A Peek Into a College Classroom

“Let’s start this lecture with a question.” I scan the twenty bodies in the class. I’d like to call them students, but that designation has yet to be determined. In my twenty-year tenure as a professor, I have accepted the odds that most of the humans in this room are not here to be students.

Four are students with the determination to learn and grow and improve. They recognize the value and power of education. Engaged, they understand the effort required and take responsibility for their performance. I love them. They are the reason I stand at the front of the room, prepared for battle.

Four in the room are asleep, stoned, or absent. I’ll spend the semester sending them emails, taking them aside to ask if I can do anything to help. I will joke about college life and sobriety is the rule for class. I will mention how important sleep and rest and food are to a healthy college experience. But the four sleepers who I call Ghosts are deaf to my guidance. I have learned this.

Six are Victims. It’s everyone else’s fault why they cannot achieve. They need hand-holding, tutoring, waivers, late submissions, extra time, extra credit. One or two of their mommies or daddies will call me each semester and ask why oh why their little child is not doing well. After explaining I cannot even confirm their offspring is a student at the college without a privacy waiver, I will listen with as much respect and patience I can muster to the helicopter parent appeal defending the child’s performance.

The Victims are also the students who will attempt to get me fired because I am mean, unfair, expect too much, and didn’t tell them what was expected. At the end of the semester, I will suffer at least two meetings with the Dean and my Chair, where I will bring evidence to defend my efforts and procedure. After presenting my detailed syllabus and recordings of lectures, as well as evidence of the student’s poor performance, they will acquit me.

Six, the Pretenders, will plod along and either with ingratiating effort, compliment me regularly, or never speak to me at all. Those six sycophants do an acceptable job with the pretence of studious focus, but also as often copy other’s work, spend the semester on phones and computers then complain I never said what I said while they are too busy playing social butterfly while I lecture. With whispers and giggles, they will mock those who succeed while offering excuse after excuse why the work is too hard.

They, too, are those seeking the six-figure role upon graduation.

I identify the Pretenders through persistent inability to learn anything. They are experts at regurgitation and thrive on exams where they can fill-in the blanks. On performance assignments like speeches, they fail miserably. They simply cannot apply because they have never been expected to do so.

Most also suffer from uptalk, so every sentence they utter sounds like a question. I correct this vocal habit each speech. It won’t matter. They dress up for class as if they are going to a frat party or a club. All, at some point, they wear hoodies or hats to cover their eyes. All check phones minute by minute, although phones are not permitted in class. They break rules without care. Because they do not care. They are paying tuition and that is enough for that A grade.

I take a deep breath, stand tall, and continue. I ask, “What is the closest star to the earth?”

Crickets.

I scan the faces. The three present Ghosts stare at their hands. The absent one has only been to two classes in twelve. He’s lost. The Ghosts gave up long ago. I acquiesce with their plan and pay them little attention.

The question allows me to spot the six Victims quickly. Each, wide-eyed, scribbles frantically in a notebook and scan the room for help. They always need help. The question also permits me to spot the six Pretenders, who are all smiles, like I am Penn or Teller. They wait for the punchline. Or the rabbit from the hat. Or the answer.

This question, the star question, is the one I use to find my four Reasons. I take my time and spot the first. She, sitting directly in front of me, is smirking and tapping her pen. Two seats over, another girl is drawing in a sketch pad. She’s quiet. She looks up briefly and smiles at me. The third, a young man with thick glasses, sits three rows back to my left. He almost raises his hand. Almost. The fourth raises his hand. He holds it there, hoping I will see him in the last row.

I see him. I see all four of my Reasons.

I ask again, “What is the closest star to the earth? I’m sure more than one of you knows the answer.”

Pretender Number One, the loud, the proud, the so adorable, calls out, “Ah, this is not an astrology class?”

She makes her statement with that painful up-pitch, so it sounds like she’s asking instead of telling. She’ll make a great soccer mom someday. And spend lots on plastic surgery when she realizes the tanning bed she worships is her downfall at forty. Can’t wait for her first speech on why visiting the beach is better than vacationing in the mountains.

I smile. “Well, astrology is a mystical practice of determining one’s sign. Like Pisces or Virgo. All of that. You meant astronomy, I think. And, no, this is not an astronomy class. It’s a critical thinking class. So think. What is the closest star to the earth?”

The hand of my Fourth Reason remains aloft. Artist Reason has raised her hand; Thick Glasses Reason adds his hand to the air. Tapping Pen Reason is smiling and looking around. She meets my gaze and shakes her head. I return the smile. We will someday do to lunch and remain friends for years. I know this.

Astrology Girl smirks and scans the room for support. She gets an eye-roll from the Victim to her left. Another of the Pretenders is taking a selfie, duck lips and peace sign. I stare her down. She places her phone on the table in front of her with a sheepish smile. She says, “What’s the answer?”

“I am not here to give you the answer. My role is to teach you how to think, not what to think.” I point at my Fourth Reason. He was first and will continue to be first. I want to adopt him.

He says, “The Sun.”

“We have a winner!” I nod, choosing my words with care. “Take a breath. Think. You know the answers. Or you can discover the answers.” I lean on the lectern. “How about this one: What is the form of government in the United States?”

Chirping silence. Like I’m camping in the woods on a hot summer’s eve. There’s Fourth Reason again. The pain for the wait overwhelms me. I point at him.

“A Republic.”

“More points for our winner!” I exchange a smile with him. He will never be comfortable enough to have lunch or dinner with me, but he will email and stay in touch. I feel that rush I treasure. I matter. I can change the world one mind at a time.

“It’s not. We’re a Democracy,” says Duck-Face Pretender. “We won our independence from the south in the Civil War. Everyone knows that.”

I frown. “No. That’s incorrect.” That’s all incorrect. Every damn word out of your duck lips. Dear God.

She smirks. “My high school teacher told us it is.”

“Well, it’s incorrect,” I say.

“Well,” she says as she begins her verbal spanking. “I trust her because she’s super-popular and taught me how English is based on Latin. And how the earth shaking causes the tides. I learned a lot in that class.”

My Artist Reason groans and erases part of her picture of a farmhouse beyond a field of wildflowers. My Pen Tapping Reason stops pen tapping.

I slip and blurt, “Your high school teacher is illiterate.” The poison words pour from my lips. I gulp. A Victim will report that one. I attempt to make up lost ground. “English is based on Germanic Languages with Latin influence. And the tides — nevermind. Most teachers do not have the time to provide you with a full definition. Although we use democratic processes, our government is a republic. With the states represented at the federal level.”

“So that’s why the President is the boss of the Governors,” calls out another Pretender, hoodie pulled so far over his eyes, I would not recognize him outside of class.

I add to my frown lines. “No. That’s not how it works. The President is the head of the Executive branch of the federal government. His role is to administer or enforce the laws passed in Congress. The state governors are independent — and some would argue, more powerful than the President.”

A sea of smirks and frowns, with four fish swimming towards me. I check the clock. Fifteen more minutes. I bite the inside of my cheek. I remind myself this is a second year college course. These are adults. College students, not kindergarteners. That under some misguided standard, they are qualified to be here.

I wonder and find myself unable to not ask my next question. “Who read over ten books last year?” Four hands belong to my Four Reasons. I continue. “Okay, how about more than five books?” Same four hands. “How many of you read at least one book last year?”

Four hands. Two comments: Reading is for old people. I don’t have time to read.The four hands sink to their respective laps. Insulted for seeking knowledge. That’s our world.

I change tactics. “Let’s discuss that first speech. Due next week.”

“I thought you said we had two weeks,” the Verbose Victim insists.

The inside of my cheek is bleeding. “It was. A week ago. Now it’s due in one week. I listed the deadlines in the syllabus. Which you had three weeks prior to the start of class.”

“I haven’t been able to print it out. My printer’s broken.” Verbose Victim sighs.

I continue. “So, I’ll need your outlines next class. That way, I can review your work before you deliver your speech a week from today.” I scan the faces.

Duck Face Pretender waves her hand, hoping I’ll stop my cab for her. She says, “How do we do that outline?”

I press my lips together. Behind my teeth, lazy little bitch fights to be said. Instead, I say, “We reviewed it at the start of class. You were here. Check your notes.”

“Oh, that outline. Yes, but how do we do it?”

I want to ignore her, but Narrow-Eye Victim is at the watch and is recording me on his phone. I respond, “In the text, the directions are there. The end of Chapter 14. If you don’t have detailed notes from thirty minutes ago. You can also email me a draft, and I’ll work with you.”

Duck Face Pretender groans. Several other hands wave at me. I point and respond to the barrage:

“Where do I get the information for the speech?”

I answer as I erase the whiteboard. “You perform research. Check your notes from the second week of class. And Chapter 12.”

“So, if I’m arguing smoking should be legal, I just look that up?”

I pause at the whiteboard. I resume my effort to wipe away the lecture notes. “Smoking is legal. Don’t argue that. That’s the status quo. Chapter 11. You would want to argue that smoking should be illegal.”

“Why would I do that? I smoke.”

I turn back to the room and say, “Perhaps pick another topic. Anyone else?”

Justice Pretender offers her topic. She says, “I was going to argue that slavery should be illegal.”

I-can’t-even. To my relief, Fourth Reason grunts and Tapping Pen Reason laughs aloud. She keeps laughing with a ha, ha, ha pattern. I say, “Illegal in a foreign nation?”

“Here. In the United States,” Justice Pretender asserts.

She’s serious. Deadly serious. “You might want to look up the state of the law.”

The girl sitting next to Duck Face Pretender yells out, “I’m doing we should all be vegans.”

Sure you are, Pretender who has worn flip-flops all winter. You have selected the topic that’s in the text. I say, “Okay, well, since that example is in the text, you will have an easy time.”

“Is it? I had no idea?”

Is she asking or telling? Who knows? Her voice is like knives in my skull. “Well, you should. That argument is drafted in Chapter 11. Which we read weeks ago.”

“Oh, yeah? I don’t have the text yet?”

Does she or doesn’t she? Who knows? It’s the middle of the semester and she doesn’t have the text. I respond, “Okay, so what’s your question?” Everything she says will be a question, anyway.

“So, I look up the good things about being a vegan?”

I nod and add, “And the opposing argument and evidence, too.”

“Why would I do that?” Her lip raises in a snarl. She loses a flip-flop under the table. She slides off the chair to retrieve it with her big toe.

From the ceiling, I watch my body. I am still standing there. I tip my chin, praying to all that’s holy, that one of the Four Reasons will save me. “Can anyone answer her?”

Artist Reason doesn’t even raise her head when she says, “Because ethical argument requires appreciation of all sides of an issue, disclosure of opposing evidence, and targeted rebuttal. If you don’t know both sides, you cannot argue with impunity.”

I am in love. I really am. Artist Reason has added a horse to her drawing. I approach her, tap the table in front of her, and give her a smile. I whisper, “Beautiful.” She smiles back as Flip Flop Pretender continues her attack.

“But I don’t have time to look up all of that. And I can’t find all that on the net.”

“Use a library,” Fourth Reason mumbles.

Flip Flop Pretender moans her next words. “I just need to answer why veganism is good. That’s my evidence.”

“I hope I debate you,” Thick Glasses Reason says.

I consider that’s a great idea. But, honestly, if I do pair them, Thick Glasses Reason will learn nothing and Flip Flop Pretender might shift to Flip Flop Victim and cry and all of that. I’ll partner her with her own kind. I say, “Just review Chapters 11, 12 and 13. Any other questions?”

Hot Mess Victim calls out, “I can’t give my speech next week, Professor. My Mom died, remember? I have to go home for the funeral.”

Words of sympathy fill the room. I’m sure Hot Mess Victim has regularly posted her tales of woe across social media. I do not disclose that her mom is alive and well. When I contacted the counseling center out of concern for Hoss Mess Victim, the head therapist told me that that student’s mom dies every semester. Their office checks. The woman is alive and concerned.

“I can’t do mine either, Professor. You know I have a game.” Scholarship Athlete Pretender, who needs at least a C in every course to retain his scholarship, is adament. “You said I could give my speech the week after.”

I nod. “Yes. I said that. But your outline is still due next class.”

Scholarship Athlete Pretender groans and rolls his entire body in his seat. “That’s bullshit.”

I ignore him. I do say, “The syllabus you received weeks before the course started clearly provided all deadlines.”

“I can’t print it,” Verbose Victim restates.

I taste the blood from my cheek. “Nevertheless, you can read it and put the deadlines in your calendar.”

“Do we need a works cited page?” Duck Face Pretender asks.

“Yup,” I respond. “As I said this morning. And in the syllabus. And in the online forum. And on the class web page.” I wonder if I would have been happier as a florist. Perhaps.

Ghost with the Sunglasses groans his sole question of the semester, “When is the speech due?”

I don’t answer. I can’t. My words will be nothing but Narrow-Eye Victim fodder as I have shifted to screw this.

“My outline’s going to be late, Professor,” Social Warrior Victim says. “I told you I have vacation planned. And I’ll be on a plane during speeches. They don’t even have internet on the plane — so I can’t even present virtually. What do you intend to do to accommodate me?”

I swallow my cheek blood. I close my eyes. I say, “Nothing. Your vacation plans are not my problem.” I know I’ll be called to the carpet for that one. Narrow-Eye Victim presses a button on his phone with a smug nod. I continue, “Your speech is due when it’s due. Aside from an athletic waiver, or a doctor’s note, I expect you to present on the due date.”

Social Warrior Victim never relents. “The school policy allows for late work. Your syllabus specifically denies that possibility. What do you say to that?”

“I say the school policy allows me that discretion. I say that you had the syllabus weeks before this class began and it was within your right to take the course with a professor with a schedule more inline with your social plans. All speeches are due at the same time, so it’s fair. If you are late, I will penalize you.”

“And no extra credit?” Digital Clock Victim asks. She’s the one at the start of the semester who looked pained when I gestured to the analog clock on the wall. She announced the clock was biased because she and her peers could not read analog clocks.

I wince at the memory. “No extra credit.” I consider how most of the class failed the first ten open book, open note, take it until you pass quizzes. Failed. The highest grade among those failures was a sixty. Four students received perfect scores on all ten quizzes. You guess who those four were. Four others squeaked by with low eighties. I-just-can’t.

I used to abuse myself for that level of performance. I don’t anymore. Years ago, the percentages were different. I had twelve Reasons. The odd Ghost. The one Victim. Some Pretenders. But the world has changed. Higher education has changed. And I need to move on. I don’t belong here anymore. And I know many of my peers feel the same.

Tenacity will be my downfall. I say, “Your education is in your control. I’m merely a guide. A sage, so to speak.”

“An herb?” Freshman Victim asks with an impossible sincerity.

My impetus is to ignore the painful blurt. Yet, I cannot control my own retort. “A dictionary will help you learn other meanings for the word sage. A sage in the manner in which I used it is an expert who guides and advises others.”

Freshman Victim, wide-eyed, adds, “Oh, so as an attorney, you are teaching us how to be logical and argue and all of that?”

Is she asking or stating? I do not know. Each semester, I forgo income at my office for the paltry sum the profitable, non-profit university deems is a fair wage for the hours I spend creating my course, lecturing, advising, assessing, and supporting those who have purchased a passing grade. I never stood at the lectern for money. Or glory.

But I am selfish.

I am here for the Four Reasons remaining. Nothing is more rewarding than watching a student learn, realize. To see his or her eyes widen with recognition. To witness a student win a debate. Persuade with confident and power. But my enthusiasm is waning. It’s taken me twenty years to conclude my effort is madness.

Artist Reason raises her drawing for me to consider. She smiles and says, “I’m going to argue the United States should eliminate the Federal Reserve.”

Maybe I can teach one more semester.