The Kronikle Volume 5, Issue 4: Once Upon a Read...
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[Remember Kronkites, the following is merely a construct of my mind and bears no resemblance to actual places, people, or events]
My return to the Promised Land of “highly motivated high school teachers and college professors participating in an exciting professional development opportunity promoting growth and collaboration” begins with a highly anticipated invitation delivered to inboxes in January. The criteria for who receives one and who doesn't is so often discussed with so little legitimate fact that the actual truth has likely been permanently convoluted, like JFK's assassination or eighth graders giving each other advice on safe sex. The exciting professional development opportunity then exposes its unseemly side. The first act of accepting the invitation requires the digital affixing of an esignature promising that we will not drink so much that it affects our ability to do our job, harass anyone else in any type of way, and that we will not tell secrets.
For me, the experience actually begins on Travel Day by stopping into the convention center that serves as anchor for the week and finding out what question I have been assigned. I always cross my fingers for a topic I like and know, but not exhaustively. If that happens, I will spend some of my time learning and that is ideal. I absolutely do not want a topic that I love because then the week is all unfocused, misanthropic rage with no targets. I am satisfied by my assignment.
The next morning we report, as alert as we are likely to be the entire week. Trepidation mixes with curiosity as the dark urban legends of harsh, thin-lipped Nurse Ratched table bosses tumble dry in the back of the mind with the bright memories of collegiality and goofy hijinks that would have earned social ostracism in the world but are highly valued here.
My table is in the corner pocket of one the curtained sections and soon will abut the “plague zone” where people with conditions so severe that they have to bring a bath towel to sop up their face drippings move so they don't offend their table. We exchange tentative greetings until we figure out who our boss is and then we gladly yield our leadership to her. The most basic introduction begin the process: “Hi. I am name. I teach subject at name of institution in state.” Then we jump into the process of “locking into” the rubric. Through that initial discussion, the broad outlines of the table's personalities are revealed. This year, everyone at my table has a name that sounds like they are in Witness Protection. The men are named after the writers of the gospels—Matthew, Mark, Bill, and John. My table is perfectly affable. They are focused, do not really crack jokes but will laugh at mine, and are really quiet. It is my first table squad that did not share funny quotes or distract each other through off-topic conversation.
The tenor of the table obviously suggests they are not going to truck with any major disturbances. I do my best to follow their lead. Fortunately, my old comrade in subversion, Anarchy Incarnate, stops by regularly to relieve the monotony with measured doses of lack of restraint. I keep waiting for an escalation from Anarchy Incarnate, certain the constraints of the environment will coax from him a chaotic response along the lines of decorating my table space with pictures of Motley Crue publicity shots from their contemporaneous tour or a mannequin dressed like Cher mysteriously occupying part of the plague zone. I keep an aluminum foil wrapped, baseball game hot dog at the ready for a increasingly disgusting, Spinal Tap inspired response but I eventually chuck the thing in the trash, convinced that Anarchy Incarnate is too obsessed with his own tablemate that so thoroughly disregards all elements of his work in a frenzy of random bubbling and unsanctioned extra fifteen minute breaks that we name him “Egregious Slacker Guy”and Anarchy begins spying on him. The day after I threw away my perfect weapon, I find my table covered in coffee cup cardboard insulators, every one printed with Oprah Winfrey's Words of Wisdom. You win this round, Anarchy.
My table boss is a balanced mix of commitment to the business that brought us together (I need that) and a refusal to sweat the small stuff. Possessed of an understated, elegant dry wit that likely makes her popular with her students, I appreciated the infrequent periods when she talked rather than worked.
Throughout the week, I will observe all the surrounding tables are also equally well-behaved resulting in the creation of my own conspiracy theory that proposes a (early-) Stalinist purge of the discipline cases during the Dark Age of my absence.
The woman seated next to me is a tiny academic who coos supportive interjections whenever anyone talks. She thanks me sincerely any time I hand her something. I decide this woman is too lovely to interact with extensively, lest I corrupt her. That meets with limited success. Early in the week, I started a wall of used coffee cups, mid-week dubbed “Containerment” that resulted in my serving as the “Play” to my tablemate's “Kid” in our little twisted version of House Party. Without a lot of time or temptation on my part, Kid began contributing her own coffee cups, offering advice on how to make a more powerful artistic statement, and fielding questions from the tourists (I am telling you, it was a very tame crowd this year) that stopped by to inquire about the construction.
I decide that this experience aligns with the hazy memories of high school I have yet to locate and terminate. In this place, the work of education is interrupted by frequent breaks that lay bare the social dynamics I suspect define all large groups of people. People initially announce their identity with the clothes they wear. For most, comfort trumps style and T-shirt slogans allow for the business of personal statements, anyway. A fair number of women, a small grouping of younger men, and one old table boss that, for some reason, in my head is named, “The French Guy” make sure they arrive more formally adorned. During the longer breaks, the similarities to high school increase. People break into cliques rapidly and the character of the first day pretty much determines the content of the breaks for the entire week. If, on the first day, you grab a snack, go into the foyer, and meet up with a friend from Q3 and share support, jokes, or complaints, then that is probably how you will spend every other free period. The beginning of a “cool crowd” develops, flirting is ubiquitous, and the shy and new members lean against a wall wondering where to put their arms and eyes while they wish for a friend, too. Segregation between the white nerd-tagged graders and the red-tagged support personnel is strictly observed by both sides.
In the midst of this observation, I discover in a moment of unwanted existential clarity that I am exactly the student that drives me to distraction thirty-two weeks out of the year—bright enough to get by without a lot of effort but capable of amazing things if only the kid would buy into the mission. Maddeningly, this student refuses to adopt my agenda and then distracts others from doing the same. Since I teach at the college level, I do not need to do the job in order to better teach my students and I also understood from the first time I imaginary-read that the high school teachers taught their students way, way more than I ever will. So I show up for my own reasons. This means my work ethic will demand I work hard but I have yet to discover anything I actually need to take too seriously so I am going to amuse myself.
I develop a technique rooted, I am sure, in whatever paradigm those Finns are utilizing to create well-adjusted, high-performing on standardized tests, creative problem-solving super students (plus or minus a creepy, murderous racist nut job here and there). It is called the Two Minutes Stupid in order to deal with the tedium of grading howlingly bad, unnecessarily long essays (some are truly great but the bulk of the essays have all the charm of Metamucil). Upon completion of a folder, I do something...else for two minutes. Sometimes I sketch a quick cartoon, write notes to leave for people that read ”Be the butterfly” or “Eye of the tiger”. Sometimes, I add to a longer work, such as iAlt.Rubric or “What Egregious Slacker Guy Does with His Extra Breaks”. I might add some picture to my paper name plate that I started when my reserved, wholesome tablemate startled me with a Dead Kennedys reference. I decorated it, initially, with “Kill the Poor” in her honor. I think this strategy slows me down slightly but it also might be the unusually long essays, too. I do actually think it allows me to do a better job because it keep the essays from bleeding into one giant, unwanted cud of essay,
Except for that morning when all the text kept melting off the paper; nothing could have saved me that day.
Until next time, I remain
Carrie the Red (stripe)
My return to the Promised Land of “highly motivated high school teachers and college professors participating in an exciting professional development opportunity promoting growth and collaboration” begins with a highly anticipated invitation delivered to inboxes in January. The criteria for who receives one and who doesn't is so often discussed with so little legitimate fact that the actual truth has likely been permanently convoluted, like JFK's assassination or eighth graders giving each other advice on safe sex. The exciting professional development opportunity then exposes its unseemly side. The first act of accepting the invitation requires the digital affixing of an esignature promising that we will not drink so much that it affects our ability to do our job, harass anyone else in any type of way, and that we will not tell secrets.
For me, the experience actually begins on Travel Day by stopping into the convention center that serves as anchor for the week and finding out what question I have been assigned. I always cross my fingers for a topic I like and know, but not exhaustively. If that happens, I will spend some of my time learning and that is ideal. I absolutely do not want a topic that I love because then the week is all unfocused, misanthropic rage with no targets. I am satisfied by my assignment.
The next morning we report, as alert as we are likely to be the entire week. Trepidation mixes with curiosity as the dark urban legends of harsh, thin-lipped Nurse Ratched table bosses tumble dry in the back of the mind with the bright memories of collegiality and goofy hijinks that would have earned social ostracism in the world but are highly valued here.
My table is in the corner pocket of one the curtained sections and soon will abut the “plague zone” where people with conditions so severe that they have to bring a bath towel to sop up their face drippings move so they don't offend their table. We exchange tentative greetings until we figure out who our boss is and then we gladly yield our leadership to her. The most basic introduction begin the process: “Hi. I am name. I teach subject at name of institution in state.” Then we jump into the process of “locking into” the rubric. Through that initial discussion, the broad outlines of the table's personalities are revealed. This year, everyone at my table has a name that sounds like they are in Witness Protection. The men are named after the writers of the gospels—Matthew, Mark, Bill, and John. My table is perfectly affable. They are focused, do not really crack jokes but will laugh at mine, and are really quiet. It is my first table squad that did not share funny quotes or distract each other through off-topic conversation.
The tenor of the table obviously suggests they are not going to truck with any major disturbances. I do my best to follow their lead. Fortunately, my old comrade in subversion, Anarchy Incarnate, stops by regularly to relieve the monotony with measured doses of lack of restraint. I keep waiting for an escalation from Anarchy Incarnate, certain the constraints of the environment will coax from him a chaotic response along the lines of decorating my table space with pictures of Motley Crue publicity shots from their contemporaneous tour or a mannequin dressed like Cher mysteriously occupying part of the plague zone. I keep an aluminum foil wrapped, baseball game hot dog at the ready for a increasingly disgusting, Spinal Tap inspired response but I eventually chuck the thing in the trash, convinced that Anarchy Incarnate is too obsessed with his own tablemate that so thoroughly disregards all elements of his work in a frenzy of random bubbling and unsanctioned extra fifteen minute breaks that we name him “Egregious Slacker Guy”and Anarchy begins spying on him. The day after I threw away my perfect weapon, I find my table covered in coffee cup cardboard insulators, every one printed with Oprah Winfrey's Words of Wisdom. You win this round, Anarchy.
My table boss is a balanced mix of commitment to the business that brought us together (I need that) and a refusal to sweat the small stuff. Possessed of an understated, elegant dry wit that likely makes her popular with her students, I appreciated the infrequent periods when she talked rather than worked.
Throughout the week, I will observe all the surrounding tables are also equally well-behaved resulting in the creation of my own conspiracy theory that proposes a (early-) Stalinist purge of the discipline cases during the Dark Age of my absence.
The woman seated next to me is a tiny academic who coos supportive interjections whenever anyone talks. She thanks me sincerely any time I hand her something. I decide this woman is too lovely to interact with extensively, lest I corrupt her. That meets with limited success. Early in the week, I started a wall of used coffee cups, mid-week dubbed “Containerment” that resulted in my serving as the “Play” to my tablemate's “Kid” in our little twisted version of House Party. Without a lot of time or temptation on my part, Kid began contributing her own coffee cups, offering advice on how to make a more powerful artistic statement, and fielding questions from the tourists (I am telling you, it was a very tame crowd this year) that stopped by to inquire about the construction.
I decide that this experience aligns with the hazy memories of high school I have yet to locate and terminate. In this place, the work of education is interrupted by frequent breaks that lay bare the social dynamics I suspect define all large groups of people. People initially announce their identity with the clothes they wear. For most, comfort trumps style and T-shirt slogans allow for the business of personal statements, anyway. A fair number of women, a small grouping of younger men, and one old table boss that, for some reason, in my head is named, “The French Guy” make sure they arrive more formally adorned. During the longer breaks, the similarities to high school increase. People break into cliques rapidly and the character of the first day pretty much determines the content of the breaks for the entire week. If, on the first day, you grab a snack, go into the foyer, and meet up with a friend from Q3 and share support, jokes, or complaints, then that is probably how you will spend every other free period. The beginning of a “cool crowd” develops, flirting is ubiquitous, and the shy and new members lean against a wall wondering where to put their arms and eyes while they wish for a friend, too. Segregation between the white nerd-tagged graders and the red-tagged support personnel is strictly observed by both sides.
In the midst of this observation, I discover in a moment of unwanted existential clarity that I am exactly the student that drives me to distraction thirty-two weeks out of the year—bright enough to get by without a lot of effort but capable of amazing things if only the kid would buy into the mission. Maddeningly, this student refuses to adopt my agenda and then distracts others from doing the same. Since I teach at the college level, I do not need to do the job in order to better teach my students and I also understood from the first time I imaginary-read that the high school teachers taught their students way, way more than I ever will. So I show up for my own reasons. This means my work ethic will demand I work hard but I have yet to discover anything I actually need to take too seriously so I am going to amuse myself.
I develop a technique rooted, I am sure, in whatever paradigm those Finns are utilizing to create well-adjusted, high-performing on standardized tests, creative problem-solving super students (plus or minus a creepy, murderous racist nut job here and there). It is called the Two Minutes Stupid in order to deal with the tedium of grading howlingly bad, unnecessarily long essays (some are truly great but the bulk of the essays have all the charm of Metamucil). Upon completion of a folder, I do something...else for two minutes. Sometimes I sketch a quick cartoon, write notes to leave for people that read ”Be the butterfly” or “Eye of the tiger”. Sometimes, I add to a longer work, such as iAlt.Rubric or “What Egregious Slacker Guy Does with His Extra Breaks”. I might add some picture to my paper name plate that I started when my reserved, wholesome tablemate startled me with a Dead Kennedys reference. I decorated it, initially, with “Kill the Poor” in her honor. I think this strategy slows me down slightly but it also might be the unusually long essays, too. I do actually think it allows me to do a better job because it keep the essays from bleeding into one giant, unwanted cud of essay,
Except for that morning when all the text kept melting off the paper; nothing could have saved me that day.
Until next time, I remain
Carrie the Red (stripe)