I'm telling, after today, I qualify for sainthood. Or to at least have a church named after me. Something like "Lady DixieChick of Divine Patience" sounds nice. Allow me to run a conversation by you that I've had this morning. I'm sure that after hearing those, you will wholeheartedly agree with me.
Student appears in door, "Oh, I see that you're busy, can I make an appointment?"
Me, "You know, it's OK, what do you need?"
"How do I make an appointment?"
"I can help you now if you want."
"OK, I need to drop a class, what do I need to do?"
"You need to get a drop/add form from the registrar's office, fill it out, bring it to me to sign, and then return it to the registrar's office."
"A drop/add form?"
"Yes."
"OK. Where can I get one of those?"
"At the registrar's office."
"So I need this drop/add form to drop my class?"
At this point, I've realized that this is going to be a very long conversation indeed.
"Yes, you do. You fill it out and then bring it to me."
And I've also realized it's far, far easier to break it down into very small pieces.
"And where do I get one of these forms?"
Breathe in. Breathe out. Smile.
"At the registrar's office."
"The registrar's office?"
Did you bring a parrot into my office, or did I?
"Yes."
"Where is the registrar's office?"
Insert the shortest possible explanation here.
"And that's where I get my add/drop form?"
God help me, please
"Yes."
"And it's over by the.."
Student names wrong location. Imagine same description, only with fewer large words like "breezeway" and "lobby"
"OK. And then I take it back to you, right?"
Hallelujah!
"Yes."
"OK."
Student leaves. Then turns around
"When will you be in your office?"
"Between one and two today"
"OK. And then you'll fill it out for me?"
Holy Mother of Mary, Sweet Angels in the Heavens above!
"No. You fill it out, then bring it to me."
"OK. And it's in the registrar's office?"
"Yes, yes, it is."
Oh. My. God.
"Thank you"
Student really leaves.
Sainthood, I'm telling you. At least.
Monday, February 21, 2011
Friday, February 18, 2011
The golden mean
As it's Friday afternoon, and Spring break is only a few weeks away, I thought now would be a great time to talk about nudity. Specifically when what type of nudity is acceptable. You see, I've found that the south has standards that are vastly different from any other place I've lived. Surprisingly, these standards aren't all about modesty either. No, it seems to me that the south actually isn't entirely sure how it feels about skin.
On the one hand, southerners will put their girl toddlers in bikini tops (in spite of the fact that there's just not a whole lot to cover up there), and abhor the idea of wearing a skirt without hose. But on the other hand, some southerners seem perfectly fine with ten year old girls strutting their stuff in a bikini big enough for their pet guinneapig, while vying for the crown of the local pageant. In the same vein, dress suits hardly ever come with skirts above the knee, while it's also almost impossible to find denim shorts that don't make you look like a Daisy Duke wannabe. If you even talk about going to a sauna where bathing suits were not permitted, people start fainting left and right, but if you wear a shirt that reveals so much cleavage, it's a miracle your cups don't runneth over, no one seems to bat an eye.
It's interesting dilemma, and one that, as I noticed this morning, is perfectly captures by the microcosm that is the gym locker room. Even though this gym locker room is on base, we are in the prude south, and so the whole modesty versus nudity debate is an ever raging issue in the locker room as well. As far as this debate is concerned, the women in the locker room can probably be divided up into three groups.
First, there is the "I've got it and I'll flaunt it, dammit!" group, a surprisingly large category for such a deeply religious, conservative southern town. These are women who, when emerging from the shower, will whip their towels off, lay them on the benches, or over their locker door. They will them rummage through their locker, pull out a tub of lotion, sit down on the bench, and spend a good five minutes lathering themselves with said lotion. Don't get me wrong, I'm all about moisturizing, but there's just something slightly wrong with walking into a locker room and getting a full monty of a woman rubbing body lotion all over herself. I mean, people, certain genres of movies have been based on less, you know?
The second group falls on the other end of the modesty-nudity continuum, and I'll call them the "I've got it, but I'd sooner die than let you have a peek". These are women who purchase special little towel-dresses they can wear while getting ready. These garments are made up of a large towel that one wraps around oneself, but that has two straps that go over the shoulder, and that is fastened with a button near one's armpit. Basically, it means that the women wearing it can get completely dressed without ever revealing anything to anyone. I've also seen women wrap two large beachtowels around themselves while getting their underwear on, and others emerge completely dressed from the very tiny shower stalls. Although it's entirely their call, and completely inoffensive, it just look like a lot of work to me.
Finally, there is the slightly more modest group, which I'll call the "I've got it, and yes, I love it, but I'll cover it up anyway" group. Personally, I fall within this category. These are the people who won't hesitate to take their towel off after they shower, but who will put on underwear as soon as possible. People who, when putting on their bathing suit, take their jeans off first, and put their bathing suit on before taking their top off. I don't mind other people seeing my junk, so to speak, but I figure they may not share that emotion, so hey, I'll cut them a break.
Interestingly, this "Goldilocks "just right"" group is in the minority. And not just in the locker room, really everywhere in the south. You either flaunt it all, or cover everything up.There is no in between. I'm telling you, it's complicated.
On the one hand, southerners will put their girl toddlers in bikini tops (in spite of the fact that there's just not a whole lot to cover up there), and abhor the idea of wearing a skirt without hose. But on the other hand, some southerners seem perfectly fine with ten year old girls strutting their stuff in a bikini big enough for their pet guinneapig, while vying for the crown of the local pageant. In the same vein, dress suits hardly ever come with skirts above the knee, while it's also almost impossible to find denim shorts that don't make you look like a Daisy Duke wannabe. If you even talk about going to a sauna where bathing suits were not permitted, people start fainting left and right, but if you wear a shirt that reveals so much cleavage, it's a miracle your cups don't runneth over, no one seems to bat an eye.
It's interesting dilemma, and one that, as I noticed this morning, is perfectly captures by the microcosm that is the gym locker room. Even though this gym locker room is on base, we are in the prude south, and so the whole modesty versus nudity debate is an ever raging issue in the locker room as well. As far as this debate is concerned, the women in the locker room can probably be divided up into three groups.
First, there is the "I've got it and I'll flaunt it, dammit!" group, a surprisingly large category for such a deeply religious, conservative southern town. These are women who, when emerging from the shower, will whip their towels off, lay them on the benches, or over their locker door. They will them rummage through their locker, pull out a tub of lotion, sit down on the bench, and spend a good five minutes lathering themselves with said lotion. Don't get me wrong, I'm all about moisturizing, but there's just something slightly wrong with walking into a locker room and getting a full monty of a woman rubbing body lotion all over herself. I mean, people, certain genres of movies have been based on less, you know?
The second group falls on the other end of the modesty-nudity continuum, and I'll call them the "I've got it, but I'd sooner die than let you have a peek". These are women who purchase special little towel-dresses they can wear while getting ready. These garments are made up of a large towel that one wraps around oneself, but that has two straps that go over the shoulder, and that is fastened with a button near one's armpit. Basically, it means that the women wearing it can get completely dressed without ever revealing anything to anyone. I've also seen women wrap two large beachtowels around themselves while getting their underwear on, and others emerge completely dressed from the very tiny shower stalls. Although it's entirely their call, and completely inoffensive, it just look like a lot of work to me.
Finally, there is the slightly more modest group, which I'll call the "I've got it, and yes, I love it, but I'll cover it up anyway" group. Personally, I fall within this category. These are the people who won't hesitate to take their towel off after they shower, but who will put on underwear as soon as possible. People who, when putting on their bathing suit, take their jeans off first, and put their bathing suit on before taking their top off. I don't mind other people seeing my junk, so to speak, but I figure they may not share that emotion, so hey, I'll cut them a break.
Interestingly, this "Goldilocks "just right"" group is in the minority. And not just in the locker room, really everywhere in the south. You either flaunt it all, or cover everything up.There is no in between. I'm telling you, it's complicated.
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Een held op blote voeten
Sinds kort hebben we een alarmsysteem in huis. Nou ja, dat is niet helemaal waar, want het alarmsysteem heeft er altijd gezeten. Ik moet eigenlijk zeggen dat we sinds een paar maanden een werkend alarmsysteem in huis hebben. Toen we dit huis kochten, deed het alarmsysteem het prima, als we af mogen gaan op het feit dat het braaf piepte en oplichte elke keer als er een deur of raam dan wel open of dicht ging. We hadden alleen geen gebruiksaanwijzing, en dus zetten we het ding nooit aan. En dat was wat mij betreft prima.
Toen was er een hele grote storm afgelopen Oktober. Zo eentje waarbij de honden onder de bank kruipen en de ramen trillen. En de bliksem je alarmsysteem dusdanig overstuur helpt, dan het alarm afgaat. Daar sta je dan. Het stormt, het is donker, en het alarm blijft maar loeien, en loeien, en loeien. Ik ben wel vaker blij geweest om mijn technische man, maar nooit zoveel als toen. Terwijl ik als een kip zonder kop met mijn handen op mijn oren stond te roepen dat dat ding toch wel erg veel herrie maakte, schroefde hij een plaatje los, knipte het juiste draadje door, en voila, de rust was wedergekeerd.
Maar ja, nu hadden we dus een echt niet-werkend alarmsysteem. Geen piepjes meer, geen monitor om te checken of alles dicht was, niks. En daar was vooral ik niet zo blij mee. En zo kwam voor de kerst een echte monteur op bezoek die het hele ding instelde en zelfs een gebruiksaanwijzing achterliet.
En nu hebben we dus een alarm. Ik vind het ideaal. Ik zet het ding 's ochtends aan als ik wegga, en 's avonds als ik thuis kom weet ik meteen of ik enge mensen in huis kan verwachten of niet. En nee, we wonen niet in een of andere achterbuurt. Er wonen hier geen enge mensen, en er is, voor zover ik weet, nog nooit ingebroken. Wij zijn zo'n buurt waar je rustig kan vergeten je garage deur dicht te doen, en de deur op slot te doen, en alles er gewoon nog is als je thuis komt. Dus op zich is er geen reden voor een alarm systeem. Maar ik ben nou eenmaal vreemd. En helemaal als ik alleen thuis ben.
Maar ja, helemaal ideaal is het niet. U moet namelijk weten dat ik het ding 's nachts nooit aanzet. Niet omdat ik dat niet zou willen, maar omdat ik honderd procent zeker weet dat ik dat 's ochtends ben vergeten, en dan, terwijl ik de achterdeur open doe voor de honden, niet alleen het alarm "trigger", maar dat ik ook onze super-mega-geheime code niet kan reproduceren als het alarmbedrijf belt, en dus een serie politie auto's in mijn voortuin heb. En daar heb ik, dat begrijpt u, geen zin in.
Maar ja, vannacht was dat misschien een betere optie geweest. Ik werd om kwart voor vier wakker, en wist zeker dat ik het "biepbiepbiep" hoorde dat bij het open gaan van een raam of deur hoort. Nog slaapdronken deed ik mijn ogen open, en wist zeker dat ik het nog een keer hoorde. Sjips. Zou er nou iemand in huis zijn? Hmm.
Een slim persoon zou op dat moment veilig in bed blijven, en eventueel de politie bellen. Een iets minder slim persoon zou haar mobieltje pakken, een stok vinden, en misschien voorzichtig door het huis gaan lopen. Een echte southerner pakt zijn geweer, de kogels, en begint onder het roepen van "I've got a gun you better get the hell off my property" door het huis te stampen. En wat doe ik? Ik stap mijn bed uit, maak de honden wakker, en begin een speurtocht door een stikdonker huis. Wat mijn plan precies was geweest als ik iemand was tegengekomen, dat weet ik niet. Ik denk dat ik, heel southern, ze had gevraagd wat ze aan het doen waren. Of misschien was ik wel in een of andere country girl veranderd, en had ik iets in de trant van "sic em girls!" tegen mijn honden geroepen, die dat vast hadden begrepen als een teken om met de inbreker te gaan spelen. Ik geef toe, heel doordacht was het niet.
En natuurlijk was er niemand in huis. Niet boven, niet in de garage, nergens. Waarschijnlijk heb ik die piepjes dus gewoon gedroomd.
Eigenlijk denk ik dat ik gewoon een geweer nodig heb. Zo'n grote pump action shotgun. Als er dan een inbreker is, dan hoef ik alleen maar dat geweer te laten horen, en ze zijn meteen weg.Of ik kan natuurlijk 's nachts gewoon het alarm systeem aanzetten. Is ook een idee.
Toen was er een hele grote storm afgelopen Oktober. Zo eentje waarbij de honden onder de bank kruipen en de ramen trillen. En de bliksem je alarmsysteem dusdanig overstuur helpt, dan het alarm afgaat. Daar sta je dan. Het stormt, het is donker, en het alarm blijft maar loeien, en loeien, en loeien. Ik ben wel vaker blij geweest om mijn technische man, maar nooit zoveel als toen. Terwijl ik als een kip zonder kop met mijn handen op mijn oren stond te roepen dat dat ding toch wel erg veel herrie maakte, schroefde hij een plaatje los, knipte het juiste draadje door, en voila, de rust was wedergekeerd.
Maar ja, nu hadden we dus een echt niet-werkend alarmsysteem. Geen piepjes meer, geen monitor om te checken of alles dicht was, niks. En daar was vooral ik niet zo blij mee. En zo kwam voor de kerst een echte monteur op bezoek die het hele ding instelde en zelfs een gebruiksaanwijzing achterliet.
En nu hebben we dus een alarm. Ik vind het ideaal. Ik zet het ding 's ochtends aan als ik wegga, en 's avonds als ik thuis kom weet ik meteen of ik enge mensen in huis kan verwachten of niet. En nee, we wonen niet in een of andere achterbuurt. Er wonen hier geen enge mensen, en er is, voor zover ik weet, nog nooit ingebroken. Wij zijn zo'n buurt waar je rustig kan vergeten je garage deur dicht te doen, en de deur op slot te doen, en alles er gewoon nog is als je thuis komt. Dus op zich is er geen reden voor een alarm systeem. Maar ik ben nou eenmaal vreemd. En helemaal als ik alleen thuis ben.
Maar ja, helemaal ideaal is het niet. U moet namelijk weten dat ik het ding 's nachts nooit aanzet. Niet omdat ik dat niet zou willen, maar omdat ik honderd procent zeker weet dat ik dat 's ochtends ben vergeten, en dan, terwijl ik de achterdeur open doe voor de honden, niet alleen het alarm "trigger", maar dat ik ook onze super-mega-geheime code niet kan reproduceren als het alarmbedrijf belt, en dus een serie politie auto's in mijn voortuin heb. En daar heb ik, dat begrijpt u, geen zin in.
Maar ja, vannacht was dat misschien een betere optie geweest. Ik werd om kwart voor vier wakker, en wist zeker dat ik het "biepbiepbiep" hoorde dat bij het open gaan van een raam of deur hoort. Nog slaapdronken deed ik mijn ogen open, en wist zeker dat ik het nog een keer hoorde. Sjips. Zou er nou iemand in huis zijn? Hmm.
Een slim persoon zou op dat moment veilig in bed blijven, en eventueel de politie bellen. Een iets minder slim persoon zou haar mobieltje pakken, een stok vinden, en misschien voorzichtig door het huis gaan lopen. Een echte southerner pakt zijn geweer, de kogels, en begint onder het roepen van "I've got a gun you better get the hell off my property" door het huis te stampen. En wat doe ik? Ik stap mijn bed uit, maak de honden wakker, en begin een speurtocht door een stikdonker huis. Wat mijn plan precies was geweest als ik iemand was tegengekomen, dat weet ik niet. Ik denk dat ik, heel southern, ze had gevraagd wat ze aan het doen waren. Of misschien was ik wel in een of andere country girl veranderd, en had ik iets in de trant van "sic em girls!" tegen mijn honden geroepen, die dat vast hadden begrepen als een teken om met de inbreker te gaan spelen. Ik geef toe, heel doordacht was het niet.
En natuurlijk was er niemand in huis. Niet boven, niet in de garage, nergens. Waarschijnlijk heb ik die piepjes dus gewoon gedroomd.
Eigenlijk denk ik dat ik gewoon een geweer nodig heb. Zo'n grote pump action shotgun. Als er dan een inbreker is, dan hoef ik alleen maar dat geweer te laten horen, en ze zijn meteen weg.Of ik kan natuurlijk 's nachts gewoon het alarm systeem aanzetten. Is ook een idee.
Sunday, February 13, 2011
The mysteries of grading
I was one of those students who never wondered why I got the grade I did. I would look at it, read the comments, possibly shrug or raise my eyebrows, and then move on. I guess if you would have asked me how I thought the teacher or professor arrived at this grade, I would have mentioned something about a whispered suggestion from God, or possibly a comparison to The Perfect Paper/Exam that the instructor was sure to have lying around somewhere. It didn't help that I was usually pretty on target about predicting what grade I was going to get. As far as I was concerned, my teachers immediately knew what grade to give me as soon as their hands touched my work. Or something.
All I can say now is that I feel very sorry for all of my underappreciated instructors. Very sorry. Because grading is hard. It's possibly harder that explaining how to carry out a a bootstrapped multilinear regression analysis to your grandparents who don't own a computer, and have on occasion tried using the phone to mute the television.
It's not just figuring out what grade to give to Sammy, although that in itself can give the most reasonable person a heartburn. It's making sure that Sammy's grade is fair in comparison to Johnny's grade, who might have displayed poorer writing skills, but who had much better ideas than Sammy. It's making sure that I can back up my grade with comments and suggestions, just in case Betty doesn't agree with the fact that she got a B, while her bestie Bonnie got a B+. It's making sure that the fact that I've already graded eighteen papers doesn't make me less forgiving towards they're/their/there mistakes. It's making sure that my kids' antics as they're trying to distract doesn't mean that Allie suddenly gets an A- just because I had to laugh so hard.
So how do we come up with all those grades?
Well, the academic answer should be something like "we utilize carefully developed rubrics that reflect the expected level of writing skills, knowledge, argumentative abilities, and critical thinking skills". And we do. Well, sort of.
Does it count if they're in our heads?
I don't know how other professors do it, although I've heard of several interesting grading methods. I know of instructors grading "holistically" (i.e., yeah, I've skimmed through this paper, and it looks like it's good enough for a B), or "effort-based" (i.e., well, it looks like they've really tried, so I'll ignore all the spelling mistakes and poor organization and give them a B+), or "improvement-driven" (i.e., wow, compared to the last paper, this is really good. There's no plagiarism, the syntax makes sense, and I think I see a few paragraphs in there too. A B+, definitely"). However, I have a method I like to call, "Be fair and stay sane".
It basically means that the first thing I will do is turn over the front page of every single paper, so that I no longer know who wrote what. Because in spite of what all professors may have told you over the years, yes, we do have higher expectations of certain students, and yes, we are more willing to forgive one student their mistakes than others. And since that's just not cool, my first action is to try to give myself carpal tunnel syndrome by turning over thirty or so cover pages.
Once properly anonymized, I will read each paper all the way through without as much as a pen in my hand. You could argue this is done to obtain a "holistic" feel for the paper. Or to make sure I can truly get inside the student's head, to find out what they were actually trying to say. Sure, you could do all of that. In fact, however, I do this solely to save the student a lot of heartache, and myself a great deal of time. As a former copy-editor, I know that once I start correcting mistakes, I just can't stop, which means that I will easily spend close to half hour nitpicking my way through each paper, while the student will suffer a minor coronary when they get their papers back covered in blue ink. All it does is make both of us very frustrated with the other (me: "Why can't they just use proper punctuation?!", student: "Did she even read what I actually said?!").
Once I've given a paper that first look, I'll generally know whether something is a A/B, B/C, or should receive a failing grade. Then I go back for a second, more critical look, this time with pen in hand. I'll make sure that all my feedback is somewhat constructive ("What the heck?!" just doesn't go over as well as "I'm not sure what you're trying to say here"), and that I point out both the positive and the negative ("Where is your proof for this?" is taken a lot better when preceded by a "Great idea!").
Then it's time to agonize over the final grade. Should it be a B-? Or a C+? Although the difference is only 3-5%, psychologically, there is a vast chasm between the two. Just like a B+, although only two/three points away from an A-, can bring an A student to tears. I may look back at other papers, to see what I gave them. All just to make sure I stay fair. And then, to make sure I don't lose the second part of my technique out of sight (remember "stay sane"), I make my final decision. (Although I have been known to, before I hand the papers back, go back and cross out the final grade with magic marker, and give the students a revised grade).
So there is no whisper from God, no golden standard, and no "Well, this grade just feels right" hippy-dippy-love-grading. It's a lot of work.
And now you know why we professors hate it when students challenge our grades. Because, in some cases, we're fairly certain we've spent more time agonizing over that grade than the student as on the actual assignment.
Now excuse me, I have seven more papers to grade.
All I can say now is that I feel very sorry for all of my underappreciated instructors. Very sorry. Because grading is hard. It's possibly harder that explaining how to carry out a a bootstrapped multilinear regression analysis to your grandparents who don't own a computer, and have on occasion tried using the phone to mute the television.
It's not just figuring out what grade to give to Sammy, although that in itself can give the most reasonable person a heartburn. It's making sure that Sammy's grade is fair in comparison to Johnny's grade, who might have displayed poorer writing skills, but who had much better ideas than Sammy. It's making sure that I can back up my grade with comments and suggestions, just in case Betty doesn't agree with the fact that she got a B, while her bestie Bonnie got a B+. It's making sure that the fact that I've already graded eighteen papers doesn't make me less forgiving towards they're/their/there mistakes. It's making sure that my kids' antics as they're trying to distract doesn't mean that Allie suddenly gets an A- just because I had to laugh so hard.
So how do we come up with all those grades?
Well, the academic answer should be something like "we utilize carefully developed rubrics that reflect the expected level of writing skills, knowledge, argumentative abilities, and critical thinking skills". And we do. Well, sort of.
Does it count if they're in our heads?
I don't know how other professors do it, although I've heard of several interesting grading methods. I know of instructors grading "holistically" (i.e., yeah, I've skimmed through this paper, and it looks like it's good enough for a B), or "effort-based" (i.e., well, it looks like they've really tried, so I'll ignore all the spelling mistakes and poor organization and give them a B+), or "improvement-driven" (i.e., wow, compared to the last paper, this is really good. There's no plagiarism, the syntax makes sense, and I think I see a few paragraphs in there too. A B+, definitely"). However, I have a method I like to call, "Be fair and stay sane".
It basically means that the first thing I will do is turn over the front page of every single paper, so that I no longer know who wrote what. Because in spite of what all professors may have told you over the years, yes, we do have higher expectations of certain students, and yes, we are more willing to forgive one student their mistakes than others. And since that's just not cool, my first action is to try to give myself carpal tunnel syndrome by turning over thirty or so cover pages.
Once properly anonymized, I will read each paper all the way through without as much as a pen in my hand. You could argue this is done to obtain a "holistic" feel for the paper. Or to make sure I can truly get inside the student's head, to find out what they were actually trying to say. Sure, you could do all of that. In fact, however, I do this solely to save the student a lot of heartache, and myself a great deal of time. As a former copy-editor, I know that once I start correcting mistakes, I just can't stop, which means that I will easily spend close to half hour nitpicking my way through each paper, while the student will suffer a minor coronary when they get their papers back covered in blue ink. All it does is make both of us very frustrated with the other (me: "Why can't they just use proper punctuation?!", student: "Did she even read what I actually said?!").
Once I've given a paper that first look, I'll generally know whether something is a A/B, B/C, or should receive a failing grade. Then I go back for a second, more critical look, this time with pen in hand. I'll make sure that all my feedback is somewhat constructive ("What the heck?!" just doesn't go over as well as "I'm not sure what you're trying to say here"), and that I point out both the positive and the negative ("Where is your proof for this?" is taken a lot better when preceded by a "Great idea!").
Then it's time to agonize over the final grade. Should it be a B-? Or a C+? Although the difference is only 3-5%, psychologically, there is a vast chasm between the two. Just like a B+, although only two/three points away from an A-, can bring an A student to tears. I may look back at other papers, to see what I gave them. All just to make sure I stay fair. And then, to make sure I don't lose the second part of my technique out of sight (remember "stay sane"), I make my final decision. (Although I have been known to, before I hand the papers back, go back and cross out the final grade with magic marker, and give the students a revised grade).
So there is no whisper from God, no golden standard, and no "Well, this grade just feels right" hippy-dippy-love-grading. It's a lot of work.
And now you know why we professors hate it when students challenge our grades. Because, in some cases, we're fairly certain we've spent more time agonizing over that grade than the student as on the actual assignment.
Now excuse me, I have seven more papers to grade.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Smells like school spirit
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.
.
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.
.
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.
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