I CNT RITE - 4 REALZ

I’m amazed, just amazed, at what passes for writing at the university level these days. I am so sick of reading bad papers.  I think my eyes are bleeding.  I can understand that, as freshmen, my students have not yet developed critical reading and writing skills.  To not have mastered basic sentence construction, however, is unforgivable. How, how, how did these kids get into college?  Is my Institution of Higher Learning so desperate for tuition that we take anyone who can string together, “The dog ran after the ball,” in her writing sample?  Because, really, so many of my students have not advanced past that level.  Although it may just be my age showing, please tell me when it became acceptable to write an entire paper in LolCats?  Should I look the other way when I receive an email like the following?

Hi Prof.,

HRU?*
WH5 U HV HRS?

OOH,

Student

There is only one response to such an inquiry,

WTF?


Who is at fault for this crapola?  According the faculty member who gave me my review today (it went splendidly, thank you), most of our students are from New York City public schools.  Really.  That’s what he said.  Most of our students are from New York City public schools.  End.  Stop.  Period.  This, to him, was a wholly satisfactory explanation for their crappy papers.  When pressed, he did give me a more detailed explanation.  The finality and resignation with which he made this announcement prepared me for a rationalization involving some sort of Emerald Nuts shenanigans.  You know, something like the Swiss Family Robinson or the Addicted to Love Girls descending at 3:00pm to steal the young, vital brains of NYC youth.  But no, his explanation was far more bizarre. 

He claims that the reason I receive incoherent papers that make Dr. Seuss look like Dr. Zhivago is because NYC schools are overwhelmed, overworked, and understaffed.  There isn’t enough feedback on writing assignments and English homework to teach students the correct way to write a sentence, form a thesis statement, or write a conclusion.  So, the students are passed along to the next level without mastering basic skills.  To this, I say, Bullshit.  To the teachers who don’t do their jobs. Bullshit.  To parents that are not involved in their child’s learning.  Bullshit.  To the students who accept mediocrity, hell, less than mediocrity, when it comes to their education.  Bullshit.  To the schools that are letting us down.  Bullshit.  To all this, I say, “Here’s a big, steaming pile of doo-doo!”

IMO,

WOMBAT.

Oh well.  IGTR.

L8R,

Dingo


Translation:

HRU? = How are you?
WH5 U HV HRS? = When are your office hours?
OOH = Out of here
WTF? = Oh, come on, you know what this means.
IMO = In my opinion
WOMBAT = Waste of money, brains, and time
IGTR = I got to run
L8R = Later

Leave a comment....

The Difference Between Undead and Un-Dead

I loved law school.  I loved words and reading and problem solving.  I loved all the things about law school that have nothing to do with the reality of practicing law at major New York City law firms.  The legal industry is like a whole-body root canal: it leaves your carcass and brain intact while extracting your soul.  Without anesthetic!  It’s zombification without the awkward amble.  If you’ve ever been in the conference room of an expensive, oh-so-purposefully intimidating conference room staring down opposing counsel across the wide expanse of a shiny mahogany table during a deposition, you know what I mean.  You can’t hear your own heart beat over the clickety-clack of the court reporter.  The floor-to-ceiling glass windows reveal an incredible view of a New York City that you never get to see during daylight hours, while the light filtering film prevents real sunlight from reaching your face.  And you realize, and you wonder how you didn’t realize this before: if it weren’t for the mold growing under your refrigerator you would have no life at all.

So I left the law.  I decided that I would rather teach about the undead than be one.  Now I teach horror fiction to undergraduates.  Every day is different.  Every class is different; each student with her own unique perspective on the issues we discuss and how it relates to her life.  And unlike being in court where everything you say has been scripted and planned in advance, I sometimes find myself at a loss for words.  This morning was one of those times:

Prof. Dingo:  Okay, team number 5, what five things — and five things only — would your team want if you were suddenly thrust into the middle of a horror movie?  And why?

Team leader:  Water.

Prof. Dingo:  Water?  Um, holy water?

Team leader:  No, just water.  We thought we’d get all dirty and smelly running from the monsters.

Prof. Dingo:  Okaaaay…..what else would you want?

Team leader:  Soap.

Prof. Dingo:  What would you do with —

Team Leader:  So we could wash up with the water.

Prof. Dingo:  Um, I don’t think you quite understood the point of this exercise —

Team leader (she’s really getting excited):  An electric car, matches, and a CHAINSAW!!

Prof. Dingo:  A chainsaw!  That’s good! But you already have five things what about gas for the chainsaw?

Team leader:  It needs gas?

Note to self:  You do not want to depend on these people in an emergency! 

Leave a comment....

Mo’ Confused

I’m supposed to meet with my thesis advisor in a few hours, but with the snow falling outside and predictions of sleet I’m desperately hoping that school is cancelled and we have to reschedule.  Thirty-something years old and I’m conjuring up the Snow Gods from junior high.  The incantation goes something like this, “Please, please, please, please, please, and I won’t ask for anything ever again!”

In the last week I’ve read three novels, two articles, and numerous academic texts on my subject.  I am sure that given Murphy’s Law of Students (you know, the one that determines that you will be asked a question based on the one thing you did not study) I will be asked to discuss a word I encountered only tangentially in my texts:  Möbius.

I had to look it up a gabajillion times to make sure I understood what the word meant but only the good Lord and Mr. Möbius can figure out how it applies to 18th century Gothic literature. This morning I decided that if I couldn’t discuss it with any coherency it would behoove me to, at the very least, know how to pronounce it correctly.  “Möbius,” for those of you dying to know, is pronounced mɶ-bee-uh s . 

Now there, wasn’t that helpful?  Yes, I thought so.

Leave a comment....