CHARISMATIC MEGAFAUNA
By Quiconque
| Quiconque may explode without warning |
| M EXPLOSIVE |
From Go-Quiz.com
(Thanks, Peth.)
Oh no! Now we come to the part of the blog where Quiconque writes about something important in her life. Why am I so angry today? I had a job interview for a teaching post at university where I am already employed as a tutor. The chairwoman of the dept. called me on Friday afternoon, asking that I come in today at 11 am with copies of my teaching evaluations. The last time I taught was 5 years ago. I explained to her that I would need time to contact the necessary offices to find out if they even kept such records for 5 years. I called the old college, to no avail, because, of course, it was a Friday afternoon during the summer. No one was at work. I worked on a tentative writing intensive syllabus with a 7 page reading list. I am not conceited when I admit that this reading list would have challenged graduate students. I have not slept in 36 hours. I went to the old college to meet with someone at Human Resources. They could not locate the documents, but a nice man promised that they did have them in storage and they would send them out this week. Even the departmental secretary, who remembered quite well that she never liked me, took time out of her busy Danish-eating morning to check the files. Then I took the CRAZY PERSON WHEELCHAIR BUS to the interview, and had to deal with old people getting into a shoving match, hyperactive toddlers and long-suffering West Indian nannies, and a woman with clown make-up and an overstuffed shopping cart. And yes, we stopped for a wheelchair passenger, which increased the crazy-person concentration in the front of the bus, where I was sitting. I showed up for the interview 5 minutes early only to learn that they were expecting me at 10. This is a bad sign, because I never get things like this wrong. And then it got weirder. I was interviewed by 2 people. First, they asked me about my research, which I expected. I hate talking about my research, especially with social scientists, because they always demand conclusions, and I�m not ready to show my hand just yet. Basically, my research concerns discourse about gendered academic achievement among people of North African descent in France. That�s the airy, wordy, texty part. On the ground, it�s also an examination of the daily crap these students go through in trying to find jobs, get housing, figure out university rules, and, for foreigners, obtain the necessary documentation to stay in France and continue their studies. I made it very clear how much I admired that these students stick it out, despite the odds stacked against them. We moved on to the syllabus, and the chairwoman asked me how I plan to teach the course. When I explained that I plan to teach it as a writing intensive seminar, she looked at me as if I�d said, �I plan to teach the course through nude interpretive dance.� What�s �writing intensive?� What does that mean? What�s a �free write?� What�s �low-stakes� writing? You mean you�re going to have the students write every week? What if they don�t want to write, what will you do? (Take them outside and beat them. What does she expect me to do? Every professor runs the risk of students not wanting to do the work. You know what those professors do? First they threaten, then they FAIL the students. It�s very simple.) I kept trying to explain that I wanted the students to wrestle with very complex ideas, not just parrot back facts on an exam. And then it just got obnoxious. She said, �I see you�re used to teaching at public universities. Have you ever taught at a private institution?� [No.] �Well, I suggest you sit in on a class or two here to see what level of work we expect from our students.� I explained that I am already a tutor at the university and have seen some of the coursework undergraduates typically get. Well, that didn�t satisfy her, because I tutor high-risk students through an outreach office. (Mind you, the coursework is still the same; it�s just that these kids are less equipped). I explained that I went to a high school that was pretty much a farm school for this university, and I knew what level of work they expected. But that was not enough. (Mind you, this is where the mediocre students in my high school ended up.) And then she said, �Well, these kids, ah, THEIR PARENTS PAY A LOT OF MONEY.� So, because she was so offensive, I instructed her to look at my cv and note where I went to undergrad. Yes, my parents paid a lot of money, too. I know all about paying a lot of money for higher education. So what? She was afraid that my admiration for students who overcome real obstacles to come to university would prevent me from sufficiently challenging the mediocre children of the idle rich. So, I don�t think I�m the front-runner for this job. (But if, by some stroke of luck, such as a piano falling on the other candidate�s head, I DO get it, expect some rabble-rousing.)|
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