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.