Monday, November 30, 2015
November 30, 2015
Sunday morning found a dead baby raccoon in the driveway, It had been gutted, but whether that was the cause of death or the result of scavenging I don’t know. I felt bad. Left it, though, to see what would happen. Today there is significantly less of it.
Finished reading through my 50 students’ forty page journals. Some were barebones; others were full of keen insight or deep thought or pleasing humor. I’m pretty much a hit as a teacher. The best in the program, according to rate-my-professor, which I know not because I ever looked but because some of my students revealed their reasons for selecting me. Those who don’t like me fall (this time) into a single category– those who are more worried about their grade than they are about learning anything. It is true I’m not helpful to them, preferring to say “pay attention in class” or “wait for it all to fall together” rather than holding hands or handing out study guides. I do not make Powerpoints. I expect them to listen, and if they don’t know how to listen, to learn how. College is about learning new things. The boy/girl J hates me–and said so–largely, I think, because I did not take her/his grade anxiety seriously enough. Seldom have I felt such anger burning from a page. But THAT much anger is pathological and beyond redress, so one moves on. Most say they are thankful to have had me for Humanities, and I agree with them, for I loved what I did and presented it to them as an act of love. Something still must happen to punish The Boy. He's a little Caligula with the will but not the imagination of evil.
Many Christians in the class (revealed never IN class but always through the safety of the journals) and many of them remarkably ignorant about the faith they profess, to the point of not knowing the difference between the Old and the New testaments, of thinking that Jesus had written the bible, of not realizing every bible they have ever read has been a translation.
Student academic presentations in the morning. I divided the time between listening critically and looking at the back of K’s head, imagining making love to him. Probably approximately what goes on in that seat every class period. . . with a change of personnel.
Remarkable continuity of rain. This is the last evening at home for a very long time.