Course evaluations

There are several times throughout the academic year, that every instructor can, and most likely, will lose sleep. Not the "I have to get my finals graded so I can't go to bed" times, no, the "I'm in bed tossing and turning" nights. Those would be the two times per year that students get an opportunity to evaluate their professors, and the annual academic assessment that is performed at the end of each academic year. Student evaluations are deemed especially important, as they reflect how one performs on one's core duty: teaching. The results from these evaluations are compared to other instructors, other colleges, and other universities, and kept on file pretty much forever. If you want to make any kind of promotion, or argue for a raise, or get tenured, your evaluations need to be nothing short of perfect. In short, they're a big deal.

Deep in my heart, I know I do my very best as an instructor to present the appropriate material in an understandable yet interesting manner. I try to keep my materials current and up-to-date (no outdated powerpoint slides from 1997 for me), I read numerous publications making sure I'm not missing anything, and I attempt to make it all entertaining for my students too. Call me the anecdote queen, but I struggle to find applicable, funny and at times self-deprecating stories for every difficult concept. Consequently, my students know probably far too much about my personal life or days in college. But it seems to work, and I am not one to shy from whatever works. But in spite of all of that, and the fact that I have received numerous favorable evaluations in the past few years, I still worry. Am I good enough? Am I covering everything I should? Do the students get it? Can I get them to care? Do they like it? Am I asking too much? Too little? So when the time for course evaluations rolls around, I get a little nervous.

Last year, my first year here, I wasn't even aware that this school had an evaluation system in place until I received four big fat envelopes in my mailbox. Instructors were asked to appoint a student proctor during one of the last classes before finals, leave the room, and then the idea was that all the students would fill out a paper survey right then and there. Although I had all but forgotten about the evaluations by the time another fat enveloped made its way into my mailbox a few months later, the students seemed to be very satisfied. The statistics looked very good, and a few students had even bothered to write out some comments. To this day, though, I'm still not sure if the "Very hot" comment referred to the topic of the class, my outfits, or the classroom temperature, but either way, I figure it's a good thing.

This year, the administration decided to change the system to an online evaluation. Because state law prohibits schools from forcing students to participate in the evaluation, I expected the worst. Because if there was no incentive of any kind to fill out the survey, who but the students who had a bone to pick, would go online and fill out a tedious questionnaire? How representative would the sample of students taking the survey be? In spite of complaints of this nature directed at the faculty senate, it was to no avail. Internet technology is the future, and thus evaluations, like everything else from grading to obtaining parking permits to changing your home address, had to be completed online.

I had pretty much forgotten about the evaluations, again, until I found a very slim envelope in my mailbox today. Very slim. Out of my seven classes, only two students had filled out the questionnaire. Two. So much for adequate feedback. I feel fortunate though; a co-worker of mine had one student take the time to review his class. What would happen if those two students absolutely hated your class? Would that count against you, or would the fact that thirty other students did not complain work in your favor? I'm not sure, and fortunately for me, I don't have to worry about that. These students were happy and satisfied. They even took the time out to write brief comments, which really made my day. Student one wrote; "She is the only teacher in our department who knows how to teach! It's a big difference from reading off a powerpoint...I think she is a wonderful teach and wish our department had more like her!". The second student put; "She is an amazing professor. I enjoy all of her classes even though they are difficult. I really feel like I'm getting my money's worth with her. I like that her classes are challenging which forces me to think critically."

What can I say? Dr. DixieChick is blushing and very happy. I must be doing something right somewhere. And I guess I'm going to be allowed to stay on for another semester!

Asjemenou!

Wie kent Loekie nog? Of beter, wie kent Loekie niet? Het rare leeuwtje dat vroeger tussen de reclames door kwam met allerlei kunsten, en dan altijd “asjemenou!” riep? Loekie was het toppunt van hoe jaren zeventig kunst-en vliegwerk toch heel schattig kon zijn. Volgens mij is Loekie de Leeuw al jarenlang van de Nederlandse televisie verdwenen, maar in mijn hoofd leeft hij verder. Het komt namelijk regelamtig voor dat ik hier kleine dingen hoor of zie waarbij ik alleen maar “asjemenou” (soms ook “sjonge, jonge, jonge”) kan denken. Dingetjes die net even anders gaan dan hoe ik het verwacht. Soms heel Amerikaans, soms heel Southern, en soms gewoon “bijzonder”.

Zo hoorde ik laatst een verhaal over een wel heel vreemde bekeuring voor rijden onder de invloed. Een van de airmen van een kennis van manlief had een feestje bij hem thuis, en was tijdens het feestje even naar zijn auto gelopen om een CD uit het dashboard kastje te halen. Terwijl hij, met de autosleutels in de hand, in een open bijrijdersdeur door het kastje staat te rommelen rijdt er een politie auto langs die prompt stopt. De politie agent wilde weten wat meneer daar aan het doen was, en of hij ook gedronken had. De airman legt uit dat hij een CD aan het zoeken was, en ja hij had gedronken, maar ja, hij was dan ook niet aan het autorijden. Maar helaas is de regel in Georgia dat als je teveel op hebt, en met je autosleutels in je hand bij je auto staat, dat als een overtreding geldt. Dus de airman moest blazen, en mocht mee naar het bureau, alwaar hij een boete opgelegd kreeg, zijn rijbewijs werd ingenomen, en zijn commandant werd geinformeerd. Nu ben ik helemaal voor streng straffen van rijden onder de invloed. Van mij mogen ze je rijbewijs afpakken, je auto, het maakt me niet uit, maar dan moet je, naar mijn bescheiden mening, wel aan het rijden zijn. De volgende keer dat ik tijdens een feestje iets uit mijn auto moet halen, dan doe ik denk ik maar mooi de garagedeur dicht zodat niemand mij ziet. Asjemenou.

Vrachtwagenchauffeurs krijgen trouwens ook vaak een “asjemenou”. Als er eentje weer eens een halfnaakte vrouw op zijn cabine heeft geschilderd bijvoorbeeld. Of een lichtgevend kruis op de grille heeft laten zetten. Of zijn wagen met allerlei creatieve spreuken heeft versierd, van "Get 'r done" tot "Truckin' ain't for sissies", of een of andere bijbelcitaat. Of, zoals ik nu al een paar keer heb gezien, een plastic variant van het “mannenkruis” achter aan de trailer heeft hangen.

Amerikaanse moeders kunnen bij mij trouwens ook regelmatig een “asjemenou” moment oproepen. Zo waren we vorig semester bij een bijeenkomst over de veranderingen in het math curriculum van de school van de kids. Georgia wil namelijk overschakelen van een systeem waarin alle math onderdelen los gegeven worden (Algebra, Geometry, etc), naar een “integrated math” principe. Vraagt een van die moeders, wiens uk niet ouder kon zijn dan tien; “How will that affect their ability to get into an ivy league school?”. Nu ben ik helemaal voor het stimuleren van je kinderen, maar bij een kind dat nog niet eens op middle school zit? Asjemenou!
En dan heb ik het nog niet eens over de semi-vriendelijke opmerkingen die wij soms krijgen omdat wij onze kinderen zonder helm op door de straat laten fietsen, en ze niet verplicht naar een of ander educatief summer camp sturen. Of over die moeders die bij de locale politiechef zijn gaan klagen omdat de groep van staatsgevangen die onder begeleiding van twee gewapende agenten de crepe myrtles op de grote weg hier in de buurt hebben staan toch wel twee mijl van de lagere school aan het werk waren. Misschien ben ik onderbezorgd, maar dat soort dingen kan ik mij toch echt niet druk om maken. En als ik dan zie hoeveel energie hieraan besteed wordt, dan kan ik maar een ding zeggen: Asjemenou

Locks and keys

I used to never misplace my keys. And I mean never. It was quite scary actually, especially considering I’ve always multiple sets of keys; one for the house, one for my bike, one for my car, one for the office, etc. I used to put my keys in the pocket of my pants, and I hated walking around with a big lump on my side, hence I split my keys up into separate sets. And in spite of that, I used to be able to keep perfect track of where they were; my office keys were in my workbag, my carkeys in my purse, my bike-keys on the table in the hallway, ad nauseam.

Ever since I moved to the US, all that has changed. Just this morning, I spent a good five minutes hunting down my keys, and yesterday morning I had no clue what I had done with them. And who’s to blame? Not me, no, obviously, America is at fault here.

First, there are those pesky automatic garagedoors. Ours can be opened using a little gadget inside my car, as well as a keypad outside the door, and hence we really only use the front door if we have company. The only time I use my keys is to drive my car and get into my office. Since I simply refuse to drive anywhere on weekends, instead preferring that the love of my life, the man with the 8-mile commute, play chauffeur, this means that when I’m not at work, there’s no need for me to know where my keys are at. So now imagine what happens when I come home from my last commute of the week. I come home, fling my arms around nearby family members and pets, toss my bags in my designated corner of the bedroom, and leave them there. Since our magical garage door means I won’t be needing my keys for another three days, I don’t usually pay attention where they end up. And that’s where things go south from time to time. I have seriously found my keys underneath my dresser on Monday morning. I know I should have a designated place for my keys, but there’s just not a special spot where they wouldn’t get moved again. I’m thinking the perfect solution would be a hallway table with a little dish for all our keys. The problem with that is that our house, according to true southern standards, does not have a hallway. It has an “entryway” instead; a little area that feels like a hallway but is open on all sides and can be seen from anywhere in the living room. The “entryway” has a little sideboard, but since that too is in full view, I really don’t think that would be an appropriate place for a dish full of keys and other odds and ends which will eventually spill over and end up everywhere. I know I could use the kitchen, but husband-dear, who truly has a knack for losing just about everything, has taken up that room with little organizer hooks and dishes, and I would hate to mess up his system.

The perfect place for my keys would, of course, be my purse. But that will not really work either, and makes for my second point. You see, when I lived in Holland, I did use to keep my keys in my purse. And it worked because that was when little purses where in fashion. I don’t know what’s hot back in the Low Lands right now, but out here, big purses are the thing right now. The bigger the better. And since I do like to carry a whole host of things around with me (from daily planners to cameras, to body lotion and deodorant), I too have quite a voluminous purse. It has different sections and a bunch of folds and creases. Now try and find a key in there. I’ve seriously given up on my keys, only to, after thirty minutes of intense searching, huffing and puffing, find them stuffed in the tiniest corner of a crease in my purse.

For someone who likes to know where everything is at all times, this is quite a bewildering and frustrating experience. The dresspants I wear to work nowadays don’t have room for a set of keys in their pockets, and I really feel the days of the lanyard are over. So what to do? Maybe I’ll see if the men in facilities will put in a fingerprint-keypad on my office door. And perhaps I can use voice recognition to start my car. We’re in the land of opportunity, so I don’t see why not. Out with the keys, in with the new!

Zoe-rific

Sometimes, I really think we have the worst dog in the world. Don’t get me wrong, Zoe is absolutely cute and adorable, but after another one of her antics, we sometimes really wish there was a military academy for dogs.

For one thing, we are convinced that Zoe will not be satisfied until the entire world, and I mean, the whole wide world, is covered in a thin layer of her saliva. Our not-so-little pup will lick everything within reach, absolutely everything. She will lick kitchen cabinets, the oven, the bottom part of our hutch, kitchen chairs, windowsills, windows, the stormdoor, the screendoor, your shoes and pants, and anything else she takes a fancy to. Sometimes when we allow her on our bed, she will lick our pillows or blanket until they are soaked through. Just the other day I was so concerned that maybe Zoe had had an accident on the bed that when husband-dear came into our bedroom he found me on the bed on my knees, bend sniffing out duvet cover, while Zoe was licking my head. Fortunately, it was just saliva, although we had no choice but to do another load of laundry. Zoe also absolutely loves licking the inside of our dishwasher too, cleaning off the plates until they look sparkling clean. We’re working on breaking her of that nasty habit, but pulling a 45 lbs pound dog with the tenacity of a bulldog off a dishwasher door is hard work, let me tell you that.

Zoe’s second favorite pastime is digging. Oh yes, and destroying plants. It doesn’t matter that her daddy has threatened to bury her in the holes she digs, or that we put her in her crate when we catch her, and tell her “no” excessively. For Zoe, this is her drug of choice, and nothing will get in her way. Personally, I’m not too concerned about the digging part. We have such a large lawn that a few holes more or less don’t bother me. However, since yard-care is not part of my house-maintenance-package, it is possible that I simply am unable to grasp the level of frustration husband-dear is experiencing. I do know that when we discovered that Zoe had destroyed one of our newly-planted and freshly-trimmed crepe myrtles just last week, I gave up on the “only punish when you catch them in the act” principle. And little miss priss knew what she had done wrong too – she even had the audacity to pick up on of the broken twigs and run around the yard with it in her mouth. It would have been really adorable if I hadn’t been so mad.

Now I don’t mean to make it sound as though Zoe is an unmanageable pest, because on the whole she isn’t. We have managed to get her to sit and stay while we’re eating, she’s stopped icking the couch (wiping crusty dried saliva off your new loveseat just gets old), she will sit, stay and lay down when asked, and even her walking has improved. We can´t seem to get her to stop “talking back” when we ask her to do something she doesn´t want to do, but then again, between her and our oldest running off his mouth, Zoe is actually cute.

Last week, though, we hit another little bump in the road to perfect doggiehood. I took her to the first class of the intermediate class at PetSmart, and was positively embarrassed by her behavior. Zoe behaved like an absolute banshee. She refused to listen, and only wanted to play with the other dogs. She pulled on her leash until her eyes looked like they were about to pop out, she whined, squealed, and anytime I got her to sit down, she would crawl as far as the leash would let her. No amount of correction or positive reinforcement would get her to calm down. It was a nightmare, and I was joking we could very well be the family who broke the “no one has ever failed an intermediate class here” record.

So this week we worked extra hard, and yesterday, Zoe actually outperformed all of the other dogs in the class. She won a little award, and mommy was so proud of her. She comprehended “heel” and “wait”, and was just as adorable as she could be. Maybe there is still some hope for her. Then again, as I am writing this though, puppy dear is sitting in front of the storm door, licking and pawing the glass until the bottom half of the door is covered in dirt and goo. You gotta love your pets. And be willing to stock up on lots and lots of windex.

Homeworking

I love the spring semester. And not just because we’re headed for summer, or because most of our students graduate in the spring, or because the days become longer and brighter. No, the main reason I love the spring semester is the fact that I don’t have to teach any classes on Friday. This in turn means I don’t have to drive three hours to and from work; instead, I can just stay home, keep my sweats on, and work from behind my very own kitchen table. The amount of work I get done in the quiet of my own home is amazing. There are no students asking a million students, no administrative distractions, and no need to be sociable. There is just me, my tea, and my computer.

The whole “working from home” concept seems somewhat alien to most of my coworkers though. Many of them seem to be under the assumption that because I am not in the office on Fridays, I have the day off. Similarly, friends seem to be surprised when they call me on Friday and I’m working. Even husband-dear needs reminding every once in a while that I can’t do our taxes, run to the post office, and complete a host of chores on Friday since I have classes to prep, articles to write, and papers to grade. And a gym to go to, of course. I may not have the day off, but a little cheating should be alright, right? Since I am shaving three hours off my commute, I figured I could spend that on swimming. Or biking. Or anything I don’t get around to Monday through Thursday.

Most Americans, at least people down here, appear unfamiliar with the whole notion of “working from home”. This in contrary to Holland, where they even have a verb to describe the concept; “thuiswerken”, or “homeworking”. Entire tribes of employees work from home on a set day in the week, or at least from time to time. They pack up their laptop, their books, and move their office to their kitchen, or their living room, where they can work and watch te kids or do the laundry. In all honesty though, when half the department claims to be “thuiswerken” on a Friday when it’s nice and sunny out, you know that “thuiswerken” is more likely to translate to “sitting outside having a drink contemplating my next research project among other things”. But in spite of the occasional abuse, most universities and other employers are very serious about allowing people to work from home. It’s supposed to ease the eternal traffic jam between The Hague, Utrecht, and Amsterdam, help people balance home and work, and increase productivity. In the last year that I worked for a Dutch university, I was actually given permission to work from home full time, as this would only speed up the completion of the research project I was working on. I wonder how my dean here in Georgia would respond if I were to ask him if I could just do all my work from home – teach classes online, use a webcam for meetings, and communicate via email. It sounds like bliss to me. And imagine how much gas, and thus trees that would save.

I don’t really understand why Americans, or at least American academics in Georgia, haven’t caught up with this trend yet. Everyone always seems to be at the office, plagued by students, secretaries, and at times, other co-workers, who all want you to do something right then and there. I find that when I get one day at home per week when I can really crank out some serious work, I have a lot more patience dealing with people’s endless demands the other four days of the week. You want tape? No problem. Need me to sign a form for the second time because you lost the first one? Bring it on. Want to talk about your problems with professor so-and-so, come on in. It’s all fine, because I know I have Fridays to catch up.

So if you have a chance, try to implement this “homeworking” strategy. It really is worth it. Now excuse me while I go put in a load of laundry and then continue rewriting an article. And when I’m done with that, I may just get changed out of my pajamas. Then again, maybe not.

Feminism

I’m never quite sure what to make of the term “feminism”. Early in my college years, I called myself a feminist, a moderate one anyway. I was all about breaking glass ceilings, fixing my own bike, checking my own tire pressure and what not. But in the past decade or so, I have become increasingly unsure about how girl-power-gung-ho I am, or want to be.

I blame going to graduate school in Texas for this particular identity crisis. There I became aware of the American perspective on feminism, which, at least in Austin, is far more extreme than anything Europe has seen since the 1970s. I took classes with inspiring titles such as “Gender and sexuality in the media: women, feminism, and body image”, and met the “real” feminists. Girls who had no qualms about working as strippers on the side because they felt it only proved their power as women, girls who wrote man-bashing articles for the local magazine on female issues, women who rejected the male-dominated capitalist American consumer culture, and shopped exclusively at stores owned and operated by women, and so on. These were women who believed being a feminist meant you did not adhere to male-devised standards, such as shaving your legs and armpits, plucking your eyebrows, donning pantyhose, or wearing a bra. It made my desire to change my own tires seem quite juvenile and superficial.

Although I am all about equal opportunities, being strong and independent, and very fierce about treating women as objects of lust, studying in Texas among real die hard feminists made me realize that perhaps I don’t quite deserve the label “feminist”. I mean, I just can’t imagine sporting a unibrow, or never shopping at Victoria Secret again. Not to mention the fact that my boss would probably not approve of me throwing my hose and skirts out the window and coming to work in camo-pants and workboots. Plus I just like guys too much. They really do try, you know?

But moving to Georgia has forced me to once again reconsider my opinions. I’m beginning to understand that perhaps these women in Texas had a reason for being as extreme as they were. Did you know, for instance, that most southern men will not talk to a woman when her husband is present? I can’t tell you the number of times my husband and I have met a man who will not only refuse to introduce himself to me unless husband-dear introduces me first, but who then also simply fails to acknowledge my presence for the remainder of the conversation. Not once has any one of our male neighbors asked me simple questions such as what I do for a living or where I’m from. On the other hand, they inundate husband-dear with questions about everything. They have inquired about his favorite football team, his opinion on every single one of his assignments, his yard work philosophies, and I know that one day very soon they will be asking husband-dear for his shirt size. It is absolutely infuriating.

Husband-dear tells me it’s because southern men like to be polite, and talking to women without them initiating the conversation is considered rude. Right. I must have just missed that one. Husband-dear, sensing my disbelief, quickly backpedaled and added that lots of southern men don’t want strange men talking to their wives (“wacha doin’ talkin’ to my wife?”), and thus many males are too afraid to address any women accompanied by their spouses. Again: Right.

It’s worse when you’re out trying to buy something for you with your husband present. When we went out to buy me a new car a while back, I told my husband right off the bat that if any of the salespeople ignored me after we told them the car was for me, we would leave. The love of my life pointed out that we would, in that case, probably not be buying a car from anyone in town that day. “Fine”, I snapped, “It’s my car. I don’t care.”

And it was bad. The Toyota salesman barely looked at me, and tried to tell my husband we really should go for an automatic. When I informed him that I preferred a stick, the man looked as though he had just discovered crop circles in his backyard, and then tried to sell us the tiniest, ugliest Toyota on the lot. The Suzuki guy told my husband women generally prefer automatics, while the Hyundai dealer seemed to be talking to my legs more than anything. So when we made it to the Honda dealer, I was ready.
“We’re looking to buy a car for my wife.” My husband started, and I could see the man’s gaze just wonder across me and the kids as though we were not even there. And I had had enough.
“Yes, and if you’re going to try and sell the car to my husband like everyone else has been trying to do today, I guarantee you I will not be buying a Honda today.” I snapped.
Well, that did the trick. Jose didn’t even raise his eyebrows, and sold the Honda Fit I own today to me. He talked clutches, rpms, mileage, and maintenance with me. He sucked up to me. Then when it came time to negotiate the price, well, that he did with my husband, but still. I had made my point.

And when I had to go out and buy a refrigerator this summer, I ended up buying it from a woman at Sears. Not that the men at Lowe’s, Flint Appliances, Home Depot or any of the other stores were rude. They were just condescending. When I told them the fridge did not have to match the rest of our appliances, they chuckled and laughed. When I told them I really only wanted a certain width (we had a relatively narrow space for the fridge), they all tried to convince me that I had to have measured it wrong, because that really was very narrow. It was frustrating. Thank heavens for female sales assistants.

Maybe I do need to become more militant to get my point across. I’m not suggesting I’m going to start growing a little hamster underneath each armpit, but perhaps that I need to be more assertive and adamant about how people treat me. Maybe I should even start to put my feminist literature out in the living room and mention how sometimes in wintertime I forget to shave my legs. Let the revolution begin!

Inauguration Day

It’s January 20, 2009, you live in the US, what else is there to write about but the Presidential Inauguration?

Although our students had been hoping that classes would get canceled today, the university did not cave in, and instead offered a viewing opportunity in the large auditorium between 11:30 and 1:30. So at 11:25 my co-workers and I made our way downstairs, half-expecting to find a fairly empty auditorium, with only a few students scattered here and there. Instead, the auditorium was filling up fast with both students and faculty, while a large screen showed the Capitol building. A local television crew was setting up shop in the corner, and professional photographers were walking around snapping pictures. That is what you get for being an HBCU All them white folk wanting to know what y’all think of the whole shindig.

So as the students around us are playing with their cellphones and checking schedules, I couldn’t help but wonder how many of them were there because their teachers were giving them credit. Sure, they want to see the inauguration, but why chose an auditorium full of faculty, while you could be partying in a dorm room? How politically involved are college students? Involved enough to party when Obama won, but sitting through a long and potentially tedious set of speeches? I wasn’t entirely convinced. Sure, I had seen them campaign prior to the election, but I also know them well enough to know that sitting through anything that does not move at an MTV pace is almost impossible.

Now I do know that our students feel strongly about politics, a feeling that was further corroborated when Bush made his first appearance on the screen, eliciting loud boos and catcalls from the students (and Steve, of course). And the first shot of Obama had students jumping up and down in their seats screaming, a few students raising their fists in the 1960s “Black power” style, and other shaking their books up in the air. A student behind me said; “Oh, I’m so excited, I don’t know anyone who isn’t.”

Then, when the inauguration began, the students quieted down, and proved me wrong. And, please frame this statement, but I loved every minute of it. They watched the screen with the kind of attention I wish I could get in some of my classes. They listened to the introduction, bowed their heads when the crowds were led in a benediction, and said a loud “Amen” when the reverend finished. Although they laughed at Aretha Franklin’s hat, gave a chorus of “hhmmm-mmm”’s after the statement “Dr. King and a cloud of witnesses are shouting in heaven” raised the roof after Biden and Obama took the oath, and the girl behind me was begging people for tissues “Oh Lord, I just know I’m gonna cry, I am”, you could hear a pin drop during Obama’s speech. The students were listening. They were truly listening. Interestingly, that was when the local camera crews packed up and left. They were there to record the excitement in the African American community, and the fact that this community is just as concerned by the content of their new president’s speech as well as the fact that he is black is apparently not as interesting.

So I am proud today. Proud that this country elected its first black president. Proud that this country elected someone who appears to have a realistic view of what needs to be done. And proud that our students really care.