University Shore: Student drama

As I skim through my posts of the last three years, I'm sure you're all convinced that I frequently embellish on my encounters with students. Unfortunately, I don't. I wish I did, and that in reality my students were always on time, well-organized and polite. Everything in here is very real, and I don't think I ever even wrote about the one time I had to call campus security because one particular student got a little too adamant about his/her right to an A.

Today alone (with senior portfolios due yesterday, senior theses due today, and a paper in one of my classes due this morning), I've had two students sob their way into my office, various frantic emails, and I'm sure that I have at least one panicked voice mail on my phone. And the afternoon has barely begun. While in previous years students would blame crowded computer labs or their own poor organization for their failure to turn in their work, this year, technology has swept the number one spot. I've heard about crashed hard drives, stolen flash drives, broken laptops, and faulty midnight tornado drills that left students out in their hallways until four in the morning. Students have pleaded, begged, cried until their noses were red, done the whole shaky-breath-thing and on the whole made me feel like handing out chocolate and tissues. As most of these students are the real deal; hard-working, honest, and genuinely contrite, I'd like to think I've been very lenient. People have received extensions, been consoled, or sent to the chair for a final decision, while I have yet to tell anyone "no". So far, so good.

But each year, there are the stories that would make me laugh if they weren't so infuriating. Allow me to share one such email with you:

"About the paper that's due today. I was involved in a car accident a week ago and im in trying to get my car situation handled in (a town three hours away). I will be back in town by my research methods class so if that's fine can I turn it in then"

Note the various problems with this particular student's email (and I'm not talking about the lack of punctuation). There was a car accident, and yes, those are bad, and would usually serve as a more than acceptable excuse to a late paper. However, in this case, the car accident took place a week ago. The student apparently elected to have his car repaired in the town where the accident took place, and not only that, but s/he elected to pick up said car on the morning my paper was due.
Coincidence?
I think not.

So I told the lovely student that this was not fine, and I would not accept his/her paper. So sad, too bad. I'm anxiously awaiting the reply, which I'm sure is imminent.

What's worse? The end of the semester is only four weeks ago, and you know that means the drama has only just begun. I will keep you posted.

Signatures and stuff

I need everyone to get out a pen and sign their name on a random piece of paper. Seriously. Right now. Just pretend you're signing a bill or something.
I'll wait.

Did we all sign our names?
Good.
Now look at your signature. Can you read your name? First and last? Or does your signature more closely resemble the results of a chicken trying to scratch its way through the paper using a pen? If you answered yes to my first question, my guess is you're probably an American. If, on the other hand, your signature looks like something that could be found on the inside of an Egyptian pyramid, you're probably Dutch.

After years of pondering American signatures, I've yet to figure out why, but the bottom line is that most Americans, when signing their name, sign an at least semi-legible version of their name. Dutch people, on the other hand, will draw two parentheses, scratch a line, dot a few invisible i's, and tell you, "See, that loop right there? That says 'Maassen'. See the 'm'? No? Oh well, I see it."

I remember seeing the very first letter signed by an American. It came from the middle school I was attending, and had been signed by the female principal. Her signature was just gorgeous. The capital 'K' and 'G" looked nothing like the K's and G's I'd learned in the Netherlands. Right then and there, I decided I would try to sign my name like her. Anyone who could sign their name like that had to be totally awesome.

And so I practiced, and practiced. And practiced some more. And succeeded to a certain degree. My capital "J" is an American "J", and there are no odd hieroglyphics in my signature at all. Dutch people always tell me that my signature is so legible. Americans, on the other hand, are not so sure. Yes, one can recognize my first and last name, if one tries, but it doesn't jump out at you. And my middle name is missing altogether, as is my maiden name. You see, many American women I know like to sign their name with every single name they've ever used. Since in my case that would make my signature something like thirty letters long, that was just not an option.

I honestly always thought I had a typical American signature, until, you guessed it, Georgia. No one anywhere has ever said anything about my signature, until I went to renew my driver's license two years ago, and signed my name. The dds lady looked at me, looked at my signature, looked at me again, and said, "You wanna sign like that honey?"
I looked at my signature, "Well, uhm, yes."
"You sure?"
"Uhm, yeah. That is how I sign my name."
"Oh. OK."
"Why? Is something wrong?"
"Oh no. It's just most people write their name out in full."

And that's true. Most people do. Which raises the question with me; what's the point of having a signature if anyone can imitate it? Isn't the point of a signature that it's unique to you? But anyway, I digress.

The reason I wanted to write about signatures today is because I had a true dilemma when it came time to sign my certificate of naturalization. The actual certificate tells you to sign your "true and complete name", which in my humble opinion means you sign every single name on the certificate, which in turn means I wouldn't actually sign the paper, as much as write out my name. Before I possibly ruined a certificate with a $400 replacement value, I decided to ask an immigration officer. She appeared confused by my question, "Why, you just sign your name."
"Yes, of course. But do I sign and include my middle name too, or do I sign with my normal signature?"
"Well." Slight pause and a frown, "You just sign your name"
"But when I sign my name, I don't sign my entire name. It looks more like a chicken scratch."
"Oooh. Well in that case, write out your full name."

So when I came home, what did I do? You guessed it, I practiced signing my full and complete name on a piece of scrap paper. I hadn't done that since I  got married was in 7th grade, but there you have it. I practiced and practiced and practiced. And then took a deep breath and signed my name. And forgot the "e" on the end of my last name.
Oops.

Oh well. At least it's legible.

Teaching TMI

Today I once again learned why it's important to schedule bathroom breaks and eat when I'm hungry. Although I'm fully house-trained, I still seem to struggle with the notion of "going when you need to", and "consuming proper amounts of nutrients", which I really blame on my teaching responsibilities.

To a lot of academics, teaching is more of an afterthought. Even if we're at a teaching institution, and haven't had a 2x2 load in years, the vast majority of academics are researchers at heart. Sure, we'll tell you how much we love teaching in our cover letters, we'll have elaborate teaching philosophies to prove it, and some of us, like me, might actually like standing in front of a classroom, but deep down inside, we love nothing better than to hunker down in our offices with the lights on low, some groovy tunes in the background, a batch of data, and a looming deadline.

However, teaching is still a very real part of the day for most us, including myself. And although we're a completely different breed from people who actively chose a career in education, we do try. Now most of us do fine. The younger (read born after 1970) crowd has actually had to take workshops and classes on  how to teach while in graduate school, and the looming threat of poor student evaluations keeps us non-tenured academics on our toes. Most of the time.

But in spite of our very best efforts, there are just some things that you never really figure out until several years into your teaching career. Things that I'm sure anyone with an education degree learns on day one. And some of them are downright essential, as in, on a par with breathing essential. And what I'm trying to get to is that today I forgot two of those very essential things. It was not nice.

First, bathroom use. The little orphan "Annie" had it right when she told Ms. Hannigan, "When you gotta go, you gotta go". Only she was never a teacher. Because when you're teaching, you can't just go to the bathroom when you want to. You need to learn to go before your class starts. Even if you don't have to go right then and there. And woe betide if you don't; you will suffer. You see, while your students can us the bathroom when they want to, you can't. And no, you can't always schedule a break when you need to go. Some classes are just too short for a break (but long enough to cause you serious anxiety if you don't plan your waterworks so to speak), while sometimes you just have to get through a certain amount of material to stay on schedule, and other times you really don't want to leave all your stuff in a classroom full of bored students. Thankfully, my body has developed some sort of survival-teaching mode, where I tend to forget about any physical discomforts (headaches, fatigue, bathroom desires) when I'm up there, but that doesn't mean it stays gone when class is over. And you try running to the bathroom with a laptop bag, a projector, a bag full of extension cords, your binder, and thirty students papers, while fending off twenty students with questions about something. It's interesting.

Second, food. You need to make sure you take care of any munchies before you go into class, as again, unlike your students, you can't eat during your lecture. It's just not right. Unfortunately, hunger isn't covered by the teaching-survival mode I mentioned above, so if you're hungry, well, you're just out of luck. You'll just be hungry for however long your class is, while watching your students eat their way through breakfast, lunch, or whatever snacks they could get their hands on. Not only is it extremely uncomfortable, you also find yourself using lots and lots of food-related examples which make a lot less sense when students regurgitate them back to you on their next test.

Today, I hit the jackpot. I had to use the bathroom, and I was hungry. It was not good. For all my experience, you'd think I'd have these two basics figured out right now. Perhaps I could make them part of next year's teaching goals "fulfill physical needs before class starts". I wonder what my chair would think about that...

"American Indians were here first"

So this week I think I might have finally forfeited my right to talk about "this" country and its people as completely different from me, my beliefs, behavior, or manner of dress. I'm not sure what this means for the future of this blog, but if nothing else, I thought you all might like to know that this past Wednesday at approximately 2:45pm, I became an American citizen.

And not only did I become an American citizen, I also promised to bear arms against all enemies, both foreign and domestic (you will all be thrilled to know that I first exercised that promise on Friday when I used a paper towel to kill the biggest domestic enemy of all: the cockroach). I gave up loyalty to any foreign princes or potentates (or strange coalitions involving men with bad dye jobs I suppose), and promised to serve the nation under civil direction (although, as husband-dear likes to point out, I'm not sure I'm actually capable of taking direction from anyone but myself, but there you have it).

In case you're expecting a sarcastic-slash-cynical description of the naturalization ceremony, as that is my usual take on life, I hate to disappoint you. For the first time in a long time, Dixiechick was completely taken in by the moment. There was music, a speech from the president, a speech from the director of the USCIS, a documentary about the US, and, of course, the oath. I believe I may have even shed a few tears.

Now, if you'd like to hear a sarcastic-slash-cynical account of the entire bureaucracy surrounding the event, I can definitely supply that. I think that compared to most (former) immigrants, I have had very little to do with the truly Kafka-esque bureaucracy that is the USCIS. Husband-dear and I applied for my green card from an overseas assignment, and the people at the consulate were nothing but nice and helpful. Ever since that first application, we've really had nothing to do with the USCIS, so I never really had anything interesting to share. Fortunately for you, though, I do now.

For one thing, there is the "hurry up and wait" mentality so typical to lots of large government organizations. I was in the USCIS office from 9:15 until 3:30 and I would guess that about an hour of that was spent not waiting. Then there is the "we're not quite sure what's going on here either" attitude, exemplified by the fact that from the time my interview was over until about fifteen minutes before the ceremony, I sat around waiting, without any idea of whether or not I would be participating in the ceremony that afternoon. And no one I asked seemed to know either.  And once they did, husband-dear had about ten minutes to get himself and the kids out of Dave and Buster's and halfway across town for my ceremony.

Now, the interview itself was a breeze. Although I'd brought the equivalent of a small forest in paperwork, no one ever asked to see it, which was almost disappointing. While the lady read through my file, for what seemed to be the very first time, she fired off a series of questions about the possibility of me being a prostitute, pimp, tax evader, illegal gambler, or all four at the same time. We walked through my application question and by question, when it was time for the infamous civics and English test.

For those of your fortunate enough to be born here, immigrants desiring to become Americans actually have to study American civics. The USCIS supplies candidates with a booklet and a CD with 100 questions and answers, and expects you to, during your interview, answer six out of ten questions correctly, as well as write and read a sentence in English. As obsessed as I was with copying all of our tax information for the past century, I wasn't really too worried about this portion of the interview. I'd listened to the CD several times, and the only thing that truly concerned me was that I would remember the answers the kids had come up with to some of the questions, and start laughing. On our way up to the interview, I'd listened to the CD one last time, and the kids had a blast coming up with alternatives. They, among other things, dared me to answer "What is the name of the national anthem" with "She things my tractor's sexy", and to claim that the "US non-Virgin-slash-slutty Islands" were a US territory.

Fortunately, those questions were not on my test (instead I had to name the governor of Georgia, explain the rule of law, name the first US president, and some other safe questions like that). Then it came time for the English portion. I was handed a piece of paper, and asked to read the sentence "The White House is in Washington DC". Fair enough. Then the lady handed me a pen and asked me to write down "American Indians were here first". I kid you not. Not Native Americans. Not "lived in the US before the colonists arrived", not "were the original inhabitants of the US", no, "were here first". Were. Not lived. Were. I almost laughed. But I didn't since, as you know, I really couldn't afford that yet, and instead wrote the sentence down. Don't get me wrong, I understand that it's all about having a basic comprehension of the English language, and that for some immigrants, this portion is quite daunting. I had just expected something a little more profound. Or challenging.

However, I won't complain, I passed. And then almost hugged the lady who interviewed me, but decided not to. And a few hours later, I became one of "them". Or "us", as I should say now. And cheesy as it may sound, I'm kind of proud to finally belong. To no longer feel like an outsider, or a visitor.

But you know the weirdest thing? I still freak out every time I get my wallet out and my green card isn't in it. I think this whole being an American thing might take some getting used to....

Normal

I know the whole "hey, we went on a cruise!" thing is getting old, but a) I promise this will be the very last time I bring it up, and b) you will just love how I manage to whine  throughout the post anyway. And we know that's why you all come here. To read about my complaining, pouting, and just all-around "the glass isn't half full, it's more like 9/10ths empty" misery.

Anyway, I wanted to spend one last post telling you all about what I really liked about the cruise. Besides the kick-a** view, the sunshine, and the awesome excursions. What I really liked best is that I felt normal. Just normal. I wasn't different from anyone on board that ship. Or if I was, it was just as different as everyone else. And I don't think I've felt that normal since we moved to Georgia.

Yes, since June of 2007, I have felt like a sore thumb. And for those of you who think I'm exaggerating, let's run down the list. First, except for Mary, I am the only woman among my acquaintances, who actually holds down a job. Seriously. Of the twenty or so women I socialize with, I am the only one who is gainfully employed. I don't mean to underestimate the pressures of homeschooling or childrearing, but the bottom line is that I am the only who goes to the dry cleaner for things other than their husband's blues. I am the only who dresses up during the week, and down on the weekend. Once again, except for Mary, I'm the only one who complains about bosses, co-workers, and budget cuts.
Second, I'm not a die-hard conservative, and I do not know the bible back to front either. Do I really need to tell you I'm the only one?
And finally, the baby thing. Of course, the baby thing. Because, again, except for Mary (and thank God for Mary), I am possibly the only woman in the entire town who does not tote around a diaper bag and/or snacks, wet wipes, or the latest Dora toy.

Don't get me wrong; I do anything but revel in this. You all know I would love to have a baby. I don't think we need to go there. I wish I was OK with just staying at home, and dang, if only I could learn to love Glenn Beck/Jerry Falwell/Mike Huckabee, I would fit in so much better around here. I'm serious. I don't like being different. I just want to fit in.

But on the cruise, that's exactly what I did. Our dinner companions were from Washington state and New Jersey, and thought I was from another planet when I mentioned how our county is dry on Sunday. Both women had serious careers, and no one wanted to pray before dinner. Everyone had traveled all over the world, and not while TDY either. There were people with kids on the ship, but there were plenty of people without them too. And the ones who had brought their kids didn't talk about them all day long either. There were female officers with more responsibility than I can ever imagine, and no one asked me where "Holland" was, or if that was part of Denmark or somehow related to Amsterdam.

So, yes, I felt normal. And it was awesome. As I told husband-dear on our last night on our trip, it took me this long to realize that just because I'm different, doesn't mean it's me. I'm not weird. Or at least, not abnormally weird. Yes, I'm different than almost everyone at home, but it's not me.

Not that that realization helps me fix anything. But at least now we know that if the whole "I'm different" thing gets too much, all we need to do is take a cruise. Easy as pie. 

What's in a name...

...technically, nothing. As we all know, a rose by any other name would smell just as sweet, bla bla, bla. Obviously, Shakespeare never had to debate the whole name-changing debacle when he got married, or else that famous line might have read something like, "A rose by any other name will probably not smell just as sweet, as the use of a different name will most likely set us up for a completely different nasal experience. We may, in fact, mistakenly assume it for another flower, or insist that it's now a tree."

I never had a problem explaining the "Yes, Hi! I'm Mrs. Married, but at work, I'd like to be Dr. Maiden", until, well, you guessed it. Until I moved here. Here apparently being the land that is still stuck in the 1950s, also known as rural Georgia. I had never considered the apparently incredible complications of adopting my husband's name when we got married, but maintaining my maiden name at work, until my arrival in the land of Dixie, mainly because, well, there never were any complications.

But when I arrived at my current workplace, you'd have thought I had just proposed to alter the laws of gravity, the way various bosses and managers stared and complained when I insisted on being called "Dr. Maiden". I smiled a lot, nodded, but persisted. And won. Well, sort of, as some databases have me listed as Dr. Maiden Name, while others have opted for the "we're not quite sure about this, but OK" option of Dr. Maiden Name-Married Name, and the IT department opted to just stick with "Mrs. Maiden name", no matter what I told them.

After three years of this mess, I decided I was tired of fighting the battle, and constantly explaining myself. I was going to just go with the flow and hyphenate my last name. So when I finally got around to putting in my citizenship application a few months ago, I indicated that I wanted to change my last name to Maiden Name-Married Name. And no, I wasn't giving in, thankyouverymuch, I was merely joining the crowd of American feminists who had also opted to hyphenate their last names. In fact, hyphenating my last name, I told myself, would be even more of a kick in the face of establishment. You see, people have mistaken my, very international, maiden name for my married name (going as far as to refer to husband-dear as Mr. Maiden name), but by hyphenating, I was making it very clear I was a truly independent woman. You know, someone's who's this far from burning her bra and ceasing all shaving activities altogether.

But over the past few weeks, I've started thinking. And you know what? I really don't like the idea of hyphenating. At all. Sorry to all of you who do hyphenate. I think your last names are awesome, and you rock. But I'm not sure if it's for me. First of all, it makes my last name something like eighteen characters long. Eighteen characters people. Not only is that ridiculously long, but it will mean that on every single reservation, the last few letters of my married name will get cut off. I don't see that facilitating my daily existence any. Second, there is the pesky little problem that most computer systems, especially those used by airlines, still don't recognize the hyphen, which means your beautifully hyphenated last name into a weird amalgam of two names. Not to mention the battle you will then be fighting to check in online, check in using a kiosk, or check in at all (trust me, if the airline employee is dim enough, it is possible). And third, I don't like the sound of my two last names strung together. I just don't. Sorry.

So, guess what? I'm not hyphenating. I'm not changing my last name. I am going to keep my legal last name as my married name, and work under my married name. And yes, that's going to keep on sucking. But I'm OK with that. I will keep fighting the battle, and no, I don't really care how annoying that is. I am Mrs. Married name and Dr. Maiden name, and anyone who can't handle that can kiss my maiden/married hiney.

There.

Sapphires and fires

"tsapphire, tsapphire, an I can poot it ow-d"

My brother likes discovering new artists. When he finds someone he really likes, he usually sends me a copy of their CD for Christmas or my birthday. Besides being grateful for any gift (you know, horse, mouth, and all that), I generally really do appreciate this, as it keeps me informed of what's "hot" in Holland, gives me something besides NPR to listen to on my way to work, and, at times, helps me find artists I, or husband-dear, really like. The only down side I can think of is that whenever he sends me a CD I absolutely love, I can't download the music on my IPod, because the Dutch music industry is so completely neurotically obsessed with the prevention of illegal downloads that every Dutch CD has some sort of technological doohicky on it that doesn't allow you to copy its contents to your computer. Not very helpful when you live overseas, where you can't access Dutch Itunes, and your American Itunes has no idea who "Trijntje Oosterhuis" or "Acda en de Munnink" are.

Anyway, this past Christmas, he sent me a CD by a Dutch artist. Who sings in English. I can't recall her name right now, but it was something obviously made up, like Lois Lane, or Lane Kim, or Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds. And immediately, I knew. This is someone from a tiny little town somewhere in Holland, who's always dreamed of becoming a famous American performer. And who wants nothing more than to sound like an American singer. But who, in reality, well, just doesn't.

And in case you think I'm being really snooty right now - the quote at the top of my blog? That's her. I spend half an hour this morning wondering what the heck she was singing about (sapphires? pain? a woman named Ann?), when I finally realized she's trying to say, "It's a fire, it's a fire, and I can't put it out".

You're welcome.

It went on like this throughout every song on the CD. Every gerund (wanting, waiting, loving, pouring), lost its "g", which, unless you want to sound like Carrie Underwood or Martina McBride (not the sound she was going for, trust me), is just odd. She didn't seem to care much for "t's" either, as these disappeared off the ends of words as well. "You" was consistently turned into "ya", which might work in hip hop, but not in the soul-blues sound she was aiming for, while her "can'ts" sounded more like "cans", and her "and's" sounded like "Anns".

Now I realize that Americans like to drawl and slur their words together. They do. I do. But the slurring is a lot more elusive than you might think. We don't just randomly slur stuff together, there is actually something method to the madness. Our "can't", no matter how country you are, definitely sounds different from our "can" (it's in the sound of the "a" mostly), while "you" is not always turned into "ya", and, no we don't always drop all our g's. Or t's. Granted, "What do you want for dinner", might sound more like "whatchawan' for dinner", but when we sing Leonard Cohen's Hallelujah, we don't end every sentence with "ya" instead of "you".

I am also well aware that poking fun at someone because of their accent is not cool. And, even though it might seem that way, it's not what I'm trying to do. Honestly. When I speak German, I have the worst Dutch accent, when I speak French, people think I'm Flemish, while, for some very odd reason, I sound really American when I attempt to speak Spanish. And I don't like it when people poke fun at me either, thank you very much. So, non-native speakers, I'm not bashing you. Really. In fact, I admire your ability to speak multiple languages, as most Americans don't get much beyond "tres enchiladas, por favor".

What I am saying is that if you want to sound like a native, you can't fake it, and you need to either do it right or leave it alone. It's like trying to sound southern when you're not. It sounds affected and unnatural. And very strange to native speakers.

So, shoutout to all Dutch performers: take voice lessons. From a native speaker. And stop dropping your freaking consonants.

Jus' Sayin'