I Didn’t Have To Go To Starbucks For This One

The semester is almost over, thank dog.  I am worn out.  Two of my classes have been engaging and fun.  One class, my mouth breathers, have required every bit of patience — well, let’s just say that their ignorance is like a BP oil spill: the stupid won’t stop pouring out and, I swear, it’s not my fault!  I’ve had writing workshops, peer reviews, and intensive one-on-one writing sessions yet I still receive papers with insightful pronouncements like:

“Being a Christian has the promises of eternal salvation.  One day, when you kick the bucket, you will go to the city called Heaven.  Except, maybe not.  You might go to Heaven.  Unless there isn’t really a Heaven.  Then you will just be dead.  So sad.  So very, very sad. But this book isn’t about Christianity its about anarchy and there all going to hell anyway.”

And…

“Paul Whitman wrote Leafs of Grasses.  He was gay.  He had a beard because he had acne.  He is famous because he is the only gay poet in America.  If Paul Whitman were alive today he would be a gay poet with a beard.”

But the Troglodyte Of The Year Award goes to Beaker.  On the first day of class, my explanation of the syllabus was interrupted by a high-pitched “Meep!” from the back of the room.  All heads whipped to the hairy bespectacled Lorax sitting in the corner. 

“Excuse me?”

“Meep!” he replied, the lower half of his wooly Snuffleupagus-like visage partially hidden by the syllabus wedged between his saber-toothed incisors.  Meep!  Meep!  Meep!  I was a bit non-plussed by the truckload of trouble that seemed to be backing its way into my classroom. 

“I have autism!” he shouted through a mouthful of paper.

Beaker’s proclamation hovered over the room like a loud, liquidy shart in a crowded elevator.  No problem, I thought.  I’ve had autistic students in several of my classes.  What followed, however, was weeks of meeping when asked a question, spasmodic jerks at any mention of technology, and a host of other ticks and triggers that made teaching each and every class like being “It” while playing Simon Says in a minefield.

On one occasion, I asked the class a question about the day’s reading.  Beaker’s hand shot up.  Thinking it was one of his ticks, I called on someone else.  Beaker’s other hand shot up. 

“Beaker, do you want to respond?”

He nodded emphatically, eyes wide behind his dirty glasses.

“Okay, go ahead.”

Beaker slooooowly lowered his hands and covered his mouth as he spoke, fingers interlaced in a hairy-fingered web that trapped his words.

“Beaker, I can’t hear you.  Do you mind moving your hands?”

Beaker paused for a moment and then slooooowly raised his hands like a roman shade until his eyes were blocked from view.  His mouth continued to move.  No sounds emerged.  I sighed and called on someone else.

Beaker’s outbursts increased in frequency and intensity, often disrupting class.  I needed some advice: taser or baton?  So I went to the student disability office.  The student disability office Beaker was supposed to have registered with at the beginning of the semester.  The student disability office he said he registered with, between meeps, at the beginning of the semester.  The student disability office he didn’t register with at the beginning of the semester because he DOESN’T FUCKING HAVE AUTISM!

In fact, the student disability office informed me that Beaker had tried his autism routine in several other classes.  When confronted, Beaker fessed up, settled down, and didn’t utter another meep for the rest of the semester.  That’s right, Innernetz, Beaker doesn’t have autism.  At all.  Not even a little bit.  Not even the high-functioning-I’m-gonna-make-a-bazillion-dollars-on-a-world-dominating-computer-operating-system kind.  What he did have was the wrath of Dingo coming his way.

The next day, at the beginning of class, I announced that I had sent the entire class an email.  He meeped and flailed back and forth like a hairy piñata in a Santa Ana wind.  I ignored it and went on to mention that students could collaborate about their in-class presentations online.  Beaker twitched and jerked.  I suggested Tweets and Beaker grabbed a book from his desk and waved it in front of his face while making “tweet” sounds.  When I suggested that the groups befriend one another on Facebook, he screamed while smacking the book against his face.  I suggested instant messaging, bulletin boards, and online collaboration apps, but it wasn’t until I mentioned Skype that Beaker fell to the floor, exhausted and panting.  I then requested that he come see me during my office hours.

“Ms. Dingo? You wanted to see me?” He stepped into my office, hair poking through buttonholes and sleeves as if he’d bought his clothes at a minoxidil fire sale.

“Sit down, Beaker.” Beaker sat. 

“You don’t have autism.  You’re a faker,” I said getting to the point.  Barely restraining my glee about the water works and blubbering apologies that I just knew were about to spring from his lying lips, I reached for the tissues I keep by my desk for such occasions. 

“Um, is this about my papers?”

My hand paused mid-air.  I may or may not have made a fist.  He doesn’t have autism.  He did have stupid.

“No, Not Rain Man, this is not about your papers.  This is about the fact that you’ve been faking a developmental disorder and disrupting class.  What the hell, dude?!” I sat back mentally rubbing my hands together waiting for the groveling.  I’d worn my best shoes.  I find the tears of desperate penitents exceptional for buffing patent leather.

“Oh, yeah, that.  Does this affect my grade?” he asked.

“Meep!” I said.

He smiled a little.  “No, seriously, I can’t fail this class,” he said.  “This won’t affect my...?”

“Meep meep,” I said and froze, but for my left arm, which glacially moved a sheet of paper from the desk to the front of my face.  “Meep,” I repeated, until I was sure he had left.

Damn, I’ll be glad when this semester is over.

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