The end of fall term, I thought at first, was going to be smooth and easy. I was coming off my best-ever semester in nearly 13 years of teaching, and my classes were all going well and filled with lively, thoughtful students. My diagnosis, along with therapy and medication, was a godsend, and I really felt as if I were making progress. And to top it all off, I had won two teaching awards in the months leading up to Fall Semester.
But the end of the semester proved downright ugly. A student from my favorite class, the Servant's Heart* group—a bright, energetic young man, serious about both his calling to be a physician and his Christian faith—filed with my department head
a very personal and nasty formal complaint against me. This same young man smiled to my face all semester long and never raised any concerns, yet never darkened the door of my office to voice his complaints or his concern about his grade. When Dr. Pepper* forwarded his e-mail to me, I felt as if I'd been ambushed in my own home, beaten to a pulp, and left for dead. The student's vicious, vindictive tone and wording hit me hard, and right where they could do the most damage.
Dr. Pepper advised the student to first contact me to talk about his grade and dissatisfaction with the class—which he didn't do
until nearly two weeks later. (What was that again, about that grade being of life-and-death importance?) In the next series of e-mails, he was ever so sweet and kind to me, a complete 180 degrees from the bitter, spiteful person who wrote the original complaint. I couldn't help wondering whether his Servant's Heart advisor knew about her would-be Dr. Jekyll's heaping helping of Mr. Hyde. Was
this how people behave when they're supposed to be bringing leadership, humility, strong ethical principles, and kindness with them as they enter the workforce? Was
this the kind of personality he'd be bringing to his patients and colleagues? My heart sank.
The whole deal dragged on over all of Christmas Break, and well into the New Year. And I can hear all the voices now:
Well, you shouldn't have let it ruin your holiday. And to those people, I say: "Go fuck yourselves." When someone's dragging
your good professional name and livelihood through the proverbial mud, I'll be happy to listen.
On January 7, nearly three weeks since the student sent his hateful e-mail to Dr. Pepper, the three of us finally met. It turned out that no, I hadn't done nearly as good a job as I'd thought, and that the student did have some valid concerns. (According to the young man, his 11 classmates had some concerns, too. Strangely, none of them thought it important enough to alert me or my department chair. Nor did my 58 other students.)
After hearing him out, I had no problem changing his grade. But I
did have a problem with how he'd handled the whole thing. "The next time you have a problem with a professor, or a boss, or whoever," I told him as Dr. Pepper* listened, "I want you to think about who's going to see what you write. When Dr. Pepper forwarded your message to me, I felt like a criminal. Did you write it expecting that I would never see it?" A bare flush of pink crossed his cheeks. "In the future, think about who's going to read your words."
(One of his biggest writing problems in my class was
audience awareness.)
Later,
my sister said, "Had it been me, I'd've told him, 'Yes, the class was not as good as my classes usually are. Maybe I was having personal problems, or a loved one was in ill health, or I was having health issues myself, or maybe I was trying to do too much in one semester, or whatever. There are a thousand reasons why that class wasn't as good as it could've been—but if you look at the job I've done over the last 12½ years, my being a bad teacher is
not one of them."
Dr. Pepper and I talked for a little while after he left. She was still happy to have me in the department despite this fiasco. While I usually have little problem with a busy schedule, Fall Semester found me teaching five classes and enrolled in two. Finally, I'd reached my doable work load limit.
While Dr. Pepper spoke to me very kindly, I felt even worse. I had believed my own press releases, believed my own hype. I
thought I was doing an awesome job when the opposite was true. "Deflated" isn't strong enough a word for it—"blown up way beyond capacity, popped with an enema tube, zoomed all over the room sounding like a wet helium fart, and forgotten behind the sofa" is more like it.
So I began Spring Semester with a heavy and deeply troubled heart. I'd screwed up where my department head had most trusted me:
Should I even be doing this? Maybe I'm not such a good teacher after all. Complicating all this was my sharp realization that there are currently no other jobs to be had in these parts.
Instead of flying by as usual, the first couple weeks of the term were really difficult. Everything I did felt as if I were doing it while chest-deep in molasses. Feeling betrayed by my own faulty perceptions, as well as by the student whom I'd previously thought had really enjoyed my class, I resolved never again to put my heart out there for students. It hadn't seemed to do that Servant's Heart group any good, and I wondered whether in fact it had helped
any of my other former students.
(My life would be so much easier if I were an asshole, if I had no compunction about not giving a damn about other people.)
Last Wednesday afternoon, I was sitting in my office when
Hyun-Jae* knocked on the door. Nearing middle age, she grew up in Korea, has been in the States for six years, and recently decided that she wanted to improve her English after having spent a lot of time in various Korean communities. So Hyun-Jae enrolled as an auditor in two of my classes through the university's English Learning Program (ELP). Like many non-traditional college students of
all backgrounds, she is serious about learning. If I assign ten pages of reading, she'll read 20, and write an extra journal entry, too. Today, Hyun-Jae wanted to talk about her latest short essay and her trouble with
English articles.
(A quick note: Below I reproduce Hyun-Jae's speech as exactly as I can remember it. I am NOT making fun of her, but just want her own words in there instead of my own, which would take away from the real, immediate quality of what she said. As her English improves, any quotes from her here on E&P will reflect the improvement.)
We talked and did a few grammar exercises together, and Hyun-Jae thanked me for my time. She seemed to understand articles a little better, and took heart when I reassured her that sometimes, even native speakers have a hard time grasping those three pesky words.
"I heard good things about you," she told me. "When I was register for class, I ask who is good Englishy teacher, who help me most. Older man tell me, 'Professor Kitty very good, I love her class.' Young people I ask, same answer."
"Thanks, Hyun-Jae, that's sweet." I couldn't help thinking that those students must have been talking about a Professor Kitty who no longer exists, and maybe never existed in the first place; just a flickering, shimmering mirage of the gifted, passionate professor we all keep hearing is out there somewhere, but whom generations of windmill-tilting students never do find. A Kitty-Yeti, even.
"No, it's true. Your, uhhh..." She searched for the right words. "You have very good reputa—yes, reputation." Her expression became very serious. "Please, let me explain. In Korea, we respect the teacher. Students, uhh—ad-umm, admire? teacher. There's even
holiday for them."
She reached into her bookbag. "In Korea, we bring gifts for teachers to show respect. It's tradition, very important. But when I come to United States, my teacher think it's bribe. But no!" She smiled warmly. "Anyway, I remember you like sticky rice."
After class last week, Hyun-Jae, a few other students (American as well as international), and I had somehow gotten on the topic of
sticky rice versus American-style (long-grain) rice. They thought it was hilarious that, every time I pick up my food at Lucky Chinese Buddha* here in Small Town, the owner remarks yet again that I'm the only American he knows who specifically requests sticky rice.
In Hyun-Jae's hand:
Not just a bag of Korean rice—but a tiny possibility that maybe, just maybe, there's a little hope for me, and for us all.
