English 101: Rhetoric and Incompetence

When I was teaching Rhetoric and Composition at WVU, I actually believed at the time that I was pretty good at it. My young charges weren't complaining or throwing rocks at me, and they consistently gave me high scores on the teacher evaluations at the end of each semester. I'd had some difficult days, to be sure, but I figured I'd had all the kinks pretty well worked out by the end my last semester.

Then I started learning about proper teaching from the leading experts in the field... and yours truly received a swift education in just how pathetic his English 101 class had been.

In reading the research on effective teaching strategies for my certification program, I've come to realize that just about everything they highlight as being a piss poor teaching strategy is something that I implemented with alarming regularity at WVU. Class discussions following a shared inquiry model serve as the best way for students to work through difficult readings. I dismissed them as worthless exercises in babbling that made me uncomfortable. More and shorter writing assignments help students. JP, in his infinite wisdom, deleted existing papers from the curriculum and lengthened the remaining ones. Grammar lessons should be integrated into literature and writing lessons so as to encourage practical application. Guess who tossed out worksheets with rote lists and examples on them?

Speaking of grammar: marking up every grammar mistake on a paper does NOTHING for student learning... yeah, I went red-pen happy with reckless abandon too.

The worst blow to my ego was realizing that my goddamn coordinator at WVU was right about quite a lot. My swelling sense of superiority allowed me to simply say, "Bah, my stupid boss, you don't know what you're talking about." Then I'd throw out his ridiculous ideas as condescending and pointless. Well, it turns out that my former boss, despite his childish and condescending demeanor, actually knew a few things about teaching. It seems that all the current research indicates that multiple drafts, portfolios, feedback without grades (holistic style, if you will), and structured peer review workshops really are necessary to proper writing instruction.

Lest you think I'm being too hard on myself, I should point out that I had an entire course at WVU called "College Composition Pedagogy," wherein I was supposed to learn most of this stuff. In my automatic assumption of my own superiority, I dismissed the articles we read in class as the dribblings of pompous academics who knew nothing of real teaching. I badmouthed the professor of that class and the English 101 coordinator (behind their backs, of course, because I'm a classy like that) for their ridiculous strategies.

In retrospect, I think I spent far too much time worrying about how well their four major papers met my obviously arbitrary grading requirements instead of determing whether they were actually learning something about writing. When I would wonder why my students never came to see me during office hours while Virgil and Batmite had visitors constantly, I used to think that they just didn't like me... or were intimidated by my sheer awesomeness. But now I know the real reason: they knew I wouldn't provide one bit of genuine help. An office visit with old Mr. P would be akin to an appointment with a doctor who treats you with leeches: it's supposed to help but you end up leaving woozy and bleeding from odd places.

My students probably gave me high reviews because they didn't know that they weren't learning. As far as they were concerned, my class was a cakewalk. I never challenged them to do better because that would lead to mistakes and problems, which take longer to grade. Goddammit, we couldn't have that!

Did they learn how to predict what JP wanted? Most definitely.
Did they actually learn something useful about writing? I highly doubt it.

All of this wallowing and self pity seems especially bitter after I returned to my apartment today to find a sizable envelope from the Praxis Testing program (The Praxis is the test that all teachers must take to prove their mettle). The Praxis I is a complete joke, but last month I took the Praxis II (which tests the prospective teacher's subject matter), and it was reasonably difficult. In the envelope, I found a certificate with my name on it that reads:

"In acknowledgement of your outstanding score on the Praxis Series
English Language, Literature, and Composition: Content Knowledge
Your exceptional performance earned a score that ranks within the top 15% of all test takes who took this assessment in previous years. This achievement indicates a high level of proficiency in an area critical for professional educators."

The attached letter had the following addendum:

"This honor will be indicated on all of your score reports. It formally acknowledges your personal effort and commitment to learning and to teaching... Your performance on the Praxis II assessment shows your dedication to high standards in education."

I'm not telling you this to impress you. And really, it was a standardized test that proves next to nothing of my teaching ability. Still, after reading the letter, only one word kept flashing through my mind: FRAUD. Yeah, I know my content, but is that really such an indicator of a great teacher? Shouldn't "Doesn't automatically assume he's smarter than every education expert in the country" be somewhere on the checklist of teacher quality?

There are roughly 175 students at West Virginia University right now who have me to thank for their piss poor writing skills. At the time, I was more concerned with grading quickly so that I could waste my evening watching Justice League episodes and eating goldfish crackers. That is some commitment to learning and teaching right there.

Well, here's hoping I've actually learned my lesson, because it looks like this program is actually going to award me a certification that will allow me to teach the youth of America how to read and write. Given the cracker jack job I did at the college level, maybe I should hire some of you to come kick me in the face periodically and tell me to keep my ego in check.

Okay, enough of this self-loathing. The next post will feature my glorious return to unabashed self-aggrandizement!

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"Dammit, Fry! I can't teach. I'm a professor!"

Duck and Cover: A Grad School Story

Okay, I wasn't planning on resorting to MORE videos today, but thanks to Cracked.com (7 Horrifying Moments of Classic Kids' Movies) I've got a truly excellent example of an animated metaphor for my time in graduate school.

The following video is the beginning of the Disney movie "Mickey and the Beanstalk" (the plot being what you might expect). What's great about this particular interpretation of the classic story is how thoroughly Goofy's, Donald's, and Mickey's starvation and poverty are explored. In particular, Donald Duck cracks under the pressure and suffers three separate psychotic breaks, and attempts to murder a disturbingly anthropomorphized cow in one instance.

Watch the video. Analysis will follow:

Okay, first of all, they don't make dark and twisted comedy cartoons like this anymore. Second, while the segment illustrates one duck's descent into madness during a famine, it also serves as a parallel for the grad school experience. Allow me to demonstrate.

We open with three miserable saps drowning in existential despair as they attempt to survive on their meager earnings. This comprises the entirety of English graduate students, complete with an extremely lame pun about the cow being an "udder failure." Englishy-types love lame puns (see title above).

But then with no discernible external cause (around 1:55), one of the sufferers snaps at his own narrator (all graduate students imagine having their own narrator) and completely loses touch with reality. This represents the moment when a grad student realizes his or her sense of personal failure and lashes out against whatever happens to be nearby. Incidentally, there's a double parallel in that I've often felt like reacting EXACTLY as Donald Duck does in this part during particularly difficult times of dieting, complete with fantasies of consuming cutlery and dinnerware.

After calming himself down, Donald goes crazy again (2:20) - this time filled with murderous rage. He's out for blood, much like when grad students begin to harbor violent resentment toward their professors: those who heap the abuse upon them with reckless abandon. As the narrator so aptly explains, "He's suffered too much."

If I murder my Old English professor, the hurting will stop.

(Side Note: There's a solid 15 seconds in this clip where it looks for all the world like Donald is planning to butcher Mickey Mouse and eat his carcass. I love old cartoons.)

As time passes, hope seems to be on the horizon. For the grad student, the misery is almost complete, and better prospects await! Early celebration commences (3:17):

Huzzah! We won't be trapped in existential despair forever!

For me, this occurred just after I finished grad school and began looking for worthwhile employment. Hope sprang eternal. Everything in the future looked bright and happy.

But then.... NO! You can't be saying that I'm going BACK to graduate school!!! I thought the misery and pain was finally over!!! The grad student can't take it anymore. Hanging from ceilings and the pulling out of hair (feathers?) commences:
If Alan Shore is my super-ego, being everything that I hope to be that is rich and cultured and awesome in the world, then Donald Duck is my Id, representing everything evil and batshit crazy that I've secretly longed to express.

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"My therapist is a duck. I'm beginning to think he's a real quack!"

Lost in Transition

No longer an acceptable method of teaching grammar

Sorry I've been remiss in my posts, faithful readers. It's been a busy week or so. Since I last posted, I've recoiled from the world of sermon typing and bulletin copying back to the hovel from whence this blog emerged: graduate school.

Granted, it's not the same graduate school. I'm at the University of Pittsburgh this time instead of West Virginia University. And it's not the same program. Secondary English Education Teaching Certificate instead of straight English. But even though the lyrics have changed, it's still the same old tune. Still, much has changed, and I have stories aplenty. My adventures with public transit, my new apartment, and an angry gentleman in Quiznos can be saved for another day; today I'm going to talk about the new program that I'm in.

For those not in the know, I'm back in school to earn my teaching certification so that I can find gainful employment as a high school English teacher. This is the exciting turn that my life has taken. Unlike many other certification programs, Pitt's program consists of 7 graduate classes (five in the fall and two in the spring) that can eventually be applied toward an M.Ed. (Masters of Education). You may be wondering, "But JP, you already taught college-level English with HI-larious stories pouring onto the internet as a result. Why would you need additional schooling to teach high school?" That's a very good question, Reader X. But sadly it's misdirected. The more pertinent question should be, "Why didn't I need additional schooling to teach college." Now that I'm trying my hand at teaching, reflecting back upon my previous teaching experience fills me with regret, shame, and embarrassment... and that's just in remembering the comely female students who didn't sleep with me.

Teaching high school requires an extensive commitment to lesson plans and teaching goals. Such was the case in college as well, but my advisor -- bless his apathetic and spineless heart -- never really gave a rat's ass. Consequently, my planning often amounted to typing endless but sarcasm-laced handouts and consulting with Batmite over the best way to incorporate my Green Lantern plushy into a discussion of genres. Such chicanery and tomfoolery won't be tolerated by principals and managing teachers during my training. Now I have to be JP: Official Teacher of Wordsmithing.

Actually I lucked out in my teaching placement with a great school and great student teaching adviser, but I'll talk about that in another post. At the moment, I'm now three days into the delight of graduate classes in education. They run the gamut from truly fascinating to incredibly insulting. Some of the professors really seem to want to challenge the traditional methodology for teaching, and they explore very contemporary themes in literature and pedagogy. In one class, however, I had to make a name tag for myself out of construction paper and magic markers and then spend an hour and a half listening to a group of bickering former English majors (we do bicker well) argue about where prewriting ends and drafting starts. And how does that make us feel!? It made me feel like a goddamn simpleton, but then I remembered that a week ago I was doing the work of a trained monkey and I felt better.

I can't believe how modest the reading load is. The one professor (the same one with the construction paper name cards and infantile discussion) divided up our reading assignment for next week because 100 pages was just too much. Jesus Fucking Christ! English professors don't bat an eye when assigning a 400-page novel for next week. Granted, I wouldn't read it anyway, but the expectation was there for me to cavalierly disregard!

But on the flip side, the number of little nagging projects increased four-fold. No more giant research papers. In their place are a hundred little mini-lessons for me to plan and several faux discussion groups for me to lead. And those classes of zoning out for three hours and coming up with some catchpenny profundity on the fly every once in awhile by cribbing notes from Virgil and Batmite? That shit probably won't cut the mustard with their mandatory reader/writer journals where I have to compile my readings, notes, and observations for every goddamn class. I haven't taken notes in class in almost four years. It's like they peered into my brain, recognized my sloth and cavalier attitude, and adjusted their syllabi accordingly. Curse their effective teaching methodology!

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"I fail to see the educational value of this assembly."
"Ah, it'll be one of their few pleasant memories when they're pumping gas for a living."

Because I Said So, That's Why!

My online teacher is an arrogant ball bag!

For my final paper (three are a total of three papers and one portfolio), Professor Douchenozzle required a research paper about the No Child Left Behind Act. Given that it's the dominating legislation in education today, the topic seemed reasonable. However, when I went to the library last weekend to start researching, I was flabbergasted to discover that on the prompt he wrote, "It's hard to say how many pages this will be, but 10 is a good place to start." Lest you think I'm getting worked up about nothing, 10 pages is the same number of pages required for a final paper in gradute school... in English! ...where writing is the whole point. Also, this flew in the face of his course syllabus, which claimed that all the papers were three pages long.

To add further insult to injury, I went to the course website and discovered that the point values for our first three-page bullshit paper and this new 10-page monstrosity were the same. Both papers were apparently worth 300 points. Needless to say, I suspected that this might be an error or an extremely stupid decision on his part, so I sent him an email asking why the two papers were with the same number of points since the workload was clearly far heavier for the latter.

Also in the email, I asked him why the sample portfolio provided on the course website had almost nothing to do with the prompt provided. I'm usually pretty good at figuring out where teachers are coming from with their examples, but I couldn't make heads or tails of it. So I politely (honest!) asked about the point values and the portfolio sample.

Here was his response:

Mr. [MY LAST NAME]:

This is a 200 level EDU class. NCLB is THE topic of most import in education today. Don't worry about 'points.' Worry about presenting a paper that fulfills the requirements. If it does not seem fair to you, you always have the option of not doing it.

Read the folder: the INTASC standards are a "possible format" offered as a guide if you wanted some direction. As stated, we developed the format in an in-class Foundations class. They make clear sense if you understand they provide a coherent template for a port.

First of all, he talks about a "200 level class" as though only the most prestigious doctors and lawyers have signed up to take his lofty course. He's teaching an introductory course about education to a class that should be made up of freshmen and sophomores. As a former grad student, I'm the exception - not the rule. Furthermore, it's at a community college! Should this jackass really be flouting his holier than thou attitude? I realize I went to WVU, which is hardly a scholarly mecca, but at least that's a state university.

Ten-page papers aren't easy to write. They require a thorough understanding of how to craft an extended argument, and even in grad school I sometimes struggled with them. Granted, I think I'm pretty good at writing them now, but what about freshmen or sophomores who have only ever written four-page papers for their community college writing courses? It's not like he offers any help. In his requirement for an abstract, he writes, "If you don't know what an abstract is, any standard writing book will tell you." That's right, you dumb and poor bastards. Go look it up yourself! I'm just your teacher; I'm not going to lower myself to actually TEACH you anything.

And he acts like I've offended his sensibilities by asking about the grading system. I realize that grades aren't everything, but I do like to have some idea of how I'll be assessed in a class. It's not unreasonable to expect that longer and more detailed assignments that require more research and writing will be worth more than short three-page assignments that I can churn out in half an hour. Furthemore, he raved about my first paper, and he praised my writing skills and my commitment to going above and beyond the requirements of the class in answering the question. Did he really need to take a tone of complete and disdainful condescention when responding to (what I thought were) my reasonable concerns?And his response to my portfolio question essentially amounts to, "Read it again. If you understand it, it'll make sense." Seriously, nothing in his response makes any fucking sense. The prompt makes no reference to how that example gels with what's required.

As you may have guessed, I resented his implications that my questions were those of a stupid and lazy person who didn't bother to read directions. I wanted so badly to write a snarky and scathing response brimming with vitriol and dripping with sarcasm. But I quickly dismissed that idea. The arrogant old prick still has to give me a grade for the class, and I'm sure burning my bridges before I even cross them would be considered unwise. And he's the chair of CCAC's English department. I may never go to that dump again, but he may have connections that could bite me in the ass later in life. Suppose his wife is the principal of a school that I want a job at someday. Knowing my luck, that would certainly be the case. So instead of tearing him a new one, I took the opposite track. I sent a quick and thoroughly heartfelt reply that read:

Dear Professor [ASSHOLE'S LAST NAME HERE]:

Thank you for the clarification. I didn't mean to sound disrespectful or disparaging. The assignments will be completed fully and on time.

Deep inside me somewhere, I truly hope that he would feel guilty that I sound so repentant for having offended his sensibilities. But given this guy's track record (his emails to the class are equally condescending and rude), I suspect he simply nodded and said to himself, "Finally, someone who recognizes the splendor of my magnficence."

Arrogant old asshole probably thinks he's too good to be teaching at a community college and delights in his own superiority complex. One more week and I can bid his inflated ego a fond adieu.

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JP doesn't think he was ever this much of a douchebag to his own students, though surely at least one of them would disagree...

This is Only a Test

For the last few weeks, I’ve been enduring the monumental intellectual task of completing my online community college course. “The Foundation of Education” boasts a challenging and rigorous curriculum that utilizes cutting-edge pedagogical techniques and demands the highest scholarly work from students. Additionally… *cough* … *hack* …. *blergh* … *ahem* Oh, excuse me. I’m choking on the sheer bulk of sarcasm here. I’ll attempt to be more genuine so that it goes down more smoothly.

This ridiculous online course, which I’m only taking as a prerequisite to the teaching certification program at Pitt, is driving me mad. Not only do I have to wade through the tediously repetitive book chapters that are written for a fifth-grade reading level, but I also have to take the most poorly-written online exams ever associated with a course.

Let me be clear. This course is laughably easy. I read a chapter, and then I’m supposed to go online to take a multiple-choice quiz… WHILE I SIT WITH THE BOOK RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME. The questions aren’t even challenging. Question 1 comes from the first page in the chapter. Question 2 comes from the following paragraph, and so on. You seriously just roll right through the chapter and answer the questions as you go. I almost feel foolish for reading the chapters ahead of time.

However…

There’s a problem with this seemingly perfect assessment situation: the tests were written by incompetent sub-humans who have no basic grasp of how to write a simple question. I’ve taken three of these online “tests” so far, and it’s a huge blow to my already inflated ego that I’ve missed three or four questions on each one. Of course, they don’t reveal which questions I missed, but I have a pretty good idea.

Here’s a good example of one of the questions:

How many sexually-active high school students admit to using a condom during sex?
A: 25%
B: 50%
C: 75%
D: 100%

Seems harmless enough, doesn’t it? Well, in the section regarding sex education in high schools, the book goes into a bit more detail: “2/3 of sexually-active high school girls admit to using a condom during sex. However, only 1/2 of sexually-active high school boys admit to using one.” That’s all the book has to say on the matter. Do you see the problem? The answer is somewhere between 50% and 75%, but I can’t really be sure. Some basic math tells me that the answer is “closer” to 50%, but it’s not really the right answer. I have no problem with using critical thinking skills to answer questions on a test, but don’t give me a goddamn math problem to do in order to estimate a figure that’s not in the fucking text.

For another choice example, let’s take a look at the book’s section on poverty. The online quiz had a nice little question asking me to evaluate four statements about poverty and then determine which ones were true. Each multiple choice answer offered two or three statements as being correct (meaning that there was at least more than one). However, after scouring that section on poverty and any other reference to it in the chapter, I could only find evidence of ONE of those statements being true. What the hell, test maker?? These weren’t options that could be extrapolated from the existing material either. These were statements regarding data such as “20% of American students live in poverty” or something to that effect. Unless that’s written in the book, how am I supposed to know whether they consider that to be a true statement or not? I haven’t committed to memory random statistical data from other studies for use on tedious online quizzes.

These tests are littered with vague questions. Some simply have two answers that could both be interpreted as correct from a certain point of view, and I’m forced to decide if the test writer was being tricky or if I have to think more like a stupid student. When I took the LSAT back in the fall, they had questions like that too, but they put them there on purpose. They explicitly said that I was to pick the “best” answer even if another answer might have some validity. But these online tests have no such caveat. But the only one they should really put is: “This test was written by a fucking dimwit. Approach with caution, and prepare to be royally screwed.”

It doesn’t help that the professor has a reputation for being a lousy online teacher. Apparently I lucked into getting Dr. Apathetic for this ridiculous course, and while that normally wouldn’t bother me, I highly suspect that he wouldn’t have a lot of sympathy for me were I to send a strongly worded email to him. He’s an English professor too, so he’d likely just give me a lengthy bullshit spiel about academic policy that will save him from having to change the test.

Can’t say I blame him. I’d try to pull the same stunt.

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2/3 of JP’s readers don’t care about this post. How many don’t care?
A: 20%
B: 80%
C: All of the above
D: United Arab Emirates

The Pitt and the Pendulum

Well, I've finally made some actual measurable headway on something in my life, and it's certainly not in my commitment to timely blog posts. I've been accepted into the University of Pittsburgh teacher certification program. I'm certain that your applause and accolades are overwhelming. Due to my disastrously futile attempts to sneak into the corporate world, something else needed to be done. I couldn't just sit idly by sending off one resume after another just to hear nothing back in return. I can now mark August 19th on my calendar as "The Day My Life Resumes."

The beauty of this program is that the classes I'd take are all graduate level; therefore, should I ever want to go back to get my Masters in Education, I'd already have a year's worth of graduate credits under my belt. On the downside, this means that I'll once again be doing the grad school grind, but after a year of complete mental indolence, I'm actually looking forward to it. Spending my days copying church bulletins while living with my parents in my culturally vacuous town has been giving me the distinct (and rather unpleasant) feeling of having a stagnant life. A lot of my friends are building credit, buying houses, getting married, planning future investments, and generally doing quite well in establishing their lives. Much as I'm loathe to paraphrase a guy who used to be part of the 80s Aussie group Men at Work, but I'm truly waiting for my real life to begin.

Even Batmite, who doesn't have a job either, at least gets to have interesting adventures where he wrecks his car and profits from it, has brunch with a U.S. senator, wanders the streets of Manhattan drunk with no money, spends several nights in the Manhattan penthouse of a stranger, misses out on an orgy, and steals video games from grade schoolers. Quit bitching about your life, Batmite. They call these moments "character building."

Of course, my reemerging interest in education doesn't come without its problems. University administration is still a complete pain in the ass. After six years of schooling, two of which were spent actually teaching (though my students might argue otherwise), you would think that I'd be almost over-qualified for this certification program. In some respects, that's entirely true, but I discovered that I actually haven't fulfilled one of their prerequisites: Social and Cultural Foundations of Education. Fortunately, one of the nice gravelly-voiced old women in the education department was receptive to my polite diatribe about my financial constraints, and she recommended that I take the class at the Community College of Allegheny County (CCAC) over the summer and transfer the credits to Pitt.

CCAC, for those who don't know, is not exactly known for its rigorous academic standards, and the class they want me to take is an introductory course in education. I've taken two upper-level undergraduate courses in education and a graduate level course in composition pedagogy in addition to already having actual teaching experience, but just because I haven't had a course that deals with the history of education, I have to take a freshman-level education course to show that I understand what it means to be a teacher. This is administrative bullshit that almost rivals Batmite's inability to meet WVU's language requirement despite being fluent in three languages. At least the class is offered online so that I don't actually have to meet the charming little snowflakes who will be in my class.

The overwhelming burden of education (the profession not the tediously boring classes) sometimes makes me question my decision to become a teacher. I find myself frequently bouncing back and forth between my lifelong desire to teach and my innate sense of self-preservation that's encouraging me to flee from that career track as quickly as possible. (Hence the "pendulum" reference in the title.) But when it comes right down to it, while I'd like to have had the opportunity to try a job in the private sector, I have no qualms about becoming a teacher. I think I'd be a very good high school teacher, and not to sound immodest (even though I'm totally gloating about it internally), I know that the education system would be better with me in it. There are too many stupid and lazy teachers in high schools as it is. While I'll certainly continue the tradition of laziness, I can at least be an English teacher of above-average intelligence. Maybe some kids will actually learn to read and write with me in charge.

Granted, they'll probably learn to read Mein Kampf and write threatening notes to faculty, but they have to start somewhere.

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Nine out of ten readers are getting sterilized as we speak to prevent JP from warping their future progeny. The last reader is Batmite who is looking to stab JP for making fun of him in this post... but he'll never find me for I have fled to Earth-616.

Future Tense

Matlock: He puts the "corpse" in "habeas corpus"

Riding a tractor, doing menial office work, and hours of undesired down time gives one a great deal of time for self-reflection. Unfortunately, I don't like what I see.

With 55 job applications sent out to companies from Pittsburgh to Chicago to Washington D.C. to Boston to New York City and not a single promising prospect, I'm beginning to suspect that my current plan of simply trying out the publishing or journalism industry to see if I like it is no longer feasible. My wails of despair could be heard in the next township when read an article about the seven industries that were hit hardest by the economic recession and "Publishing and Journalism" was listed at number 3. Job prospects are not looking good for anyone in that field... especially for people with no direct experience and no degree in "Professional Writing and Editing."

But as I said, this lack of progress has given me a lot of time to think about my own life, how I got to this point, and what I really want to do. After careful consideration, I know that I don't want to be a technical writer. It sounds painfully dull and tedious. However, I'm also not so sure that I want to get into the publishing industry. Given my background in English, it seemed like a natural direction to take, and more importantly, it seemed reasonably lucrative.

This may sound unnecessarily saccharine, but the vast majority of the jobs that I've applied for would seem to have no impact on the lives of people. I'd be shuffling papers around, correcting grammar for inter-office memos, and essentially organizing the lives of other creative and productive people. I want to be able to make a difference.

Much as I bitched about teaching English 101, at least the work I did was making a direct impact on the lives of my students. Granted, some of them may have found my impact to be undesirable or at the very least monotonous and perhaps unlawfully titillating, but a difference was made. The class was mine to teach. That class was about writing and research, and as tedious as that might sound to some people, it's the part of English that I like. I have zero interest in teaching literature; I just can't bring myself to care about the metaphorical implications of fictional stories. It's certainly valuable, but it's not something I really want to do, so I don't think teaching high school English is a feasible option (since high school English tends to be very focused on the literature component). Also, children frequently irritate me - that seems like a deal breaker. And just for the record, going back to graduate school to get my PhD in English is not even being considered. I'd rather put my genitals through a meat grinder.

Therefore, with my current credentials and interests, I'm pretty well qualified to be an adjunct for composition and rhetoric courses. A few months ago, I set an arbitrary deadline for myself. I told myself that if I didn't have any solid leads for a job by the beginning of November, I'd start applying for teaching positions for the spring semester. At the time, November seemed safely far off in the future, but now that the future is now, I have to do something so that I don't feel like a financial leech and complete cipher of a human being. As a result, I've begun to explore my options for teaching in the spring.

But that doesn't really feel like a permanent solution. I've been in academia long enough to know that adjuncts make shit for money and have no job security. But I also like the idea of helping people and making a difference in the world. Which is why I am considering, as I did a year ago..... applying for law school.

Bear with me, gentle readers; I know this self-indulgent post is lengthy.

You're probably thinking, "You're fucking crazy. Law school costs major dollars and requires more studying than ten grad schools." And you're probably right. That's why I'm just exploring the possibility for right now. The way I see it, this is the perfect time to explore all of my options. I have no wife, no kids, no long-term career that I'd be giving up. I've got time on my hands and some short-term ways of making money. My current boss has a lawyer friend who is willing to talk to me about what he does. And with the recent election, I've developed an almost obsessive interest in how the political system works. Furthermore, at the risk of sounding arrogant (as though I don't do so every time I post), I know I'd get into law school too. My grades are exceptional, I have research experience and a masters degree, and I'm confident that I could do well on the LSATs.

On the other hand, just because I *can* do it doesn't mean that I should. A year ago, two career counselors told me that I didn't seem to have the drive to make it in law school. At the time, they were exactly right. My only drive a year ago was, "GET OUT OF GRAD SCHOOL." I really didn't care about anything after that. I also don't know much about the specific kinds of law that people practice. No good comes from being uninformed about career decisions. Two years ago, I ended up in grad school because it seemed like a good idea, but I didn't really give it the necessary consideration. I'm not making the same mistake twice. I'm only looking into it, and I will not apply unless I'm certain that it's the right choice for me.

So to sum this whole thing up: I'm having an existential crisis, and I don't know what to do about it. Desperation and discouragement can lead to hasty and unwise decisions. If I make a choice regarding a change in my career plans, I want to make sure that I'm doing it for the right reasons and not because of my crippling fear that I'll end up mowing lawns for the rest of my life.

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4 out of 5 readers think JP isn't even qualified to pump gas for a living.

Now I am the Master!

I went back to Morgantown yesterday because Batmite needed a ride to the airport. He's on a three week trip to San Diego with his parents, so I figured I'd be nice and spare him a three week parking fee at the Pittsburgh airport. I was only there for about 14 hours, so I didn't have much time to catch up with everyone, but I did make some time to visit with a few people. I also made some time to stop in at the English department to find out about my diploma.

I chose to pass on my graduation ceremony, but being the go-getter that I am, also neglected to turn in my graduation absentee form until about two weeks after it was due. I couldn't figure out what this would mean. I turned in my money for graduation and completed all the requirements, so were they going to just burn my diploma? I was actually expecting to have to pay some sort of outlandish inconvenience fee. Colleges love to charge for anything they can. The very existence of a graduation fee seems like a golden opportunity for them to ravage your ass financially when you can't possibly say no.

But getting my diploma was a surprisingly simple procedure - no hassles at all. Given the way the university spends its money, I was amazed at how official the diploma looked. I would have expected it to be scrawled on the back of a used cocktail napkin.

Actually having the diploma in hand felt damn good. It finally felt like I had really graduated. I took a picture of it with my digital camera and posted it above. I was going to blur may name out (in keeping with my anonymity on the site), but I figure that you can't search for a word that's in an image, so no one can Google my name and find it. Besides, most people who read this blog know exactly who I am. And it's not a big secret anyway. It doesn't take Batman to put a few pieces together to determine my identity. I'm not plotting the downfall of civilization or the destruction of large monuments on this blog (I save such diatribes for anonymous postings on Food Network message boards... the other posters think I'm saucy) so I think I'm safe.

And I'm fucking proud of having that damn diploma in hand. Sing it from the sky, bitches! I have a Masters Degree!! All you Bachelors can kiss my fat pretentious ass!

Of course, the diploma does give me pause for a few reasons. First of all, I question the line, "With all the rights, honors, and privileges thereunto appertaining." What kind of bullshit is that? The phrase "thereunto appertaining" gives this verbose English major pause. That's excessive and pretentious wordsmithing at its finest. And what rights, honors, or privileges do I get? Am I going to get a discount at the Family Dollar if I show my diploma at the register? Maybe I'm now permitted to jaywalk with reckless abandon! I'm hoping the diploma gives me the legal right to commit one heinous murder for free. But then I'd have to choose between several tempting targets.

I'm also concerned about my diploma being signed by the infamous Michael Garrison, the President of West Virginia University. Garrison got a lot of bad press recently for granting an MBA degree to the daughter of the current West Virginia governor when she hadn't earned the required credits. Some faculty members are seeking his resignation... some of them quite loudly. Personally, I think it shows a particular naivety on the part of these intelligent faculty members to believe that powerful people aren't going to be corrupt. Besides, if the English department knew how few books I actually read to earn my Masters Degree, they'd probably be calling for my head too!

But I have it writing now. I have a masters degree in English literature! Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go enjoy sitting on my unemployed ass for the foreseeable future.

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"When we last met, I was but the learner. Now *I* am the master!"
"Only a master of evil, JP!"

It Was Nineteen Eighty-Something

As I indicated in my last post, Batmite and I ended grad school by hosting a bodacious '80s party at our heteronormative shared pad. It was the bombdiggity.

click on any image to enlarge

Batmite (obviously pictured left) opted to go with the old Hulk Hoganesque Fu Manchu stache, but most agreed that he looked like a gay leather daddy. I, on the other hand, totally rocked a pair of aviator shades, an AC-DC cap, and a Top Gun T-shirt (that was about two sizes too small for me). The running gag was that I was Iceman after he'd left the Air Force and let himself go over the years. I only wish I were playing Word Munchers or Oregon Trail on an old Tandy computer there.

A.J. agreed to be our bartender, making pina colatas, margaritas, and Batmite's apple-tini (he again claims heterosexuality on that one). We had a huge assortment of booze at this thing. Unfortunately, no one got really plastered, which only makes the costumes and behavior that much more unsettling.

Everyone really got into the whole costuming thing. I wasn't really thrilled about dressing up for the party. You know how hard it is to find 80s clothing in 2XL tall? I don't think they make parachute pants and tracksuits in those sizes. Nevertheless, we gave out prizes for the best costumes. Rachel is holding the third prize - a glittery hula hoop. I don't know if she actually won third prize, but she doesn't seem to thrilled to be holding it.

After finding out that Wal-Mart filled the hula hoop with several pounds of marijuana, Rachel perked right up.

Toby took second place. He won the complete first season of Teddy Ruxpin. I found that sitting right at the top of the bargain bin at Wal-Mart. What's unnerving is that there were five copies of it in the bin. I really think it should have been the first place prize, but Batmite overruled me. This was actually not a retro look for Toby. He normally wears the outfit of a Charles Dickens character, complete with bowler cap, pocket watch, and three-piece suit. His attire here is actually about nine decades ahead of his time.

Lisa took first place. I'm not really sure how authentically 80s her costume is, but what's sad is that everything she's wearing was purchased within the last month. That entire ensemble is available today, and statistically speaking there must be someone in the world who's wearing that getup because she (or he) thinks it looks legitimately awesome. In any case, Lisa won the first season of He-Man and the Masters of the Universe. She didn't seem all that thrilled with the prize. In retrospect, I think Lisa and Toby should have switched prizes. Toby seems the type to shout "I HAVE THE POWER!!" to random passersby.

Virgil took a break from blogging to come to the party too. She said she was the 80s gal from the other side of the tracks. Not sure what's with the goofy face she's making. Her ensemble certainly beats her husband's attempt to pass off a green hoodie as his E.T. costume.

Erin and Ami are intrigued and aghast respectively when Batmite jumps up on the table to do a striptease.

They are less than impressed when I try to pull the same stunt....

Okay, so maybe there weren't any stripteases. Our party wasn't THAT exciting I guess.

That about sums up our party. I have more pictures, but some of them are of less than stellar quality, and others don't warrant clever comments. Suffice it to say, there was food and drink, we had several playlists of 80s tracks, and we rocked TO THE MAX. I shall end this blog as our party ended, with Batmite thrusting and gyrating to "The Final Countdown."

He claims that his legs hurt for days because he rocked so fucking hard. But he can dance if he wants to... he can leave his friends behind... 'cause if his friends don't dance, and if they don't dance, well they're no friends of mine.

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JP and Batmite: Sweeping the legs of anyone walking the dinosaur on Electric Avenue... especially if the Kommissar's in town!

So Long and Thanks for All the Fish!

I'M DONE, BITCHES!!

That's all she wrote. Grad school is over! Two long grueling years of writing papers, teaching apathetic students, being an apathetic student, and running out of money faster than I'd care to admit has led me to this final day!!!

It's oddly anticlimactic.

Maybe my expectations were a little high. Was it too much to expect the heavens to open up, bright light beams to shoot out of the sky, a big smiling sun to appear, and the song "You're the Best" from The Karate Kid to start playing out of nowhere? I think not. The ticker-tape parade down High Street might have been optional, but I at least wanted ten topless cheerleaders bouncing in support of my sheer awesomeness.

Instead, I wandered into the office, turned in my final paper, turned in my final grades, cleared out my office, and turned in my keys with no fanfare. To be fair, no one was really there. By the end of finals week, anyone who can clear out, will clear out. I met up with Batmite and A.J. for lunch, but that was about it. I went quietly into that good night.

I think everyone is just fucking exhausted. The other MAs seem completely abused by life as well. It's like we all just came out of a cave, and we're seeing the light and going, "What the??... what's going on? Where am I? Did I just eat my body weight in cupcakes?"

For awhile there I was planning to go to graduation, but it doesn't really seem worth it. Only one other graduating MA is going, and my parents didn't seem all that enthused about it. It seemed like more of a hassle than anything else. I'll take my mail-delivered Master of Arts in English from West Virginia University and proudly throw it on a shelf somewhere.

As for the future... who the hell knows. Today is the first day of a completely empty undefined length of time. I'll be spending most of my time in Kittanning, since it's cheaper there, but I'm hoping to visit my friends in Morgantown several times over the summer. Despite all the grief I give grad school, I'll miss the friends I've made here. Shared misery and despair creates good friendships. I'm still hoping to see just about everyone throughout the summer and maybe even beyond, but it'll never really be the same.

On the plus side, we did get to have a rocking 80s party last night as a send-off. It wasn't really designed for my own benefit, so the personal fanfare wasn't there, but it was still fun. I got to see everyone one last time. I'll have pictures and more details about the party in an upcoming post.

Hopefully my blog posts won't suffer from this severe drop in stress and misery. I'll definitely have more time on my hands in which to post. I'll get to witness firsthand the lackadaisical life of an unemployed single man. I get to watch Law & Order reruns and Netflix movies to my heart's content... at least until my parents get sick of my existence as a household parasite and force me to get a temp job.

The grad school stage is complete. Time to enter the job world. I'll no longer be able to blame grad school for the failures of my life. "Hey JP, why don't you have life goals?" "Hey JP, why don't you have a girlfriend?" "Hey JP, why don't you lose weight?" "Hey JP, why were you raping that rhesus monkey?"

Grad school can only provide excuses for so long.

Thanks for following along with my grad school rants everyone. But fear not! Rants about summer boredom, job interviews, and a probable crappy job are surely forthcoming. I'll miss parts of grad school, but cynicism, sarcasm, and snarky comments can find a home just about anywhere. Look out job market! Here comes JP!!

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Unemployment: Proving to be the comfortable status of graduating English grad students ever since Homer gave up his profitable career as an Ithacan cheesemonger to write some stories about a man killing a cyclops.

Approaching the Finish Line

The second most-famous groundhog in West Virginia doesn't have a cushy lotto job like the one in Pennsylvania, but even he's excited to see the finish line.

Five days left bitches! Grad school will soon be nothing more than a painful repressed memory that will be brought out in a moment of violent outrage thirty years from now. Keep all sharp cutlery away from Future JP.

I have ZERO interest in continuing my education right now. I make no commitments about the future. I have no idea how unpleasant any forthcoming jobs will be. Going back to school a few years from now might be preferable if I'm working with an office full of crazies who take turns shitting in the corner wastebasket every day at noon. And when you're working with failed English majors, that would be a promising mindset.

For right now, though, I don't want to keep trying to make research about a fictional work sound important. Yeah, other folks are working on cures for cancer, saving people from burning buildings, or making nifty gadgets that function as an egg beater and nose trimmer at the same time. But my explanation for why a prostitute catalog from 1793 that compares penises to machines in a sexist manner is so much more important than that. Sadly, that's actually what the final paper in my sodomy class is about. (And I think I'll be happier when I don't cavalierly throw the phrase "my sodomy class" into casual conversation.)

I will miss the friends that I've made down here in Morgantown. Mutual disdain and apathy for book-learnin' can create strong bonds of friendship. I should be able to stay in touch with a lot of you, with all sorts of technological stalking tools like AIM and Facebook at my disposal, but it'll never really be the same again. Of course, most of my friends seem to be losing their minds lately. I think the stress of final papers and an uncertain future is getting to them. I have been oddly calm though. I feel like I'm in some sort of weird Jedi zen mindset. I still have the papers to finish, but my laissez-faire attitude just won't let me care.

The weirdest part about having only one week left for grad school is that I have no idea what to do when it's over. I've applied to four jobs now, but I haven't heard anything substantial from any of them. I'll be gainfully unemployed in five days. I'll probably spend most of my time in Kittanning, since it's much cheaper to live at home (no income remember), but I'll make my way to Morgantown a few times. My lease doesn't end until July 31, so my time is mine to do with as I please. It's just somewhat unsettling to know that the future can hold anything. A more worldly man might have some philosophical insight on that point, but I'd rather compare it to the end of Terminator 2, where Sarah Conner muses about the unknown future rolling toward us as the camera focuses on a dark road being traveled by a wildly swerving driver. Hopefully my unknown future will consist of sentient machines trying to gun me down because Future JP becomes an ass-kicking rebel freedom fighter!

Your ass is mine, Skynet!

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The Skynet Funding Bill is passed. The system goes on-line August 4th, 1997. Human decisions are removed from strategic defense. Skynet begins to learn at a geometric rate. It becomes self-aware at 2:14 a.m. Eastern time, August 29th. In a panic, they try to pull the plug. JP is there to write ironic musings about the forthcoming apocalypse.

The Final Countdown

I can't wait for the semester to be over. I'm within five weeks of finally being able to bid bon-voyage to grad school. I've studied English for so long that I'm beginning to understand why Hitler wanted to burn all books. Hell, Hitler was an Arts and Humanities major, so he knows how it goes.

I can't wait to be able to work the 9 to 5 grind. My friends who have legitimate jobs all bitch about it, but when they leave work at 5:00 every day, they get to leave work at work. There's no homework anymore. Anything that they work on is being done as a contribution to a company's services or product development. Any work done for "personal enrichment" is limited to browsing for banana-shaped penis pumps on "gorilladong.com." (An actual website I might add... but sadly it doesn't sell ape-themed penis enlargers.)

I can't wait to read books for fun again. I haven't read a book for my own pleasure in almost four years. Star Trek message boards, Wikipedia, and online erotica don't count. I want to be able to read a book without automatically parsing the historico-political hyper-genres of metatextual postmodernism.

I want to buy things. Part of me is still a product of this consumerist culture ("consumerist culture" is another fun term that I've picked up in the English program that I'd be happy to disregard), and as such, I have my eye on a few fun items. I'd really like a new car. Much as I love folding myself in three places to get into my little Escort, a larger vehicle would provide a little bit of comfort. I'd also like a plasma TV. I don't need it. I want it. I watch a lot of TV, and it would make me happy. Things provide happiness. I'd also like a new bed. There's nothing wrong with my extra-long twin bed, but I take up about 90% of the space on said bed. There are some activities that I'd like to use my bed for that are not really practical with these figures.

Finally, I want to quit searching for jobs. Once I get a job, ipso facto, I can give up this tedious job search. I have a preliminary phone interview with one company on Monday, and even though it's only on the phone, I keep worrying about it. Having to juggle three job applications, looking for other jobs, and convincing every company that THEIRS is the one I want is driving me crazy. Just give me the moneys!!

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9 out of 10 readers were highly disappointed by "gorilladong.com." The last reader is still using tissues at an alarming rate.

Give Me a Break

It's like looking into my own future...

My final spring break started yesterday.

Unlike the fall semester, where Thanksgiving Break didn't come until everyone was about ready to commit suicide, this break was perfectly timed. I was just starting to get a bit frayed around the edges. I won't pretend that my job is particularly difficult - everyone's job has its ups and downs - but when you're counting down the days to graduation, a week-long respite can be very welcome.

Spring Break isn't what it used to be. All of my friends have real jobs now, and I don't really have the funds to go anywhere, so I'll be loitering around my parents' house for the week. I have a belated St. Patrick's Day party to go to tonight, but that's about it; therefore, I've decided to take this opportunity to apply for some jobs. Over Christmas Break, I got my resume in order, but I didn't actually apply for anything. I set up a thing with the Pittsburgh version of Monster.com where it would send me an email anytime it found a result for the search criteria of "writer." This let me see what was out there. At first, I was a bit disappointed. Monster kept sending me results for Software Analysts, Secretaries, and something called a Crystal Reports Writer. Most of these jobs were either way out of my area of expertise/interest, or they required years of experience. The low point came when Monster sent me a listing for "Parking Lot Attendant." I think my neighbors heard my wails of despair.

But I finally found a few leads. Quite a few engineering companies in Pittsburgh are in need of technical writers. Turns out those crafty engineers often don't have the time or talent to write reports and memos and such. Engineers also pay well. These same people who are doing the hiring think "Master's Degree in English" sounds a lot more impressive than it actually is.

Technical Writers can make upwards of $40,000 to $50,000 annual starting salary. This pleases me immensely. Going to class week after week to learn about sodomy and the intricacies of meta-biography can really make one feel that he or she is not learning any marketable skills. This information was just the kind of pick-me-up that I needed.

I've received a lot of unsolicited advice from friends and family who tell me that the job market is so much more unpleasant than the academic world. That may well be true, but I'm just schooled-out. I wasn't always the apathetic ragamuffin who doesn't do 70% of his homework that you see before you today. I used to be a really great student. Every year has been spent preparing for a future that hasn't arrived yet. There's only so long that I can spend preparing for the future before I actually want to go out and do something to make it happen.

Such will be the plan for this break. I'll get my students' papers graded at some point, but my only motivation for completing my own classes is the following declaration, which I must repeat to myself on a regular basis: "You only have seven weeks left! Don't fuck it up now!" I'm doing my final seminar paper on suggestive language regarding sex during the British Romantic Period. This is one of the extracts that I'm working with:
"I saw, with wonder and surprise, what? Not the play-thing of a boy, not the weapon of a man, but a maypole of so enormous a standard, that had proportions been observed, it must have belonged to a young giant! I could not, without pleasure, even venture to feel such a length, such a breadth of animated ivory whose exquisite whiteness was not a little set off by a sprout of black curling hair round the root. In short, it stood an object of terror and delight."
The fair young strumpet knows how to appreciate a fine-sized maypole! Essentially, I'm studying old-time porn, and no one cares. If that's what I'll end my graduate school career with, then so much the better.

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Nine out of ten readers can't believe that JP is not in hell (or at least a federal pound-me-in-the-ass prison) yet.

The Answer to Life, the Universe, and Everything

Life Lesson #1: Learn to operate one of these

This started off as a rant in real life, but I realized that it would make a good rant for my blog too. My real and virtual selves have collapsed in on each other.

I'm so sick of being required to teach life to my students. The class I teach is supposedly titled "Composition and Rhetoric." That means that I should be teaching these kids how to write... and I do so. But that's not all that's expected of me. I can't just let them write whatever they want. No, no, no. The department has guidelines for what these students have to write about.

The first paper is called "The Literacy Narrative." Basically, the student has to reflect on some event in his or her past that affects his or her knowledge in some area. What's worse is that I'm expected to grade students based on how well they've reflected upon this event. As Batmite has repeatedly stated, the Literacy Narrative is the most masturbatory essay ever conceived. Most students end up extolling the virtues of completely trivial events, and I can't say I blame them. I'm the one who's forcing them to write on this ridiculous topic. They can even make up an event if they're so inclined. What time machine am I supposed to use to check up on them?

The paper I'm currently grading (and what set off this line of thinking) is called "The Genre Analysis." The other TAs teach this paper in many different ways; personally, I have my students pick some ads and analyze them. The problem here is that my students don't know how to analyze the specific things that they pick. Even after two weeks of discussing how ads work, I'm still getting brilliance like, "The color of the can or bottle is extremely important because an ad should pull the reader's eye in and flow nicely." I'd say 90% of them can't get beyond that initial, "This is there because it works" mentality. They don't give any thought to why these advertising techniques work. But with only one paper devoted to genre analysis, what can I really expect of them?

My students HATED this paper too. I get grumblings from a few of my moppets with all of the papers, but the Genre Analysis is universally reviled. My best students get really stressed because they don't know what to do, and my lazy students just give up entirely.

And who really gives a shit if they can analyze ads or not? Why is this my problem? Christ, I wasn't told how to do this. The English department wants me to just let them analyze any genre they want. I've done that in the past, but no one knows what to do. People chose to analyze music, ads, product packaging, poems, stories, TV shows, and other such things, but no one really knew what to do with these genres. In two weeks, I can't talk about each genre, so I just picked one. I had my own readings, and I taught the analysis of advertising in the best way I knew how, but the idea totally flopped.

I know how to teach writing. I can help students with introductions, conclusions, transitions, organization, grammatical problems, developing their ideas, etc. But I've never been trained to explore a student's learning moments, deconstruct the meaning behind every genre imaginable, or how to conduct an effective interview.

Yes, that's the next paper... The Interview. Everyone has to deal with this. Here's a newsflash: a Bachelor's degree in English does not qualify me as an expert on conducting interviews. The little two week training session that I had a year and a half ago didn't cover it either. I got to fly by the seat of my pants when telling my students how to conduct one. The only interviews that I've ever conducted were in my sophomore year in college when I briefly worked for the school's newspaper... and I didn't do a very good job if the handouts that I give my students are any indication.

In addition to these goofy papers, I'm expected to have deep discussions of the reading material from the textbook. The trick is that the readings in the book are all examples of the different papers that they're supposed to write... only a lot more artsy. For instance, they have two sample interviews in there, but no freshman English student could be expected to write in the same manner. Either way, the subjects of the essays are not related to the class AT ALL. For the interview paper, the first essay is an interview with a woman who's an alcoholic. The second one is an interview with one of the guys who dropped the atom bomb on Hiroshima. These are interesting topics, but they have NOTHING to do with the paper at hand. My students catch on pretty quick that there's no practical relationship between a discussion about alcoholism and the paper that's due in two weeks (beyond the "this is also an interview paper" angle).

In our training session, we were told that part of our job was to expand our students' thinking. I have no problem with critical thinking, but give me something that I can work with. I'm tired of coming into class all the time feeling like their fucking life coach. I'm sick of giving bad grades to students because their analyses of advertisements are shallow because then I feel like I'm grading them as a PERSON instead of grading their work. "Sorry Timmy, but you get a C- in life."

I have no problem with freshmen learning all of these things, but I'm an untrained college student dividing my time between teaching, my own work (in theory), and lamenting a complete lack of direction in my life. I'm grateful that I get to go to WVU for free and get a stipend because I teach, but I am NOT qualified to teach the course in the way that they want me to. I do the best that I can, but the bullshit from the department always makes me feel like my best isn't good enough.

I'm not sure what brought this rant on now. Grading papers always puts me in a foul mood, I guess.

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Parents of WVU Students: Do you have any idea what kind of instructors that your tuition dollars are paying for?

Locks of Love

The English department just moved into a new building a few weeks ago. On the whole, it's a better pad than the old building - no asbestos, clear drinking water, working roach traps, etc. But there's one problem with the building that bothers me. It's not that we don't have air conditioning yet, though that's an annoyance. My big complaint is that there are no locks on the men's bathrooms.

What makes this complaint a big deal is that these are one-man bathrooms. You walk in and there's a sink, and then a urinal, and then a toilet. There are no stalls. You can just stroll in and see everything. I don't like the idea of someone swinging open the door so that the faculty and ten students waiting to conference can see my fat pasty ass taking a big shit.

The department's solution: post-it notes that say "Occupied" that are to put on the door when in use. Personally I think that's just asking for trouble. For me, the biggest laugh is that the bathrooms are the ONLY doors without a lock. All of our offices have locks; the resource rooms have locks; the classrooms have locks; the main office has a lock; and the entire building has an elaborate security system. This indicates to me that they ordered these lockless doors for the bathroom on purpose. Do the designers of the building have some sort of fetish for voyeurism and Cleveland Steamers?

English department: I want some goddamn locks on the bathroom doors. I'll even take a chain or sliding lock. Hell, give me a block of wood to wedge under the door when I'm in there. I'm sick of going to down the first floor whenever I need to poop just because it's the only bathroom that you've deemed worthy of having a separate stall. Could it be because the first floor is where all the department heads and secretaries work?

Nah.

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This post was brought to you by 1-ply toilet paper: made from sandpaper and stocked in university bathrooms across the nation so that it's nearly impossible for you to pull it off of the mammoth roll that it comes on.

And Now a Few Words from Whitey

Because I can't just let a legitimate perspective sit on my blog like a possible source of understanding, I decided to transform my brief blurb on race relations into a completely asinine post of its own.

Racism is an extremely taboo subject if you're white. Bringing it up will subject you to nothing but scorn and ridicule unless you do it just right. For instance, you can't bring it up in Kittanning bars unless it's in the form of "I hate those fucking Niggers!" or "Fucking Wetbacks are stealing all our jobs!" Never mind the fact that there are maybe ten black people and zero Mexicans within a 30 mile radius of the town. Also, it's not enough to use an extremely offensive racial slur; true acceptance is not reached until you add "fucking" before it.

Fun can also be found in the English department. My students had a field day with an assignment I gave them about euphemisms. I asked them to think about euphemisms that they see in everyday life. At least five white students complained about the term African-American. Their basic argument was, "Hey, if it gets the meaning across, then one word is as good as another." At first I thought, "Damn these crackers be racist," but then my lone black student made the same argument, and this small town white authority figure was left with a conundrum.

They all got an "A." Except for one kid who didn't meet the page requirement. I love busting people on a technicality. White cops have fun with that too.

[Side note: I hate the term "African American" as well. Not only does it sound patronizing, but it's also inaccurate in many cases. Not all black people come from Africa, and not all Africans are black. The whitest professor in the English department is from South Africa. No amount of political correctness is going to give him the term "African American."]

Even better is having fun with racism in a graduate class. Batmite is from India, and it's always fun to see how he's become the authority figure for all discussions of brown people. "Gee Golly, Batmite! What do you think about the plight of the African American slave?" But no matter what he says, he gets a free pass. I think he likes to see what he can get away with. "Oh, I think the white plantation owners weren't given a fair shake by historians." "Tell us more, oh wise brown man!"

Last spring I read James Baldwin's The Fire Next Time. [Basic Summary: White people repeatedly screw over black guy. Black guy gets pissed. Black guy chronicles how he dealt with racial issues.] I actually really liked the book, but I didn't know how I was supposed to analyze it, so I titled my response paper, "And Now a Few Words from Whitey." The paper basically outlined how I didn't know how to respond to this book because Baldwin said that white people can never understand the plight of blacks. This was right near the end of the spring semester when my disenchantment with the English department really kicked into high gear, and I was fully expecting (and perhaps hoping for) a big brouhaha from the professor.

She fucking loved it.

The class did too. They all started sharing their tales of how they don't know any black people either. [Note: The WVU English department is filled to the brim with white people.] One woman who's from the Ukraine didn't understand why I couldn't relate. After all, didn't I face persecution because of my Lithuanian heritage? That's right, Natasha. All the honkies form a mob and shout "LET'S GET THAT VILNIUS VERMIN!"

Batmite was asked after class if the discussion made him uncomfortable. Because, of course, talking about how white people don't understand black people would have a personal impact on the guy from India.

I should perform a little experiment while I'm still here. I should get Batmite to make an extremely politically incorrect argument about race in one class, and then try to make the same argument myself in another class. It would help if I wear something really white. If only I had something that would qualify....
Checkmate, bitches!

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Racism: Proving to be an untapped resource for funny anecdotes, lame puns, and incriminating tales about the English department. Hooray for Racism!!

Please Use Back Door

Being an English grad student has led to such apathy on my part that I just can't stand to be in class anymore, but this semester has at least provided entertainment value in the form of a class called "Romanticism, Sexuality, and the Law."

Today's lesson: Sodomy and pederasty.

The professor, as you might imagine, is odd. He flails his arms and bobs his head around as he talks. He's weird looking too.
Does this look like a man that you'd want to discuss anal sex with? Of course, we didn't call it anal sex. My favorite phrase of the evening had to be "sodomitical transaction;" however, "spermatic economy" was a close runner-up. The class seemed like an exercise in who could come up with the most obscure euphemism. Given the topic of the class, why couldn't we just use everyday language? No one is confused when I say "The cheese-monger had his cock buried in the ass of the Duke of Gloucester." The professor was pulling terms out of his ass (*pun intended*).

The point of the class is apparently to discuss how people in the Romantic Era in England (early 19th century or so) dealt with issues such as sodomy, rape, and pederasty. I don't have the vaguest idea of how this will relate to literature. There are legitimate books on our syllabus, but I'm almost afraid to know about the personal life Percy Shelley now that I know what the class is about.

The professor is oddly excited by depraved sexuality. The more bizarre the sex, the more jovial he became while discussing it. You should have seen him rub his hands in glee as he talked about the upcoming section on rape. You might be tempted to assume that the professor's gay, but I'm not so sure. I think being confined to a single orientation would be constricting for this guy. Batmite thinks he's pan-sexual. If you can dream it up, this guy would probably be willing to entertain the idea.

I don't think I'm really mature enough for this class. It's taking every ounce of self-control for me not to giggle like a six-year-old during class discussions. In one presentation, a person mentioned a book called A Gay History of Britain. The author of said book was H. G. Cocks. I'm not even making that up. H. G. Cocks wrote A Gay History of Britain.

After class, I came back to the apartment and ate some hot sausages. Then my head hurt from the Freudian implications of class and dinner. I somehow suspect that this class will only get weirder, so be prepared for further updates regarding this class. After all, we haven't even gotten to the Prostitution and Rape sections yet.

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Buggery: It doesn't mean what you think. Go ahead and look it up.