I'm not sure how this happened, but next week is midterms. Again. It feels like October was only yesterday. Which it obviously wasn't. It also feels as though we're only six weeks into an eighteen week semester. Which we are, and which somehow completely undermines the meaning of the concept "midterm". After all, "midterm" is supposed to refer to the idea of letting the student know how they are doing halfway through the term. Halfway. Not a third of the way. So why the midterms are scheduled now is beyond me.
Another reason why it's beyond me is because this weekend is basketball homecoming. Yes, basketball homecoming. Apparently, the basketball team has a homecoming too. Maybe it's a sign of my extreme obtuseness, but up until this year, I did not know there was such thing. Football homecoming, sure. Basketball homecoming, on the other hand, not so much. Perhaps my high school just wasn't spirited enough, and perhaps my college experience in the wintertime was too centered on snow to realize there was yet another homecoming, but apparently our school has a homecoming in the spring too. And it's this weekend.
And this is where it gets interesting. You see, I can't imagine European students getting excited about anything organized by their university. In fact, most of them would sooner write a ten page paper than admit they actually like their school. I know that some Dutch universities have tried to create more school spirit (and revenue), by selling clothes, bags, mugs, and other trinkets with their logo on it, but I've yet to see a student buy it. If a university puts on a big event, I can pretty much guarantee you that unless it involves free alcohol, Dutch students will not show up. But here in the US, it's a whole different ballgame. Students pay to go see homecoming games. They will pay big bucks to wear hoodies, sweatpants, and t-shirts with their university's name on it. They get up early so they can watch the homecoming parade. They buy tickets to see homecoming pageants. While their Dutch counterparts live to criticize their school, these students actually like it.
Now as you all know my students as well as I do, and the little snowflakes have been complaining up and down about the fact that "ZOMG! You mean the paper is due/final is on Monday/Tuesday/Wednesday? But it's homecoming this weekend!". So, finally, after hearing this in at least four classes, I asked a student what the appeal of homecoming was; "You're a senior, aren't you way too cool for silly school spirit stuff?"
"Oh, I don't care about the game. Heck no, there are going to be a few really cool parties I want to go to."
It's possible that I'm just odd, but that just made me feel so much better. Because partying I understand. I partied. Now maybe not right before midterms, but I sure did party. So I get wanting to party. I don't get being twenty two and wanting to dress in school colors. So the fact that that's not what it's about made this little rebellious soul feel a whole lot better.
Now I better get ready for whatever excuses my students will come up with on Monday. I vote that "I was sick all weekend, and didn't even get to go to the game, honestly!" will be this semester's winner.
.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Monday, February 7, 2011
There's something in the air..
...and it isn't love. Well, sure, it's love too. There's always love in the air at the DixieChick house. Lots of good, old-fashioned tender loving care. The kind that comes with warm blankets, good food, hot tea, and a glass of wine. But I'm pretty sure that today's persistent coughing has nothing to do with love, and everything to do with the tiny little particles that permeate the Georgia air in the month before spring.
Usually, the Georgia air doesn't bother me. Not even during the pollen season, when everything that is left outside for longer than ten minutes is coated in a thick layer of yellowish green viscous dust, and most people cough, sneeze, and snort their way through box after box of claretin. Fortunately, it seems that I'm somewhat resistant to the ickyness that is the Georgia spring air. But yesterday, it seems that the air here finally got the better of me, as today I can't stop coughing or blowing my nose.
All of this wouldn't have happened either,if we hadn't moved to Georgia, if husband-dear and I wouldn't have been this insanely addicted to competition. In order for all of this to make sense, you should probably know that Sunday is our long bike ride day. And before you ask, yes, we actually have a work-out schedule (and a chores schedule. and a bill-paying schedule. Hmm..do you think we may have some issues?). Monday is weights day, Tuesday is trainer day, Wednesday is interval run day, Thursday is off-day, Friday is swim day, Saturday is long run day, and Sunday is long bike day. It keeps us sane, and trim, and healthy. Or so I've been told. Anyway, I digress. Yesterday, when we were about to start on our long ride, husband-dear asked how I would feel about riding over to the time trials organized by the local bike store, just to see what was going on. And as the docile, submissive wife all my southern acquaintances pray that I will turn into I said yes.
Now you know what's coming. Of course you do. When we arrived at the time trial location, they were still signing up riders, and it only took one, "Oh you guys made it! You should so sign up!" from the bike store owner for both of us to sign up for the 4 mile time trial.
For those of you unfamiliar with a time trial, it's basically an attempt to ride as fast you can without killing yourself for, in this case, four miles. You start on a ramp, ride two miles down a deserted road, navigate through a turn-around-point, and peddle your butt back. A new rider starts every minute, and the top three finishers get a prize. It looks very simple, and it is. The only part that I was truly worried about was the ramp.
Seriously. They had built one killer of a ramp. With sponsorship money too.
Everyone kept gushing it was "Just like in the Tour!" and all I wanted to say was, "Yeah, but I'm not in the tour. I don't own a riding bib, have never been sponsored by the Post Office, did not get divorced from a famous singer, and have never had to worry about my balls."
Wait. That's not right.
Anyway. The ramp was insane. It was close to four feet high, and the way it works is that someone steadies the bike by holding onto your seat while you climb on, clip in, and wait for the bell. So let me clarify that picture for you. You're perched on your bike. You're in fact attached to the bike with your shoes. You're sitting on something that's an inch wide, and the only thing that's between you and a six foot fall onto very hard concrete is one man's hand under your seat. Yeah. You pray for that bell to go off. Trust me. Once it does, the man behind you gives you a great big push and you either fly down the ramp and on to the course, or crash off the platform into the crowd, depending on your agility. You will be happy to know I was not the one woman who managed to lose her balance and hurtle herself off the side of platform into a few little kids. No, I flew down the ramp and on to the road without even as much as a yelp.
Once you're off the ramp, the race really starts. As it's only four miles long, even a novice like myself immediately realizes that the idea is to just give it all you got. And that means that while your legs are pumping, your breathing probably best resembles a steam engine: quick, loud, and superficial. Maintain that for twelve minutes, and by the time you're done, your chest feels as though it's on fire, and you've inhaled enough little Georgia red clay particles to keep you sneezing, coughing, and wheezing for days.
And that, for those of you who have stuck it out throughout this incredibly long post, is why I've been hacking up a storm down here.
I just love time trials (and Georgia).
Usually, the Georgia air doesn't bother me. Not even during the pollen season, when everything that is left outside for longer than ten minutes is coated in a thick layer of yellowish green viscous dust, and most people cough, sneeze, and snort their way through box after box of claretin. Fortunately, it seems that I'm somewhat resistant to the ickyness that is the Georgia spring air. But yesterday, it seems that the air here finally got the better of me, as today I can't stop coughing or blowing my nose.
All of this wouldn't have happened either,
Now you know what's coming. Of course you do. When we arrived at the time trial location, they were still signing up riders, and it only took one, "Oh you guys made it! You should so sign up!" from the bike store owner for both of us to sign up for the 4 mile time trial.
For those of you unfamiliar with a time trial, it's basically an attempt to ride as fast you can without killing yourself for, in this case, four miles. You start on a ramp, ride two miles down a deserted road, navigate through a turn-around-point, and peddle your butt back. A new rider starts every minute, and the top three finishers get a prize. It looks very simple, and it is. The only part that I was truly worried about was the ramp.
Seriously. They had built one killer of a ramp. With sponsorship money too.
Everyone kept gushing it was "Just like in the Tour!" and all I wanted to say was, "Yeah, but I'm not in the tour. I don't own a riding bib, have never been sponsored by the Post Office, did not get divorced from a famous singer, and have never had to worry about my balls."
Wait. That's not right.
Anyway. The ramp was insane. It was close to four feet high, and the way it works is that someone steadies the bike by holding onto your seat while you climb on, clip in, and wait for the bell. So let me clarify that picture for you. You're perched on your bike. You're in fact attached to the bike with your shoes. You're sitting on something that's an inch wide, and the only thing that's between you and a six foot fall onto very hard concrete is one man's hand under your seat. Yeah. You pray for that bell to go off. Trust me. Once it does, the man behind you gives you a great big push and you either fly down the ramp and on to the course, or crash off the platform into the crowd, depending on your agility. You will be happy to know I was not the one woman who managed to lose her balance and hurtle herself off the side of platform into a few little kids. No, I flew down the ramp and on to the road without even as much as a yelp.
Once you're off the ramp, the race really starts. As it's only four miles long, even a novice like myself immediately realizes that the idea is to just give it all you got. And that means that while your legs are pumping, your breathing probably best resembles a steam engine: quick, loud, and superficial. Maintain that for twelve minutes, and by the time you're done, your chest feels as though it's on fire, and you've inhaled enough little Georgia red clay particles to keep you sneezing, coughing, and wheezing for days.
And that, for those of you who have stuck it out throughout this incredibly long post, is why I've been hacking up a storm down here.
I just love time trials (and Georgia).
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Speechless
You might not believe it, but every great once in a while, something will happen that leaves me at a loss of words. And in all honesty, "every great once in a while" has actually become more like "once or twice a month" since I started teaching at this specific university. When you're a white, European professor, and you walk into the world that is an HBCU, I think it just kind of comes with the territory. There are so many things that I've never had to experience first hand, that when I hear about them, it renders me speechless.
And today I had another moment just like that. It started when I showed the movie "Sicko" in a class on persuasive communication. I asked the students to analyze it for specific techniques as part of an assignment. My students being who they are, however, they managed to quickly turn the discussion on the movie into a discussion on America's health care system. And that's when the speechlessness comes in. You see, as far as health care goes, I've also been very lucky. I've always had affordable health care, either through my job, the military, or the mere good fortune of being born in The Netherlands. My students, on the other hand, are not so lucky. Many of them have fallen out of their parents' policy when they turned 18 or 21, while the vast majority come from families who don't have health care at all. Hence the stories about huge hospital bills, inability to seek medical care, and diseases left untreated abound, all of which just leave me absolutely speechless.
I don't want to turn this into a political blog. I'm really not interested in a political discussion on the pros and cons of Obamacare, tort reform, and what the Republicans/Democrats have done wrong/right. To me it's really not relevant. What is relevant to me is why a country that does so well on so many other things, a country of which I will soon (hopefully) be a part, really seems to struggle when it comes to providing affordable health care to everyone. I don't understand how people who call themselves Christian conservatives, or constitutionalists, claim that universal health care is un-American. Doesn't the right to "the pursuit of life" imply that that life should be healthy? Doesn't the bible talk about caring for the sick, the widows, and the elderly? Am I just too European to really understand the issues surrounding this debate?
I don't know.
Like I said, I'm speechless.
And today I had another moment just like that. It started when I showed the movie "Sicko" in a class on persuasive communication. I asked the students to analyze it for specific techniques as part of an assignment. My students being who they are, however, they managed to quickly turn the discussion on the movie into a discussion on America's health care system. And that's when the speechlessness comes in. You see, as far as health care goes, I've also been very lucky. I've always had affordable health care, either through my job, the military, or the mere good fortune of being born in The Netherlands. My students, on the other hand, are not so lucky. Many of them have fallen out of their parents' policy when they turned 18 or 21, while the vast majority come from families who don't have health care at all. Hence the stories about huge hospital bills, inability to seek medical care, and diseases left untreated abound, all of which just leave me absolutely speechless.
I don't want to turn this into a political blog. I'm really not interested in a political discussion on the pros and cons of Obamacare, tort reform, and what the Republicans/Democrats have done wrong/right. To me it's really not relevant. What is relevant to me is why a country that does so well on so many other things, a country of which I will soon (hopefully) be a part, really seems to struggle when it comes to providing affordable health care to everyone. I don't understand how people who call themselves Christian conservatives, or constitutionalists, claim that universal health care is un-American. Doesn't the right to "the pursuit of life" imply that that life should be healthy? Doesn't the bible talk about caring for the sick, the widows, and the elderly? Am I just too European to really understand the issues surrounding this debate?
I don't know.
Like I said, I'm speechless.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Obesity, 5Ks, and extra credit
As anyone who's been following the news, trying to buy clothes, or just stopped in at their local Walmart can tell you; America is gaining weight. And not just a little weight, no, America, according to this latest CDC report, is quickly becoming a nation of very, very big people. Another, equally depressing report found that almost 33% of all American adults are overweight, 34% are obese, and 6% are morbidly obese. The numbers don't get any better. In Georgia, for instance, over 27% of the people are obese. That's obese, people, not just overweight, but obese. It's a scary trend, and one that can easily be explained by the so-called typical American lifestyle of too much driving, too little exercise, and a diet that consists mainly of processed foods with high amounts of sugar, fats, and other bad stuff.
But explaining it isn't enough. It's obvious that something needs to be done, especially when you consider that more and more Americans are suffering from weight-related diseases such as diabetes, and that each year I see well-built, healthy students easily put on twenty pounds over the course of one semester, while still continuing to munch on chips, popcorn, and beef jerky during class.
Since it seems as though hell will freeze over before Georgia would make PE mandatory in all of its elementary and secondary schools, I decided to take matters into my own hands. Last week, during the mid-class five minute break, one of my students asked me what a triathlon was. They had read the little "meet your faculty!" bulletin board, and discovered that I had completed four triathlons. In an attempt to lengthen their break, they thought they would take the "get the instructor to talk about their personal life" route, and ask me about them. When I told them a triathlon entailed swimming, biking, and running, pandemonium broke out; "Please tell me you only have to pick one!", "What?! All three those things?", "Only crazy people do that!", "I can barely run at all.", "Dang, I break into a sweat when I walk up the stairs", and so on.
So I surveyed the classroom filled with students munching on snacks, drinking sodas, and diving into the french fries they had picked up before class, and told them that really, they should be running circles around me. I told them I was old, had kids, responsibilities, like a hundred hours per week, and spend more time each day in my car than they spend in this class each week. But they were not to be dissuaded, no, there was no way they could do it. No. Way. Running was hard. No one they knew ever rode their bikes. And swimming? Well, that was just not an option. In short, exercise was nasty.
As you all know, I live to make my students' lives miserable while trying to teach them important life lessons. So upon hearing all of that, I immediately knew what that semester's extra credit activity was going to be. And so I announced, to a class full of perplexed students, "I am going to organize a 5k. Here on campus. And anyone who finishes in under 30 minutes will earn 5% extra credit. It's absolutely ridiculous that you guys are super young and I'm in better shape than you, and so we're going to change that. What's the point of you all becoming super successful media producers and researchers if you're going to die of diabetes at age fifty? I don't want that on my conscience. So we are going to run.You are going to run."
In the spirit of something I'd like to call Cover your Hiney, I also offered an alternative for those who did not want to, or could not run: to complete the online NIH research ethics training.
Even though this NIH training is not what you might call exciting, or stimulating, I half expected all of my students to sign up for the training, but so far, everyone has really taken to the idea of running in the race. My other classes have asked to participate, and one of the sororities on campus has offered to organize the run. It's actually threatening to turn from a fun, impromptu run, into a seriously big event. And I just realized if I want to prevent my little runner's hiney from getting in trouble, I better let the chair and the dean know what I'm up to. Because, you know, there is no way we can hide a hundred students thundering around campus.
But explaining it isn't enough. It's obvious that something needs to be done, especially when you consider that more and more Americans are suffering from weight-related diseases such as diabetes, and that each year I see well-built, healthy students easily put on twenty pounds over the course of one semester, while still continuing to munch on chips, popcorn, and beef jerky during class.
Since it seems as though hell will freeze over before Georgia would make PE mandatory in all of its elementary and secondary schools, I decided to take matters into my own hands. Last week, during the mid-class five minute break, one of my students asked me what a triathlon was. They had read the little "meet your faculty!" bulletin board, and discovered that I had completed four triathlons. In an attempt to lengthen their break, they thought they would take the "get the instructor to talk about their personal life" route, and ask me about them. When I told them a triathlon entailed swimming, biking, and running, pandemonium broke out; "Please tell me you only have to pick one!", "What?! All three those things?", "Only crazy people do that!", "I can barely run at all.", "Dang, I break into a sweat when I walk up the stairs", and so on.
So I surveyed the classroom filled with students munching on snacks, drinking sodas, and diving into the french fries they had picked up before class, and told them that really, they should be running circles around me. I told them I was old, had kids, responsibilities, like a hundred hours per week, and spend more time each day in my car than they spend in this class each week. But they were not to be dissuaded, no, there was no way they could do it. No. Way. Running was hard. No one they knew ever rode their bikes. And swimming? Well, that was just not an option. In short, exercise was nasty.
As you all know, I live to make my students' lives miserable while trying to teach them important life lessons. So upon hearing all of that, I immediately knew what that semester's extra credit activity was going to be. And so I announced, to a class full of perplexed students, "I am going to organize a 5k. Here on campus. And anyone who finishes in under 30 minutes will earn 5% extra credit. It's absolutely ridiculous that you guys are super young and I'm in better shape than you, and so we're going to change that. What's the point of you all becoming super successful media producers and researchers if you're going to die of diabetes at age fifty? I don't want that on my conscience. So we are going to run.You are going to run."
In the spirit of something I'd like to call Cover your Hiney, I also offered an alternative for those who did not want to, or could not run: to complete the online NIH research ethics training.
Even though this NIH training is not what you might call exciting, or stimulating, I half expected all of my students to sign up for the training, but so far, everyone has really taken to the idea of running in the race. My other classes have asked to participate, and one of the sororities on campus has offered to organize the run. It's actually threatening to turn from a fun, impromptu run, into a seriously big event. And I just realized if I want to prevent my little runner's hiney from getting in trouble, I better let the chair and the dean know what I'm up to. Because, you know, there is no way we can hide a hundred students thundering around campus.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
De vrouw van...
In mijn psuedo-wetenschappelijk onderzoek naar de reden waarom ik hier, van alle plaatsen waar ik heb gewoond, toch wel het meest uit de toon val, heb ik vandaag weer een kleine overwinning geboekt.
Het heeft even geduurd, maar volgens mij is een belangrijke variabele (om het even wetenschappelijk te houden) het feit dat ik mijzelf nooit, maar dan ook nooit identificeer als "de vrouw van". Ik was net door wat blogs van vrouwen van militairen aan het heen spitten, en stuk voor stuk hadden ze allemaal titels als "The few, the proud, the wife", "The adventures of a navy wife", "Mr. Flyboy and his missus", en "Diary of an Air Force wife". Zelfs de meer kritische schrijfsters, wiens blogs absoluut niet bestaan uit verhaaltje over hoe enorm geweldig hun man/kinderen/hond/konijn/huis wel niet is, blijven zichzelf identificeren als "de vrouw van". Zo zijn er bijvoorbeeld; "An annoyed army wife", "Just another snarky navy wife", en "Disgruntled diary of a marine bride".
En zo gaat het dus in de werkelijkheid ook. Altijd en overal introduceren deze vrouwen zichzelf door eerst hun mans naam te laten vallen, en dan pas zichzelf voor te stellen. Zelfs al zit je in een voorstelrondje vrouwengroep in de kerk, en beginnen de eerste paar heel moedig met alleen zichzelf voor te stellen, vier vrouwen later klinken de meeste introducties als volgt; "Mijn naam is Amy, en mijn man is Bob, hij zit nu bij de mannen (nerveuze giechel). Hij zit bij de 54th bla-bla-bla squadron waar hij werkt als chief van huppeldepup, en oh ja, hij krijg volgende maand promotie."
Natuurlijk zijn hier allerlei goede redenen voor. Zo is het best wel belangrijk om te weten of je naast de vrouw van de generaal zit, bijvoorbeeld. Of dat er iemand bij zit wiens echtgenoot voor een andere tak van het leger werkt (voordat je al je grapjes over de landmacht uit de kast trekt).Uiteindelijk wil niemand dat haar man op het matje geroepen wordt omdat zijn echtgenoot de "vrouw van" beledigd heeft (en ja, dat gebeurt, echt. In 2011).
Maar goed, ik doe dat dus nooit, dat vertellen wat manlief allemaal doet. Ik vind dat gewoon niet zo interessant, ik bedoel, het is maar werk. Het feit dat hij een keer op een dag vijfhonderd push ups heeft gedaan (op kantoor nog wel) vind ik dan weer veel interessanter. Maar ik dwaal af. Ik vergeet dus bij dat soort voorstelrondjes dan ook regelmatig dat ik toch echt "Mrs" ben, en stel mezelf doodleuk met mijn meisjesnaam voor. En voordat iedereen nu roept, "Ja maar jij vertelt vast wat voor een werk je doet", nee, dat doe ik dus ook niet. Mijn werk is leuk hoor, daar niet van, maar het is nou ook weer niet zo leuk dat ik daar buiten mijn werk ook over praat. Thuis is thuis. Ik ben altijd gewoon maar Ju. Die van hardlopen houdt. Zoiets. En soms dan vertel ik ook nog dat, oh ja, ik ben getrouwd.
En dan val je dus buiten de boot. Want hier zijn de meeste vrouwen "de vrouw van..", en sja, ik ben gewoon mezelf.
Lastig hoor.
Het heeft even geduurd, maar volgens mij is een belangrijke variabele (om het even wetenschappelijk te houden) het feit dat ik mijzelf nooit, maar dan ook nooit identificeer als "de vrouw van". Ik was net door wat blogs van vrouwen van militairen aan het heen spitten, en stuk voor stuk hadden ze allemaal titels als "The few, the proud, the wife", "The adventures of a navy wife", "Mr. Flyboy and his missus", en "Diary of an Air Force wife". Zelfs de meer kritische schrijfsters, wiens blogs absoluut niet bestaan uit verhaaltje over hoe enorm geweldig hun man/kinderen/hond/konijn/huis wel niet is, blijven zichzelf identificeren als "de vrouw van". Zo zijn er bijvoorbeeld; "An annoyed army wife", "Just another snarky navy wife", en "Disgruntled diary of a marine bride".
En zo gaat het dus in de werkelijkheid ook. Altijd en overal introduceren deze vrouwen zichzelf door eerst hun mans naam te laten vallen, en dan pas zichzelf voor te stellen. Zelfs al zit je in een voorstelrondje vrouwengroep in de kerk, en beginnen de eerste paar heel moedig met alleen zichzelf voor te stellen, vier vrouwen later klinken de meeste introducties als volgt; "Mijn naam is Amy, en mijn man is Bob, hij zit nu bij de mannen (nerveuze giechel). Hij zit bij de 54th bla-bla-bla squadron waar hij werkt als chief van huppeldepup, en oh ja, hij krijg volgende maand promotie."
Natuurlijk zijn hier allerlei goede redenen voor. Zo is het best wel belangrijk om te weten of je naast de vrouw van de generaal zit, bijvoorbeeld. Of dat er iemand bij zit wiens echtgenoot voor een andere tak van het leger werkt (voordat je al je grapjes over de landmacht uit de kast trekt).Uiteindelijk wil niemand dat haar man op het matje geroepen wordt omdat zijn echtgenoot de "vrouw van" beledigd heeft (en ja, dat gebeurt, echt. In 2011).
Maar goed, ik doe dat dus nooit, dat vertellen wat manlief allemaal doet. Ik vind dat gewoon niet zo interessant, ik bedoel, het is maar werk. Het feit dat hij een keer op een dag vijfhonderd push ups heeft gedaan (op kantoor nog wel) vind ik dan weer veel interessanter. Maar ik dwaal af. Ik vergeet dus bij dat soort voorstelrondjes dan ook regelmatig dat ik toch echt "Mrs" ben, en stel mezelf doodleuk met mijn meisjesnaam voor. En voordat iedereen nu roept, "Ja maar jij vertelt vast wat voor een werk je doet", nee, dat doe ik dus ook niet. Mijn werk is leuk hoor, daar niet van, maar het is nou ook weer niet zo leuk dat ik daar buiten mijn werk ook over praat. Thuis is thuis. Ik ben altijd gewoon maar Ju. Die van hardlopen houdt. Zoiets. En soms dan vertel ik ook nog dat, oh ja, ik ben getrouwd.
En dan val je dus buiten de boot. Want hier zijn de meeste vrouwen "de vrouw van..", en sja, ik ben gewoon mezelf.
Lastig hoor.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Motivate Schmotivate
We're three weeks into the semester, and already my students are, like, totally done with the whole college thing. Morning classes suck, afternoon classes make you sleepy, and why on earth do we have a paper due in three weeks? Oh, and let's not forget that train is a totally acceptable excuse to show up to class late, and rolling at your eyes at any new assignment is just another way of expressing that that independent thinking your instructor is always prattling on about.
We are only in week four people. Week four. And already teaching has become like pulling teeth. Actually, if only it were like pulling teeth, then none of us would feel any pain, and it would all be over really quickly.
Students who don't care are possibly the toughest crowd to teach. There is no response to questions, they don't listen and then ask you to re-explain something your cocker spaniel could understand ("Read chapter four for the next class, and then you will also need to start on...", "Wait, you mean we have to read chapter four?"), and start packing up their stuff ten minutes before the end of class. I've tried my usual tricks to motivate them; joke, use strange examples ("So, an example of a hypothesis would be: Men always end up cheating"), bring in audiovisual material ("Let's analyze this banned commercial of Mr. T shooting snickers at an effeminate white man walking down the street to get a clearer grasp of this specific stereotype"), and all I get is crickets, or in the latter case, "Well, it was just really funny.". Funny. Three years of expensive college education, and all they can come up with is "funny".
Now I've given this some thought, and I think the reason bored and unmotivated students bug me is because in the last ten, fifteen years college campuses have wholeheartedly embraced the "engaged learning" concept. Engaged learning, or whatever pretty name you want to give it, was a backlash against the old professor droning on in front of a dusty chalkboard, without any attention for his or her students. Engaged learning involves "dynamic student-instructor interaction!" (read: fielding lots and lots of questions about everything unrelated to the subject matter), "Rendering material applicable and concrete!" (read: lots of examples, or if you're feeling a bit snappy, dumbing it down so everyone gets it), "Multiple learning opportunities" (read: lots of assignments to make sure even the laziest students have a chance to pass), and "The use of advanced educational technologies" (read: you have to use powerpoint/smartboard/blackboard/moodle/wiki if you ever want to get promoted).
Don't get me wrong, as someone who spent hundreds of hours in large lecture halls listening to mumbling professors and trying to decipher their cryptic notes on the decades old chalkboard, I appreciate engaged learning. I'm convinced it's a better learning experience for the student, as well as the instructor. After all, if given the choice between droning on and using examples to get students to understand the material, I prefer the latter. But it all falls apart if the students don't cooperate. Which they haven't. They've been bored, resistant, sullen, and unwilling.
So, I think it's time for one of my scary speeches. One of those speeches where I remind them that everything they do now prepares them for that future they can't wait to start. And that the less they do now, the more that future will suck. I think I may even tell them that if they think this class is boring, they should wait until their first entry-level job, the one they will need to take because they couldn't be bothered to maintain a 3.0 GPA in college. Yes, I think it's time to use the fear tactic. After all, I did not get my PhD in motivational studies.
We are only in week four people. Week four. And already teaching has become like pulling teeth. Actually, if only it were like pulling teeth, then none of us would feel any pain, and it would all be over really quickly.
Students who don't care are possibly the toughest crowd to teach. There is no response to questions, they don't listen and then ask you to re-explain something your cocker spaniel could understand ("Read chapter four for the next class, and then you will also need to start on...", "Wait, you mean we have to read chapter four?"), and start packing up their stuff ten minutes before the end of class. I've tried my usual tricks to motivate them; joke, use strange examples ("So, an example of a hypothesis would be: Men always end up cheating"), bring in audiovisual material ("Let's analyze this banned commercial of Mr. T shooting snickers at an effeminate white man walking down the street to get a clearer grasp of this specific stereotype"), and all I get is crickets, or in the latter case, "Well, it was just really funny.". Funny. Three years of expensive college education, and all they can come up with is "funny".
Now I've given this some thought, and I think the reason bored and unmotivated students bug me is because in the last ten, fifteen years college campuses have wholeheartedly embraced the "engaged learning" concept. Engaged learning, or whatever pretty name you want to give it, was a backlash against the old professor droning on in front of a dusty chalkboard, without any attention for his or her students. Engaged learning involves "dynamic student-instructor interaction!" (read: fielding lots and lots of questions about everything unrelated to the subject matter), "Rendering material applicable and concrete!" (read: lots of examples, or if you're feeling a bit snappy, dumbing it down so everyone gets it), "Multiple learning opportunities" (read: lots of assignments to make sure even the laziest students have a chance to pass), and "The use of advanced educational technologies" (read: you have to use powerpoint/smartboard/blackboard/moodle/wiki if you ever want to get promoted).
Don't get me wrong, as someone who spent hundreds of hours in large lecture halls listening to mumbling professors and trying to decipher their cryptic notes on the decades old chalkboard, I appreciate engaged learning. I'm convinced it's a better learning experience for the student, as well as the instructor. After all, if given the choice between droning on and using examples to get students to understand the material, I prefer the latter. But it all falls apart if the students don't cooperate. Which they haven't. They've been bored, resistant, sullen, and unwilling.
So, I think it's time for one of my scary speeches. One of those speeches where I remind them that everything they do now prepares them for that future they can't wait to start. And that the less they do now, the more that future will suck. I think I may even tell them that if they think this class is boring, they should wait until their first entry-level job, the one they will need to take because they couldn't be bothered to maintain a 3.0 GPA in college. Yes, I think it's time to use the fear tactic. After all, I did not get my PhD in motivational studies.
Friday, January 21, 2011
The waiting game
Apparently I broke "the code" so badly in my last post, that no one really knew what to say at such a flagrant display of social ineptness. Fortunately for all of my readers, I want to share something with you today that I'm sure a lot of my readers, especially those who have had to deal with the Kafkaesque bureaucracy that is the USCIS, can relate to. And for those of you who are lucky enough to have just said, "the what?", just see this post as a way to experience some nice German schadenfreude.*
Anyway, besides apparently having the tenacity of a terrier, the social graces of a hippopotamus, I also fall a little short in the patience department. And although I have no problem explaining the same thing over and over and over again to a confused student, if you make me wait for something, I will be crawling up on the ceiling in no time. Especially if it's something that I can in no way control or foresee how long it might take. So if a plane is delayed by fifteen minutes, I'm fine. If my dentist tells me it will be another ten minutes, I'm cool too. As long as I know how long I have to wait, I am patience personified. But whenever I don't know how long something will take, I become an edgy bundle of nerves. And not just that, but my mind will, fairly quickly, have spun out an intricate tale of why something is taking this long, then figured out that all of that has obviously happened to me, a thought which will always end in the conclusion that I will, from that moment on, cease to know happiness ever again.
Oy, indeed.
Right now, my beef is with the US Postal Service. Don't get me wrong, I really like our mail carriers, and the ladies at our post office are always really nice, but why does mail take so long in this country? Doesn't the postal service realize that some of us are waiting on really important things?
For instance, I'm still waiting on a package with Christmas presents from my brother, which obviously has gotten lost. Forever. Obviously. (and because this proves the unreliability of parcel service, you do realize that my brother will never ever sent a package again. Ever. Obviously.)
And then there is the case of the W2 that might be missing. Or not. I received an email from the HR department that they mailed my W2 this past Saturday, and of course it still hasn't arrived. Now although my brain is currently somewhat calmed down by the thought that Monday was a holiday, I know it won't be long before it's decided that my W2 didn't just get lost, oh no, it was stolen by a bunch of thieves who will now use my identity to open up credit cards, acquire driver's licenses, and commit crimes, thus ruining my life forever.
But the case that takes the cake is my N400. As you may remember, I made a promise last December to mail that thing. Soon-ish at least. And I did. May the record show that I mailed it January 10 (which, as far as I'm concerned is a record for my little procrastinator's soul). And although I'm pretending to be all cool and relaxed about it, you all know I'm secretly on pins and needles. Especially since I haven't received the little green return receipt yet. Now the USPS website tells me the package was delivered on the 14th, which sets my mind off into an endless calculation, "Well, that was a week ago today. If they sent the stub back on Friday, then it should have been here by now. Really. But Monday was a holiday, so does that mean it didn't get sent until Tuesday? So then when should it get here?".
Then of course there is the fact that the check made out to the USCIS hasn't been cashed either. For those of you (blissfully) unaware of this; there's a $680 fee attached to applying for citizenship. So I wrote the check, had a minor aneurysm, and then included it in my package. Most other people's checks get cashed within a week. Mine hasn't, and you have no idea what this does with my already frazzled mind. Did they lose it? Is my package sitting on the wrong pile? Did it even make it to the right place?
It goes on and on. Because there's also the "O.M.G. I don't know when they will schedule my fingerprints/interview, so should I book any vacations right now? Or should I wait until I know those dates? But what if all the good tickets are gone then?", not to mention the worries about lost notices of action and other important paperwork sent through the mail. It really does never end. It's seriously a miracle I remember how to get dressed in the morning with all that raging through my head.
So as far as I'm concerned, the waiting game is not a game at all. It's serious, painful, and really messes with my mind. Now excuse me while I go outside and set up a tent next to our mailbox.
* For those of you not familiar with it, please check out this song from Avenue Q. If you're still not quite comfortable with the term "schadenfreude", this song will clear it right up for (listener discretion advised).
Anyway, besides apparently having the tenacity of a terrier, the social graces of a hippopotamus, I also fall a little short in the patience department. And although I have no problem explaining the same thing over and over and over again to a confused student, if you make me wait for something, I will be crawling up on the ceiling in no time. Especially if it's something that I can in no way control or foresee how long it might take. So if a plane is delayed by fifteen minutes, I'm fine. If my dentist tells me it will be another ten minutes, I'm cool too. As long as I know how long I have to wait, I am patience personified. But whenever I don't know how long something will take, I become an edgy bundle of nerves. And not just that, but my mind will, fairly quickly, have spun out an intricate tale of why something is taking this long, then figured out that all of that has obviously happened to me, a thought which will always end in the conclusion that I will, from that moment on, cease to know happiness ever again.
Oy, indeed.
Right now, my beef is with the US Postal Service. Don't get me wrong, I really like our mail carriers, and the ladies at our post office are always really nice, but why does mail take so long in this country? Doesn't the postal service realize that some of us are waiting on really important things?
For instance, I'm still waiting on a package with Christmas presents from my brother, which obviously has gotten lost. Forever. Obviously. (and because this proves the unreliability of parcel service, you do realize that my brother will never ever sent a package again. Ever. Obviously.)
And then there is the case of the W2 that might be missing. Or not. I received an email from the HR department that they mailed my W2 this past Saturday, and of course it still hasn't arrived. Now although my brain is currently somewhat calmed down by the thought that Monday was a holiday, I know it won't be long before it's decided that my W2 didn't just get lost, oh no, it was stolen by a bunch of thieves who will now use my identity to open up credit cards, acquire driver's licenses, and commit crimes, thus ruining my life forever.
But the case that takes the cake is my N400. As you may remember, I made a promise last December to mail that thing. Soon-ish at least. And I did. May the record show that I mailed it January 10 (which, as far as I'm concerned is a record for my little procrastinator's soul). And although I'm pretending to be all cool and relaxed about it, you all know I'm secretly on pins and needles. Especially since I haven't received the little green return receipt yet. Now the USPS website tells me the package was delivered on the 14th, which sets my mind off into an endless calculation, "Well, that was a week ago today. If they sent the stub back on Friday, then it should have been here by now. Really. But Monday was a holiday, so does that mean it didn't get sent until Tuesday? So then when should it get here?".
Then of course there is the fact that the check made out to the USCIS hasn't been cashed either. For those of you (blissfully) unaware of this; there's a $680 fee attached to applying for citizenship. So I wrote the check, had a minor aneurysm, and then included it in my package. Most other people's checks get cashed within a week. Mine hasn't, and you have no idea what this does with my already frazzled mind. Did they lose it? Is my package sitting on the wrong pile? Did it even make it to the right place?
It goes on and on. Because there's also the "O.M.G. I don't know when they will schedule my fingerprints/interview, so should I book any vacations right now? Or should I wait until I know those dates? But what if all the good tickets are gone then?", not to mention the worries about lost notices of action and other important paperwork sent through the mail. It really does never end. It's seriously a miracle I remember how to get dressed in the morning with all that raging through my head.
So as far as I'm concerned, the waiting game is not a game at all. It's serious, painful, and really messes with my mind. Now excuse me while I go outside and set up a tent next to our mailbox.
* For those of you not familiar with it, please check out this song from Avenue Q. If you're still not quite comfortable with the term "schadenfreude", this song will clear it right up for (listener discretion advised).
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