Een moratorium

Een moratorium. Om specifieker te zijn: een afscheidsmoratorium.
Ik weet niet eens of 'moratorium' een Nederlands woord is, eigenlijk.

Maar goed, ik stel dus een afscheidsmoratorium in. Een (tijdelijke) stop op het nemen van afscheid. Ik doe het gewoon niet meer. Niet. Dus als u binnenkort weggaat, ik hoef het niet te weten, want ik doe het niet meer, dat afscheid nemen.

Ik zit denk ik in een verlate 'nee' fase, want u moet namelijk weten dat ik, toen ik zes was, al in mijn vierde woonplaats woonde. En toen ik met negentien jaar op kamers ging, begon ik aan mijn tiende stad, in drie verschillende landen. Ik zou dus eigenlijk enorm goed moeten zijn in het nemen van afscheid. En dat ben ik eigenlijk ook wel. Ik noteer adressen, stuur emails, en denk er eens in de drie jaar zelfs aan om een kerstkaartje te sturen.

Maar ik ben het gewoon beu.

Want nadat Summer, onze chaplain, Kay zijn vertrokken, en dan straks ook nog Shelly weggaat, is het vertrek van mijn ouders morgen gewoon niet leuk meer.

Dus. Pap, mam, afscheid nemen, dat doen we gewoon niet meer. En als ik het helemaal niet meer zie gebeuren, dan breng ik jullie gewoon niet eens naar het vliegveld. Dan blijven jullie gewoon gezellig hier. Ik bedoel, iemand moet toch zorgen dat de boel hier aan kant blijft, de lokale Walmart goed zaken blijft doen, en ik niet vergeet te eten?

Goed plan?

Happily pathetic

I am now absolutely pathetic. I know. I haven't blogged in six days. It's ridiculous. And it will not happen again.

Well, I can't lie to you all. It actually may.

You see, I have ten days left before I have to go back. Correction, I have ONLY ten days left before I have to go back. Ten. Days. Maybe it's eleven, actually. But whatever it is, it's really. Too. Short.

So anyway, during those ten (or eleven) days, I want to stay away from my computer as much as possible. And not because I don't love y'all, or like writing, but because I am a) developing a nice, firm case of "o-m-g my wrist is going to fall off if I stay on this laptop any longer", and I do need it to be healthy in ten days, b) my parents are here, and c) my parents are here.

For those of you who have keeping up with my blog (you rock!), you probably remember that the last time my parents visited, was Christmas 2008. So when they promised to come over this summer for a few weeks, I was very happy.

And I've stayed happy. They arrived two weeks ago, and it's just all been really good. Not only has my Dutch improved by about 200% (I re-learned that the past tense for "hangen" is "hingen", not "hengen"), but we have had some really good times together, such as this past weekend, when we all drove up to north Georgia for a long weekend and a mountain bike race.

Oh, and did I mention that my parents like to clean? And tidy up? And help with whatever else needs done around the house?
I kid you not, they do.

You see, when it comes to cleaning, tidying up, making sure everything around the house is spotless and picked up, and yelling at the kids about leaving their socks on the couch AGAIN, I don't fall far from my mother's tree. Except for the yelling at the kids part ("you just wait, socks are really not such a big deal in the greater scheme of things"), my mother has stepped up to the plate (and then some), and let me tell you, she can stay for good as far as I'm concerned. I'm not sure, but I think my mother sees it as a personal affront if I do a load of laundry without asking her for her help. Does she see me heading towards the hamper? She'll beat me to it, load up the washer, transfer it to the dryer, and fold it before I have a chance to say "Please sit down, you're a guest". She runs the vacuum (well, she tells my dad when he needs to run the vacuum), she will help me clean our bathrooms, all the while telling me that she absolutely HATES sitting still.
I'm not sure how they consider this a vacation, but they do. And they keep telling me they like it.

And between shopping trips, floating in our pool, hosting a Dutch coffee, and having more help than I could ever want around the house, I'm pretty happy myself.

Now excuse me while I go and lay around some more.

The grade book

As it's once again the last day of the semester, and the grades are once again due, I sit here and ponder. And think about how for hundreds of years, teachers have been doing what I'm doing now. How I'm somehow connected to all those who went before me.

OK, so that's not what I'm doing. I'm actually jumping between several excel spreadsheets, my online class grading sheet, and our university's online grading system so fast, it's making it my eyes blurry, while trying to remember which class, which student, and what grade I'm trying to look at now. Inside my head, things sound something like this right now, "87.88, 87.88, OK, yeah, that's what the online system has too. Now, did she take the final? OK, let's put that grade in here, what does that up to? Now let's check that with the user report. And what happens if I curve it like so? OK, 94.5, 94.5, that goes here. Hey, that doesn't add up. What?! Oh what did I do now?"

So no pondering, no reminiscing, just me and my computer. And sometimes I really truly wish we could just go back to the old-fashioned grade book. You know, those books that always had this odd square shape, and twenty thousand columns on one page. Those used to make teaching mysterious, almost mystical. As a student, you would look at your teacher's grading book, and wonder how they made sense of all of that. And now, students can lean over your shoulder, and comment on your excel spreadsheet. Poof! Mystique is gone!

I remember when they introduced collegiate online grading systems. Believe it or not, it wasn't that long ago that grades were still turned in on a piece of paper. Professors would calculate their grades, fill them in on a form, and send them, via interdepartmental mail, to, well, I don't know. You see, in my case, I just gave them to the department secretary who took care of it for us. I'm telling you, those were the days. But apparently, someone wasn't happy, and our grading system received the "the latest innovation in higher education", namely online grading. These systems were supposed to make the faculty's lives easier, streamline the grading process, and do a whole host of other things that were supposed to make the university one big happy place. Or something.

To be honest with you, I'm not sure who is happy right now, but the faculty aren't doing any happy dances yet. The systems work great, but there are little catches that can really turn a sunny happy day into a pit of misery. Like the catch that if you scroll down the page, the last grade you put in changes. Don't ask me who invented that, but if you use your mouse to scroll, your last grade will drop one whole grade (from an A to a B to a C, etc) with each scroll-click. Or the fact that the list of students in the online system may not be the exact list you have. Or you and the system might disagree on what constitutes "in alphabetical order". My current grading system is trying to convince me, for instance, that K. Smith comes before A. Smith. And that would be fine if you could enter each student's grade separately, but you can't. The system presents you with a really long list of all your students, with their names on the far right, and the grading box on the far left of the screen. You thus have to enter the grades in order, because there is no way of knowing if this box belongs to Felicia or William. If you're not aware of those little differences, and you're entering grades based on the order of your list of students, you can be in for quite a surprise when you print out your grades for one last final check.

Of course, Excel doesn't help either. It really doesn't. Well, it does in the sense that I no longer have to use a calculator to figure out my grades, but it also offers way too many opportunities to make your life way more complicated. Like curving for instance. Very few teachers used to curve, and if they did, it would entail dropping the students' lowest grade, or counting something as extra credit. Now, with excel, you can calculate means, and standard deviations, and create a curve so complicated, it should be presented at a conference. And because you can, you do. Or at least I do. And so what should be a simple, "let's add up my grades" turns into a major statistical operation.

And then I'm not even talking about online classes. These not only have their own grading system altogether, but which are also accessible to the students, which they can and will email throughout the semester complaining about how the grades up there can't possibly be right.

No, I'm telling you, the days of the grading book weren't so bad.

Off to the funny farm

The reason I was conspicuously absent yesterday, and did not pen a single word about that dismal world cup final, was because I am once again up to my ears in student papers. We have finally arrived at (cue joyous music) at the last week of the summer semester, which means it's final-paper-time. And whenever it's final-paper-time, as my loyal readers know, Dr. D tends to lose her mind just a little. And not because each year I have more and more students in my classes and thus more and more papers, which I think is partly because I don't mind failing a student or two, or three, or six, but also because of the academic honesty issues I run into every single year.

Really, it's all my own fault. It is. I have fellow professors who -never- have academic honesty issues. They never complain about citation issues, the lifting of entire paragraphs from wikipedia, or the blatant recycling of one's lecture notes. They also don't use turnit.com, and definitely don't run suspicious phrases through Google.

And I do.

Every semester I start off, telling myself I will not be as fixated on plagiarism as I was previous semesters. Mainly because it's a lot of work, it is incredibly frustrating, I have to face a lot of angry students, and it just really gets me down. I mean, wouldn't you feel just a teeny bit depressed if you spend over an hour explaining, discussing, and elaborating on academic honesty, proper citation, and APA, only to have 25% of your students turn in blatantly plagiarized work?

But then every semester one sentence in a paper will stick out. It will remind of a book I read, a website I checked out, or even better, my own online lecture notes. And it will not mention a source. And I'll try to ignore it. I might even grade the paper and move on to the next. But that sentence will stick in my mind, calling out for me to check it. To -at least- run it through Google. And I always give in. And then before you know it, I've decided that out of the spirit of fairness I then have to check all papers. And since running 5-page papers through Google is a lot of work, I sign into my Turnitin account. And there it is: Pandemonium.

Today's winner is a student who decided to copy her entire literature section from my lecture notes. With references to Dutch and German books and all. Whenever a student does that, it really drives home how much plagiarism really is like stealing. I spent hours finetuning my notes, and with two clicks, someone just conveniently "borrows" it.

I wonder at those people who claim that in today's social networking media age, students no longer understand the difference between mine and thine. Are they correct? Is that why there is so much plagiarism compared to ten years ago? And is that an excuse? Is all knowledge equal, and does it therefore not matter where you got it from anymore?

The bottom line is, I don't know. And in all honesty, I don't care. If you want to graduate, you have to know how to write an academic paper. And that includes knowing how to cite your sources. And if lectures, powerpoint slides, workshops, recommended literature, and comments on one's homework assignments don't do the trick, then perhaps you are doomed to redo Dr. D's class another two, or three times. And it doesn't matter how much of a millennial you are.

But at the end of the day, I am stuck grading papers where every odd-looking sentence sends me to the internet. Where every statement without a source makes my stomach sink in fear that I have yet caught someone else not adhering to the rules. Where I can't just grade a paper for its content, but have to constantly be on the lookout for signs of plagiarism, because who knows where that content came from.

So there is no joyous music just yet. In fact, the soundtrack to my life sounds a little more like this.

TGI Friday

One red Honda.
A grand 106 000 miles.
Three years of commuting 90 miles one-way each day.
Two snowstorms.
One near-spin out.
And as of today:
One ticket.

My first ticket. My first ticket ever.

I cried. In fact, I can still cry if I think about it long enough. I had a perfect record. And that is quite the miracle, considering the family I come from. Both my father, my brother, and sister-in-law like to collect speeding tickets. Sixteen euros here, twenty euros there, and an occasional hundred-and-eighty euros when my brother doesn't realize he's speeding in a work zone. I guess you can say I get my driving habits from my mother, who has received one ticket in over forty years of driving.

But now my perfect record is shattered. Shattered. And all because I didn't pay attention, saw an empty intersection, missed the cop, and performed a beautiful rolling stop. Just gorgeous. Had there been a yield sign, it would have been perfect. Only there wasn't. There was a stop sign instead. At first I didn't believe all the flashing lights were for me, but they were. An absolutely adorable cop gave me my citation, and told me I had to call the court, or show up to court, to find out the fine.

And that's when I freaked out. Well, I joked with the cop, put my license away, and drove off, and then started to freak out. I mean, court?! Call a court?! Or worse, go to court?! Somehow I associate court with, well, you know, criminals. And I'm not a criminal. I am a nice, law-abiding citizen, one who won't even secretly stick some of her recycling in the regular trash, or drive down a one-way street because it's faster. I am about as criminal as your grandmother. At least, I think I am. I mean, am I?

Let me tell you that thoughts like that make 90 miles last forever. Especially if you're too scared to drive anything but two miles below the speed limit, don't want to use your phone, in case you miss another sign, and are on the lookout for cops constantly.

Of course, husband-dear did not quite know how to handle a freaked out Dixiechick. I mean, you call the court, find out what the fine is, and then decide if you want to contest it or not. Easy, right? Well, not according to the blubbering woman on his couch who kept repeating, "But I'm a good person! I shouldn't have to go to court! And now what will this do for my citizenship application/ job/ your security clearance?!"

But you see, he calls it freaky, I call it a cultural difference. And not just because it sounds nicer, but also because it's really true. You see, in Europe you don't go to court, unless you've really truly messed up. Most of the time when you've violated some trafic law, you don't realize it until a fine arrives in the mail, accompanied by a beautiful black-and-white photograph of you committing the offense. And even if you get pulled over, the police will usually happily tell you that "the fine is in the mail". Or so my brother has told me anyway. The only time you go to court is if you have been really bad. Like driven after having consumed a six-pack of beer. Or killed someone. Or driven really ridiculously fast (like 100 miles over the speedlimit). So in my mind, I'm like all those people now. And no matter what husband-dear says, I have a hard time believing I'm really not considered a hardened criminal now.

And you want to know something else? I just realized the date on my citation reads 2008. (See! I knew that Georgia was behind!) Now excuse me while I go find a reason to freak out about the date being two years off.

Toothpick seats and granny handlebars

When you think about it, it's quite amazing how easily you become unused to something. It actually seems to be easier than getting used to a new thing. You know, you forget how much you loved a certain dish, you find yourself forgetting the Dutch word for "onesie", but you still can't remember how exactly to get to your new dentist's office, or you keep forgetting that "a mess of chicken" does not necessarily mean someone spilled chicken all over the kitchen floor. It's definitely possible this is just me, but I seem to do a lot better at forgetting stuff than adapting to new things. I would like to posit that this especially applies to all forms of transportation.

Think about it. I've lived here for three years, and so one would think that I am completely accustomed to locals pulling out right in front of me doing an easy 10 mph. Or someone swinging out into the left lane, only to make a right turn. Right. Think is the operative word here, because all of these actions still scare me half to death and expose the kids to a whole new set of cuss words every time. Yet at the same time, whenever I return to Holland, I adamantly refuse to drive. I used to cruise all over the country, not thinking twice about driving into major cities during rush hour, but somehow three years down south have made me a real pansy of a chauffeur. The Dutch drive too fast, too aggressively, too on top of each other, and are way too unforgiving. Did you just make a wrong turn that will mean a thirty mile detour that can be avoided if this one car lets you go in front of him? Well, it sucks to be you, because it's not happening. Yeah, that's just not for me. Not anymore.

I was pondering all of this while I was on one of my long bike rides yesterday. I was happily cycling along on my 9-speed carbon-forked 1.2 Trek roadbike with teeny-tiny tires, uber-sensitive handlebars, and a toothpick for a seat, when I remember riding my old granny bicycle in Holland only a week earlier.

You should know that I loved that granny bicycle. I still do, and am, in fact, pondering a way to ship it to Georgia, if only to have it sit in our garage as an awesome conservation starter. For those of you who are twitching their eyebrows at the words "granny bicycle"- picture those old-fashioned world war two bicycles with the super straight handlebars, heavy steel frame, and rack on the back, and you're close.

Anyway, last week I got to ride that bicycle for the first time in probably two years, and came to the conclusion that I had definitely become unused to it. Although crouching over on my roadbike will still hurt my back on really long rides, sitting up as straight as I did on my Dutch bike just freaked me out. Suddenly I felt out of control, and the fact that the handlebars came up to my chest didn't help either. Add to that that granny bikes don't really respond to any amount of leaning, and you can imagine that steering was quite the challenge. The seat was nice and wide, but even that was no good anymore. Even though I am quite capable of complaining up a storm about my current toothpick, certain bodyparts have become accustomed to it, while those parts that were rubbing against this super-wide granny seat weren't, and thus protested accordingly.

And that's just the bike. Because it was only once I got that big black monster under control, that I realized that Dutch road rules are a little different from American traffic laws. Well, in all honesty, I didn't realize that at all. I was happily trucking along as I would in the US, enjoying the views, and the lack of stop signs. I flew by various side roads too, until my father called out at me that it might be smart to keep in mind all traffic from the right has the right of way. Oh yeah. I'd forgotten about that. (And on a side note, who came up with that rule anyway? I mean seriously, who did? Why can't Holland just have four way stops like all other civilized nations?). Not to mention the fact that traffic in Holland really does not care that you're on a really tall, fairly uncontrollable bike either. There is no law that tells drivers to keep a 6-ft margin between themselves and cyclists, in fact, it seems as though drivers would like nothing better than to run you off your feet. I seem to remember not caring about that one bit, and banging on car roofs and doors if they came too close, yet last week all I was able to do was squeal, jump up on curbs, and yes, cuss up a storm.

So yes, unused indeed. Although I may ask husband-dear to put a rack on the back of my roadbike, because that sure was practical.

It's still alive

Really, I am. Still alive that is.

I could tell you all about how busy I've been with conferences, traveling, family, holiday weekends, writing articles, and correcting student papers, but that just gets old. Instead I thought I would enlighten you with all the important life lessons I have learned in this no-blog-week. Life lessons which should contribute to a more regular blogging presence. And who knows, they might do something for you too, like, oh, make you smile, or who knows, change your life, or maybe just waste five minutes of your time.

1. I will never teach two classes over summer again. Ever. So should I bring this topic back up anytime in the near or far future, feel free to remind me of this statement. It's just far too much work, too much trouble, and really just puts me in a bad mood. And who needs any of those things when the pool is beckoning, friends are begging you to go to Ikea with them, and your family is in town for the first time in 18 monthts?

2. When agreeing to deadlines I will consult my calendar. Next, I will tell the person in charge of the deadline I will think about it and get back to them. And then I will actually sit down and think about my schedule. Because working on a paper five days before it's due while that pool is beckoning, your friends still really want to go to Ikea, your parents are still in town, and you have 50 papers to grade is just NOT a good idea.

3. I will not sign up for two triathlons back to back. It's not a good idea, at all. Because between teaching two classes, writing an article, grading fifty papers, trying to swim in my pool, go to Ikea, and spend time with my parents, I'm now also trying to swim, bike, and run. And of course I can't do it all, and so I end up spending half the summer feeling guilty. And I really don't have time for that.

4. I will not agree to a meeting on a day when I was not planning on going to work. This week I have to make my 90-mile trek to work twice because I was too nice when the search committee I am on had to decide on a follow-up meeting. I will, in the future, only say, "I can't do that day" and keep my mouth shut. I will not feel obligated to come up with alternatives or adjust my schedule. I will let other people figure it out for once.

5. Oh, and for the sake of my heart, I will remember, next time I am in Holland, that all traffic from the right has the right of way unless otherwise indicated. And I will blog about that next, I promise.

Now to finish that article..please excuse me.