Politics: It's What's for Dinner

Somehow the necessities of life—sustenance and procreation—have become a part of the political arena. I would imagine that the politics surrounding food stemmed originally from greed: I want the food that you have, and I'm more powerful than you are, so I'm going to take it. This is supported by the stretch of the British Empire: they waged war for spices, tea, and, well, opium.

So then it should come as no surprise that Twenty-First Century comestibles should be political as well. But the politics is somehow different: it's not the politics of aggression, but the politics of apology. As I graze through the aisles of my local natural foods market, I am surrounded by products that are created in such a way that offends no group, plant or animal. (My wallet pays the price for this luxury.) The shelves are lined with wheat-free, gluten-free, dairy-free, casein-free, soy-free, cruetly-free, organic, vegan styrofoam that has caused no harm to the earth or its inhabitants (except, perhaps, our taste buds).

I can't help but feel that our culture is overcompensating, much in the way most European countries have banned capital punishment after hundreds of years of sporting heads on pikes. Is it possible that man has quenched his urge to conquer and consume?

Derailed

My very first teacher dream was of utter unpreparedness. During the summer I showed up at the school that had just hired me wearing some attire reminiscent of lazy college afternoons. I had expected to set up my classroom, but instead entered a room brimmed with students. "Teach us," they said, "We're ready to learn." Learn? Learn what? I had no syllabus; I had no game plan.

This dream—or variations thereof—has been the most frequently recurring since I began teaching over three years ago. (Yes, I still have teacher dreams over the summer and on long breaks. My boss, who has been on this side of the desk for over three decades, confessed to me that he still suffers from teacher dreams as well.)

Today my teacher dream was realized. I was, of course, prepared and expecting to teach students today. In fact, I was overprepared. All of our course documents, calendars, and readings are posted on Blackboard; I had intended to make our course entirely paperless. Murphy, however, had other plans. Blackboard didn't work. I had no syllabus; my game plan was shot. I moved onto Plan B—I attempted to bring up the vital documents from my USB stick—but neither MS Word nor Adobe would run without crashing. I began to sweat as eleven physics and comp sci majors watched this twentysomething "professor" (or is she a TA?) struggle to operate a PC. I eventually moved onto Plan C: the students began their diagnostic essay—I read the assignment aloud—while I jumped from computer to computer until I found one willing to cooperate with my USB stick. And then I printed copies of the syllabus and collated and stapled them.

The rest of the session went fine, but I regret this unfavorable first impression my students now have of me. I keep flashing back to my fall students' comments on their evaluations: many stated that the course was well structured and the instructor well organized. But my new students don't know that! A bad day in the middle of the semester is just an off day; a bad day to begin the semester sets an expectation of incompetence. Blech.

Let's hope tomorrow goes better. (I have hard copies, just in case.)

Great Expectations

It has become a common occurrence for faculty and students alike to ask me if I'm doing graduate work. (While teaching five courses?) Just today a recent PhD recipient asked me if I was working toward my PhD. "Why would I get a PhD," I thought, "just to do what you do?" And, piggishly, "Especially if I already do it better?"

Is it so ghastly to be a twenty-something professor with no short-term aspirations of earning a PhD? Does it make me unambitious to not want to give up a job I love...only to return to it after a few years of returning to the pseudopoverty of academia?

My readers who are still entrenched in—or have recently escaped from—higher education, I ask you: am I really such an oddity?

Embracing Stereotypes

As a teacher I've spent a good deal of classroom time combating stereotypes. They can be mean, they can be hurtful, and sometimes they can even be true.

A true stereotype that makes me laugh—often—is about one of my former students who was a native Chinese speaker: the title of his proposal paper was "Illegal Downloads Nonono."

Really, where do I begin helping him rename that title?

Cold Feet

Winter session begins tomorrow. The group of students I will teach this semester will be my fifth; still I have an overwhelming anxiety about the first day of school. Really, this is preposterous: thirteen years of public school, eight semesters of undergrad, and nine semesters of graduate school should compound with these five terms to make the first day a breeze. And still I get cold feet.

So I sent out an announcement to let my winter students know that our classroom has moved. "I look forward to seeing you tomorrow!" I lied. Really, I don't look forward to it at all—not only do I love the freedom of sleeping until noon, but I harbor an irrational fear of the eleven unknown names on my roster.

That's what it is: the fear of the unknown. What if the roster is brimmed with eleven illiterates? Eleven degenerates? Eleven felons? (Still, I've taught worse.)

Then I checked my email and saw that I had a response from one of my winter students. "Hi! My name is Lu," she wrote. "Thank you for letting us know. I am glad to see you tomorrow, too."

And suddenly starting over doesn't seem so bad.

Have a holly, jolly Christmas

It's no surprise that I'm not a fan of Christmas music. In fact, mere minutes of it trigger my homicidal reflex. (This probably stemmed from working retail in high school; the Gap's 45-minute loop of poppy Christmas songs is something from which I may never recover.)

But just when I thought I couldn't get more cynical, I stumbled upon this article about the secularization of Christmas through Christmas music.

Another interesting thought about the great American gift card exchange.

Happy Festivus.

Why speling is impotent

In an email from a student explaining why he missed my office hours today:

Sorry...I got raped up in my take home philosophy final.

That really shouldn't be as funny as it is.