"We laugh because we've been there," I say, but it's clear in that moment that he is deadly, earnestly serious. Behind in all his classes, he had made an appointment with me to see what he could do in my class to get caught up.
"I actually went to a counselor," he tells me. "Aren't they supposed to listen? This one let me get out about two sentences out before he just talked the rest of the time. It wasn't very helpful. So I've just been asking my professors how they got through college." He's a fifth-year senior, and I think he's probably weary of being in school and fighting himself for the wherewithal to just finish. I've definitely been there.
In fact, his question is timely inasmuch as I'm worried about how I'm going to finish a dissertation while teaching a 4/4 load and doing adjunct work as well as being on staff at a church. I love teaching. I love working. I have a hard time turning down gigs in an economy where at least 1 person in 10 doesn't have a job. Anyway.
"I got through college by mapping out my assignments," I tell him. "I went through all the syllabi and listed the assignments in order, and then just hammered away at them. By finals week I had all my assignments done. I was bored, of course, because everyone else was scrambling and didn't have time to hang out, but I got it all done."
The truth is I only did this full-bore for one semester, and I once flunked a poetry class because I didn't complete all the assignments. But he doesn't need to know any of that. He needs hope. He needs to know, like Jim Carrey's character in Dumb and Dumber, that there's a chance. The plan worked for me, and I still use a modified version of that plan to this day: I tackle things in the order that they're due, because otherwise I'll just do whatever seems interesting at the time. Like write a blog post.
"Even now," I continue, "I set up external rewards. Like if I get these seven papers reviewed, I can play some Mario Kart with my boys." He smiled at this. "If I get my quota done for the day, then I can crack open a beer or do some pleasure reading." He's over 21; I'm not going to shatter any illusions for him by admitting that his writing prof rewards himself with video games and a cold one. "It's basically a kind of auto-manipulation," I admit. "You trick yourself into being productive." This seems to connect with him. "I'm going to guess you're fighting yourself to get through this last semester" -- he nods knowingly -- "so fight dirty."
Maybe it sounds corny but I believe this is holy work. There is something sacred here, a channel of grace in the student-teacher relationship. I like teaching writing because I know they need the help and most of them know it, too. I like those moments when I can show a human face to the students, when I can be a person and treat them as persons. The university system (like many aspects of Western culture) has ecclesiastical roots, and there's a priestly element to being a prof. I dispense grace, after a fashion, and in this moment my office has become a confessional, my student a penitent sinner. It's my job to figure out the combination of Hail Marys, Our Fathers, and holy water that will bring absolution.
"Now," I continue. "You're telling me you have assignment 1 finished but you keep forgetting to email it?" He nods sheepishly. He's a little embarrassed by that, but I've been there, too. "Okay, so you're going to email that tonight." He writes this down. This gives me hope for him. "How long will it take you to write assignment 2?" About two hours, he tells me. That's about right. "When will you have a two-hour block of time to write it?" He tells me he has Friday open. "Okay, so Friday night you're going to turn that in. Assignment 3 builds on assignment 2. Are you going anywhere over break?" He's not. "Perfect. Then by Tuesday of break you'll turn in assignment 3 and be caught up in this class. I don't know what you're working out in your other classes, but that will take care of this one. Do we have a deal?" He agrees to this and we shake on it.
"One more thing," I say. "Don't tell anyone, but I secretly believe that being behind is its own punishment. If you can get this done and get caught up by Tuesday, I'll waive the late penalties -- but you have to get it done."
This, I can see by the way his face changes, is Good News.
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Will you be my teacher?
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