It is Classic Saint Marty Sunday. I've chosen a post from the first season of Saint Marty. This episode originally aired on March 10, 2010. It was near the end of the winter semester at the university. I was a little overwhelmed. I'm sure anybody who's taught composition will sympathize.
The initial posting received over two hundred views.
Saint Marty hopes you enjoy it. Try the Saint Joan of Arc French fries at Saint Marty Castle on your way out of the park..
First, let me apologize for not posting for the last couple of days. My entry today will partly explain my absence. The other part of my explanation was that Blog.com was down for maintenance until 7 p.m. yesterday, so I couldn't type in what I had. Please note and accept my mea culpa. Now, on with the show....
Any English teacher who tells you he or she enjoys correcting student papers/poems/stories is lying. I've been in the business for nearly 20 years, and I can tell you in all honesty that I would rather have an enema than comment on student writing (at least it's quicker and the sense of violation only lingers a short while). At this time in the semester, I'm pretty much a grading machine. It seems right now like I'm lugging around 50 pounds of essays about dead grandmothers and/or first sexual experiences. (They're not good sex stories, either. These are college freshmen and sophomores we're talking about. It's over in about 30 seconds, which is more than I can say for the papers.) By the end of a day of grading, I feel like I've just sat through a weekend marathon of Dora the Explorer. (Can you say it with me? Sick grandma, phone call, funeral! Sick grandma, phone call, funeral!! Sick grandma, phone call, funeraaaaaal!!! Excelente!)
If it sounds like I'm whining, it's because I am. I know me complaining about having to grade papers is like a urologist complaining about the smell of pee. It just comes with the territory. And don't misunderstand me: I love teaching. It's the evaluating that I'm not a big fan of.
Every once in a while, I get a student whose work is so good it hurts. Literally. When I read good writing, whether it's from an 18-year-old from Felch, Michigan, or William Faulkner, I experience pangs of envy that pound in my temples. I've already admitted in an earlier blog that one of my many character flaws is jealousy, so this confession should come as no shock. I can't stand reading writers who are better than me. (It doesn't happen very often, but it happens.) When that writer is one of my students, it's both a blessing and a curse. The blessing is that I get to read amazing work (and make biting comments that will shake the writer's confidence a little); the curse is that everything else submitted by other students in the class reads like bad J. D. Salinger knockoffs--all moron, nothing that makes you want to call up the author when you're done.
This semester, I have a few really good students who will end up getting A's in my classes, but I don't have any student who humbles me as a teacher and writer, who I simply can't make any better. Thus, at the moment, sitting down with a stack of 25 papers is like hunting with a shotgun: sometimes an essay is a direct hit, but, most of the time, essays are scattered randomly from good to mediocre to lousy. Pretty jaded, I know.
I am sorely in need of a summer recharge. This always happens around this time in the winter term. Right after spring recess, I lose my compass point, to borrow a bad metaphor from Mr. Holland's Opus. I start questioning my abilities as a teacher because every day I face a classroom full of people who are suffering from the same malaise (call it I-don't-give-a-shit-itis). I don't usually teach in the summer sessions, so I get a break to restore my enthusiasm.
The bad thing about this condition is that when I read about a saint now, it makes me feel even more apathetic and lazy because most saints do things like stop famines, cure cancers, build schools and basilicas. I'm just happy if I remember to floss and wear matching socks. Marcarius is a good example. A fourth century bishop, he helped write the Creed at the Council of Nicaea (you know, the prayer that sort of tells all Christians what to believe). He found the actual cross Christ was crucified on in Jerusalem, and then built the Church of the Holy Sepulcher. He also did things like battle heresies and convert hundreds/thousands of people. Like I said, sometimes saints (who all have type-A personalities) just make me tired.
I'm sorry this blog isn't more inspiring or wise. You're probably thinking, I waited two days for this?! It's hard to find inspiration when you're buried in papers. I can't even see my way to a witty, smart ass conclusion to this reflection. If I were grading this posting, I'd probably give it about a B-. Grammatically, there's nothing wrong with it, but it's narrative voice is superficial and a little annoying. I don't even like me, which is never a good sign.
So, I turn back to my dead grandma essays and pick up my red pen. Time to share my suffering.
Confessions of Saint Marty
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