October 12: Shingly Beach, Midterms, Drunk Dialing

Stephen Graham startled me by describing the same gift in his antique and elegant book, The Gentle Art of Tramping.  He wrote, "And as you sit on the hillside, or lie prone under the trees of the forest, or sprawl wet-legged on the shingly beach of a mountain stream, the great door, that does not look like a door, opens."  That great door opens on the present, illuminates it as with a multitude of flashing torches.

Flashing torches in an open door.  That's what happens, according to Stephen Graham, when you venture into nature and allow yourself to experience it fully, with all the appropriate sense orifices open.  The present then becomes a raging forest fire of light, sparking all the nerve endings.  I suppose that's not a bad way to spend an afternoon.

Of course, I do not have the opportunity today to follow Graham's advice about tramping.  I have papers to grade, a film class to teach.  It's midterm exam time at the university.  Students are spending extra money at Starbucks to keep themselves fueled for this week's challenges.  Tonight, I will administer a midterm exam about swish pans and lap dissolves and Citizen Kane.  Because that's what college professors are supposed to do.

Of course, tomorrow morning, when my name is announced by Sara Danius in the Grand Hall of the Swedish Academy, I will probably be living in the present for quite a while.  Open door.  Flashing torches.  All that shit.  Here is what I will be doing at the appointed hour:

At around 5:45 a.m., I will be sitting at my desk in the surgery center where I work most days.  There is a phone and a computer on my desk.  I will have the live feed from Sweden open on my desktop.  The countdown clock will be ticking away.  Then, about ten or so minutes before the announcement is scheduled to be made, the phone on my desk will begin ringing.  When I pick up the receiver, I will hear a thickly Swedish voice say, "Is this Sankt Marty?" 

That is how I will learn that I am this year's recipient of the Nobel Prize in Literature.  And I will live in the present.  I won't need to go for a walk in the woods or climb a mountain or sprawl on a shingly beach.  I may indulge myself in a small moment of self-congratulation.  It may involve a bottle of Tanqueray and a drunk phone call to the president of the university where I teach.  Said conversation may include the phrase "suck it."

Aside from that, Saint Marty really hasn't come up with a concrete plan of action yet.

Wonder who he would drunk dial if he won?

April 2: Flunking, Grading, and Saint Isidore

"Do you blame me for flunking you, boy?" he said.

Holden's history teacher at Pencey Prep asks Holden this question.  Old Spencer is trying to get through to him, the way that Mr. Antolini tries later in the novel.  I think Spencer is earnest in his effort to help Holden, but Holden is reluctant to accept advice from anyone over the age of about ten.  He views most adults as phonies and sell-outs.

I understand Old Spencer.  I just spent the last three or four days correcting my students' midterm exams.  Most passed without any problems.  However, out of two classes containing over 70 young minds, there are always a few people who simply fail.  In fact, they don't just fail.  They fail on an epic, Cecil B. Demille scale.  This semester, I had three or four midterms like that.  And, like Old Spencer, I'm trying to understand how it could have happened.  I've spent more than a little time asking myself, "Where did I go wrong with these kids?"

I've been in the teaching profession long enough to know that I'm probably not to blame for these F's on my midterm.  Each one of these students probably has legitimate reasons, like Holden, for his or her poor performance.  Divorcing parents.  A terminally ill grandparent.  Drug or alcohol abuse.  But I still find myself rereading their midterms, trying to acquit myself of any wrongdoing.  I want my students to succeed, and, when they don't, I tend to point fingers at myself.

I've always felt a little bit like a fraud in the classroom anyway.  I can't believe, sometimes, that I get paid to do the stuff that I do.  I earn money for talking about movies and books and poetry.  It's a pretty good gig.  And I've been doing it for a while, which means somebody thinks I know what I'm doing.  But I'm no Saint Isidore.

Isidore was a Spanish archbishop around the year 600.  His feast days is April 4.  The thing that makes me feel inadequate when I think of Isidore is that, aside from doing all the holy and saintly stuff, he also found time to be a "voluminous writer.  He composed a work containing the whole circle of science, which shows his vast erudition.  This is one of the earliest encyclopedias on record.  The Saint was versed in the Latin, Greek, and Hebrew languages."  Talk about a show-off.

I wonder what Isidore would have said to the student who talked to me after class yesterday.  She had just received her failing midterm grade, and she looked close to tears.  After the lecture hall emptied, she apologized for performing so poorly in my class.  She said she'd just found out her parents were divorcing during Christmas break, and she hasn't been able to recover from the news.  She feels like her life is spinning out of control.

I let her talk, and I stood there and listened.  She was being raw and honest, and her whole body was shaking with the effort.  After she finished, we talked about ways to help her pass the class.  I talked to her about the student counseling center on campus, told her she needed someone to talk to, someone who could provide professional guidance.

By the time we left the room, she was laughing and breathing visibly easier.  She's not out of trouble yet, but I think I provided her some comfort and good advice.  That's what Isidore would have done, I'm sure.  I think that's what Old Spencer tries to do, in his own clumsy way, as well.

Saint Marty said a prayer for his student last night.

I like Old Spencer's pajamas

November 14: Dashing Off a Post

SUNG TO THE TUNE OF "JINGLE BELLS"

I'm dashing off a post.
I have to get to class.
If I don't hurry up,
It will be my ass.

It's almost time to leave.
I don't know what to say.
I haven't accomplished anything.
I've wasted all the day.

CHORUS:

Teaching's fun, teaching's fun.
Brokeback and a test.
My students are all afraid.
The midterms weren't the best.

Oh, teaching's fun, teaching's fun.
Brokeback and a test.
My students are all afraid.
Saint Marty needs a rest.

A festive holiday post

November 1: More Time, The Girl, the Gold Watch & Everything

Giving another midterm this afternoon, this time to my mythology class.  Frankly, I don’t understand why any of my students stress over my tests.  They seem fairly simple to me.  If a student reads what I assign and listens in class, maybe takes a few notes, he shouldn’t have a problem.  I Love these kind of teaching days.  I don’t have to perform too much, and I can get a lot of other busy work done, as well.

Today, for example, I will administer my midterm.  While my students are taking the midterm, I will be correcting their response papers and journals.  Once the last student finishes the midterm, I will have them write a journal entry about heroes, and then I will start discussing the story of Gilgamesh.  Simple as pecan pie.  For those of you who have never made a pecan pie, it’s pretty doggone simple, like pulling up a zipper.

I’m sort of glad that I scheduled a week like this for myself in the middle of the semester (I gave a midterm yesterday in Good Books, as well).  This time of year, I start to fall behind in almost all my activities—grading, reading, exercising, sleeping, everything but eating.  It makes me think of a TV movie from 1980 titled The Girl, the Gold Watch & Everything.  It’s about a guy who inherits from his rich uncle a pocket watch that can stop time.  That’s what I need.  Something that just gives me about twenty more hours in the day to get everything done.

I haven’t thought about that movie for years.  It was one of my favorites when I was a teenager, and even spawned a sequel, I believe.  I wanted to be Robert Hays in that movie.  Now, screw Robert Hays.  I’d be happy for just a couple more hours of sleep, or a day to get some teaching prep done.  I’ve really lowered my standards.

I’ve had more than one person tell me that God never gives you anything that He doesn’t think you can handle.

God must have a pretty high opinion of Saint Marty.

Whatever happened to Robert Hays?