November 8: Wild Dogs, Worrier, Annotated Bibliography

Billy Pilgrim was armed as he snoozed.  It was the first time he had been armed since basic training.  His companions had insisted that he arm himself, since God only knew what sorts of killers might be in burrows on the face of the moon--wild dogs, packs of rats fattened on corpses, escaped maniacs and murderers, soldiers who would never quit killing until they themselves were killed.

Billy had a tremendous cavalry pistol in his belt.  It was a relic of World War One.  It had a ring in its butt.  It was loaded with bullets the size of robins' eggs.  Billy had found it in the bedside table in a house.  That was one of the things about the end of the war.  Absolutely anybody who wanted a weapon could have one.  They were lying all around.  Billy had a saber, too.  it was a Luftwaffe ceremonial saber.  Its hilt was stamped with a screaming eagle.  The eagle was carrying a swastika and looking down.  Billy found it stuck into a telephone pole.  He had pulled it out of the pole as the wagon went by.

Billy is not a good soldier.  He doesn't care whether he's carrying a weapon or not.  Billy was the assistant to a Army chaplain, if my memory is correct.  Going to the battle front was not on his bucket list.  By this time in Slaughterhouse, Billy knows how is life is going to turn out, from the day he's born to the day he dies.  There are no surprises in his life. 

I sort of envy Billy.  I, myself, am not a big fan of surprises.  I'm a planner.  For example, this evening, a colleague of mine is observing my teaching.  This colleague is an incredibly kind and relaxed individual.  He told me on Monday, "I don't want to make this into something that causes you stress."  Like I said, he's a nice guy.

However, I am a worrier.  I like my life to be full of nothing that even smacks of spontaneity in situations like this.  Usually, when I know that I'm being observed, I fall back on a tried and true lesson plan, one that has proved successful on more than one occasion.  The last few years, I have chosen my It's a Wonderful Life lesson from my Intro to Film classes.  It always works.

I am not teaching Intro to Film this semester.  In fact, I'm only teaching one face-to-face class--first year composition.  My other class is an online mythology course.  So, first year comp it is.  And the topic on the syllabus for tonight is . . . annotated bibliography.  Terrible.

My goal for tonight, then, is to teach an interesting lesson on citing and evaluating sources for a research paper.  I have a PowerPoint.  I have four pages of notes.  And I have a lot of anxiety.  I'm not sure my plan is going to work.  I've never done it before.  I'm hoping my students will jump in and participate.  If they don't, I'm sunk.

That's why I want to be Billy Pilgrim this evening.  At least for a little while.  I simply want to know how this evening ends, whether I make an idiot of myself in front of my colleague.

Instead, Saint Marty will hole up in his office, chewing his nails, viewing and reviewing his lesson plan until he's ready to throw up.

October 11: Adjuncts, Anna M. Evans, "The Adjunct's Villanelle"

I know some of my disciples have been missing the poems I usually post.  This time, I decided against choosing a Poet of the Week.  Instead, I've been reading the fall issue of the poetry journal Rattle, which featured poems by and about adjuncts.  You know, those underpaid "part-time" instructors on college campuses across the country.

I am a contingent professor.  Have been for twenty-some years.  The poems in this issue of Rattle really spoke to me on a very deep level.  They made me sad.  Made me angry.  Made me laugh.  Therefore, I have decided to share a few of my favorites from the issue.

I type this post right now in my university office.  In less than a half hour, I will walk down the hall, into a classroom, and spend the next three-and-a-half hours trying to get a group of young people excited about writing and research.  First year composition.  It's not an easy gig, and there are some tenured faculty who get paid a great deal more money than me to teach the same class.  That's what being a contingent is all about.

In two days' time, when my name is announced in Stockholm by the Permanent Secretary of the Swedish Academy, I'm hoping to become the first contingent professor to be awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature.

Certainly, that would qualify Saint Marty to teach at least a class in mythology.

The Adjunct's Villanelle

by:  Anna M. Evans

You just come in and teach, then you can go,
she says, distracted by her tenure file.
I wish someone would tell my students so.

From there I leave to meet with one who's slow
to understand the work.  It takes a while
to teach him what he needs.  Then, I can go.

Another text:  the fetus didn't grow.
She's on bed rest for weeks.  Can I compile
the work she'll miss?  I can, and tell her so.

Two student emails wait:  one's in a show
and really wants me there.  Good kid.  I smile
and write back saying I'll be thrilled to go.

The second wants a reference.  Just say no,
I'm told.  I could, but cannot reconcile
this with the student I remember.  So,

The one whose mom died doesn't need to know
my story, how I have to swallow bile
when I hear how I come, and teach, and go.
I don't.  I wish someone would tell them so.