Monday, December 29, 2014

December 15th, 2014


They are bending over their exams and I should be grading their last papers
so they can fold that "feedback" into the rest of the feedback from me that
I'm sure is very insufficient but instead I am trying to keep my eyelids from
falling and dreaming about the title of a book I might someday write. And,
then, in the middle of it, a text. This text results in a necessary, but unpleasant
conversation. I feel my cheeks grow hot and wonder if the students notice. They
write on, occasionally pausing and resting their chins on their hands. They are
writing about their progress with writing, a meta-analysis, and this is hard and I
watch them strain and I wish I could guide them even now. What they don't know
is that this exam really is less of an assessment of their own knowledge and more
an assessment of my teaching. I have grown miles from this kind of exam. The
texts keep buzzing in. This conversation was dead before it started, but it continues
on, a stubborn ghost. It lasts much longer than their exams, and by the end I am
laughing the nervous laughter of one who narrowly avoided a car wreck.

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