Today, courses for fall semester began. Technically speaking, the first day of class was this past Tuesday, however that day doesn’t really count (although I imagine the Dean of Education sees it differently) considering that the only content presented was the riveting material found in my syllabus.
It is an enthralling outline of events to expect, and word on the street is that my students have difficulty putting it down. In fact, you may have spotted them at Starbucks, reading quietly in a corner, fully engaged in the wordiness provided by yours truly, wondering to themselves, “How in the world does she do it? I’ve never encountered anything as compelling or fascinating in my entire Generation Z existence.”
Student learning outcomes, assessment measures and policies on academic integrity may sound like a big BORE, but from the moment you read the paragraph under Purpose of the Course, you, too would be hopelessly hooked.
Lecturing was to begin today, and I wanted to ensure that I allowed plenty of time to review my notes and gather scattered thoughts. Sometimes - as a result of the many years of parenting - my brain can come across as somewhat fragmented. Those fragments can be expressed either in intelligent forms as when speaking of Principles of Specificity, or in unintelligent forms such as random words from songs of High School Musical.
(I don’t understand it fully, but it is quite possible that I may look at you intently in the middle of conversation and sing/say, “You gotta getcha head in the game. Getcha, getcha head in the game…” My apologies to those who have no idea what I am talking about. Go ahead and click the mean, little red box in the corner because I can’t see how this will get any better.)
Speaking for two and a half hours, all under the guise of appearing smarter than my collegiate audience can be a difficult task. It can be particularly trying when just thirty minutes prior, all attention and concentration had been directed towards convincing a four year old that Cinderella underwear WAS a good choice because the Snow White underwear was not clean, and yes, you have to wear clean underwear to school, and no, I don’t care if the seven dwarfs get mad.
This morning, I gathered my textbooks and laptop and walked to my car, salivating over the skinny vanilla latte that was sure to assist my personality lacking sunshine and giggles at seven in the morning. Opening the car door, I noticed that the driver’s seat was in an odd position, leaning completely backwards, clearly the result of some child either playing pretend or attempting to hide from me. (I have since reprimanded John for such behavior and he promises never to do it again.)
I sat in the seat, attempted to make the necessary adjustments, all to no avail. The seat would not sit upright regardless of the number of times I pushed, pulled, and then spat upon the seat levers. (Mr. Ford, you will not be receiving a Christmas card from our family this year due to the manufacturing of seats that only small children can operate.)
It became evident that the seat was not going to cooperate, and that I would have to drive to school in its current state. (At least until my last class of the day expired and I could drive directly to the FORD place for an immediate trade-in for something that offered FUNCTIONING seats.)
All the way to work, I drove in a leaned-back position, head barely peeking over the steering wheel, looking like the GANGSTA adjunct professor that I am. I was feeling all FLY until I almost ran over a curb and then a pedestrian because the heels of my shoes could barely reach the pedals. The gangsta life, I now understand, is a dangerous one.
I made it to school without additional mishaps, except for the minor occurrence of scaring the colleague I parked adjacent to and inadvertently startled when popping up from my sleep position in the driver’s seat. Whassup?!
Students arrived to class, and I opened my mouth to spew academics all over drowsy headed freshmen. However, and as you may have already suspected, instead of presenting scholastic pontification peppered with facts and insight, my words manifested themselves into a long-winded RAP, free-styling from an inner hidden hip-hop soul that would make Busta Rhymes slap his mama. (Please see note)
(Note: the paragraph above may have been exaggerated, embellished or misrepresented for the purposes of bringing extra joy. All other occurrences are actual events and should not be tried at home)