More than a few readers have asked me why I don't post on Division II University English Department gossip. After all, so many blogs are gossip- and/or coworker-driven:
Barista Brat,
WaiterRant,
Wide Lawns and Narrow Minds (before Subservient No More left the country club to go back to school),
Suzi's Blahg, and
Hooters and Other Tales of Woe are all great examples of what stories about one's crazy colleagues or customers can do for a blog. And I know I'm leaving out tons more blogs that make me spit Cherry Coke all over my computer screen as I read them.
But I can't bring myself to gossip about my colleagues. I actually
like them, which is miraculous in itself. And tales of crazy
students are much more entertaining, anyhow.
No, really. I'm a rural Southerner, and I grew up with "Maw-Maw," my gossip-loving paternal grandmother, and her gossip-loving friends. I learned my love of the latest dirt, my passion for a story well told, from these fierce old ladies. (After all, when you hear about
other people's woes, your own aren't that bad, are they?) I delight in hearing about who skipped town after taking their church's entire offering plate proceeds for the month of October, who shot up downtown Boogerville after drinking a case of Mad Dog 20/20 (and straight out of jail, too!), who's knocked up with whose baby, whose wife caught her husband humping which sow in the hog pen, whose brother got fired from his post as deputy sheriff for filching seized drugs. In the late 1970s and early 1980s, my late grandfather (Maw-Maw's husband, Paw-Paw) was tax assessor of Booger County, as well as president of the Booger County Cattlemen's Association. When he wasn't tending his cows and hogs or meeting with other farmers, Paw-Paw was in his office at the Booger County Courthouse, politely doing business with local bigwigs and carefully keeping his dignified ear discreetly tuned for gossip that Maw-Maw would no doubt love to hear when he got home that evening. So I grew up eavesdropping on grown-up conversations on Maw-Maw's cool, dark, fern-laden front porch when she, Paw-Paw, Miz Lela*, and Mr. Harold* thought I was in bed and safely away from adult conversations that might warp a young, impressionable mind. (How was I, at nine years old, supposed to know what "arrested for public sodomy" meant?)
And for a long time, I had jobs I hated, jobs where I listened intently for
any gossip about (and therefore signs of weakness in) my co-workers. When I danced at the Jaguar Lounge, I listened carefully for any whispers of girls doing coke or Ecstasy in the VIP lounge, stealing from their fellow dancers, drug-induced blackouts on the main stage, dick-sucking in the private rooms. (As anyone who has been an exotic dancer will tell you, the ones who suck the most dick usually get away with it because they tip the bouncers and bartenders so well, therefore continuing to make tons of money doing something illegal but simultaneously bringing more money into the club. They walk a thin-but-profitable fine line that can at any time be snapped in two by the local vice squad.) When I was an actress, I always kept my ears open for tales of bad auditions, who was sleeping with which director in exchange for prime roles, and so on. At Small 'Bama Community College, I was always ready to listen to tales of crooked financial aid administrators or old-as-the-hills instructors still teaching with lesson plans last updated during the Eisenhower administration.
But D2U is different. When I came here, I found a group of people who really love teaching—we're a
teaching university, and not so much a research-based one—and who give it their all. I found people who liked me for how much of myself I put into my teaching, and who wanted to see me succeed. And so I found my need to gossip about my co-workers
greatly diminished, which really
was a good thing.
The latest crisis, though, has involved ALL of us in the department in one way or another. When the shit hits the fan, it truly covers us all.
And dear God, it makes me sad.
I noticed in early November that I hadn't seen Professor X* in a long time. Her office is right down the hall from mine, and we have class on the same days; I thought it was weird that I hadn't seen her since mid-September. I asked
Susie* what was going on, but she didn't know anything more than I did—just that Professor X had been sick lately.
The next week, I walked into one of my classrooms where Professor X was supposed to teach a class right before mine. The sign next to the doorway read, "Professor X's class is cancelled today due to illness." No mention of what to read for the next class, or when papers were due...no
nothing. This wasn't at all like Professor X. Something had to be wrong. And it
was.
An e-mail went out from the department higher-ups to the rest of us a few days later (and I paraphrase): "An instructor has been removed from the classroom due to illness. We need a few brave volunteers to take over these classes and help them limp to the finish line. Many of them haven't had an essay returned since mid-September. Students are understandably upset. Please contact Dr. Pepper* if you're willing to stick your neck out and brave the fury for extra pay the last three weeks of the term."
Well, the truck needs new tires, I thought, so I replied to the e-mail. But the wording of the original message kept bothering me. "Has been removed from"—that implies that the instructor didn't go away on his/her own. "Due to illness"—hmmmm.
Indeed, I
was taking over for one of Professor X's classes. My group was more bewildered than anything: was Professor X all right? What were their grades in the class? Would they get credit for having done all this work? Where were their
other two essays? What would happen to their scholarships, since they didn't know what grades they'd be earning? The department higher-ups and I gave them some pretty decent options, including no-penalty W's if they didn't like how their grades were turning up (that is, IF we could locate all their papers), no-penalty I's (incompletes) with up to a year to finish the coursework, and
easy grading from a panel of volunteer graders. (Those of us taking over the courses also have courses of our own to get ready for the end of the term, so help with grading is very good.) The students in my takeover class were pretty understanding. "Sounds fair to me," one fellow piped up from the back of the room after Dr. Pepper* and I finished our explanations. They've been a good bunch ever since.
Most of Professor X's orphaned students, though, are getting
ugly. They believe they all deserve A's for having been deprived of instruction. In the batch of papers I just volunteer-graded, the lowest grade I gave was an 80 (C+/B-). And that was being
very kind to some shitty, poorly-thought-out essays. It's all the volunteers can do to keep them from running
something—the dean, the substitute professors, department admin, the librarian, their grammar books, a greased pig—up a pole. And I guess I can see where the students are coming from. But I can also tell that the current generation of college students thinks it can get something for nothing if it raises hell loud enough and long enough.
I can safely say that only ONE essay out of that batch I volunteer-graded yesterday was an A. I was
beyond kind to those whose essays were so bad they deserved a G or H. I know that the students have been through hell this semester, but they also fail to realize that their professor is a human being, and can have a life disaster, too. They don't consider that when they come in right before a paper is due, telling us how they had to work doubles for three straight weeks, or their baby's been sick, or they got evicted last week. Professors, too, are human and have crises, and students
also have to deal with them the best way they can...which is hopefully with compassion and dignity.
Nobody has said exactly what Professor X's illness is, or where she's in the hospital. It's as if everyone "knows," but "doesn't know" (and I do the irritating "air quotes" for "emphasis"). I'm not going to come out and ask; I'd feel like a traitor doing so. (From what I can surmise, it might be emotional problems. I've had enough of
those to know what dealing with them is like.) I really like Professor X, like working with her, and hope she's able to come back, save face, and continue working at D2U. I feel like the best I can do is to be loyal, take over her class as best I can, and pray for her in the meantime. Professor X's husband, Mr. X, also works at D2U, and it's been very awkward discussing the whole ordeal when we know he might walk by at any time. He's done his job the best way he knows how, even though he's probably confused and embarrassed by what's happened to his wife's classes. I have no idea how to talk to him, how to let him know nobody holds him accountable for whatever it is that's been going on. I just try to be polite and stay out of his way.
On the way home to Small Town the other evening, I stopped at a nearby grocery store to pick up a few things. As I crossed the last item off my list and made my way to the checkout lane, I caught sight of Mr. X walking among the aisles, looking very weary and forlorn. He stared at the rows of cans and bottles, but didn't really seem to be
seeing any of them.
And his left hand was without its wedding band for the first time since I met him and Professor X.
So how this sad story will end is beyond me. But just a few minutes ago, a ladybug—that harbinger of fall who flies north after finishing its summer job eating aphids in South Georgia pecan orchards—just crawled across my desk. I take that as a good-luck sign.
Labels: All Things Professorial, Teaching
