Finish Line
Today I am a college graduate. I have degrees in Political Science and International Relations, with an emphasis in Chinese. I have meaningless latin next to my name which signifies some sort of honors, but really means that I managed to keep up a respectable GPA.
I understand that I was supposed to be a college graduate last week. I had gone to my last class! I had turned in my last paper! But as a reward for my semester of tireless devotion to my grumpy yet endearing IR professor, I had been given a pile of research papers to grade. Then I volunteered to finish the rest of them. This is how I found myself, a week after my class had put on those enormous purple robes and funny hats, sitting on my couch at 2:00 am shrieking about the appalling grammar and poor citation skills of the upper division undergraduates at my august institution of higher learning.
My only regret is that I have turned my papers in to Professor F, and so I cannot quote them. Oh my international relations students, some of you were a joy to read! The 20% of you whom I gave A's were glowing and insightful. I may have even once or twice uttered the phrase, "Oooh, I wish I'd written that." I couldn't write a damned thing in the margins aside from, "Good," and "Here are some other books you would probably enjoy on this subject."
Oh, my international relations students, some of you will be the death of me! The 20% of you whom I did not grant a passing grade insisted on writing in crazy moon language, which is a little inconvenient because I happen to grade in English. Now, if my Bosnian student or my Russian student or my Japanese students had difficulty expressing themselves in English, I would cut them some slack, but American students who speak only English and cannot write comprehensibly in the only language they know deserve my bottomless stabby rage. Marginal comments include: "What?"; "There are nine spelling and grammar errors in this paragraph. Please re-read your work before turning it in"; and "Wikipedia is not an academic source." I know that I was never meant to be a teacher because I cannot love these students. Instead, they fill me with dread because when I present my diploma from this august institution of higher learning, potential employers will think that there is a 20% chance that I'm one of these people.
There is only one way to ward off this existential dread. I am going to take this enormous gift certificate to Modern Times and buy fiction - lots of fiction.
I understand that I was supposed to be a college graduate last week. I had gone to my last class! I had turned in my last paper! But as a reward for my semester of tireless devotion to my grumpy yet endearing IR professor, I had been given a pile of research papers to grade. Then I volunteered to finish the rest of them. This is how I found myself, a week after my class had put on those enormous purple robes and funny hats, sitting on my couch at 2:00 am shrieking about the appalling grammar and poor citation skills of the upper division undergraduates at my august institution of higher learning.
My only regret is that I have turned my papers in to Professor F, and so I cannot quote them. Oh my international relations students, some of you were a joy to read! The 20% of you whom I gave A's were glowing and insightful. I may have even once or twice uttered the phrase, "Oooh, I wish I'd written that." I couldn't write a damned thing in the margins aside from, "Good," and "Here are some other books you would probably enjoy on this subject."
Oh, my international relations students, some of you will be the death of me! The 20% of you whom I did not grant a passing grade insisted on writing in crazy moon language, which is a little inconvenient because I happen to grade in English. Now, if my Bosnian student or my Russian student or my Japanese students had difficulty expressing themselves in English, I would cut them some slack, but American students who speak only English and cannot write comprehensibly in the only language they know deserve my bottomless stabby rage. Marginal comments include: "What?"; "There are nine spelling and grammar errors in this paragraph. Please re-read your work before turning it in"; and "Wikipedia is not an academic source." I know that I was never meant to be a teacher because I cannot love these students. Instead, they fill me with dread because when I present my diploma from this august institution of higher learning, potential employers will think that there is a 20% chance that I'm one of these people.
There is only one way to ward off this existential dread. I am going to take this enormous gift certificate to Modern Times and buy fiction - lots of fiction.