Adviser's woes

This week I have had to come to the conclusion that there is something that everyone at an American university dreads more than finals, midterms, or grading: Advising and registration. Some people may dread it because computer systems will have glitches or go down. Others may despise the fact that the people you need to talk to about overrides and exceptions are always unavailable. That's not what gets me, those are all bureaucratic nuisances I can handle (albeit with steam coming out my ears). No, it's the complete and overwhelmingly insane complexity of trying to assess which classes students need to take when. It's no wonder that freshmen are encouraged to bring their parents during their July orientation. I argue that all students should be allowed to bring their parents to advisement and registration - sometimes when I get especially tangled in a student's schedule, I wish my parents could be there.

Now I know all of my Dutch readers are going to think, well sheesh, how hard is it to figure out what classes students need to take when? And all I can say is: I know! In Holland, you receive a "student handbook" that perfectly delineates which class you're supposed to take when for each of the four years (or however long you chose to stretch it into) it would take you to graduate
Unless you failed, say Statistics A, and weren't able to take it successor Statistics B, it was all very easy and clear-cut. Although we do have a student handbook, and a class-checksheet, and a course catalog, and various online resources, I still long back for the simplicity of scheduling in Holland.

The main issue with American colleges and universities is that when students come in, they don't start taking classes for their major right away. Freshmen (or first year students for the Europeans among us), unlike their undoubtedly much luckier European counterparts, don't come in, and start with mind-numbingly dull classes like "Introduction into Mass Communication", "Basics of Communication research", and "Statistics A". No, American freshmen still have to take a litany of so-called core classes; i.e, classes in English, math, foreign languages, humanities, and sciences. They are not even allowed to start on their major classes until they have completed a sizable chunk of these core classes. And this is where the confusion commences.

For freshmen it's actually not so bad. They receive their first advisement during their orientation, where the university signs them up for all the core classes according to the classes and exams they have taking in high school. So your basic freshman might take the following five classes: Engl 1101, College Algebra 1111, Chem 1151, Fren 2001 and Hist 1111. Every single core class offers several sections, so getting a conflict-free schedule is a cinch.
It's at the sophomore level that the craziness starts. In order to stay on track, they may need to take three Mass Communication (Comm) classes in their first semester, but because they failed Engl 1102, they're not allowed into Comm 2001. This class is a prerequisite for all their other Comm classes, and not allowing them to register for it would put them a year behind, since Comm 2001 is only offered in the fall. You can see how well that would go down with everyone. So then you, as the adviser, have to consider, will you allow them into that class, and go through all the tedious paperwork of filing an override, or do you let them pay for their mistakes? Or maybe they need to take a PE class (I kid you not), didn't realize this until a day before the end of registration, and the only section that is not full is the one that collides with Comm 3349, another class they have to take if they want to get into any of the higher level production classes. And on and on it goes.

Sometimes the university doesn't help either; upper level courses are only offered once a year, so if a student forgets to register for one class, they will need to wait a year to take it again. A small mistake, but which can have disastrous consequences if you're looking at graduating. One of my students, for instance, saw her graduation get postponed from December to June next year because she didn't realize that Comm 3310, a major requirement, is only offered in the Spring. Another issue we face is that the university in all their wisdom decided that advisement is no longer mandatory. Before last semester, students had to come in to see their advisers once per semester, and determine which classes they needed to take. This would help them figure out what, when, where, and why, and would make sure they stayed on track for graduation. Now that students can register for classes without talking to their adviser, many lose sight of what they need to take and when, and so we have people like another one of my students who can't graduate in December because he failed to take the required number of foreign language courses. And that's when students suddenly do come and talk to their adviser, and I'm stuck explaining that, no, you can't graduate while missing three credits, and no, we can't offer Comm 3310 in the fall, our schedules our full. It's the pits.

Besides going to an entirely European situation where to get into a four-year program you have to have passed a national exam, and so no core classes are needed, I'm not quite sure what to do. For now, I just have the perfect Euro-American solution: drink lots of tea to keep you calm, and lots of Mt. Dew to keep you focused.

Just don't do it

"I’m just a girl who cain’t say no”
Ado Annie ~ Oklahoma!

Saying no is a hard thing to do. Yes siree. And it’s not just me. It’s possibly thousands, if not millions of southern women (and men incidentally!) who just can’t say no, sometimes literally. Take our youngest son for instance. I love the little kid to death and think he’s so cute I could just hug him forever, but when I ask him if he wants a snack, and he says “I’m fine”, instead of “No, thank you.”, well, it makes my hair stand on end. We teach our kids to be honest yet polite, and this display of round-about-interaction makes both of us wonder, more so since we have no clue where he picked it up.

Now I hate to say this, but I am slowly beginning to get the feeling this inability to say no may be one of them dang southern habits. I mean, I never knew there were this many different ways of saying no. I used to joke with my mom that her “maybe” was “no” in five letters, and that when she said “I’ll think about it” you might as well pack up your plans, but here, that’s just the tip of the ice berg. There are a million and one ways to say no without saying no. Of course, there’s the commonplace “maybe”, but people will also say “I don’t know” as opposed to “no”. So when you call our department secretary to find out if there are any three ring binders left, she would rather say she does not know than give you a flat-out no. Sounding ill-informed is apparently more appreciated than not being able to help someone out. And when someone close to you asks for something, a certain inflection in the way you say “Oh HONey” can also indicate a “no”, while a “hmm” can have at least three meanings, depending on its pronunciation, one of which is “no”, and one of which is “I’m trying to be polite but I really couldn’t care less about you right now.” Then of course there is the ubiquitous subject-change. When a southerner changes the subject when asked a question, there is no need to ask the question again. They have heard you, they just don’t want to hurt your feelings by saying “no”. And finally, my all-time favorite: the uninterested “sure”. When I ask a student to do something, and they say “sure” in a long, drawn-out way, I know immediately that it will not happen. It’s simply another way of expressing disinterest, while sparing the other’s feelings.

Does this drive me crazy? Well, at first it did. I didn’t understand how people could not know if they had handed something in, how many printer cartridges they had left, or whether or not they had registered for a class. I would assume people would do things (based on a “sure”), and would then be surprised if they didn’t happen. But slowly I’ve gotten used to it. I’ve learned that when dealing with people from the south it’s better to, instead of saying “no” outright, address it in a more indirect fashion, such as; “That’s a great idea, but I really don’t know if it’s feasible..”. I’ve also learned that unless people give me an unequivocal “yes”, nothing is certain.

Now, the real reason for writing about the inability to say “no” was really not to digress into a long rant about southern behaviors. No, it wasn’t. It was to let you all know that because of my inability to say “no” from time to time, and my fervent desire to do the best, be the best, ad nauseam (see the blog I wrote about a week ago), I have managed to really royally paint myself into a corner. You see, we have been unable to find a professor to teach certain classes, and so now yours truly, instead of teaching the standard four classes this semester, will be educating students in six different subjects. It’s insane. It’s crazy. I should have said no. Or maybe. Or even made a very long “hmmmm” sound, but I didn’t. My desire to do right by my students won out, and so now I’m stuck with two extra classes. So say “no”! As often as you can! Practice it a lot, because before you know it, it’s too late….

Six degrees of separation

How close are you to the Queen of the Netherlands? Or the current President of the US? Now I don’t mean when you last had coffee with them, because we all know that’s only for you and them to know, but I mean do you know anyone who knows them? Or maybe you know someone who knows someone who knows them? According to idea of six degrees of separation, there are actually only six people between you and them. In fact, there are only six people, or degrees, between you and every other person on earth. Interesting concept isn’t it? To think that you are six people away from famous people like Meryl Streep, or Joan Collins. I’ve been doing the math, and have begun to realize that perhaps this idea isn’t as ludicrous as it sounds.

Let’s take Joan Collins for instance. One of my friends from college is now a screenwriter in Hollywood, and worked on a show for Nickelodeon that starred Blair Underwood. He, in turn, acted alongside Heather Locklear in the show “LAX”, and Heather Locklear and Joan Collins worked together on the 1980s soap hit “Dynasty". That meanst that Joan Collins is four degrees away from me, and thus five degrees away from you, the reader. Right, you may think, but that’s just because you happened to get a degree in a college that also produced a lot of screenwriters. You have a point there. And I’m almost as reasonable as the next gal, so let’s take someone a little further out of our reach. Let’s take Beatrix, the Queen of the Netherlands. Alright. We discovered that the person who managed the location where we got married also organized a large part of Maxima and Prince Willem Alexander’s wedding. Willem Alexander is Beatrix’s son, so that puts her three degrees away from me. Isn’t that a cool thought? I also calculated that I am merely one degree away from former President Clinton (thanks to husband-dear), and thus two degrees from all the people he met. So who all do you know?

What got me started on this somewhat odd and definitely irrelevant theory is the fact that today I had lunch with my oldest friend. She and I met in 7^th grade, when we were both 12 years old, living in France, and attending an American school. Although we both proceeded to spend most of the next six years moving to various locations, we somehow matriculated at the same university in Texas within a year of each other. She then moved to London, and presumably out of sight. Yet within two years of her moving to the UK, I started a research project in collaboration with, yes, a university in England. Then when she moved to Atlanta, we figured we’d had run out of luck. Yet as you all know, as of last year, we now live only several hours driving from one another. It’s things like this that have me convinced that it is a small world, and that even if, like myself and many others, you spend most of your life moving around, you will always somehow end up meeting someone who knew you, or your brother, or your best friend. So even though I’ve always lamented not growing up in a small village like so many others, in a way I have just created my own, portable, little hamlet. And that's a very nice thought.

And yes, my friend is moving to Boston. However, I am now absolutely convinced that we will somehow end up there sometime too. History speaks for itself.

Dag huis, dag tuin,

Dag opbergschuur.

Ook al waren we eigenlijk te oud voor het ruim dertig jaar oude programma waar dit de titel van was, toch werd deze uitspraak de afscheidsslogan voor mijn broer en mij. Elke keer als we verhuisden, of na een lang, maar tijdelijk, verblijf uit een huisje weggingen, werd deze uitspraak door een van ons twee gdaan. Ik weet niet of mijn broer hem nog gebruikt, maar voor mij is deze bijna eeuwen-oude uitspraak nog steeds in vogue. En toen we gisteren ons huurhuis opleverde, betrapte ik mezelf er op dat toen ik voor het laatst de deur achter ons dicthtrok, weer “Dag huis, dag tuin, dag opbergschuur”prevelde. Want ondanks dat we maar een jaar in het huis gewoond hebben, was het toch heel even stiekem slikken toen we de sleutels moesten inleveren.

Je zou denken dat iemand die zo vaak verhuisd is, zich niet meer zo snel aan plekken hecht, maar in mijn geval is dat absoluut niet waar. Ik raak bij wijze van spreke al gehecht aan een hotelkamer waar we een paar nachten in verblijven. Vroeger had ik dat ook al. Als we in een nieuw huis kwamen, dan was ik de eerste dag bezig met het inrichten van mijn kamer, en daarna was voor mij de kous af. Dit was “thuis” en klaar. Het “thuisgevoel” is altijd wel direct verbonden geweest met omringd zijn door mijn eigen spulletjes. Maar het hoeft niet veel te zijn; toen we in Duitsland een maand in ons huis woonden terwijl de meubels nog onderweg waren, was ik al tevreden met wat foto’s, een paar kaarsten, en wat andere snuisterijen in de vensterbank. Op vakantie ben ik ook altijd diegene die heel haar tas uitpakt en alles inricht, en allerlei rare dingetjes meesleept zoals theezakjes, en soms zelfs een eigen kussentje. Maar zodra alles zijn plekje heeft, ben ik helemaal senang, en kunen we wat mij betreft zo lang van huis blijven als we willen. Gelukkig deelt manlief mijn “eigen spulletjes” syndroom, en als we verhuizen dan verbazen we vriend en vijand elke keer weer met het feit dat we binnen twee, maximaal drie, dagen alles helemaal uitgepakt en op zijn plek hebben staan. Natuurlijk is dat ook een kwestie van gewoon hard werken, maar voor ons is het ook echt een overlevingsmechanisme. Zodra de huiskamer, keuken, en slaapkamers redelijk ingericht zijn, dan hebben we pas rust.

Ik ben dan ook altijd helemaal verbaasd als er mensen zijn die die behoeftte niet hebben. Zo leeft een collega van mij al een jaar in een appartement dat op een bank, een koffietafel, en een opblaasmatras na, verder helemaal leeg is. Hij en zijn vrouw hebben hun spullen in opslag gedaan hun huis verhuurd, en vinden dit zo wel prima. Een andere collega heeft twee jaar lang in een stacaravan van iemand anders gezeten terwijl hij in Oxford werkte, en al zijn spullen nog in de VS stonden. Ik vind het knap dat ze het kunnen, maar mij zou je na drie weken wel kunnen wegdragen vermoed ik.

Maar goed, om mijn moeder te citeren, wat anderen doen moeten zij weten. Het enige dat voor mij telt is dat ons huis helemaal ingericht is met al onze eigen spulletjes, en dus helemaal “thuis” is. Wat mij betreft mag het nog wel even duren voordat ik “Dag huis, dag tuin, dag opbergschuur” weer uit de kast moet halen.

Bible belting

“Gonna let it rock. Let it roll. Let the Bible belt come down and save my soul”
John Mellencamp ~ Jack and Diane

Although I really don’t want to get into soul-saving, the purpose of religion or anything too complicated, I would like to get on my soapbox for a little bit and talk about life in the Bible belt. It’s been over a year since we moved here, and to be honest, I am still amazed at some of the aspects of life down in the southern Bible belt. Before I go on though, please let me add a caveat, and that is that I’m not trying to criticize any aspect of Christian living, merely question the way it’s being expressed here in the south.

For starters, size really does matter in the US. For not only do we have a church on every street corner and at least two in between, most of these churches are absolutely gigantic. And I mean truly enormous. Maybe they’re not quite on a scale with St. Peter’s cathedral, but some of them could give the Notre Dame in Paris a run for its money. Some churches have their own streets, traffic lights, and I’m betting their own power stations too. Why do we need this many and this many enormous churches? I’ve been doing the math, and if every church in my neck of the woods is full during each service, then we either have about 5000 residents hidden away somewhere, or people go to church at least four times on a Sunday. And it seems that each day I see new signs popping up announcing that a plot of land is “the new location for the First Mount Zion United Baptist Church!”, or I discover another little bitty church hidden in between various strip malls and Walmarts.

And then there’s your language. Now I know you shouldn’t use foul language. And I don’t. Or at least not very often. But down here they take the concept of “foul language” to a whole new level. For one thing, you’re not supposed to say “swear”. Saying something like “I don’t ever swear” is absolutely verboten. You’re supposed to say “cuss”, because “curse” is also an absolute no-no. Apparently the Bible says so. Now I’m not one to challenge that, so I’ve merely made the note that there is to be no cussing whatsoever.
One constant problem is that the lines of acceptable and unacceptable language seem to be in constant motion. While last year, it seemed alright to say “crap”, most of my acquaintances have ousted that word, and are now using the synonym “crud”. I’ve tried, but you know what, I like the “p” at the end of “crap” way more than the “d” at the end of “crud”. Try it. Stub your toe, and try saying “crud”. It doesn’t feel as good, does it? Maybe I should introduce a word of my own, like “crup”. Yeah, “crup”. I like it.
But, and this is where it gets tricky, you’re also not supposed to say things like “oh my God”. Now for someone who harbors a valley girl deep inside of her, this is a tough one. It took me years to get rid of saying “like” all the time, and erasing “oh my God” from my vocabulary has been quite the challenge. I’ve tried to replace it with “Oh my gosh”, but it just does not have the same ring to it. And then the other day someone told me that “oh my gosh” is really unacceptable too since it’s too close to the original. This person suggested replacing the whole phrase with something even less offensive, like, sorry, I mean, such as “oh my stars”. Now you may call me a hard-headed, toe-stomping liberal, but that is where I draw the line. I would rather revert to using the definitely outdated “Oh my word” before I start saying that, or leave off the noun entirely and merely say “Oh my!”. Maybe I’ll buy some ruby slippers, start looking for the yellow brick road too then, and worry about lions and tigers and bears. Oh my.

And there are other small oddities about living in the Bible belt. For one thing, sometimes it seems that it’s easier to find a radio station that will go on and on about “living in sin” and “the devil’s grip on this country” than a station that will play classic rock. And I can’t even begin to describe the fun we sometimes have with the various signs that churches post on their front lawns or alongside the highway (For people into Allstate commercials: “Are you in God’s hands?”). Another oddity is the incredible obsession with marriage. In this part of the world, marriage isn’t so much a question of “Should I?”, but “When will I?”. People seem to get married as soon as it’s legal, and then, in some cases anyway, don’t shy away from trying it over and over again. Now I am in favor of marriage. I honestly like being married. And if you’ve found the one for you, I can highly recommend it. But I’m not too sure about the whole “marriage culture” that seems to revolve around the notion that marriage is the highest attainable thing in life, and something must be wrong with you if you’re not married. I mean, people here still shy away when they hear that husband-dear and I actually lived together before we got married. I didn’t realize how exhausting this gets until we were in Atlanta the other day, and someone actually asked us if we were married, as opposed to just assuming that we were, and I felt a strange sense of relief and familiarity. At last I had met someone like me!

And this last sentiment leads me to what got me started on this Bible belt critique in the first place: a news item on NPR this morning. The news item didn’t just stimulate me into thinking about life in the Bible belt, no, it actually sent me into a loud five minute rant about the craziness of some people around here. Imagine that it was around 7 o’clock this morning, that I was in the car by myself, had not yet finished all of my morning short of caffeine, and you can imagine how seriously I took this news event.

What happened was that the Medical College of Georgia decided to appeal to the Board of Regents to extend health insurance benefits to domestic partners. So how does that relate to the Bible belt? Well, the news broadcast also mentioned that two other state schools had, in the past, made similar requests, but had been turned down. And that’s when I got confused. Well, no, I shouldn’t lie. I wasn’t confused, I got mad. The state of Georgia thus appears to refuse to give the same rights to domestic partnerships as it does to marriage. Even if you’re been living with the same person for twenty years and have six children together, you apparently still don’t have as many rights as people who got married two weeks ago. For the third time. Whatever reason people have for this, it’s just not nice. And sometimes, when I’m at my most cynical, I secretly wonder if people here have forgotten that Jesus himself said that loving God isn’t all you need to do be a good Christian; loving your neighbor as you love yourself is just as much a part of it. It seems that people down have gotten the loving God part down without a problem, now how about we start implementing the rest?

Enough is enough is enough is...

Enough? When is enough really enough?
Today, I once again discovered that as far as I'm concerned, it's never enough. Well,wait. Before you all think I'm one of those whining women who is never really satisfied, I am a pretty content person. I don't need hundreds of pairs of shoes, or a brand new car, or a boatload of attention (well, at least not all the time). I'm generally very grateful for all I have and feel happy with my life. However, as far as my own performance goes; it is never enough. As far as I am concerned, I have never worked enough, exercised enough, given enough time to others, or done a good enough job at pretty much anything. There is always more to do, and there is apparently not really a reason to not do that one extra chore, make that phone call, write that e-mail, or set up that lesson plan right now. Fortunately, or unfortunately, it all depends on your perspective, my husband doesn't really help; he and I really are two peas in a pod. We're both hard-working, always out to do our very best and nothing less, detail-oriented and over-organized overachievers. Yes, we're lovable too, but above all, we are on top of it. Hoo-ah! But to be honest, sometimes, it drives us crazy.

Whenever we go on vacation, we bring our running shoes, because we feel guilty and flabby if we don't run at least once every other day. No matter how long husband-dear's days (or nights) have been, I have yet to see the day he will sleep in and not feel the need to study or run or do something otherwise constructive. When I go on vacation, I will not only bring my laptop, but will also tote various books, journals and essays along in case I want to work on my latest article or correct some student work.

Our desire to work, and work hard, has really been ingrained into our daily lives. Today was yet another perfect example. Because I had a faculty conference which started at 8am, I needed to get up at the same time as my husband and leave the house at 6. If we would have both just come home and had dinner and relaxed, like normal people do (or at least I think they do), it would have been fine. But you see, the fact that we both had a twelve hour day was not enough. Nope. After dinner my husband went out to mow our now considerable yard, while I simply had to dust and sweep. And no, we're not getting company, and we also hadn't been neglecting our home. These were just things that had to be done, and in our world, they had to be done now. So right now, it's 8:30pm, and since I have to get up at 5 again tomorrow morning, we'll probably be in bed in about 45 minutes. Sound slightly depressing? It is. And we could have so easily prevented it by simply kicking back and doing nothing. But we simply can't. And now that I think of it, I actually have to make lunch for tomorrow. So I guess I need to get up and do that. Right now.

Can someone help us out please? :)

Last rose of summer

Although the heat is still wafting off the pavement, Congress has just gone on its five-week summer recess, and television commercials are still talking about "the sale of the summer", summer has pretty much ended for people in Georgia and many other southern states. You see, for unfathomable reasons, only known to someone deep within the woodwork of the Georgia state government, children go back to school on Monday, and university employees like myself start working again today.

Now, to be very frank, after nine weeks of entertaining the little darlings, and catering to calls such as "Can we go swimming?", "When is dad coming home?", "Why are we having that for dinner?" "Why can't we go to the mall/the park/to see best friend/set the yard on fire?"(alright, I made that last one up), and three months of playing a combination between Suzy Homemaker, Martha Stewart and Myrtle the Mover, I'm not too queasy about life returning back to normal. I have been looking forward to having only one thing to focus on during the day, work, as opposed to sixteen, or seventeen, or maybe thirty things. Not to sound too much like an episode of the Dr. Phil show, but I have to admit that over the past few months I have further extended my respect for stay-at-home moms.

Having had a stay-at-home mom for a mom, I have always appreciated having someone at home all the time. Coming home and having someone to talk to and drink tea with was wonderful. Unfortunately, or fortunately, depending on your perspective, the path I choose has always left me far removed from the realm of the homemaker. Running errands was something I did after work, groceries were ordered online (or purchased by husband-dear), and appointments were made while driving, and then scribbled on one of many post-its stuck on my dash. However, this summer, when I finally got to try out the full-time version, I finally understood, and I mean, truly felt, how being a homemaker is considered a full time job. Sure, they may not have the threat of annual evaluations, or even job loss hanging over their heads if they're having a bad day, but I have really learned that having a tween in a funk is probably equally stressful. If not worse. Especially when they're boys and the word "videogame" is involved. And sure, you may only have two or three children, and at work most people are responsible for a lot more people than there are in their family, but three family members really is equal to a few hundred employees. And once your family members hit their teens, you can double that number. When I'm at work I'm responsible for making sure that close to a hundred students learn what they're supposed to, while at home, I only have to make sure that two people take their showers, clean their rooms, and eat their lunches. You would think that I would prefer the latter to teaching forty unwilling students about the importance of statistical significance in surveys. Well, no. After having struggled through hour-long deliberations between the two boys about what to have for lunch, having to, day after day, enforce our "yes you have to take a shower every day" policy with our youngest, explaining over and over again why there is no reason that their rooms should look like a war zone, and sitting through more Nickelodeon than I ever thought possible, I would much rather face a lecture hall full of unwilling students any day. You see, as a professor, you can walk away, close your office door and turn off your ringer, but as a homemaker you can't. You sit down in your own room, tell your kids you need some quiet time, but then you hear a loud bang in the living room. Or one of them needs a hug. Or the phone rings. Or the washer is done. It just really never ends. It's a wonderful, exhausting, funny, loving, and stressful experience, all rolled into one.

I'm looking forward to Christmas break, when we get to do it all again, but in the meantime, I'm secretly very excited that I now get to play the working woman again. I'm looking forward to exchanging my shorts and t-shirts for skirts, blazers, and suits again. I can't wait to be in charge of a hundred students as opposed to two kids, and I'm also happy that I get to be Dr. Dixiechick as opposed to Mrs. Dixiechicks-husband again.

So even though the summer really doesn't feel like it's over yet (candles put in the trunk on the way home from the store still melt), it's time for me to trade in one persona for another, and get this show on the road!