found here and here). Now leaving aside the fact that most research has found this claim to be untrue (see here, for instance), let's talk about this for a moment.

To sum it all up, according to Rick Santorum, I as a faculty member, try to consciously or unconsciously indoctrinate my students into not believing (for the sake of the argument, I'm going to assume Rick, as the conservative Christian that he is, is not too concerned about Muslim or Hindu students losing their faith, but is instead worried about good Christian kids being turned away from God, Jesus, the whole nine yards). There are several obvious problems with that. First, I believe myself. As do many other faculty members with me. Why would I want to change my students' beliefs if I believe the same thing? Second, I don't really talk about religion in my classes. I'm a Professor in Mass Communication, and believe it or not, I only get paid to talk about what I know. Which happens to be mass communication, not religion. And third, my job as a university Professor is to teach students to think critically. In fact, I know I have successfully done my job only when students challenge a statement made by me, using the theories I introduced to them earlier in the semester. It would seem that that goes directly against the notion of indoctrination. Unless Rick Santorum honestly believes I use some sort of reverse psychology, where I tell students to believe in God, tell them that the Christian way is the only way, and then only give points if they unknowingly challenge that, using theories I taught them. Or not. Oy. I just made my head hurt.

But, Rick, may I call you Rick? Rick, you and I both know that's not why I'm writing this blog. You have obviously never been a Professor. Or worked in academics. Or in education in general. For had you had any experience in this field you would have known your statement is not so much untrue as it is absolutely preposterous. Indoctrinate my students? Really, Rick?

You want to know what teaching at the college level is like? Honey, let's talk about stapling. So the syllabus tells them, literally, "Staple your paper in the left hand corner". I remind them in class, "Please staple your paper. No paper clips, no corners folded over, no fancy folders. Just a staple." And what do I get? Three stapled papers, three without anything, four with the corner folded over, four in folders so large the papers won't fit in my bag, and three students forgot to print their paper out at all. And if you think that's it, wait until I tell them to read a certain chapter in class. I will finish the announcement with, "So don't forget, it will be on the midterm", and then all of a sudden, students wake up; "What did we have to do?", "Did we have to read something?", "Is there a midterm?", "Oh, wait there's a midterm? When? What's on it?".
And sweetie, those are the good classes.

My average student has an attention span that's about fifteen minutes long. If you use video, you might be able to extend that with an additional five minutes, but that's about it. They need potty breaks, phone breaks, texting breaks, get-a-snack-breaks every thirty minutes. They will get distracted by a woman in a red coat walking by an open classroom door. They will wander in ten minutes late, completely surprised to find class has already started. Do you have any children, Rick sweetie darling? If you do, you might have watched the movie "Up" with them. You know the dog in that movie? The one that when he sees a squirrel, he completely forgets what he's doing, where he is, and is only capable of panting "squirrel!" before leaping off to chase it? That dog? Yeah, that's what it's like to teach in higher education these days.

So indoctrination, I don't think so.

Tough love

This morning I found the following jewel in my email:

"I know I am going to get a zero, although I wanted to get my topic reviewed if possible. I will turn in a hard copy in class on Monday."

No signature, no reference to a specific class, this was it.

Fortunately for this particular student, I read a lot of Miss Marple mysteries when I was a kid, and that combined with my students' habits to assume I know every single one of them, their schedule, their life stories, as well as their personal idiosyncrasies ("you know I hate gmail!"), means that my power of induction are unsurpassed. Hence, based on his unique last name (which was actually part of his email address - excuse me while I pick myself off the floor), his reference to a class on Monday (which reduces the possible number of classes down to three), as well as his use of the phrase "my topic", made it very easy for me to determine that he was talking about the "write a paragraph about the topic you would like to research this semester" assignment that was due last week.

Admittedly, I admire this student's desire to receive feedback. He obviously realizes that without proper feedback, he'll have no idea whether the topic he's about to work with for the next thirteen weeks is any good or not. Although realistically he would have found out next week when he needed to turn in six peer-reviewed articles on said topic, and he might have received a terse, "don't think this topic is do-able in this time frame" or a "great topic!" note on his work, I can understand his desire to be on top of his stuff.

So that leaves me with the $64,000 question: Why did said student not turn in his work on time? I looked at his topic, and the one-sentence topic could not have taken more than about a second of his precious time. Unless he was in the hospital or in prison, there is  no reason why he could have not sent this email a week earlier. Even if he was off campus remembering the death of his beloved guinnea pig Mr. Twinkles, or helping his best friend's cousin's girlfriend move across the state, WiFi is pretty much omnipresent, and thus the topic could have been sent, on time, with the click of a button.

Unless, of course, unless said student is not as academically inclined as he'd like me to believe.
Hm.
Now there's a thought.

So, after four-and-a-half-years of dealing with late work, dead guinneapigs, moving cousins, broken parole, tough judges, and mysterious illnesses, all of which have led to me losing sleep, losing time with my family, and spending way too much energy trying to fix students' problems or mistakes, this is my standard answer to such requests:

"Good morning (student name),

Thank you for your email. Although I appreciate you turning in a topic, I set deadlines so I have time to grade everyone's work. Work turned in after the deadline will thus not be graded.

Thank you,

Dr. D"

Yes, there's not a lot of carebear-stare-unicorns-rainbows-flowers-candy-land about that response, but you know what, it's midterms, I'm swamped, and you're a grown-up.
So just deal.

Pet Peeves

The semester is about two weeks old, and I've already collected a list of pet peeves. As I'm sure you love nothing more than reading about the things that bother, as my southern friends would say, "the tar" out of me, here they are:

1. The ultimate helicopter parent. When you're 22 years old, and you failed to register for classes in November, and also failed to notice a gigantic in-your-face-transcript hold on your account, please do not ask your mother to call the president's office to override said hold the day before classes start. And if you're that 22-year old's mother, please, for the sake of all academic advisers out there, do not pick up that phone. Why, you ask? Well, there are several reasons: 1) It makes your darling child look like a baby, 2) it teaches your lovely offspring absolutely nothing about this pesky little thing called personal responsibility, and 3) it puts several hours worth of work on people such as your child's adviser, the department chair, the dean, as well as the president. In other words, people who have a lot of other things on their mind, one of which is whether or not your child has acquired the necessary skills to graduate. Do you really, really want those people to call each other to discuss "the case with the student whose mom called the president's office"?
I didn't think so.

2. The total snowflake. The student who thinks their personal situation is so very, very special, they are not only allowed to miss every single class in the first two weeks of school because they "had financial aid issues to resolve", but that they're also entitled to a "personal meeting" with you, their instructor, to catch up on "everything they've missed". This student also firmly believes that by ending or starting the email with a capitalized compliment about how they're REALLY looking forward to your AWESOME class, they make up for the fact that they've effectively missed enough classes to lose one entire letter grade in the class.

3. The anxious over-achiever. Now, before I start in on this one, don't get me wrong, I love nothing more than dedicated students. Students who have read the material, done the homework, stop by your office with intelligent questions, and pay attention in class. But there's something about this type of student that drives me absolutely batty. The anxious overachiever will have called anywhere from two to five times the week before classes start to make sure they are enrolled in your class, that the book is available in the bookstore/on amazon/in the library, to make sure you know about their, legitimate or not, special needs, to confirm the class room and meeting time, or to just check in and make sure you know they're in your class and how much they're looking forward to it. Then during the first week of class, they will stop by your office every single day asking questions about the first homework assignment ("write down your goals for this class"), how they're supposed to turn it in (it's in the syllabus and has been discussed in class), how long it's supposed to be (ditto), when it's due again (ditto), and then turn the assignment in early (now, granted, there's nothing wrong with that, although it's a little eerie to hear it's because they're anxious about handing materials in in class). It's possible I'm slowly becoming an old curmudgeon, but next to helping said student shop for groceries and tucking them in at night, I'm pretty sure I've done all the hand holding that's humanly possible.

4. The eye-rolling back-row-hoggers. In short, the students who really, really don't want to be here. They only took the class because "it was the only elective that would fit their schedule", or they thought they were going to graduate, but realized they needed nine more credits, or they are just of the modest opinion that they have proven their worth somewhere halfway through their sophomore year, and should just handed that degree already. Every assignment makes them roll their eyes, sigh, or grumble about how much work this is. They've developed the annoying habit of shortening my last name to a ridiculous nickname, show up late, and use their phones to make sure their hair still looks good.

Only fifteen more weeks until the end of the semester, and I so help me God, I will turn every single one of these little darlings into my very favorite student: The Critical, Engaged Thinker.

Egg, faces, and bathrooms

This past Friday I had the perfect blog topic, or so I thought. And, believe me, it was perfect. About an hour before my first class of the semester was about to start, I decided it was time to locate this mysterious "Room 240" that had appeared on my schedule for the very first time. In my department, we tend to teach our classes in the same wing (with all the fancypants equipment), and as those room numbers run from 150 to 190, I knew room 240 had to be somewhere on the second floor. But where? So off I went. And very quickly found rooms 240A and 240B.

Room 240A and 240B are the faculty bathrooms.
Yes, I said bathrooms.
Those exact same bathrooms I waxed lyrical about a few years ago, as places of silence, warmth, and with a complete lack of student interruptions. Now although I love those bathrooms, and my opinion of our current administration has been through its ups and downs, I refused to accept that someone, somewhere decided that the best place to meet for our senior capstone course was in the bathroom. Besides, didn't the "A" and "B" clearly indicate that there had to be a non-lettered "Room 240" somewhere in the building?

So I kept looking. And looking. And looking. But no room 240. So I enlisted the help of the dean's secretary, who happened to see me wandering the halls, and we wandered around together for a while, without any luck.
"Yeah, Dr. D.", she eventually sighed, "I hate to say this, but it seems to me like you really are scheduled to teach in the bathroom."

Now don't you agree that that would have made for a great blog post? Can you imagine the sarcasm dripping off this page as I pondered whether to teach both male and female students in the girls' bathroom or whether to separate the class by gender? Or the wrath I would have bestowed upon the new, improved, totally awesome scheduling program so proudly introduced by our administration last year?

Alas, it was not to be. For after I had asked the secretary if she would mind posting a note on both bathroom doors that obviously (and I insisted she include that word), Dr. D.'s class would not be meeting in the bathroom today, and made my way back to my office to email all of my students to meet in my office, I ran into Carrie. Carrie is a very quiet, but incredibly bright student. And right in the middle of my mumbled rant about incompetent schedulers and southern ways to indicate you needed to just quit, she quietly asked, "Uhm, Dr. D? I'm in your three o'clock class, and I was wondering if we were meeting in the Health building."
"No, we're not meeting in the bath...." Wait. Did she just say the health building? That big square monstrosity across the street? I stopped in my tracks, "I'm sorry, Carrie, what did you say?"
"Well, on my schedule, the building code says we're in the health building, but I just wanted to check with you."

The building code, you should know, is a wonderful little three-number code that is added before each room assignment, designated the building said room is in. It's something English professors will dread, as their classes tend to be scheduled all over campus, while lucky faculty members like myself never consider, since we always teach in the same wing of the same building. Always. Except this semester.

So, with the blush creeping on to my neck and cheeks, I checked my schedule, and indeed. Instead of the familiar "228" building code, the code next to the infamous room 240 was "229", a.k.a the health building. So it appeared as though my class wasn't meeting in the bathroom after all.

Do you remember that post I wrote a few months back, about my students not reading their assignments, their books, their notes? Yes, well, it appears that their professor is not much better at it herself.

So much for a cool, ranting blog post.
I'm sorry.