As good as it gets?

Lately when my brain stops wallowing in the murky financial swamp long enough to take a frightened glance toward the future, I keep hearing the voice of Jack Nicholson, who, in the 1997 film As Good as it Gets, stuns a room full of psychiatric patients by confronting them with the question What if this is as good as it gets?

Well, what if it is?

Given the College's current budget crunch, the looming decline in high school graduates, and the few years I have remaining before I hang up my dry-erase markers for good, it's possible that I'll never get another pay raise, and if things get dire enough, I may eventually be looking at a pay cut. It's too late to go out on the job market (and there are no jobs anyway), so it looks like I'll be slogging away at a struggling institution until I run out of steam and grind to a halt.

Thanks to years of experience in making ends meet, I am confident that I will survive despite the dire forecast. I didn't become an English professor to get rich (because that would be stupid) and I have enough socked away to keep us from living in a cardboard box under a bridge. I'm more concerned about the emotional toll of finishing my career not with a bang but a whimper. I guess I thought I still had mountains to climb and rewards to seek, but it looks like I may have quietly passed the pinnacle of my career some time ago and I'm now looking at a slow downhill slide--which beats being pushed off a cliff, but it's kind of sad that those seem to be the only available options.

It's a mistake, of course, to equate income with success, and I've certainly earned enough accolades over the years to feel good about the work I do. I can point to the number of students I've helped to achieve their goals, including several who have gone on to grad school, found wonderful careers, and even earned tenure (although that makes me feel old).

What if this is as good as it gets? Well, it's pretty good. Good enough, anyway. But it's really hard to give up the hope that at some point in the future things could get a whole lot better. 

Desperately seeking solutions for surreptitious surveillance situations

This week I uncovered an unusual situation in one of my classes and I can't decide whether my students are out of line or whether I'm an old fogey who needs to get with the program. Maybe there's a middle ground? Help me decide:

I was reading a draft when I saw some familiar words: instead of analyzing a particular work of literature, the student was summarizing what I'd said about the work in class. Now it's not unusual for students to parrot back some version of my words, but since that kind of paper usually doesn't engage in any real analysis, it generally earns a Very Bad Grade. But this was different: this time I saw entire sentences that I distinctly recall coming out of my mouth in class. I can imagine that this might happen if the student took very good notes, but in fact I've never actually seen this student write anything down in class--he just sits there staring at his laptop screen. So how did he reproduce a whole paragraph of my words?

Because he's recording class sessions to listen to later. And, as it turns out, he's not the only one: a whole mess of students are choosing to record my classes instead of taking notes or engaging in discussion. Someone suggested that maybe they got in the habit of recording classes on Zoom and they can't break free of the habit now that we're face-to-face, which seems plausible, but I want it to stop and I want it to stop right now. 

One voice in my head says we live in a digital age so students are accustomed to learning experiences mediated by machines so I should just get over myself and let them do whatever works, but a louder voice reminds me that what they're doing isn't working: they're not taking notes or engaging in the class as it happens, and then they're echoing my words instead of thinking independently. Studies show (I think? Citation needed!) that we remember more of what we write down than what we merely hear, but maybe this generation doesn't learn that way? Or maybe they're listening to recordings of my class over and over until they've memorized the material? Or maybe they're editing snippets together to make me sound like a raving lunatic? (It wouldn't be that difficult.)

I'm fumbling around for reasons to make them stop because the primary reason is that being recorded creeps me out. I don't like having my photo taken or being videotaped or recorded in any way, which is one reason teaching on Zoom was such a soul-destroying experience, and being recorded without my permission feels like a massive violation. If I outlaw laptops in the classroom, they'll use their phones, and I'm not going to go around asking students to empty their pockets to prove that they're not surreptitiously recording the class. I just want them to be fully present and engage in the moment instead of putting off their learning until they can listen to the recording. 

So I talked to the Associate Provost for Talking Faculty Off the Ledge, who promised that an email would go out reminding all students that recording people without their permission is not okay. That reminder is unlikely to deter anyone, so what then? Do I carry on as usual and hope for the best, or do I become the Classroom Recording Police looking for opportunities to confiscate their electronic devices? Or is there some better way? 

I can't make a reasonable decision when I'm this upset, so I'm accepting suggestions. Are my students out of line--or am I?

 

Probably shouldn't be writing about this but "transparency" is the word of the day

One advantage of being raised by wolves is a highly-developed ability to adapt to adverse circumstances, an ability that allowed me to sit calmly through a faculty meeting in which we learned that the budget crisis that we knew was coming has arrived and it's worse than expected. This is tough but I can survive this is what I kept telling myself, and I hope it's true but it doesn't help those whose jobs are now in danger.

We're all taking a hit, even top administrators--and when the admins taking a pay cut, you know there's a problem. Some programs will struggle to survive because they won't be able to fill open positions, and some non-tenure-track instructors will not have their contracts renewed--and those unfortunate people, many of whom were sitting in the room at the time, will be informed of their non-renewal by March 1, a fact that precipitated a massive collective gasp. Another collective gasp happened when we were told that the College will stop matching our pension contributions, effective as soon as they can make the computers switch to check-chomping mode.

I was impressed by my rock-star colleagues who were able to calmly ask reasonable questions and press for further information. If I'd tried to speak up in that fraught moment I would have either whimpered in fear or bared my teeth to attack, further results of being raised by wolves. Today the mood on campus is somber, as well it should be. Those of us who have been here long enough recall the previous budget crisis and the one before that, and some of us are remembering the valued colleagues whose lives were turned upside down just a few short years ago. We survived that, I tell myself, but then comes the kicker--Some of us didn't.

The Rime of the Ancient English Professor

So I'm sitting in my office trying to finish grading the last couple of composition essays when suddenly, without warning, the power goes out.

What to do? I need to get the papers graded before the weekend so I can get out of town and see the grandkids, but my laptop no longer runs on battery power and I have to stay close to my office in case the fix-it dudes show up so I sit in a chair out in the hallway and plug the laptop into the wall and try to continue grading despite the fact that people keep stopping to chat, and then a student comes by to ask me to fill out a reference so she can volunteer at the local hospital, which I am happy to do except the form is due the next day so I promise to fax it in right away, but when I try to do that I discover that the ancient fax machine in our department office has been possessed by demons and sits like an albatross around our necks serving no purpose but to remind us of the futility of all human endeavor. (Coleridge could make a poem about that but I'm not Coleridge so don't get your hopes up.)

So I'm scrambling around trying to find the email address of the volunteer coordinator so I can send over a scan of the reference form before the end of the day when the fix-it dudes show up to restore power to my office, but by this time I need to hie me across campus while gripping a rapidly disintegrating umbrella so I can cheer on my colleagues who are receiving awards at our annual Founders Day Celebration. My applause may be a bit damp, but it's definitely heartfelt.

And all this on a day when problems seem to pour down like rain all around me. At one meeting, I'm held up as an example of what's wrong with our college (really? harmless little me?), and at another I watch as a colleague dashes out of the meeting in tears because of a scary (but probably unfounded) rumor. My daughter calls to report that one of the grandkids has a fever but the Covid test was negative so I may want to reconsider my plan to visit this weekend, except I really don't want to reconsider because next weekend is impossible and I haven't seen the grandkids since Christmas and I really need to get out of town, but what if the Covid test was a false negative? 

And the rain keeps falling and the wind keeps blowing long into the night, and this morning we awake to a wet debris-strewn world. Our new roof escaped damage and the driveway isn't under water, but many low-lying areas along the Muskingum River are suddenly part of the river. It's a bit disconcerting to see my car's headlights reflecting on water where no water is expected to be. 

But I am now safely back in my office, equipped with full power and a functioning umbrella, and all I have to do before I can leave town is grade those last few composition essays and teach four classes and prep Monday's classes and get an update on the sick grandkid (just in case!) and hope that by midafternoon I'll be heading out of town. If not, I'll have to drape that albatross around my neck and wander around obsessively telling my tale of woe to anyone who will listen--starting with you. 

 

My good deed for the day, Superbowl edition

Is it inhumane to give a 9 a.m. literature class an unannounced reading quiz on the day after the Superbowl? And does it make a difference if the hometown team lost?

Let me qualify those questions a bit: The quiz was not entirely unannounced. Last Friday I told my American Lit Survey students that they should keep in mind the characteristics of modernism we've been talking about as they read Susan Glaspell's Trifles, because if they had a reading quiz that information would be useful. The hint was there for the taking, but apparently some students didn't take it or got distracted. (Probably by the Superbowl.)

And it's not entirely true that the Bengals are the hometown team. Cincinnati is more than three hours' drive from here, and locals tend to be loyal to the Cleveland Browns. However, Joe Burrow grew up in a small town about 40 minutes away and has been hailed as a local hero because of his vocal support for Appalachian Ohio's food banks, so Bengals Fever has been strong locally. (One symptom: our governor temporarily changed the name of Burr Oak State Park to Burrow Oak. Ha!)

A former student of mine who teaches at a Cincinnati high school has the day off today. Classes were cancelled because who would show up? But we are serious scholars relentlessly pursuing enlightenment without regard for outside distractions, so all but one of my 8 a.m. composition students showed up for class. None of them looked particularly perky, but they were present! Rather than introducing new material, I gave them 40 minutes of class time to work on revising their papers that are due on Wednesday while I circulated around the room answering questions and offering guidance.

But at 9 I gave a reading quiz, because apparently I am a mean, heartless English prof who gets her jollies out of torturing students. Based on their responses, I would guess that half of the students read the play, which is not untypical, but even those who didn't read the play were able to say something about modernism, even if they weren't able to offer specific examples from the play. 

The way I see it, my students should thank me. Those who took the hint and prepared for the quiz enjoyed an opportunity to earn a good grade, while those who weren't prepared and bombed the quiz will have something to complain about for the rest of the day, and maybe for a few moments they'll be able to forget that Joe Burrow and the Bengals lost the Superbowl. That's my public service for the day. (You're welcome.)

Random bullets of buttermilk

I was having coffee with a colleague yesterday afternoon when my phone buzzed and presented this reminder: Valentina butyermilk. This enigmatic message was prompting me to stop at the grocery store on the way home to pick up some Valentine cards and buttermilk, but people who type with big clumsy thumbs on tiny smartphones ought to take the time to proofread. (My bad!) My colleague agreed that Valentina Buttermilk would be a great name for a character in a children's book, some large ungainly yak-like beast that wants to be a ballerina. Someone could make a pile of money on that idea but that someone will not be me.

I used the buttermilk to make a chocolate cake, part of my pantry-clearing effort. When my husband moved back here from Jackson and we combined households, suddenly the pantry was overflowing with duplicate items. I don't know how we ended up with five containers of paprika, four jars of peanut butter, or three containers of cocoa powder, all of them already opened, but what can't be combined is being dined on. Here's a box of graham-cracker crumbs, a can of cherries, and a can of sweetened condensed milk; add lemon juice and cream cheese and we've got that no-bake cherry-cream-cheese-pie that my mom used to make for special occasions. I loved it as a child, but last week's version was cloyingly sweet.

Yesterday's buttermilk chocolate cake made a dent in the cocoa powder supply--and it was scrumptiously rich, creamy, and satisfying--in fact, I have a piece in my office right now that will serve as a reward after I finish meeting with all my first-year composition students. Yesterday two-thirds of students showed up for their required conferences, and, as usual, the ones most in need of help on their drafts missed their meetings. But this morning I'm batting a thousand, so maybe this will be a better day.

It will definitely be a warmer day. The forecast calls for highs in the low 60s this afternoon, which will continue to melt the remaining snow while turning my ice-rink driveway into a mudslide. But I'll accept the warmth! Warmth is just what we need right about now, along with a little chocolate, a little comfort, a little Valentina Buttermilk.

A cold front in the classroom

It's February out there, folks, so the forecast is calling for waves of bad academic weather. At 8 a.m. we'll see a slow-moving mass of students unable to follow directions, followed at 9 by a brief flurry of obvious attempts at cheating, but everything will calm down by 11, when we'll see an influx of somnolent students barely able to open their mouths to discuss the reading.

And that is what we call a Wintry Mix: a little bit of awfulness in every class, all adding up to bone-chilling conditions not conducive to learning. It's the fourth week of the semester so the honeymoon is definitely over and we've settled in for that long winter slog through papers and reading assignments and exams that seem to stretch on for week after week after week, regardless of whether the groundhog sees his shadow. 

I came out of every class this morning wishing I could just keep walking out the door and never come back, but it's cold outside and I can't afford to retire, so soon enough there I was back in the classroom again attempting to move yet another group of students through the morning's material.

Classes were warm enough but progress was glacial. Students didn't read, didn't write, didn't bother to show up, or showed up in body but left their warm spirits elsewhere. I'd need something sharper than an ice-scraper to break through the indifference of certain students, but all I had were words and images. Some days that's enough. Today it clearly was not. 

But you know what they say about the weather in Ohio: If you don't like it, wait five minutes. The sun'll come out tomorrow! If we survive this mid-semester chill, at some point the outlook will be cloudy with a chance of comprehension, and I want to be here to see that.

Snow, blowing

Suppose you've been out using a snowblower and you later want to report on your activity; which verb would you choose?

I snowblew.
I snowblowed.
I have snowblown.

Inquiring minds want to know!

I, personally, do not own a snowblower so I have not snowblown, but I have been driven through blowing snow and did not like it one bit. A colleague told me he couldn't believe I'd driven to campus today and I said, "I didn't drive--I sat in the passenger's seat and bit my fingernails." 

My husband can drive through anything--Need someone to drive up the side of Mount Everest in the heart of winter? He's you're guy--but even he had to creep along at around 12 mph on the state highway this morning. My building is practically empty because many classes have been moved online, and it's clear that the cleaning crew did not make it to campus this morning. (Not that I blame them!) I'm teaching my classes face-to-face for those who can get here but opening the Zoom link for those who can't. This morning this resulted in one-third of my students showing up for class while the rest signed on to Zoom and either did or didn't pay attention.

These hybrid divided classes are the absolute worst. I have a few colleagues who are really good at dividing their attention between in-person and online students, but I stink at it, which makes me tense and prone to doing stupid stuff, like tripping over the camera tripod or accidentally muting myself. The fact that I'm willing to open Zoom to my students at all today shows just how awful the weather is. I only wish I could do this from home, which would save me a drive through blowing snow, sleet, freezing rain, ice, and rising floodwaters in area creeks and rivers, but since I'm here, I carry on as best I can. It's all I can do.

And now the snow is coming down again. Maybe I'll just curl up into the fetal position and let it blow on by.

 

Of ice and eagles

I should have known there was a reason no one had parallel-parked in that last remaining space near my building, but I pulled in anyway and then I tried to straighten my car out and discovered the problem: ice! I spun my brand-new Christmas tires briefly before deciding that my car was straight enough, and then I left it there in hopes that the ice will melt before I leave for home. With a full day's work ahead of me and temperatures rising into the 50s this afternoon, I'm hopeful.

Stopped by the Devola Dam yesterday afternoon and this morning to see bald eagles, which are present in abundance. A member of the local birding group reported seeing more than 40 eagles along a stretch of the Muskingum River over the weekend, including many juveniles congregating below the dam. And indeed there they were, a scrum of scraggly adolescents hanging out on the ice and occasionally taking wing, but the position of the sun made photos difficult so I just enjoyed the spectacle. The Muskingum is still icy in many places and my own little creek is totally iced over, but that will change soon.

February already! I'm collecting the first set of major papers in one class tomorrow and giving the first exam of the semester in another next Monday. So far classes are moving along pretty well, although my Place class let me know yesterday that they found Wendell Berry impenetrable (just one poem!), and about half of my American Lit Survey students failed to show up to discuss "Daisy Miller." If Daisy were an Instagram influencer trying to establish a personal identity amidst an unforgiving and judgmental society, my students would have plenty to say, but all we have to work with are words filtered through the perceptions of clueless observers, and where's the fun in that? 

This week I've been recommending to everyone Kate DiCamillo's YA novel The Magician's Elephant, which I devoured in about an hour of luminous delight. The impossible plot is conveyed with striking realism, and in the end a snowfall becomes a sign of hope and a promise of comfort. I accept every single impossible thing that happens in the novel, including the snow, but when I look out my window later on, I hope to see some melting ice so I can get my car moving. If the thaw doesn't come soon, someone's going to have to get out and push.