Today is my last day teaching my first English class at ODU. I wanted to wait to write about it until I knew how the semester went.
Getting the job (Adjunct English Professor) was difficult enough. I needed more graduate credits, so I took online courses through ECU. Note to self, and others who are thinking of going back to school: do it NOW. Waiting prolongs the inevitable. I've got to admit...I'm over the student thing. I'm done being the one who receives the grades. I'm too old, too set in my ways, and just too over it. Luckily, I applied to graduate with my graduate certificate last week.
Anywhoo, my superior is a character, for lack of a better word. His personal history mesmerizes me. It's the story of a man pulling himself out of a difficult situation and becoming his dream. I have to admit that he is rattlebrained. He forgot to submit my transcripts. Then forgot to petition academic affairs to have my credits count. I literally didn't know if or what I was teaching until 9 am. My class began at 11. I will give him credit - he personally contacted the Provost on my behalf. At this point, I take his antics and forgetfulness as endearing. As an aside ... I still don't know what and when I'm teaching next semester. Apparently, I've fallen through the cracks once again.
My first day went nothing as planned. They tell you to arrive before the students. I was on campus at 9:30. Plenty of time, right? Not when your taken to the wrong classroom. Like I said...he's a character. We literally ran, in the rain, across campus. I was 10 minutes late to my first class. I was soaking wet, sweating, and rattled. I hadn't prepared to teach this class...I was set to go with the freshman composition class. Sophomore not so much.
I walked into what I would call a fairly hostile environment. I can't blame them...who shows up late to their first class, WHEN THEY'RE THE ONE TEACHING??? Daggers. Daggers I say! They didn't just stare at me. And I don't know if glare quite captures the look on their faces. There were 15 girls and 4 boys. The boys sat at the two desks in the back, and pretty much hid. The girls gave me the look of death.
My superior introduced me as Professor Norge, which immediately took me off guard. We didn't do that at Tech. Apparently ODU is different. Am I old enough to be a professor? I feel like I'm my students' age. In no way am I prepared for this.
I stand at the podium, and begin to speak. O.K. maybe speak is giving myself too much credit. I more or less stumbled over words, stuttered, forgot what I was saying, and went off on tangents. I didn't know my office hours, or the room number. I didn't know my email address. And yet I'm supposed to convince these kids that this isn't my first semester teaching? That's the first rule - never let them know you're new. They'll eat you alive. I could feel the nips at my achillies.
My tendon was slowly being nipped at, a chunk falling off ever few minutes. I decided it was time for the icebreaker I'd developed. O.K. Developed is an overstatement. Let's just say stolen and tweaked. One of the questions asked the student what the stupidest thing they'd ever done was. I decided it was best for me to answer the questions first. It helped. They laughed. They relaxed. And so did I.
Their stupid moments were great. We all laughed and began to bond. My Achilles healed, and I was back in charge.
I learned through the icebreaker and short writing assessment that none of them were pleased to take the class. It was required. None of them wanted to be there. Fan-friggin-tastic. At that point, I wasn't sure if I wanted to be there, either. I read their assessments, and made a list of things to work on. It was a long list. I wondered who taught these young people who to write. It was choppy, filled with grammatical errors, and juvenile.
The semester had its ups and downs. I feel like we grew together. I learned what worked, they learned that I was, as they say, "the cool professor." They told my one day that they hated the subject, but loved the class. Their research papers were a culmination of every assignment throughout the semester. And they were wonderful. Of course there are the students that drop off at the end. But overall, the improvement in their writing surprised me. I can't believe how far they've come.
I've bonded with these students. We talk like peers. Maybe it's not the most professional teaching style, but it's mine. I tell them stories from my life, and they tell me stories from theirs. They come to me with problems. They laugh, they cry, and we all pick on each other. They challenge me. Even the boys perked up and began speaking.
Last week one of them asked me how long I'd been teaching, and I confessed. I told them I'd been teaching since the first day of class. And they were all surprised. I had seriously convinced these students I was a pro. I'd been at this for a while. I'm assuming they figured out my age a few weeks ago when they asked how old I was when I got married, and then how long I'd been married. Sneaky bastards.
Every single one of these students will forever hold a place in my heart. They learned from me. And not just about English composition. I let my ADD take over. I let the class get off topic. We talked about life. We talked about everything. The girls would stay after class to ask me my opinion. It made me evaluate my beliefs, what my experience in college was, and what I wanted out of life.
So today, I will give my students their final exam. I'm going to show them clips from television, radio and a commencement speech. Each of them talk about "everyday" life. Most of them wrote their final paper on what they wanted out of their major in terms of a career. I'm going to talk about their college bubble most of them reside in. Yes, they have their issues. But wait until life gets real. What will they do when their job is monotonous? How will they deal with the annoyances adults face each day. The commencement speaker addressed this very issue. Two years later he blew his head off.
The topic of their paper today? How will you live your life and not blow your head off. It's perfect. It's raw, emotional, and probably inappropriate language. But that's how we roll. We're open. There is no hesitation for them to speak their minds. They tell me when I make mistakes, and they tell me when they're unhappy. And I've loved every moment. I've learned to be the professor I want to be. Which isn't a role, as the book I read suggested. It's me. It's neurotic, ADD and a little nutty. It's personal. It's down-to-earth. And it works. Their writing speaks for itself. And it speaks wonderfully.
Tuesday, May 6, 2014
Wednesday, April 16, 2014
There were more than 32
I'm ready. Let the negativity begin. But this is something that's bothered me since April 16, 2007. There were more than 32 victims at Virginia Tech. And I'm not just talking about families and loved ones.
The shooter was a victim. He was a victim of mental illness, insanity and evil. His parents lost the child they raised and loved. They lost the memory of him as a decent person. He is forever branded as evil, and regardless of our opinion, his family lost a child. There is no Hokie stone in his remembrance as a human being. There's no mention of him as a victim.
But this boy fell through the cracks. There were signs. And no one helped. When mental illness hits, it often changes who we are. We no longer have the capacity for logical thought. Our minds change. And we spiral. We need help, but we don't recognize our own demise. Mental illness is the evil.
I don't understand why he did it. I don't understand why those people had to die. I don't understand any of it. But what I do understand is the love of a mother. His parents didn't raise him to be a mass murderer. His sister flourished at Princeton. They were an affluent family which is now, I'm assuming, shunned by our society.
And there is no mention of their baby boy as a victim. I understand our need to label him as evil, and forget his death. It's human nature. Regardless, in my heart I know there were 33 victims. Thirty-three people died that day. And hundreds if not thousands of lives were changed forever. I know mine was. My idealistic view of my school changed. My view of society and the world changed. If it can happen in Blacksburg, it can happen anywhere.
So today I mourn the loss of 33 fellow Hokies. They all fell victim to evil. They were all Hokies, and they were all human. I know it's not a popular opinion, but 33 people did that day. And I mourn for every single one of them.
The shooter was a victim. He was a victim of mental illness, insanity and evil. His parents lost the child they raised and loved. They lost the memory of him as a decent person. He is forever branded as evil, and regardless of our opinion, his family lost a child. There is no Hokie stone in his remembrance as a human being. There's no mention of him as a victim.
But this boy fell through the cracks. There were signs. And no one helped. When mental illness hits, it often changes who we are. We no longer have the capacity for logical thought. Our minds change. And we spiral. We need help, but we don't recognize our own demise. Mental illness is the evil.
I don't understand why he did it. I don't understand why those people had to die. I don't understand any of it. But what I do understand is the love of a mother. His parents didn't raise him to be a mass murderer. His sister flourished at Princeton. They were an affluent family which is now, I'm assuming, shunned by our society.
And there is no mention of their baby boy as a victim. I understand our need to label him as evil, and forget his death. It's human nature. Regardless, in my heart I know there were 33 victims. Thirty-three people died that day. And hundreds if not thousands of lives were changed forever. I know mine was. My idealistic view of my school changed. My view of society and the world changed. If it can happen in Blacksburg, it can happen anywhere.
So today I mourn the loss of 33 fellow Hokies. They all fell victim to evil. They were all Hokies, and they were all human. I know it's not a popular opinion, but 33 people did that day. And I mourn for every single one of them.
Friday, January 3, 2014
Animals and Pain and Joy
The Redneck husband, 10 a.m. today:"Why the fuck do we even bother with these animals. It's constant work. It's constant cost. It's constant injuries and death and mess."
At the time I didn't have an answer. Last night Bertha began labor. On the coldest night of the year. If you remember, her first labor was the hottest day of the year three years ago. I wrote about that day, too. That day was physical and emotionally wrecking. Cutting a dead calf out, piece by piece. For three hours. But in many ways, that day was easier than today. The calf died days before labor began. It was more like a lesson in anatomy. A very bloody, traumatizing lesson, but a lesson nonetheless.
The sun rose at 7 a.m. and Jasen and I went to the field, hoping for a calf this morning. We found an exhausted cow, one hoof sticking out. She was with the herd. Not good. Time to call the vet. I put on my muck jeans, boots, layers of clothes and hats and anything else to keep warm. I knew I was in for a long, emotional morning.
Bertha understandably doesn't like people. I get it. I didn't expect her to follow me into the pen, even with the temptation of a bucket of food. The vet arrived armed with a tranquilizer dart and gun. And when I say gun, I mean a gun. It was a friggin miniature rifle.
He warned me. Sometimes the cow dies. If the calf, by some miracle, is still alive, the amount of sedative will likely kill it within an hour of birth. But I was alone, and even with the vet and assistant, Bertha wouldn't leave the herd.
So we shot her in the ass. She didn't even realized it until she started walking in circles, staring at the dart hanging from her left hip and looking at us like "what the heck? Did you just shoot me in the ass?" Very much Will Ferrell in Old School.
It took 45 minutes for her to begin to feel the sedative. But she fought. The vet had to use a lariat, which slowly tightens around the throat until the cow gives up and lays down, allowing the vet to put on a halter. Bertha fought. And suffered.She gave up when her airway became too constricted for her to fight.
We attached the halter to my 4-Runner, a come-a-long to the calf, the come-a-long to heavy duty chains attached to the ATV Mule. And we began winching out the calf. After more than 12 hours in the birth canal, he was alive. I cried.
It was like a moment of pure adrenaline. Get the calf out. Get the apparatus off. Hang him from his hind legs to let the fluids drain. And oh my God. He's breathing.
And then he stopped. There was a heart beat for a while, but the sedative was just too strong. The vet pushed what drugs he could, but he gave us a 50/50 shot. I followed the vet's orders. I took towels and rubbed him vigorously for an hour, hoping to keep his heart beating long enough for the sedative to wear off. After 50 minutes I couldn't feel my thighs. My butt. My hands. I was covered in amniotic goo. Bertha was still knocked out. Snoring, actually. Which was good. She didn't have to watch her baby die.
I did. And it sucked. The Redneck has a point. Why go through the emotional and financial cost of having animals? We stood there, staring at each other, when Cream comes up and rubs her fat pregnant belly across the ATV. Then our little Christmas surprise, EggNog, runs like a bat out of hell through the hay barn, her pale flesh-toned tail straight up in the air. She is the most healthy, happy calf I've ever seen. And her mother loves when we milk her.
EggNog will stay with us and live a long, happy life as our milk cow. It will take months of working with her every day before she begins to trust me and become tame. And I'll keep working with her until she's three, and will have a calf of her own, and it'll be her turn to give us milk. Watching EggNog run around, bucking from the chill, made me realize why we have animals. They give us joy.
If we don't feel pain. If we don't cry. If we don't experience loss, we can't feel happiness, or joy. Animals break our hearts (and wallets) just like children. Before I had Juni, my animals were my babies. And to a lesser extent they still are. And it's painful. Even when a duck gets snatched by a fox, it hurts. But the pain makes the joy so, so much better. When the ducks dive and put their fat asses above the water it's hilarious.
So I've shed my share of tears today. It's been in waves. And it's not just about the calf. The calf broke the damn. I'm sad Christmas is over. I'm sad the calf died. I'm sad my son may not believe in Santa next year. I'm sad today.
But this is a good day. Don't judge, but I learned something from Grey's Anatomy years ago. There's a line that stuck with me. It's about how we always say we're "having a bad day." We have a cold. We don't like our job. We're fighting with our loved ones. We're broke. None of those things make a bad day. Uncomfortable. Stressful. Not fun, yes. But not a truly bad day. A bad day is death. That's the only bad day in our lives. The day we lose someone we love. The day we lose ourselves. Every other day? That's a good day.
So yes, there is a fresh grave in the pasture. But there's also a fresh calf galloping around the pond. And yes, my eyes are puffy and there's a constant lump in my throat and I'm sad. But it's a good day.
At the time I didn't have an answer. Last night Bertha began labor. On the coldest night of the year. If you remember, her first labor was the hottest day of the year three years ago. I wrote about that day, too. That day was physical and emotionally wrecking. Cutting a dead calf out, piece by piece. For three hours. But in many ways, that day was easier than today. The calf died days before labor began. It was more like a lesson in anatomy. A very bloody, traumatizing lesson, but a lesson nonetheless.
The sun rose at 7 a.m. and Jasen and I went to the field, hoping for a calf this morning. We found an exhausted cow, one hoof sticking out. She was with the herd. Not good. Time to call the vet. I put on my muck jeans, boots, layers of clothes and hats and anything else to keep warm. I knew I was in for a long, emotional morning.
Bertha understandably doesn't like people. I get it. I didn't expect her to follow me into the pen, even with the temptation of a bucket of food. The vet arrived armed with a tranquilizer dart and gun. And when I say gun, I mean a gun. It was a friggin miniature rifle.
He warned me. Sometimes the cow dies. If the calf, by some miracle, is still alive, the amount of sedative will likely kill it within an hour of birth. But I was alone, and even with the vet and assistant, Bertha wouldn't leave the herd.
So we shot her in the ass. She didn't even realized it until she started walking in circles, staring at the dart hanging from her left hip and looking at us like "what the heck? Did you just shoot me in the ass?" Very much Will Ferrell in Old School.
It took 45 minutes for her to begin to feel the sedative. But she fought. The vet had to use a lariat, which slowly tightens around the throat until the cow gives up and lays down, allowing the vet to put on a halter. Bertha fought. And suffered.She gave up when her airway became too constricted for her to fight.
We attached the halter to my 4-Runner, a come-a-long to the calf, the come-a-long to heavy duty chains attached to the ATV Mule. And we began winching out the calf. After more than 12 hours in the birth canal, he was alive. I cried.
It was like a moment of pure adrenaline. Get the calf out. Get the apparatus off. Hang him from his hind legs to let the fluids drain. And oh my God. He's breathing.
And then he stopped. There was a heart beat for a while, but the sedative was just too strong. The vet pushed what drugs he could, but he gave us a 50/50 shot. I followed the vet's orders. I took towels and rubbed him vigorously for an hour, hoping to keep his heart beating long enough for the sedative to wear off. After 50 minutes I couldn't feel my thighs. My butt. My hands. I was covered in amniotic goo. Bertha was still knocked out. Snoring, actually. Which was good. She didn't have to watch her baby die.
I did. And it sucked. The Redneck has a point. Why go through the emotional and financial cost of having animals? We stood there, staring at each other, when Cream comes up and rubs her fat pregnant belly across the ATV. Then our little Christmas surprise, EggNog, runs like a bat out of hell through the hay barn, her pale flesh-toned tail straight up in the air. She is the most healthy, happy calf I've ever seen. And her mother loves when we milk her.
EggNog will stay with us and live a long, happy life as our milk cow. It will take months of working with her every day before she begins to trust me and become tame. And I'll keep working with her until she's three, and will have a calf of her own, and it'll be her turn to give us milk. Watching EggNog run around, bucking from the chill, made me realize why we have animals. They give us joy.
 |
| EggNog, just a few hours old. She's much cuter now. |
So I've shed my share of tears today. It's been in waves. And it's not just about the calf. The calf broke the damn. I'm sad Christmas is over. I'm sad the calf died. I'm sad my son may not believe in Santa next year. I'm sad today.
But this is a good day. Don't judge, but I learned something from Grey's Anatomy years ago. There's a line that stuck with me. It's about how we always say we're "having a bad day." We have a cold. We don't like our job. We're fighting with our loved ones. We're broke. None of those things make a bad day. Uncomfortable. Stressful. Not fun, yes. But not a truly bad day. A bad day is death. That's the only bad day in our lives. The day we lose someone we love. The day we lose ourselves. Every other day? That's a good day.
So yes, there is a fresh grave in the pasture. But there's also a fresh calf galloping around the pond. And yes, my eyes are puffy and there's a constant lump in my throat and I'm sad. But it's a good day.
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