Not Making the Grade

Yesterday was one of the most difficult days of my teaching career.  I have vented and raged about the ethical standards of my students but I truly believe that if they genuinely faced the dilemma of having a meth-addicted, bodega-robbing, serial-killing roommate, they would actually call the number listed at the bottom of the screen on America’s Most Wanted. 

I really like these kids (except for Jackass Kareless and he’s gone now – la, la, la!).  They participate, they’re enthusiastic, and most of them work very hard.  They often stop by during office hours to talk about what’s going on in their lives and ask for advice on everything from how to improve their writing to how to balance work, school, and life because, apparently, I soooo have it together on that.  Oh, how that misconception would change if they could see the stack of dishes in my kitchen and the floors that are only swept when all the windows are open and there’s a strong cross-breeze. 

While they were off last week wearing beer helmets and competing in Best Buns on the Beach contests, I graded their papers.  I could tell that they put a lot of effort into these papers.  Despite clunkers like the ones I talked about on Monday, most of the papers showed a slight improvement from the ones they turned in several weeks ago.  One of the papers showed incredible improvement.  And that was the problem: the improvement just wasn’t credible.  So I showed some of the questionable phrases to my friend Google, and Google told me that the paper was plagiarized.  Google is smart that way. 

When Google rendered its verdict, my stomach dropped and my breakfast felt as if it had overstayed its welcome.  On the first day of class, we had discussed plagiarism: what it is, what it isn’t, and what happens if they plagiarize.  While my class is relaxed and I am lenient regarding some issues like eating in class (apparently verboten in some classrooms), I am inflexible about others.  I have repeatedly made it very clear that if you are ten minutes late to class, you are marked absent.  All paper deadlines are strictly enforced.  And there is zero tolerance for plagiarism.  Zero.  Zilch.  None.  The only thing worse than plagiarism is calling me during Grey’s Anatomy.  Do not call me during Grey’s Anatomy. 

I felt sick to my stomach.  I broke into a sweat.  I wanted to cry.  I felt guilty.  What had I done to make this student feel he couldn’t come to me to discuss whatever problems he was having writing this paper?  There are certain students who know they have issues with writing and staying focused (because I have told them repeatedly), and we have weekly appointments at Starbucks to discuss their progress and any problems they are having.  Why not this student?  Didn’t he think I could help?  Doesn’t he like coffee?  I felt like a failure. 

I met with the student.  I heard his side of it.  And yes, I cried.  Not that the student’s story was particularly moving, but because I knew that failing this student was going to have an impact in his life.  Not the impact I envisioned when I became a teacher.  I do not imagine myself as Michelle Pfieffer in Dangerous Minds or Joe Clark in Lean on Me.  I am not Hillary Swank trying to have my students write the trauma of their lives and turn it into life changing realizations, and besides I don’t have a freakishly square jaw.  My school is more of a cross between the school in Clueless and Mark Harmon’s Summer School.  (Yes, I’m old.  I think we established that several posts ago.  Get over it).  I’m just me.  I’m just trying to teach them how to read and think critically. 

I suppose I should’ve given the student props for critically reading the piece he plagiarized and realizing it was much better than anything he could’ve written.  Then again, this was one of the students that justified taking the twenty dollars from a lost wallet.  Is it any wonder that stealing someone else’s words was acceptable?

Even though I felt that sticking to my guns was the best thing for the student by not allowing him to use certain issues in his life as an excuse to just give up, I felt like the worst human being and teacher in New York City.  It was with this attitude that I went to see my mentor.  And yes, I cried.  She listened sympathetically and then told me to grow some balls and get a grip.  And I did.  Until the student sent me an email thanking me for being such a wonderful teacher and for caring enough about him to do the right thing. 

So yeah, I still feel like crap.  But I’m going to see a doctor.  Tomorrow is Thursday and the goings on at Seattle Grace will make everything okay when I get my weekly fix of my favorite hunk-o-rama duo McSteamy and McDreamy.  So if you want to tell me I did the right thing or berate me for being a heartless bitch, have at it.  Just don’t call me during therapy Grey’s Anatomy.

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Quittin’ Time!

Quitting my job was not nearly as interesting or amusing as the daily drama on Gossip Girl or The Real Office Workers of New York City – waa?  That’s not a real show?  It should be!  Bravo, I’m going to give you your next big hit.  Forget about the whiny, plastic, unbelievably irritating women in the other NYC reality show you air.  No, the other one.  No, the other one.  With your Orange County show, the women were mildy amusing but the NYC women are simply nauseating.  It’s more like Lifestyles of the Bitch and Famous rather than a reality show featuring pampered women with too much time on their hands.  If I saw one of them on the street, I’d probably direct my cab to run them down.  Bravo, I can do sooo much better for you. A small advance and I’ll submit the script to you by next week. 

Anyway, when I started working for Mrs. Garrett she acknowledged that the position was substantially underpaid and, in full disclosure, informed me that my predecessor made almost four thousand dollars more than I did even though I would be doing a lot more work.  More work, less pay, less filling, tastes great!  You know how they say illegal immigrants often take jobs that American citizens won’t take?  Yeah, well, they would take a pass on this one and head straight to the California lettuce fields.  Mrs. Garrett’s salary revelation should have triggered a Code Orange alert in my brain but she promised a flexible work schedule that would allow me to work on my Master’s degree and continue teaching.  When Pap threw in health benefits and tuition reimbursement as some of the perks I was sold.  Mrs. Garrett seemed apologetic about the pittance offered and blamed the poor salary on union rules, office politics, the university’s budget deficit, the NFL salary cap, and the rising price of gym memberships.  For the record, other than sending me on scavenger hunts in the rain, Mrs. Garrett is the ideal hands-off boss; no micro-managing or nitpicking and she was truly appreciative of my work.  Unfortunately, her managerial skills are non-existent.  She is the leader of an office that epitomizes dysfunctional.  For me, The Office was not merely mind candy, it was reality TV.  Being relatively new to our Institute of Higher Learning Mrs. Garrett looks to Pap, the Personnel and Budget Wizard, to make all of the personnel and payroll decisions because, well, that’s Pap’s job. 

Pap, however, is truly evil.  Or, if not evil, at the very least malignant like a Testse fly or a tick; a voracious, engorged, blood-sucking, Lyme disease carrying tick.  Pap is quiet and unassuming in appearance except for the elaborate scarves she wears 80s style with the corner over one shoulder and a big ol’ glitterty brooch on the other.  I can only assume her scarves are part retro fashion statement and part utility – not only does she pay tribute to the 80s, but she can also avoid the slow assed elevators in our building by parachuting to the sidewalk ten flights below.  I think the scarves also come in useful for the office magic shows where Pap’s slight of hand makes your vacation time and benefits disappear with a flick of her nimble wrist and a snap of her magic scarf.  Now you see ‘em, now you don’t.  Two weeks after I started working at the office, I asked about my health benefits and tuition reimbursement.  Pap looked confused as if I’d spoken in Klingon and said that she didn’t know what I was talking about.  Frustrated, I talked to Mrs. Garrett who told me to talk to Pap. Again, with a confused look, Pap shrugged her scarf bedecked shoulders and threw her hands up in a semblance of frustration.  I would quickly come to realize that this gesture was merely an attempt to deflect any lightning bolts headed her way.  Words you will never hear Pap say:  “If I’m lyin’, I’m dyin’” and “May God strike me dead if ….” Pap has mastered the art of innocent angst, looking worried and concerned when she knows very well she has fucked you over.

Other than Pap, only one other person in my department made things difficult.  Juicy.  Juicy takes up space in the front office and occasionally dabbles at helping out the other head honcho in the department.  Juicy was not evil like Pap.  Whereas Pap was a machete in between the shoulder blades, Juicy was merely mace in your eye: an unrelenting irritant.  It’s not that Juicy hindered my work, but that she would do no work at all.  This left her with a lot of time on her hands to meddle, interfere with everyone else’s ability to get work done, and invent heroic stories of her own inexorable diligence.  When Juicy wasn’t updating her Myspace page or adding pictures to her Match.com profile, she was on the phone with her boyfriend complaining about how much work she did and how little work everyone else did. 

I had my own office down the hall several doors away from Juicy’s prying eyes.  I suppose that Pap isn’t the only one with magical powers because apparently Juicy could see through walls and watch me painting my nails, reading People, and napping instead of diligently working to reschedule a meeting or plan a peasant uprising.  That I was in my office busily working hours before she arrived in her latest Juicy couture, drenched in Juicy cologne, and spackled with glitter eye shadow did nothing to quell her gossip: she knew what I was up to in there.  I’m assuming it’s the multiple layers of pink and green Urban Decay donning her upper lids that made her two hours late for work every day.  I certainly don’t underestimate the one-eyed effort each eyelid demanded, and never would have expected for her to leave for work until she felt she had made her very best effort to paint a perfect slice of watermelon over each eye.  Two.  Hours.  Every.  Day. 

In spite of Pap and Juicy I enjoyed my job.  When I began to organize programs and work with the head honchos of the various academic departments, my job really began to be so much more fun.  I loved being the liaison between my office and all the other departments.  I also worked with officials and organizations from other schools, did research, prepared reports, organized departmental reviews, fixed Mrs. Garrett’s computer woes, of which there were many, watered her plants, got her lunch, and was in the early stages of brokering a Mideast Peace agreement.  In other words, none of this was in my job description but all of it was interesting and rewarding.  I was kept busy from the time I arrived until I left.  I never missed a deadline, Mrs. Garrett said I was indispensable, and I got great reviews until… there’s always an “until,” isn’t there?  Until I asked for a raise.  The earth ground to a halt.  You may have felt it.  I didn’t mean to tamper with the earth’s orbit but apparently my request just rocked their world.  They hemmed and hawed for a while and then said that in order to give me a raise, they’d have to give me a new title and according to some arcane union rules, this means that I would have to re-interview for my job, which I did.  At my re-interview I was told how much they liked my work, how others speak so well, of me, blah, blah, blah, and then I was informed that the “new” job would have more responsibility.  In addition to my already packed day they wanted me, among other things, to consult with students and work on curriculum matters.  Oh, and they also wanted to extend my workday.  Which meant not being able to continue teaching or finishing my Master’s. 

When I asked if the increase in responsibility and the additional hours tacked onto the workday came with an increase in salary, their faces screwed up in distaste as if I had just farted and waved it in their direction with the tail end of Pap’s scarf.  The answer was no, although Mrs. Garrett said it with a smile as if gently chiding a small child.  Pap smirked. 

So, after discussing it with Mr. Dingo — who was supportive in my decision to tell them to take their new job and kiss my ass — I went into Mrs. Garrett’s office a few days later and told her that I couldn’t accept the new terms and that I was quitting.  I don’t think she was expecting that response.  Her eyes got all big and round, she gasped for air once or twice, and a little bit of foamy drool appeared in one corner of her mouth as she turned both shades of Juicy’s eyelids. 

It’s been two weeks since I quit and in that time I’ve managed to do some much needed work on my thesis.  More importantly, I’ve been able to surf the Internet and add new blogs to my Google Reader.  My office spy, a/k/a Gay Best Friend, is also seeking to escape from the Venus Lie Trap and frequently reports that Mrs. Garrett has yet to find a new assistant.  It’s busier than ever around there and, without an assistant, Mrs. Garrett is a hot mess trying to stay on top of things.

I ran into Mrs. Garrett yesterday while on my way to the park for my morning run.  She looked like the seven-layer special at Dante’s bakery.  I asked if she was still working out in the mornings and she said that there wasn’t any time, she’s working fifteen-hour days and it’s busier than ever before.  Then she said, “You should stop by some time.” Um, right.  Although she didn’t say it, I could see the thought bubble floating in the air between us that said, “and please, for the love of God bring me some lunch!”

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Making It Work

I’ve used Mr. Dingo’s absence this week to catch up on my reality TV and fashion make-over shows.  They are not my usual fair.  No, really.  They are more like guilty pleasures that I watch when I need some mind candy.  Mr. Dingo tries to steer me away from these shows because I am living proof that entertainment as advertising works.  I can resist subliminal advertising but blatantly yell, “Buy this!” while holding up a pair of black suede pumps and I’ll respond, “Okay!” After these fashion shows I am convinced that everything I wear is not appropriate for my body type, personality, age, or color palette.  And the plastic surgery shows?  I think Mr. Dingo is looking into installing a V-chip on our cable box.  I can’t watch one of these shows without thinking that a little diet and exercise…and liposuction…and an eye lift…and butt booster…are completely acceptable ways to continue to eat Peeps and lose a few pounds.  Here are a few of my favorites:

How do I look? Finola Hughes, the Barbara Walters of the fashion make-over realm, likes to dig deep to the psyche to find the real reasons their target for the week wears paisley culottes with a plaid satin blouse.  The target always ends up in tears.  I don’t have a deep dark secret. I’m just convinced that I’ll fit back into my size sixes in a few months and I hate shopping.  My friend Sunny is my only shopping buddy. She has a way of making me enjoy shopping.  It’s not a leisurely waste of the day expedition but a “wham, bam, buy that m’am” extreme sport.  She has an eye for fashion, taste, and simplicity.  And speed.  We can hit Old Navy, Anthropology, Ann Taylor, and Urban Outfitters in the time it takes for a governor to be brought down by a sex scandal.  Maybe even faster.

What Not To Wear. I know what not to wear.  Anything in my closet.

Tim Gunn’s Guide to Style. This show is terrible.  I’m disappointed in Mr. Gunn but I’ve taken his words to heart. His words from Project Runway. 

“Make it Work” has become my motto as I try to find something to wear in the morning.  I fumble and grumble through my closet and pick out what’s clean, non-wrinkled, and can fit without camel-toe and gaping buttons. 

Make it Work to make it to work.  That issue may soon be moot.  My boss has decided, in spite of the agreement we had when I accepted the job nine months ago, that she wants me to work longer hours and take on more responsibility with no increase in pay.  It’s not in the budget.  What?  I already work for peanuts…wait, let me rephrase, I went grocery shopping earlier this week and I saw the price of peanuts.  Those things are expensive!  It’s more like I work for…dryer lint…yes, that’s right, dryer lint.  Actually, even if they would increase my pay from dryer lint to, let’s say, belly button fuzz, I still wouldn’t be able to stay.  Extending my hours beyond the 35-hour week I already have would conflict with my teaching schedule.  I love teaching.  With teaching assignments so hard to come by, I’m not about to jeopardize my placement.

Believe me, I like my job and I do it well, often going above and beyond the call of duty.  She needed her suit picked up from Bloomingdale’s during the only snow storm we’ve had this year.  I did it.  She wanted a venti-white mocha-skim-no whip-wet-cappuccino and the cappuccino machine at the closest Starbucks was broken.  I walked eight blocks to the next Starbucks.  In the rain.  Without an umbrella.  Other NYC neighborhoods have a Starbucks on every corner and sometimes even just across the street from each other. Our next closest Starbucks is in another zip code.  Another time zone.  Another dimension.  I can’t even tell you how many times she has had me traipse all over the city trying to locate a particular type of tulip, orchid, Japanese coin plant, or shrub of the moment to thank a colleague.  In the rain.  She seems to like assigning field trips when it’s raining.  I’m rather fortunate that I haven’t electrocuted myself as I typed her thank you notes and meeting minutes with my hair dripping onto the keyboard.  Did I tell you that I was an office assistant and not a personal assistant?  Yeah, sometimes I think she forgets that too.

She’s actually not that bad to work for.  She’s certainly no Devil Wears Prada.  She’s more like Mrs. Garrett Wears St. Johns.  In addition to Mrs. Garrett, my office has an interesting cast of characters.  There’s Juicy, our self-titled fashionista who thinks that Juicy Couture is actually that and can’t stop talking about her Juicy perfume, her Juicy purse, her Juicy jewelry and anything else she can append the Juicy name to.  Sorry, hon.  I don’t care who made your velour track suit.  Inappropriate for the office.  Oh, and Juicy, consistently coming in at 11am and then asking your already overworked office mates to help you with your work is not going over well.  How you get away with it I’ll never know.  I suppose it’s because your Juicy perfume is so strong that no one can get close enough to actually talk to you about your lack of punctuality.  Mrs. Garrett could send an email to you but I don’t think you are off Facebook or Match.com long enough to check your office email.  Then there’s Passive-Aggressive Pat.  I call her Pap for short.  She’s as intrusive as a gyno exam and as warm as a speculum.  Weezy, Sassy, and The Disappearing Man round out the crew.  There are at least ten other people in my office but they’re all normal.

There was so much to tell you.  Academia is not the civil environment you would think.  There’s enough backstabbing and political maneuvering to keep Wonkette blogging for days.  I will have to save my workplace musings for my tell-all memoir. Teaching and working on my thesis will keep me plenty busy, but now that I’ll never move from dryer lint to peanuts, I will have to put off wardrobe updates and plastic surgery for another day.  No matter, I can make it work.

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