It’s been another horrifyingly long week - so long, in fact, that last night I was too tired to finish the one bottle of light beer I had opened, and instead I trundled off to bed at 10:00. THE SHAME.
I spent the week conferring with my writing students about their essay revisions. As much as I love my writing students this semester, it’s still a rather daunting task. I believe I have bitched about the mental exhaustion it entails before (and probably several times), so I’ll leave that off now. You’re welcome.
The best part about my week of conferences, however, was the chest-blistering heartburn and skull-crushing, eye-watering headache I acquired after a night of pub trivia and beer consumption. There is something magical and evil in the draught beer at our trivia bar: every time I drink more than one glass of it (which, let’s face it, is every time I go there), I get a rip-roaring hangover (migraine?) headache like you would not believe. Every single time. I don’t even have to get drunk there to get one of their patented death-grip headaches. Science cannot explain this.
I suffered through the next day, which involved teaching two classes and conferring with about 18 students, by sheer force of will alone. It is lucky I did not murder a person.
To be more specific, it is lucky I did not murder this one student from last spring, let’s call him Dickcheese, who came by to complain about his participation grade.
Here’s the deal with Dickcheese: He spoke up in class almost every day. He was a real participator! And yet, I gave him a middling grade for participation. I had to. He almost never had his books or a notebook in class (which, in a literature class based on close reading, is a serious problem), and I busted him using his cell phone in class on several occasions. Both of those crimes lower the participation grade, as clearly indicated on the syllabus. Simple. Clear. Those are the rules of the game.
But good old Dickcheese, he cannot accept this. He is not even interested in the fact that my (hypothetically) raising his participation grade to a B, an A, or even an A+, would not change his semester average. He barely even got a B in the first place. Some might call that a generous B. Dickcheese does not care. It’s the principle of the matter for him, see. (And here, I agree. It absolutely is the principle of the matter.)
Dickcheese, after the discussion on this issue had pretty much circled around as many times as it could, decided it would then be appropriate to berate me for my syllabus. He did not appreciate the fact that we had spent more time on literature he didn’t like than on literature he did like. His favorite poet had been discussed for only one day, whereas a long novel he did not like (but couldn’t be bothered to remember, because if it wasn’t Favorite Poet, it wasn’t worth his time) was discussed for several days. Never mind the fact that he was comparing a 50-line lyric poem with a 300-page novel. Never mind THAT, because THAT would require sense and LOGIC, FORTHELOVEOFDOG.
Dickcheese has told me that if I do not change his grade, he will file a grade grievance against me. Bring it on, I say. The way the school works, they cannot actually force an instructor to change a grade. They might recommend it, but I doubt they will even do that once they hear both sides. I am not even concerned about this. I will, however, be GREATLY FUCKING AMUSED at his imminent disappointment.
The fact of the matter is, the dude did speak up a lot in class, which — IN THEORY — instructors appreciate. However, most of the shit he said in class was either incomprehensible or just incredibly far off target, due to his likely being high all the time. (He was even high, I suspect, when he came by my office, if I know anything about what people’s eyes look like after they burn one, and I think that I do.) In class, I usually had to find some way to transition from what he had said back to the true thread of discussion, which was not ever easy. I would have been happier if the poor bastard had kept his mouth shut, is the sad fact.
what a turd! he actually came in threatening? what exactly is a grade grievance? what is the, pardon my lawyerliness, burden of proof? are these things ever successful? is there some kind of actual hearing or does the administration just let you know one has been filed and request that you respond?
and really, what does he think you’re going to do, crumble like a cookie? capitulate to his ridiculous sense of entitlement? the fact that he came in to hassle you at all just goes to show that he never read the syllabus, and the fact that you told him it wouldn’t h ave changed his ultimate grade sows that he continued to not listen even when you took the time to discuss it with him. do you guys have plusses and minuses, or is it just A, B, C grades?
Oh, dude, I have answers for all of these questions, but I will have to either call you or make a separate post. However, can you effing believe the UNMITIGATED GALL?
“light” and “beer” in the same sentence? Together? And I thought you were an English major! Ha!
Apparently the economic downturn has had little impact on frat boys’ ability to purchase “herb” and slack. I have never understood the mentality behind students like this. My working hypothesis is that they are in university more for the “experience” than for the “education”. It’s one of the reasons that I stopped being a teaching assistant years ago and I continue to not be an assistant to this very day. I got so fed up with the stupidity (and if you think it’s restricted to the arts and humanities, it’s not) that I reached my breaking point. So I admire you for actually becoming a professor.
Yes, the whole light beer situation was sad. Although it was an Amstel light, which, as far as light beers go, is pretty OK.
Anyway, I try to focus on the kids who actually care and are reasonably intelligent. I do have a slew of them, and I have to try not to let the Dickcheeses of the world keep me from doing what I need to do for the good ones.
In regards to the beer situation, I’ve experienced that before, but only with one particular beer. Regardless of how many I have, I wake up with vomit-inducing hangovers (no really, it is definitely the beer, not the number of beers. Works with just two pints which is not even remotely near my beer limit). It’s the default tap beer in this city, which is a slight problem, but easily solved by drinking the (more expensive) non-local beer.