You Gave Yourself a Bad Grade: EPIC FAIL Week #12

Shot in the ass,
And you're to blame
Darlin', you gave yourself
A bad grade.

Post title and parody, courtesy of my sister—what popular '80s song is this from?

*********

A student from my afternoon class dropped by a few minutes ago, out of breath from running to my office from a campus computer lab. I like this student a lot, but I've watched her painful, preventable descent into EPIC FAIL territory the last few weeks. As of Monday at 3pm, she had an intro and a conclusion for her research paper, but nothing in the middle, and not even a strong, clear thesis statement. Yeah. It's ugly.

"Hi, Professor Kitty," she said as she flopped down in the extra chair.

"Hey there! How can I help you?"

"Well," she began, "I figured that there was no harm in asking—"

I sensed what was coming next. "Yes?"

"Well, I need to know if there's any way I could turn in my paper maybe tomorrow, or the next day. I know how you feel about late papers, but I'll take the hit, you know, ten points off, 20 points off—"

"Mmmmmmm..." How was I going to say this? "No."

"Really?!?"

I sighed. "Well, you'll remember from the syllabus how I feel about late papers, and y'all have known about the research paper and portfolio deadline since January 7," I told her. "I'm going to start grading these things tonight, and I can't be waiting around on extra students' papers. Besides, everyone else has turned theirs in on time. Two o'clock today is the deadline."

She got up to leave. "Well, okay. Thanks for your help."

"No problem. See you later."

Yeah. I'll see her later. In a later section of "Intro to Lit."

Questions You Should NEVER Ask a College Professor

Yesterday was the last day of Spring Semester, and the halls of the English Building are quiet today. I'm catching up on e-mails, tying up loose ends, waiting for this afternoon's departmental meeting—and thinking a little about those valuable first days of class.

We've all heard the old saw from teachers: "There's no such thing as a dumb question." I used to believe this and say it to my students all the time, but I stopped last year—because I realized that, yes, there IS such a thing as a dumb question. Students ask them all the time, and I get tired of hearing them. The answers to them should be obvious.

So, beginning Summer Term, I'm putting together a PowerPoint slideshow to go with my brief lecture entitled, "Questions You Should NEVER Ask a College Professor." Below are a few I've come up with so far, and a little snarky commentary following each one (the replies I want to give offending students).

Can you suggest any other dumb questions? I'll add them to the post and give you credit for your help. Or a kitteh. Hey, whatever works.

--I was absent [last class day]. Did I miss anything?
No. When we realized you weren't here, we just sat around with our thumbs poked up our noses.

--Is this for a grade?
No, it's for my own good health. Now get away from me.
(This HAS to be the most high-schoolish question on the planet.)

--Why is there so much writing in this class?!?
It's an ENGLISH CLASS! Go fucking figure!

--We have to turn in a reader's response every day?
You don't HAVE to. But I highly recommend doing so if you want to pass this course.

--This [assignment] counts for 5% of our grade—that's only 5 points of 100. Will it hurt if we just don't do it?
No, but my stapler upside your head for being so petty might sting just a bit. (courtesy of Mile High Pixie)
Seriously—if you're on the borderline between a C- and a D+, you'd damn well better do every bit of work possible.

FROM E&P READERS, with their own snarky comments included:
Tony at Dine in or Take Out adds:
--"What are we doing today?"
Let's see, instead of telling the entire assembled class, I'll go over the lesson plan with each individual before class even starts. Not sure this fits a college class, but it does drive me crazy. I usually tell them we are going to sing.

Robin from Random Observations #37 suggests:
--Why do I have to go to the webpage when the Google search page gives me the information/picture?
Duh...I don't know...go ahead and put that picture of Winston Churchill in your PowerPoint and label it "Adolf Hitler."

Barb adds:
--The two I hate are, before the semester starts, the "I won't be there on the first day - are you going to cover anything important?"
No, the first day I just do my clown impression, instead of going over the syllabus, assignments, and course policies!
And "When is the midterm/paper due date/final exam?" I am not a walking calendar. With three classes with different dates for all of these things, I don't have that info memorized. It is on the syllabus, in bold, and you should have a printed copy of it. If you've lost the printed copy, it is also on Blackboard, under "syllabus" and in "course documents."

From CrankyProf—sadly, these contain none of her legendary salty invective:
--Do we have to buy the books?
--Do we have to buy all of them?
--I have a 63.36589 overall in your class....can I still get at least a B?
--Do you really mean it when you say you don't accept late papers?

And kindly check the Comments section for Katie L.'s link to Tom Wayman's (hilarious and so true!) poem "Did I Miss Anything?"

Student Essay Insanity #32!

This edition of Student Essay Insanity (damn, I should have that trademarked) has just two entries: one awful, one awesome. As always, they're actual essays by actual students. And no, I am not shitting you on either of these.

AWFUL
This essay prompt is taken from Making Literature Matter by John Schilb and John Clifford:
Write an essay that compares the relationship between Pete and Donald in Tobias Wolff's “The Rich Brother” to the one between Sonny and his brother in in James Baldwin's “Sonny’s Blues.” Be sure to comment on similarities and differences.
There are two different kinds of bonds that exist between brothers from different backgrounds.
[deep sigh]

AWESOME
From the first paragraph of an in-progress student research paper that examines how urban legends get started, why they persist, and how they find their way into American TV and film:
Nevertheless, Americans do not need a solid source of information; it is as if we are programmed to believe the unbelievable.
I think that can apply to a lot of things. Politics, for example.

KittehWatch: Day 23

Stripe's kittehs were born three weeks ago yesterday!

I went out to check on Mama and kittens this morning, and found Little Tabby Hell-Raiser Kitteh sitting up and looking at me from the basket! She's been trying to sit up and walk for a few days, and it seems like she's getting the hang of it. The other three kittens are lagging behind her in the motor coordination department.

I fed Stripe a can of Special Kitty Tuna Delight and pet her while she ate. Hell-Raiser Kitteh was wondering where Mama had gone, but the other kittehs began wrestling.

Yes, little kitteh. Sum born gud / sum born evil.

Hell-Raiser decided she really wanted to get out, but she couldn't quiiiite get over the edge of the basket. I'm not sure why she couldn't, as when I checked on the babies late last night, Hell-Raiser was out in the floor, dragging herself after Stripe.

You'll also note that Little Part-Siamese Kitteh has also managed to partially stand up!

This kitteh might really be evil. Look at that expression!

I picked up Stripe and set her in my lap for a few minutes (yes, that's my robe). She purred and purred while I petted her. Every mom needs a break, and a massage, now and then.

After Stripe got down, I picked up Little Tabby Hell-Raiser Kitteh and played with her for a few minutes. Ohhh, our evil expression has now turned cute!

Hey, wait—ohh, squirmy kitty! Don't cry! Um gots you!

With all the tiny squeals, Mama had to check on her baby. "Whrrt? Whrrrt?" Stripe asked in her best mama cat's purr-meow. I figured it was time to put up Hell-Raiser and stop worrying her mama.

Stripe got back in the basket right after I set her little girl back down, and proceeded to nurse. And I heard the tiniest of purrs coming from each kitten as they nursed!

Stripe is a proud and happy mama.

Required Listening List, or, Hey, I'm Just Getting Started!

All right, folks—I've been working on my country music class's required listening list for a couple days, and it's just a rough draft. I'm going to go through it when I'm done (this is about half of the list), and weed out the songs that I don't think students really need to hear for the class. And I will also reply to your comments on the tech help post. I appreciate your filling me in on the intricacies of using popular songs in a college course.

Here they are, in no particular order.

• Gretchen Wilson: “Redneck Woman,” “All Jacked Up”
• Hank Williams, Sr.: “Hey, Good Lookin’,” “Your Cheatin’ Heart,” “Jambalaya (On the Bayou),” “I Saw the Light,” “I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry”
• The Carter Family: “Keep on the Sunny Side,” “Worried Man Blues”
• Kitty Wells: “It Wasn’t God Who Made Honky-Tonk Angels”
• Patsy Cline: “I Fall to Pieces,” “Walkin’ after Midnight,” “Crazy” (written by Willie Nelson!)
• Louvin Brothers: ??????
• Bill Monroe: “Uncle Pen,” “Mule Skinner Blues,” “Blue Moon of Kentucky”
• Flatt & Scruggs: “Foggy Mountain Breakdown”
• Gene Autry: “Back in the Saddle Again”
• Jimmy Rodgers: “Blue Yodel (T for Texas),” “In the Jailhouse Now,” “TB Blues”
• Ernest Tubb: ??????
• Johnny Cash: “I Walk the Line,” “Folsom Prison Blues” (both studio version and live at Folsom Prison” (and what else? So many Cash songs to choose from...)
• Tennessee Ernie Ford: “Sixteen Tons”
• Kris Kristofferson: “Help Me Make It Through the Night,” “Sunday Morning Coming Down,” “Me and Bobby McGee”
• George Jones: “He Stopped Loving Her Today”
• Waylon Jennings: “Mamas, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys" (with Willie Nelson), “Only Daddy That’ll Walk the Line”
• Merle Haggard: "Okie from Muscogee," "The Fightin' Side of Me," "Today I Started Lovin' You Again," "Workin' Man Blues," "I Think I'll Just Sit Here and Drink"
• Loretta Lynn: “Don’t Come Home A-Drinkin’ (With Lovin’ On Your Mind),” “You Ain’t Woman Enough,” “The Pill,” “Rated X,” “Coal Miner’s Daughter,” “Your Squaw is On the Warpath”
• Tammy Wynette: “D-I-V-O-R-C-E,” “Stand by Your Man”
• Dolly Parton: “Coat of Many Colors,” “Jolene,” “Dumb Blonde,” “I Will Always Love You,” “9 to 5”
• Willie Nelson: “Mamas, Don’t Let Your…” (with Waylon Jennings), “Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain,” “Beer for My Horses” (with Toby Keith)
• Buck Owens: “Act Naturally,” “Streets of Bakersfield” (with Dwight Yoakam)
• ELVIS!!!: “Heartbreak Hotel,” “Hound Dog,” “Jailhouse Rock,” “In the Ghetto,” “Suspicious Minds,” “A Little Less Conversation” (2004 remix?)
• Hank Snow: “I’m Movin’ On”
• George Strait: “Amarillo by Morning,” “All My Ex’s Live in Texas,” “Love without End, Amen”

This is just my list so far; I think I have about 15-20 more artists to discuss. Do you folks have any suggestions?

The Wages of Ig'nance is FAIL: EPIC FAIL Week #11

For starters, in this 11th installment of EPIC FAIL Week, let me say that it is currently 11:58am, and of the ten students who signed up for conferences with me today, just one has shown up.

It's true what my sister says: "The wages of ig'nance** is FAIL." Two students in my afternoon class are not going to get out of Comp alive. It's really disappointing, seeing as to how they're both very bright students with a lot of potential—but it's the truth. I don't even have to look at the grade book to know they're going to get D's or F's.
**[Ig'nance: Southern pronunciation of "ignorance;" implying excessive stupidity, bone-headedness, or apathy above and beyond the call of everyday ignorance.]

SAD STORY #1
Peter* is a transfer student from Swanky Private University (in the northeast). He's a junior, technically, and was majoring in Film Studies before financial problems forced him to move down to Georgia, where his mother lives with her second husband. When Peter* began attending Division II University, he encountered the dumbest rule ever thought up by the Georgia Board of Regents (well, other than the Regents' Exam)—the rule that states that no transfer student may substitute higher-division English courses for the State of Georgia's Comp I/II (1000-level) English classes. So Peter*, who made A's in 2000- and 3000-level English classes at Swanky Private University, had to sign up for my Comp class. And he was bitter about it; he told me so the first few days of class. Who could blame him? But I advised him to suck it up, and earn an A since he'd already had so much experience with literature and film essays.

But Peter* has not turned in any of the required essays. Nor has he met with me for more than three minutes about his research paper. He is not even registered in our online peer-review/portfolio website, which the entire class did during the first week of the semester; not even the first daily reader-response. And he honestly expects to get out of this class with a passing grade.

SAD STORY #2
Bruce* is a theatre major—I've seen him in a Theatre Department show, and have admired his technical work on quite a few other D2U and local productions. He writes well, too, and earned a high grade on the first essay. I had a lot of hope for him.

Sadly, Bruce's* attendance has been spotty. He failed to turn in the second essay; I scoured our class portfolio site for his work, and saw that, like Peter*, he too had failed to even register and post his work. Not a good sign at all. I currently have a very sloppily done second draft of his research paper sitting on my desk.

As I was taking roll the day after Midterm, I noticed Bruce's empty seat; he was missing his fifth day (for Mon-Wed-Fri classes, I allow five absences). This meant that, in order to have even a snowball's chance in hell at passing my class, he'd have to attend EVERY DAY, in sickness and in health, in snow and rain, seven miles uphill both ways and barefoot, for the next two months. I've seen a few students do it, but most screw up and get WF'ed soon after.

Later that day, I got an e-mail marked "urgent" from Bruce.* And we ALL know how "urgent" e-mails go:

Dear Prof. Kitty:
I realize that I have missed my very last allowed class day as of today. I am a senior and need this one core class to graduate on time in May. I realize that my college degree is now in your hands. Sincerely yours, Bruce*

Ummm, NO. Your degree is in your hands, and always has been.

An online dilemma

Quick note: Thank you again for all your help on yesterday's post on uploading songs to WebCT. I'll be posting my "required listening" songs this evening tomorrow.

One of my online Tiny Technical College students e-mailed me yesterday to ask if she could re-take the first test of the quarter, as it had "messed up" on her while she was taking it. I looked in BlackBoard, and to my not-so-total surprise, my gradebook showed that the test had indeed been completed, and was ready to grade. (If technical problems pop up during a test, BB shows a small lock symbol where the test grade should be.)

I e-mailed this student back and let her know that according to BlackBoard, she'd already taken the test; what was the deal? Her reply: she didn't yet have her textbook, so she couldn't study, and simply went through the test and did the best she could.

Many TTC students are low-income, and some have to wait a week or so into the new term before they can buy their books. (The HOPE scholarship pays only a fraction of book expenses.) Some are never able to buy the books and either borrow a classmate's, or go through the whole quarter without books and muddle along in the class as best they can. I'm simply not sure about this one. Sure, she needed to have the book on the first day of classes, but if she couldn't afford it, then that's another story.

What would you do?

UPDATE, Thu 24 April: I looked back in my electronic gradebook (built into BlackBoard), and graded the test that the student wanted to take again. She made a 92. WTF?

Some tech help, please.

This summer, I'm teaching a special-topics course on country music. The subject matter is such that I have to use technology—I'll be scanning a lot of reading material out of books and into Microsoft Word or Adobe Reader files, and I have a pretty long "required listening" list (about 40 songs). These materials will be posted in WebCT, of course, so students can access them. I'm not worried at all about the .pdf's and/or Word files; those are a cinch.

Suddenly, I find myself without any idea how to get the required songs into the class website (instructors can upload audio files for classes with WebCT). I have only a few of these songs downloaded in my computer, so it would cost me a lot of money to buy all the CDs in question. So that's my dilemma.

Someone suggested using LimeWire, the popular new file-sharing program, but I'm not comfortable with other people being able to access all my computer's files. Another person suggested biting the bullet and buying a bunch of songs from iTunes. I guess that might be a good investment, since I'll probably teach this class again next summer.

Any suggestions or helpful tips? I'd appreciate any advice you could send my way.

Maybe My Procrastination Isn't So Bad: EPIC FAIL Week #10

Two weeks ago, Tiny Technical College began its spring quarter. I always like the first few weeks of classes at TTC, as my online students are at their most enthusiastic. However, I just got the following e-mail from one of the aforementioned online students:

Hi again Ms Kitttay I just looked over the syllabus for the assignments week by week I'm gonna need a little help I dont know how to go about submitting my work, it seems as if I have missed the first two week of class, is there anyway I can get this made up by the end of this week and I also noticed we were suppose to submit a test by last night April 20, but I dont know where to find the test, this is my first time taking online classes could you please help Thanks [Student Name]

Two words: Dumb. Ass.

Suddenly, I feel a whole lot better about my own EPIC FAIL from earlier today.

Face the Facts: EPIC FAIL Week #9

This installment of EPIC FAIL Week brought to you by Procrastinators Anonymous.

Two-and-a-half weeks ago, my students turned in their final essay of the semester. We went through three drafts of it, working both in class with Writing Center tutors and in individual conferences in my office, and the students turned in the best versions of the paper that they could muster.

And I cannot make myself face grading these papers. I cannot. They are killing me.

I cleaned my bathroom—goodbye to soap scum. I did a dozen of loads of laundry—I have plenty of clean undies now. I vacuumed most of the house—goodbye, stubborn cat hair. I even cleaned the kitchen a little. And checked on Stripe and the babies. And spent quality time with the rest of my cats.

I get plenty of other things done on time, or even early. So why not grading essays?

Am I a perfectionist, afraid to even start because I fear not doing it perfectly? Am I not cut out to be an instructor? Is it time for me to find another line of work? Does anyone else hate grading papers as much as I do? Am I a workaholic and just not aware of it? Oh, who knows.

(On another note, I am so happy that my students filled out their Instructor Evaluation forms three weeks ago.)

All in all, I feel as if I'm EPIC FAIL-ing right along with my students. And I can't seem to get past it. Oh, I'll get them done eventually. I just wish I didn't dread them so very much...wish I could manage a way to find the task of grading that much less arduous.

This is probably familiar to most of you.

It's Sunday afternoon, and I've done just about all the laundry I can do. The bed linens have been stripped off, washed, and are now in the dryer. And, of course, there are kitties—Davy and Hobo Kitty—taking up this "new" bed.

Oh, wait—papers. And a lapboard.

And a trusty red Pilot V5 pen.

Surely, there must be something else I forgot to put in the wash.

KittehWatch: Day 15

Although this is the 15th day of KittehWatch, the kittens are two weeks old (14 days) today. And they went for their third vet visit this morning...and everybody got some medicine! Even Mama!


We arrived at the walk-in clinic at 10am, when they open, and there was already a substantial line in front of us. So Stripe fed the kittehs again. And we waited.

And Little Tabby Hell-Raiser Kitteh rambled and rambled over Mama's side, meowing her tiny head off. And we waited.

But she got settled, and Stripe continued feeding the kittehs. And we waited some more.

And we waited even longer.

My favorite thing about this photo is the complete and utter boredom on Stripe's face.

We'd been waiting for about 45 minutes when the kittehs got bored and decided to root around in the old towel lining the bottom of the cage. And I figured I'd get some up-close-and-cute baby pictures. But WHOA! A paw in my camera lens!!!

Stripe wasn't having any of this paparazzi shit around her babies. "Get that thing outta heah!" Cat, who do you think you are? You're FAMOUS! On E&P, for CRYIN' OUT LOUD! Whaddya expect?!?

Stripe's paw was still on my hand as I reached into the carrier to pet Little Tabby Hell-Raiser Kitteh. "Cut it out, lady! Cut! it! OUT!"

But everybody's a get. Especially cute two-week-old kitties who barely have their eyes open.

The vet visit went really well—Little Black Kitteh's eye and belly-button abscesses are completely cleared up, as are the other kittens' belly-button infections. Happily for kittens, this means no more nasty medicine from Miss Kitty! Well, for a while, anyway. I had Dr. Amanda* de-worm all four kittens and Stripe. None of them were very happy about it. But I was happy that they all had a clean bill of health.

All that having medicine shoved down our throats was very tiring. And baby kitties were sacked out before I even got the truck out of the parking lot.

Ur end ov semezter: gives me it

Thanks to the LOLcats for today's post title.

The end of Spring Semester is upon us, and it couldn't come at a better time. Well, okay, three weeks ago would've been nice, but I'm just happy to see it's shown up at all. April 28 is the official last day of classes. My students' research papers and portfolios are due April 30 by 2pm. After that, I pack everything up and go home to grade.

Or maybe not. Maybe I'll leave all that crap in my office, and go home to relax. And then come back to the office to grade. I know not much grading's going to get done as long as I have sweet baby kitties around.

I owe you folks more than a few teaching-related posts. Some have asked about rating essays for standardized tests and scholarship contests; quite a few have asked about intensive peer review, writing across the curriculum (WAC), and the portfolio method of assessment. Oh, and rubrics, too. I'm on the Freshman Comp Committee at D2U, and we're currently struggling 1) to implement a rubric that all first-year comp instructors will use, 2) perhaps putting in place a department-wide portfolio assessment method (which will get the most resistance with 1101/1102 teachers), and 3) figuring out how to get rid of the "13th grade" instructors and recruit better ones while avoiding having to cancel any sections of Comp I and II. So we have a lot on our plates as the semester winds down.

As an aside: I was finally invited to travel to Louisville, Kentucky, in June to grade the AP English Literature Exam. The College Board pays for all graders' expenses—plane tickets/gas money, hotel, meals—and each person still makes about $1,600 for the week (June 5-11). Alas, I've already signed my Summer Term contract for D2U; classes begin June 9. [sigh] Maybe next year. [pout]

I owe, I owe, I owe you people posts, and I'll get right on it. Oh, and tune in tomorrow for new kitteh pictures—Stripe and all the bebehs are due at the vet at 9:45am!

Student Essay Insanity #31!

Indeed, I've posted a lot of Student Essay Insanity on E&P lately, but that's to make up for all these weeks I missed putting it up. Unfortunately, grading for the Regents' Exam is over, and these are just about the last of the boo-boos I collected. I have only a few more, plus some general complaining about how students respond to certain essay prompts, and those will be up before long.

The prompt is in bold, the funny/bad/poorly-thought-out/stupid excerpt in plain text, and my comments (if any) below them in italics. And, I swear to you on a stack of A Writer's Reference, these are from actual essays by actual students. Really. Neither I nor the late Diana Hacker would shit you about that.

**********

How does your public image differ from your private self?
In public places I am cautious. I keep a constant watch for trouble because I don’t want anything unexpected to happen. I like to be in control of my life and if someone pulls a gun and shoots me then I am no longer in control.
Dude—if anybody pulls a gun on you, there ain't a damn thing you can do about it.

Should people accept it as their duty to take care of their aging parents? Discuss.
1st paragraph: Duty is the ability to carry out an order without hesitation. People all over the world take personal strife to perform such duties as going to work, taking care of children, and to have a home to live in. Without parents though, our creation would only be an imaginary image. Parents were there to see out first walk and the first day of school. People should accept it as their duty to take care of their aging parents on the basis they brought you life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.
I thought I'd go comatose before finishing this one.

Why did you choose the profession for which you are preparing? Explain.
My career choice is to become a future pediatrician.
Always future, never present.

If you were an employer, under what circumstances would you fire an employee?
In order for someone to work for me, they must follow three things, their job description, they need to be making me more money than I am paying them, and finally they would have to follow company policies. (emphasis mine)
College Republicans invade Georgia's Regents' Exam with NO concept of parallelism: the story at 11.

(Different essay) If you were an employer, under what circumstances would you fire an employee?
If I was an employer of a restaurant, and my cock did not know how to cook well. Then that is grounds for termination.
Ummmm...yeah.

And although this MSNBC.com article blooper isn't an example of student writing, I had to include it anyway:
Authorities said they have not yet located the teenage mother who's call for help triggered the raid at the ranch.
[deep sigh]

KittehWatch: Day 13

That's right! Stripe's kittens are 13 days old, and they've almost tripled in size from their teensy newborn-ness. Precious!

Stripe and the four babies are doing well. I'm still dosing three of the four kittens with antibiotic twice a day; the little black kitten may need another vet visit soon, as her abscessed eye veers between almost-healed and almost-yucky every 24 hours or so. And speaking of eyes, almost everybody has their eyes open! HOORAY! I don't think they're quite ready for bright light, as Stripe arranges them in the kitty-nest so they all nurse under the darkness of the towel "roof" stretched across it.

Moo is almost ready to come back out into the world of the Happy Kitten Cottage's yard. Her stitches are 99% healed up, so I'll probably be letting her back out this weekend—and this time, with a collar, ID tag, and rabies tag so people know she's someone's cat.

I promise more sweet-as-pie bebeh-kitteh pictures as soon as their little eyes get adjusted. The adorableness is unbelieveable. And thanks again to all of you for your thoughts, prayers, and kind words.

Generation WTF: EPIC FAIL Week #8

Two weeks left in the semester—praise the LAWD! And you know what that means. It's EPIC FAIL time, a time when we watch students crash and burn, abdicate any responsibility for their own actions, and generally screw up their GPAs. Stay tuned, as EPIC FAIL Week will run now through May 7, 2008.

**********

It seems as if every generation has a (mass media-assigned) nickname. People my parents' age are called the Baby Boom Generation; the generation who are now in their late 60s to mid-70s are called The Silent Generation. My grandparents, born in the 1910s and '20s, are part of the World War II/Great Depression Generation, or, as Tom Brokaw so kindly calls them, The Greatest Generation. People my age—born from the early 1960s to mid-1970s—are called Generation X. The kids six or seven years younger? They're Generation Y. (Y? As in "Y the hell are we here?" Smoke another bowl, Skippy; I'll get back to ya later.)

But these children—and I do mean children, because that's what they are, overgrown kiddies lollygagging around on a college campus with much bigger, more expensive toys than their grade-school counterparts—oh, boy. They're something different. The students I have now were born in the mid-1980s through the early 1990s, and they came of age around the turn of the 21st century. "Millenials," "the Millenial Generation," all the big networks call them. But that's rather generous of the talking heads.

I call these young people Generation WTF. No, seriously. Generation What the Fuck?

It's partially a back-fisted tribute to their constant instant messaging and 24/7 connection to technology. (Too bad they have no clue how to really use it.) But it's mostly because, almost every day, one of them will do something that makes me wonder, "What the FUCK?!?"

To wit:

Jeannie*, a young woman in my afternoon literature class, is a first-year student. She went to a decent high school, is fairly intelligent, and attends Division II University courtesy of the HOPE Scholarship, which pays her tuition. (Her parents pay for her on-campus dorm room and meal plan.) She shows up on time for class every day, pays attention, and occasionally contributes to our discussions.

But Jeannie* has turned in NOTHING for the entire semester. NOTHING. Not even one reader-response assignment (due every day, and posted online in our class discussion board). Not even one first draft or mid-process draft—she sits silent or IM-ing in every peer review group with her classmates, and the Writing Center staffer who's volunteered to help my classes, with no explanation or apology for not having her draft. Not even one final draft of a paper. And last week, when I had individual conferences with students to discuss their research-paper progress, Jeannie* actually signed up for an appointment—a fellow prof and I made a bet whether she'd actually show.

I won five bucks.

But...I mean...why do this? Why sit in a class for 16 weeks and not turn in the work? Why bother showing up on time and paying attention if you don't do anything? Wouldn't it be easier to drop the class, maybe stay home and take a nap during that time?

As some of you may know, the HOPE Scholarship has been a boon to so many Georgia college students. It paid my sister's tuition for four years at Georgia Tech, as well as my senior year at the University of Georgia. The catch? Students must keep a 3.0 GPA to keep receiving the scholarship. Sounds easy, but as we all know, keeping a B average in college is one hell of a task. (Pixie and I managed to keep our GPAs pretty high, but it was very, very hard to do.)

I don't go after students when they fail to turn in an assignment; if I wanted to do that, I'd be teaching high school. And my policies are spelled out pretty clearly on all my syllabi:

NO LATE PAPERS, NO MAKE-UP WORK
I do not accept late work—period. Start early on your assignments. You never know when something unfortunate might happen.

IT SHOULD BE A NO-BRAINER, BUT…
The only way to pass this class is to do all the work and turn it in to me. If you do not do or turn in all of your work, your grade will suffer. Do not fall behind! If you’ve rarely attended class or have failed to turn in assignments, do not come to me at the end of the semester begging for a chance to improve your grade.

How could she not know?

Jeannie* will be getting an F in my class. And losing HOPE. And executing a perfect quadruple-axel EPIC FAIL. Ladies and gentlemen: Generation WTF, at its finest.

Next semester, perhaps I should put a sign over my office door: "Abandon HOPE, all ye who enter here."

Student Essay Insanity #30!

Can you believe it? We're up to THIRTY editions of Student Essay Insanity! I don't know whether to celebrate, or piss my pants in fear for our society's future!

These are from the Regents' Essay Exam, as before. Sadly, grading for that test has now ended, and I'm bereft of essay awfulness until...umm...tomorrow, when I start grading the latest batch of Comp II literature essays. Whew. I almost forgot about those.

The prompts are in bold, with the funny/bad/poorly-thought-out/stupid sentence below it. My comments (if any) are in italics. And, as always, these are actual essays from actual students. Really. I shit you not.

**********

Do celebrities have a responsibility to the public to be good role models? Discuss.
In our world today, celebrities are in almost every country.
Can we get Paris Hilton out of ours?

Why are women waiting later and later to get married?
“I am women, hear me roar!” This quote and many more play a vital role in the mentalities of most women today.

Is language use (how a person writes or speaks) an appropriate means of judging a person for employment purposes? Why or why not?
Intro paragraph: Language is a very important aspect in today’s society. It is very important to speak and write good language. Language is a way of communicating. Language is very important for employment. Language is an appropriate means of judging a person for employment, because every employee need to have the ability to speak, write, and follow directions.
[Miss Kitty's note: After this paragraph, I lapsed into a coma from the awfulness, and could copy no more.]

From a random Regents' Essay—I can't remember what the prompt was...
Failing schools are on the rise.
As are failing students.

Is world peace within the next ten years an achieveable goal? Why or why not?
History shows us that there was always a thirst for power. British literature tells of the Romans who, at one point, almost controlled the entire world.

Do you consider yourself a goal-oriented person? Explain.
I believe that life should be freely opinionated and to just let it follow its own ‘meant to be path.’

KittehWatch: Day 9

I'm happy to report that Stripe and her kittens are doing very well. The treatment regimen given to me by the vet seems to be working: kittehs are dosed with Clavamox antibiotic twice a day, and little infected belly-buttons washed off with Nolvasan surgical solution twice a day. The little black kitten also gets her eye washed with Nolvasan, and a dollop of antibacterial salve along her eye, where the infection has seemed to get it to open a little. Of course, all this picking up out of warm bed and waking up from naps for meds and squirting medication down little throats and swabbing little bellies with cold Nolvasan on a cotton ball makes little kitties very unhappy, and we squeal our disapproval very loudly every time. Stripe hears the squeals—which sound more like small meows every day!—and always hops back into the basket with her babies, glaring at me while she purrs loudly to comfort the little ones. "I'm sorry, fweet kitteh! Ohhh, um so sorry! Sorry, Mama, um gots to do dis!" I tell the kitties as I wash and medicate each baby, then kiss its tiny walnut-sized head and gently set it back in the basket.

I don't think kittehs are buying it.

I wish I had new kitteh pictures to post, but I noticed this morning that the little white kitten's eyes are trying to open. The kittens are just nine days old, and eyes are already getting prepared! Sweetness! So in order to protect sensitive kitteh eyes, I've darkened the shed's windows and clamped a thick dark-colored towel across part of the basket so kitties' eyes can adjust very gradually. The darker the room, the better their eyes get adjusted. And the same goes for flash photography: best to hold off until kittens are slightly older. So I'll have more new ones soon, don't worry. And over the next few days, I'll post some of the others that I'd not previously posted.

That's all from the Happy Kitten Cottage for now. Thanks to all of you for your prayers and kind words. More teaching-related posts tomorrow.

Student Essay Insanity #29!

That's right! Your favorite snarky E&P feature is back with a vengeance. It's currently Regents' Exam Grading Time, and below are a few gems I've found so far. Just think—only 100 more essays to go!

The essay prompt is in boldface type; the funny/bad/poorly-thought-out/stupid sentence is below it. And, as always, these are all from actual essays written by actual students. Really. I shit you not.

**********

Which of your talents do you value most? Explain.
[Miss Kitty's note: This student decided to write about why being able to drive is his most valued "talent."]
Being an independent drive, I can go to private places.

What are some differences between an adolescent and an adult?
An adolescent must first seek the knowledge of their peers who have since learned what they still do not quite understand.

Should people be responsible for caring for their aging parents? Discuss.
As everyone knows, as days pass people grow older.

Name your favorite game or sport, and explain why it’s enjoyable.
1st Sentence: My favorite sport will have to be baseball.
Later in essay: While enjoying your hotdog, your favorite player comes to bat and hits a fail right in you direction.
[Miss Kitty's note: "Hits a fail?" Would that happen to be an EPIC FAIL?]

How have your eating habits changed since entering college?
However, I feel asthough my eating habit as had the biggest influence since being in college for mean reasons.

How would your life change if private ownership of cars were impossible?
My life would change dramatically if private ownership of a car was impossible. I would have to sit next to people I did not know on the bus or subway. We would lose all of our freedom of expression.

What can be done to prevent violence in public schools?
Majority of the time the public schools have violence among the children or teachers.

KittehWatch: Day 6

Those of you who are eating and surfing, or who have weak stomachs, will want to look away now as you scroll down a bit past this first photo. I don't think it's too gross, as you can't see much detail, but I know other people might be sensitive.

My hunch was right: the tiny black kitten has an abscess near her eye.

Thankfully, it's not bad. Her tiny kitty belly-button was also infected, as were the belly-buttons of two of the other three little cats; I guess Stripe's been going to town with cleaning her babies. So everyone's on antibiotics—one teensy little 25-milliliter drop!—twice a day, and Tiny Black Kitty gets antibiotic goop in her eye twice a day.

Dr. Amanda* says the abscess seems to be trying to get the eye to open long before it's time for her eyes to open (which will probably be the middle of next week). We really won't know exactly where the infection is until then.

"I was thinking—" I said as Dr. Amanda* cleaned the kitten's eye to a syncopated tune of outraged squeaks.

"Shhh! Don't do that!" she kidded me.

"No, really—I'm hoping that the eye won't need to be removed, but if it does, it's not a bad thing. I'll have a pirate kitty. Yarrrr, matey!"

There was a huge waiting line at the clinic when I arrived with the whole little family, so Stripe went ahead and fed the kids again.

This little tabby has a big milk belly—and a big mouth, too! She's the first to raise hell when something goes wrong. She'll be a talky kitty. I love those; my Ernest is one.

Mama hugs the other little tabby, whose back is mostly black, between her front paws.

The little white fellow is the last remaining kitten of those who were rejected. He's bigger than the rest, and doing pretty well. And I think he might be part-Siamese; his ears are a funny shade of blue-lilac. (It takes a while for the fur colors to show up.)

And this little kitteh said snoooooze all the way home.

KittehWatch: Day 5

We have lost another kitten.

I found the little tortoiseshell girl this morning, as I was about to leave for work. She was one of the three rejected kittens. Her final resting place is under the firewood, near Lewis (far left), DeeDee (upper right), and the little orange boy (lower right, with flowerpot).

[deep sigh]

More cause for worry: the solid-black kitten has a weird growth/swelling near its right eye. It's not too clear in the photo; this one was too squirmy to be still for long. So Stripe, the babies, and I will all head to the vet again tomorrow afternoon.

Happily, though, everyone is unbelievably adorable. The little gray tabby on the right yawns frequently in its sleep—I love watching its 3/4-inch-wide mouth open, teeeeensy yaaaaaaaawn, and then snap shut again.

Stripe's still a sweet and loving girl, and a good mama. She loves having her head scratched when I come to check on everyone, and readily snuggles up in my lap when I sit Indian-style on the floor beside the kitten nest.

When I called Mom to tell her about the tortie kitten, she had a thought: maybe Stripe's accidentally lying on top of the kittens and squishing them to death. She did roll over on a few while we were helping get all the kittens nursing; it's certainly a possibility, but I hope to God it's not.

Moo is more than ready to be out of the shed. However, her stitches have yet to fully heal, so she'll be stuck in here with the sister she doesn't recognize for at least three more days.

Ummm...okaaaaay.

I just received the following e-mail from a former student:

Hello Kitty just letting you know that i really enjoyed your class when I took it. I also wanted to confess to you that the reason i came to class everyday was because I had a crush on you(haha). I think you are an excellent teacher and I always recomend people to take your class

Does this weird anybody else out? The calling me by my first name and the crush confessional are kind of ooky. Additionally, I haven't seen this student since Fall 2006.

KittehWatch: Day 3

While it's Day 3 of KittehWatch, our litter of tiny furry babies is technically two-and-a-half days old (Saturday morning through Monday evening).


Mooakura, who was spayed this past weekend in the midst of all the kitten-birth drama, is sharing the little shed with Stripe and the babies. Moo's all hisses and spits; she doesn't remember Stripe. So her food, water, and litter box are at the opposite end of the shed.

Next on the catch-n-snippy list is Erngeakura, the only remaining un-spayed kitty. Heh-heh-heh.

Back in the shed, Stripe's almost got her girlish figure back. If only we human females could shed the baby weight in 60 hours...

Stripe's still tired, and I can't blame her. But she's a very good mama, snuggling up with the kittens and feeding them every few hours. They're blind, barely able to crawl and tumble over each other in the warm kitty-nest, and still have teensy little folded-over ears.

And they're so squirmy! So hard to get them to be still and pose!

Thank you, teensy tortie wiggle-worm.

I've never been around newborn kittehs before, and I'm constantly amazed by how complete their little bodies are. Did you know that a newborn kitten's whiskers are about 1/4" long? And that little claws are about a millimeter long? And that baby kitties can't retract their claws until they get older?

Sorry. I'm in serious wuv here.

In the nest with the kitties for scale is a standard cat-food can, about three inches wide.

You probably wonder who's missing in this picture. Weren't there six?

Late last evening, I went out to the shed for one more kitty-check. Stripe was just getting out of the basket; she must have just finished feeding the babies. I crouched down to play with them.

And I realized the little orange one had died.

He was still warm. I poked and prodded him—no response. Checked a few more vitals—yes. He was gone.

The orange one was the biggest, and one of the three Stripe had rejected. I guess he just finally ran out of steam, with such a hard beginning to his little life, and couldn't struggle any more.

I wrapped him up in a paper towel and got ready to bury him, in the dark and all. It didn't seem right to leave him until morning.

I got a flashlight and the shovel, and buried him near the little shed.

Borrowing a few bricks from DeeDee's grave, and an old flowerpot from the porch, I marked his resting place. And I stood there in the dark, and cried.

Next on Lifetime: "Kittehs Having Kittehs"

I was getting ready to leave for spring break in Denver, scurrying about and packing my suitcase, and I happened to look out the back door onto the patio. Stripeakura, one of Kamakura's kittens from last year, was crouched on the cement with her back to me. Something was off about Stripe. She looked—well—big.

"Mom?" I called.

"Yeah?"

"Ummm, will you come look at Stripe? She looks kinda big." I watched as the cat got up and semi-waddled to a food bowl. Yep. Still big.

"How come?" Mom asked.

"I think she's...with kitteh."

"Well, now, you don't know that for sure," Mom called back. "Could be worms, ya know."

"I dunno, Mom. You better come look, since you're the cat expert." I walked away from the door and into the bathroom, where I started cramming toiletries into my bag. Mom walked into the kitchen a few minutes later. I heard her sigh very deeply.

"Yep. She's ka-nock-ed. Dammit."

We left the house for the Atlanta airport shortly thereafter. Mom thought it was way too late to get Stripe spayed; the surgery might kill her. I agreed. "I just didn't catch her in time to get her spayed," I sighed. "She's a first-time mom, so they may not even live."

Mom was calling my sister on her cell phone. "Hiya! Guess what? Your sister is a very bad kitty-mama." A short pause. "Because she let Stripe go and get knocked up." Another short pause. "Nope. No birds-and-bees, no condoms, no nothin'—left her teenage kitty clueless." A longer pause. "I'm reporting her ass to Cat DFACS."

When I got home a week later, poor five-pound Stripe was even bigger, as if she'd swallowed a Magic 8-Ball. And very friendly, as opposed to her usual standoffish little self. (Another sign a cat's pregnant: sudden friendliness.) She jumped in my lap as I sat on the front porch. "Are you preggint?" I cooed. "Is my kitty gonna have some kitties? Hmm?"


I'm sorry, Mama. I didn't know. All the other cats whisper and giggle when I walk by.

I'm so ashamed, Mama. What am I gonna do?

That's we, kitteh. We.

I kept an eye on Stripe as best I could. She was having a hard time getting enough to eat; her newly-pregnant smell must have set the other cats off, and she got smacked and hissed at pretty regularly. I slipped her canned food and extra treats whenever I could. Sadly, I currently have nine cats in the house, so bringing her indoors wasn't possible. ("World War III at the HKC! The story at 11.") I slipped her canned food and extra treats whenever I could.

And I snuggled and pet her whenever I got a chance, trying to reassure her she had a home. No shame here for teenage kitteh mamas.

About ten days ago, I came home from work to find Stripe practically rolling herself across the back patio. It seemed as if she'd gotten really big almost overnight. She couldn't walk more than ten steps without having to lie down and rest. "All right, cat," I told her, "time to get the birthing suite ready." I'd just read that a cat's gestation period is around two months, with cats generally giving birth anywhere from 61 to 69 days after conception. I did the math quickly in my head—so if I had just noticed her belly on February 29, and it was now late March...oh. The kittens would be here any day now.

Mom stopped by later that afternoon, and took a good look at Stripe. "Yep, she'll pop any day now. I wouldn't be surprised if she has five or six, or more," she told me.

"Well, Mom, it's her first time. She could just be really big, and only have three."

"Look: ol' Kama Sutra had six kitties. I bet her kitty will, too."

So I spent much of that evening in the little shed out back, preparing a place for Stripe to live for however long she needed. I was afraid that if she had them outdoors, they'd be killed/eaten by a roaming tomcat, or die of cold...or maybe Stripe would have problems and die, the kittens going with her, since I probably wouldn't be able to find them and get them to a vet.

I made her a bed with old towels and a heating pad in the bottom drawer of an old filing cabinet.

And in the nasty floor of the shed—hey, this is what "cleaned up" looks like—I set her up with Kitten Chow, canned food, and water.

I moved Stripe in the next evening, and boy, was she PISSED OFF about the whole thing. I'd come to check on her three times a day, and every time I walked in the door, she tried to sneak past me and get out, and yowled like hell every time I scruffed her and dragged her back in. But going into her second week in the shed, I started to get worried. Mom said, "Well, it'll happen when it's time. And you have all the area vets on speed-dial." I was still worried. And poor Stripe now looked as if she'd swallowed a volleyball. Ouch.

Then, yesterday morning, I went out to the shed around 11:30. I turned the key in the lock, but didn't hear Stripe's little meow raising hell at me. Instead, I thought I heard a teensy squeak.

"Kitty? Kitty?" I called. "Kitty-kitty? Where's my girl?" A weak meow came from under the work table.

Stripe had cleaned up and was nursing three kittens! "OHHHHHH!" I almost screamed. "You had your kitties! Good girl!" But then I stopped. Among the blood, urine, dirt, and placenta, I saw something else. Something lumpy was behind her. I got down on my hands and knees to see—oh, Jesus, Mary, and Bastet help us.

Another three kittens, barely breathing and not even licked clean, were mewling behind mama. God, she'd rejected them, left them—oh, Jesus. They were still attached to their placentas, and their little bodies were so cool. I picked them up gently, and their little umbilical cords dragged the placentas along. "Come on, Stripe. You wanna nurse your babies?" I asked, trying to hold back a wave of sobs. "Tum on, baby. Let your other kitties nurse, too." I started to panic. The smell of afterbirth was making me gag; I swallowed. This was no time to get human vomit mixed in with everything else. I got on the cell phone and called Mom. "Mom, what do I do?!? She's rejected the kitties! They're still attached to the placentas! She hasn't even cleaned them up!"

"Just get a bucket of warm water and an old washrag," she said. "You just snip the umbilical cords with a sterilized pair of scissors."

But I was still panicking. Don't you have to have forceps to stop the umbilical blood flow, and then cut the cord? I'd read on a well-known vet site that not shutting off the flow first might cause a kitten to bleed to death. I hung up with Mom, telling her I'd call her back, and called Dr. Amanda*, at whose mobile clinic I was due to pick up Mooakura, Stripe's sister, from getting spayed. "Put 'em all in the carrier, and bring them on," the vet tech said. "It's an emergency, and she says come over right now." So I got a Pet Taxi with more old towels, and gently set the three clean kittens in. Oh—and the other three. I looked at their wet bodies and the placentas next to them, which looked like fresh beef tongue. I took a deep breath and put my hands over it all, then picked up the cool, wet, smelly placentas and kittens. "It's steak. It's steak. It's just steak, that's all," I repeated over and over while still trying not to vomit. I grabbed Stripe, her body seven-eighths covered in stinky blood and afterbirth, and shoved her in the with kittens.

Thankfully, Dr. Amanda* was able to see us very quickly. "I think they're gonna be all right, Kitty," she said as she briskly warmed up each kitten in a clean towel. "We cut the cords, and the stumps will fall off. And look at how pink these little guys are!" she said. "The sooner you can get some milk replacer and get them home to a heating pad, the better." I grabbed all my cats and drove around Small Town like a maniac, hitting both the Farm Supply Store and Wal-Mart for the kitty needs, and got home as quickly as I could.

When I returned home, Mom was waiting in the driveway. "Mom, I thought you weren't coming into town today...?"

"I came to help you wif kitties!" Whew. I was very relieved. 'Cause I don't know nothin' 'bout birthin' no kitties.

So we got to work right away, rearranging the setup in the shed. Mom picked up the smallest of the bunch, and tried to get it to nurse from the bottle.

The kitten was none too thrilled about this whole milk-on-the-muzzle thing, but started to figure it out after a few minutes. Mom sat him gently in the kitty bed, which she had moved to an old clothes basket I had lying around in the shed. Then she started arranging the kittens so they could all nurse.

Stripe, meanwhile, was purring loudly and making biscuits against the side of the basket. Mom carefully moved kittens around; the new mama was rolling over to help them each find a teat. "She's helping!" Mom pointed out. "Maybe she didn't reject those three after all. Maybe she was just tired, and a first-time mom, and just couldn't deal with three more."

"Yeah," I agreed. "Having six babies at once would wipe me out, too."

Mom couldn't get the little orange one to nurse on one of Stripe's front teats. She'd put him right on it, only to have him squeak and tumble down Stripe's furry side. "Come on, kitteh," she said. "I see why your mama rejected you. You're dumb."

"Mommy!" I said. "Don't talk to that little kitty that way! Ruining his self-esteem, and he's just a couple hours old!"

Mom just gave me The Look.

Finally, everyone was situated—all cats in the right place. All six kittens nursed away as their mother kept up the loud purring, and gave each one an occasional lick or nuzzle.

Stripe got up about 20 minutes later; the kittens were starting to get sleepy. She went to the food bowl and devoured a whole can of Seafood Supper Delight.

One orange tabby, two gray tabbies, one tortoiseshell, one solid black, and one who's either apricot or solid white (only time will tell). Yes—a pack of LOLcat seeds!

Everyone's doing well and eating like crazy. And Mom and I are exhausted.

It's a small (and weird) world.

It's been a crazy week or ten days here at E&P—the last month of the semester is like that—and I have sooo many things to post that I don't even know where to begin. But like my Dad used to say, "I'm fixin' to do somethin', even if it's wrong." So I'll just start somewhere and tell one story at a time.

Monday afternoon, as I was finishing up a research-paper conference with a student, one of my favorite students from my Spring '06 crazy Comp II class peeked in from the hallway and waved. "Hey there!" I said. I hadn't seen her in a long time, and had actually thought about her the other day, and wondered how she was doing. "Hang on, we'll be done in just a minute." She nodded and waited in the hall until the other student left, then stepped in and sat down.

"Tamara*, it's good to see you! How've you been?"

"Oh, all right, I guess. I've got three more classes to get out of the way before I get my teaching degree." We discussed the inanities of the D2U Elementary Ed Department—Tamara* told me that she and her soon-to-graduate-and-start-teaching classmates were being taught a teaching method that, in the words of the long-time teacher with whom she’s paired up, “isn’t practical at all, and WILL NOT work in the classroom.” So she and her classmates watch and listen to the veteran teachers very closely when they’re doing their Practicum. Sheesh. The airhead Ph.D.s over in Higgins Hall* never fail to surprise me.

Quick background: Tamara* is a young, smart, and sassy black woman originally from South Philly. She takes no crap from anyone, student or professor, and has no patience with ignorance, small thinking, or poor logic. Having her in two of my classes was a real treat. She decided to become an elementary-school teacher a couple years ago; as she told me then, “They’re young, and I can still help mold their minds before they grow up and get all ignorant.” She'll no doubt be a fantastic K-5 teacher.

As we talked, I noticed a colorful piece of paper in the clear outer pocket of Tamara’s* three-ring binder. It looked like a funeral program, several 8-1/2-by-11 sheets folded and printed on the cover with a photo of a young black man in a military dress uniform. My heart fell at that sight; I figured he’d been killed in Iraq. Every day, I meet more and more people who know or are related to someone K.I.A. in Iraq or Afghanistan, and I guessed she was one of those people, too.

We talked about her former classmates, where she’d like to teach once she gets her certificate, and fun things we’d each done lately. Then she whipped her cell phone out of her purse and said, “And guess what else?” She opened it and showed me a picture—“I took last semester off to have my little boy!” He was the cutest little guy I’d seen in a long time, with a happy face and wide-open eyes, like he was trying to see EVERYTHING all at once.

“Ohhhhh! He’s so cute!” I gushed.

“Six months old yesterday. And he’s smart, too,” Tamara* replied with a big smile. “And about spoiled—first grandbaby in my family. My fiance’s family is tickled, too.”

“For sure he is!” I was surprised that Tamara* had had a baby; she’d always struck me as the type to put off having kids until she was older and wiser. And I was also surprised she’d said “fiancé.” In class, she was always a vocal opponent of getting married young, while all the dippy white girls (hey, that's what they were) were all for true love and fairytale wedding and my big day and happily ever after, amen. “Your fiancé—how did y'all meet? Does he go to school here?”

“Umm…well…” she began. Then she handed to me the funeral program in her binder. “Ray* passed away last October, 20 days before Ray Jr.* was born.”

I stared at the program dates—her fiancé was just 23 when he died. He looked so proud in his uniform, so young and full of life. “Oh my God, Tamara.* I am so sorry to hear this. My God. I am so, so sorry.” When a young person dies, it's always from something unexpected, and is always a tragedy. “Was he serving in Iraq?”

“Well, no,” she said, and sighed very deeply. She paused. “He was home on leave from Iraq, and...he’d been hanging out at a friend’s house, catching up with the guys, grilling, playing video games. So he and two other friends decided to walk home about 3:00 in the morning, since they didn’t have a ride...” She looked down at the floor. “And some white chick came flying down the road—drunk—and hit Ray*.”

“Oh, Jesus!”

Tamara* shook her head. “It’s been pretty bad.” She sighed again. “At first her dad was talking in the local papers, saying she was innocent, and she’d never serve a day in jail. But the prosecutor’s found out some very interesting things, and they upgraded the charges to 2nd-degree murder, plus the DUI, driving on a suspended license, driving without insurance, leaving the scene of an accident, hit-and-run—it’s a long list. And get this: her MySpace page is full of crap from her friends, like ‘FUCK YEAH!!!! Let’s get wasted this weekend!’”

Something occurred to me just then. “Wait—is the girl’s name _______?”

“Yeah. How’d you know?”

“I know her, and she’s an idiot.”

That’s right: the drunk was the DUI Twat.

One former student had killed another former student’s fiancé.

Ours is a small—and weird—and sad world.

Filler until Thursday: My office kicks ass, one more time

I'm still so pissed off about Blogger's eating yesterday's awesome post that I can barely stand to even be ON this site. I think I'll re-write it again in Word tomorrow and then transfer it over to a new post. Shit.

In the meantime:

One of my students, a retired Methodist pastor, brought me this sign that's been in his garage for years. Jerry* thought it would lend a nice touch to my Redneck Office with all the dirt, bird droppings, house paint, pine sap, and bullet holes. And he was right!

AAAAAAUUUUGH!!!

Stupid Blogger just ate the post I'd been working on for 45 minutes. GRRRRRRRR!!!!

April Fool on me, I guess. New post tomorrow. It'll be a good one.