Come on in 2013, nice to see you

Twenty-thirteen is my year. Yep, all mine, all about me.

This is no arbitrary, end-of-the-year-hopeful-resolution-filled thought. There is some real logic at work here.

To begin with, my favorite number, or more accurately my lucky number, is 13. I have had many, many lucky Fridays that took place on 13th of the month. Even at the end of a really bad week, if that Friday is a 13th, all the bad stuff falls away and I am left with calm and better luck. Often the one parking spot that is available, and clearly left for me, is numbered 13, and when I return to my car it is always unscathed and un-ticketed. The very few times I have played Keno and won, there was a number thirteen involved. It only follows that an entire year devoted to my lucky number means that the year will be bring me much luck.

Additionally: I have a new writing project that I am excited about, and that I seem to be able to work on. I conceived of the idea on 12/19 and have written over 2100 words thus far. Considering how very, very blocked I have been creatively, this is a fabulous sign.

Even more: Prop 30 passed in California this year. One of the results is an easing, of sorts, in my chosen profession. One of the schools that I am most anxious to work for has a full-time, tenure track opening. And the campus is only 10 minutes (in traffic) from my house. I am quite qualified, and despite the competition (and there is a great deal), this is my year so my shot is better than in the past.

Ever the realist, I expect that while 2013 will follow-through on its promise, 2014 and possibly 2015, will likely be challenging. I am quite ready for the challenges; having lived through some awful stuff (like 2007, the year everyone died), I know I can get through the next round of crap intact and stronger.

I will greet 2013 much the same way that I have greeted the last several years, in front of a fire pit burning in the new and out the old. This year's flames hold great promise.

Twenty Years

My Gram died on December 19, 1992. Last night we gathered to honor the woman who raised me. She has been gone for twenty years, and in getting ready for the evening I realized how much of her is still with us.

We recreated some of the foods she used to make at the holidays: Sandwich Loaf, Shrimp Cocktail, Stuffed Eggs and Potato Caramel Cake. It wouldn't be a celebration without highballs and Korbel Brandy. About a dozen family members gathered to eat and drink and share space with memories of her.

Her teddy bear and baby doll were on display as well as pictures of her as a very young girl, her wedding photo and several snapshots from various gatherings. A few afghans and potholders, a baby blanket and a needlepoint picture were all around us as is a portion of her spoon collection. The highlight of the evening were her opera dresses.

Beginning in 1967, Gram and Sonny had season tickets to the San Francisco Opera. Each year for ten years, she made one gown to wear on their first night of the season. We put three on dress forms, I wore one, and few other pieces were hung around the house.

The pictures don't do these pieces justice. The black crocheted dress has pearls embedded throughout; another has sequins. Each was a work of art. The hours and hours of work, the absolute attention to the most minute details and her ability to create are truly awe-inspiring.

My husband pointed out that he has spent most of his adult life surrounded by Gram's handiwork, but until the dresses were out, he didn't realize how talented she was. Afghans and potholders are crafts; her dresses are truly art. They are machine quality; each stitch is perfect and exactly like the one before and after. It had not occurred to him that people could create that caliber of work by hand.

I spent a few weeks thinking about what to put out, and a few days gathering items from various parts of the house to display. This morning I thought of several more that I could have included. Gram is everywhere.

I have struggled to write about her. One of the pieces of advice that I was given when she died was to use writing as an outlet for my grief. It was really good advice, but not some that I could follow. I have written about many parts of my life since them, but none has done more than mention my grandmother.

I was waiting for the blessing of distance from the grief. But now the grief has become part of me, as all grief eventually does. I realize now that I live with Gram everyday.

We use her potholders; I pass one needlepoint picture multiple times a day. I am sitting on her favorite living room chair as I write this, her couch is on my left. Her china closets, sewing table, knick-knack table and coffee table are within easy reach. I sit on her dining room chairs to eat dinner. When she died I was living in the house she raised me in. I am wearing her favorite earrings, and I often wear her amethyst ring. At least one painting in my house hung on her wall. Two sweaters that she made, that I will likely never wear, hang in my closet. Hand-me down knick-knacks are all around. And of course, I still hear her voice in my head.

She has been physically present since her death, yet it took me twenty years to see it. I was waiting for perspective; looking back waiting for the haze of tears and grief to clear before I could write about her. I have been looking in the distance for something that is much closer. It's no wonder I haven't been able to focus on a moment of a feeling, I have been looking too far beyond the obvious. I have been straining to see in the distance that which is close at hand.

Waiting

Fiscal crisis are the norm all around the country. In California those of us who work in education are anticipating the results of a ballot measure on the November election. For many of us, I would guess that the passage or non-passage of this particular proposition is nearly as important as the presidential race.

If the measure passes, the community colleges will be able to avoid cutting more classes. If it does not pass, the cuts will be devastating to the education of thousands and thousands of students. The reduced class offerings also means layoffs for faculty and staff: a lot of unemployment.

The signs of waiting vary. One school has created two different schedules for spring classes. I haven't heard the particulars yet, but it would seem that we will be given tentative schedules with the understanding that big changes may occur after the election; in other words our classes come with fewer guarantees than usual. Usually we know before mid-October what we are teaching in January so that we have plenty of time to plan and order books, etc. For adjunct instructors, the possibility of a class being cut or taken over by a full-time faculty member is always a possibility until 2 weeks into the semester. Although historically this a rare occurrence, without passage of this tax measure, we could order our books and begin planning in earnest only to find out that no books or syllabi will be needed.

Perhaps the most telling sign of waiting is the types of job openings at this level. There are small surges in schools advertising for adjunct positions. So far there are no postings for full-time positions. None. Even the adjunct positions are vague about start dates and often include language like, "as needed."

I wonder if the measure passes if the collective release of breath will stoke the embers of dying hiring committees enough that a sudden surplus of full time openings will become available. I can actually imagine the hiring frenzy once departments all over the state have the ability to loosen their fiscal belts enough to take in full breaths. Once the oxygen flows to the collective brain power will they begin to fill the void left by retirements, cuts and natural attrition?

From one fiscal point of view, hiring part-time employees is far less expensive than full-time tenure track. We earn considerably less per hour, often contribute, unpaid, to committees and have access to fewer, if any, benefits. We are not required to work unpaid, but many of us attempt to step into the void left by hiring freezes and staffing cuts because we genuinely want to help our colleagues and our students. If we are hoping for full-time work down the road, the committee work looks great on a resume.

The other, more realistic but less discussed, fiscal perspective is that without dedicated, full-time employees completing the work of the college, a great deal of work left undone has negative effects on students. This is as true at the staff level as at the faculty level. Lost or unseen information creates an often unpredictable, and always negative, impact. Losing any students within the system is harmful, for the student and the college.

The landscape of higher education is in the midst of a mutant evolution. Evolution occurs as a response to a change, a mutation. The financial needs of colleges are changing as the funding mechanism changes. California can no longer guarantee open access to higher education; that legacy is about to be taken off life support. One result of the fiscal changes at the community college level is a shift in priority towards students who are focused on specific goals: vocational training, graduation and transfer. The local community college will no longer be the place to go when you want art, jewelry making, dance or exercise classes; personal enrichment and lifelong learning will no longer be viable or supported goals. If you can't make up your mind what to major in, you better get out now. Too many units means you aren't able to register for classes because you clearly aren't goal oriented enough to be here.

Change is change, the colleges we know today are vastly different than what they were a few generations ago. Santa Rosa Junior College is called a junior college because at one time there was a distinct kind of school that needed that label. Ultimately the concept became obsolete and the community college became the new label to fill the new needs, a response to the changes. Community colleges now are shifting their focus from communities to students. The name, the label, may not change, but how the system caters to students is and will continue to change.

In the meantime we wait to see how those changes will play out. Wait for November. Wait for the election results. Wait to see which changes will occur and which will be left behind.

The Pain of Attack

This week I learned that I am the target of a formal complaint, my first, by a former student. This is an adult student; I teach at the community college level.

The attack seems to be aimed largely at who I am as a person; that my open and honest personality is being perceived as inappropriate and offensive. This despite the fact that I am honest from the first day of class about who I am and how I teach. This despite the fact that on more than one occasion I reacted to this student’s concerns about the way a particular subject was being handled in the classroom and immediately took steps to validate not only his viewpoint, but the potentiality that his viewpoint was silently shared by one or more classmates.

He was offended by the fact that I claim “fall in love” with my students, and so take steps to set boundaries. I ask students to address me by my title (Mrs. or Ms.) and last name, not my first name, the more generally accepted informal manner of instructors at this level. He was offended by the fact that when he expressed concern over subject matter and how it was handled in the book we were reading, that his classmates didn’t agree with his viewpoint. He felt that I allowed a disrespectful atmosphere to be created because they did not agree with him. When I then opted to allow students to forgo of a viewing of a video that someone who shared his viewpoint might find offensive, and at some point in that offer that I made eye contact with him, he was outraged. He left out the part that I made eye contact with most of the students hoping to let them know that they would not be penalized in any way if they weren’t interested in the video that was scheduled to play that day. He did, however, leave out the fact that I sought him out separately to further validate his feelings and thank him for bringing the subject up.

He was offended that he now knows that I was hurt as a child, although the specifics of offense were not discussed, and that I was abandoned by my parents. He was offended that I used humorous stories about my family to teach lessons on paragraph structure or literary character development.

He accused me of not being sensitive to different learning styles, while openly pointing out that I had used discussion, power point, writing and videos in my teaching. He feels that I need training in sexual harassment, sensitivity training and to learn more about teaching to different learning styles.

The kicker here is that he is a good student, not someone who blames me for a bad grade. He didn’t feel the class was academically rigorous enough. Of course it wasn’t; he really didn’t need the class academically, but the school requires it. He did learn, his writing did improve and he did earn a very high grade. I suppose in his mind, his view is made more valid by the fact that he earned a high grade.

It is difficult to react appropriately to a complaint about my personality and personal style. Initially I was concerned that if a student thought my personality was inappropriate, then I would be reprimanded by my superiors and potentially fired. When I first read the letter of complaint, I felt the need to apologize for the way I presented and supported the material. I’m not sure what is sadder: the fact that this student chose to attack me, or the fact that I felt the need to apologize for being me.

Last week two current students pulled me aside to speak privately. One thanked me for sharing my personal story about returning to school. She has been working for years towards transfer to a UC and when I spoke about graduating with my AA degree and walking in the ceremony a full year before I transferred to a four year university, she realized that she too needed the validation I spoke of. She is very grateful; she says that she is inspired by me and my story, and she has since shared my story with the people in her life. Another student, the same week, thanked me for sharing information about my dysfunctional family because she sees many similarities between her situation and mine; she feels connected to the course, more than she usually connects in school. That connection is likely going to help her succeed now and in the future.

So why does this one complaint bother me so much? I suppose it is because it dances dangerously close to the buttons that surround my abandonment and abuse issues. Reacting to pain as a child tended to lead a question by my parental units about what I had done wrong to provoke the hurt. The assumption seemed to be that I had done something wrong and deserved to be hurt, or that I brought the pain on myself. Being blamed for the wrong done to me seems to be a running theme from my childhood. I spent my entire childhood, and an oversized chunk of my adulthood, wondering what was so fundamentally wrong with me, something I was so blind to that I couldn’t change, that would cause my bio-parents to leave me, or other adults feel that they could assault me without consequence.

A colleague pointed out that intelligent people tend to try and understand what part of a difficult situation they actually own. I have gone over and over the time spent with this student in my head, but it seems that the only thing I could have changed that would have made this student happy was myself. I can’t do that. I won’t do that.

Salty Beer & Southern Charm

The hubby and I went to Happy Hour at a local Mexican restaurant a few weeks ago. We ordered a couple of house margaritas and some tiny tacos and settled in to chat.

Shortly after we arrived, an older gentleman sat alone behind the hubby. He looked and walked in such a way that indicated his age was beyond the 80 year mark. He reminded me of my grandfather; Grandpa would have been 94 this year. My attention waned there and I went back to my conversation. Until a few minutes later when a pint glass full of beer was set down at his table. My attention was captured again, quite suddenly, when I saw the man reach for the salt shaker and shske salt into his beer. I watched the familiar foaming of the beer and as soon as it began to settle, he took a sip.

When I was a little girl, my grandpa would come home from work every week night, make Gram a highball and open a can of beer for himself. In later years he switched primarily to highballs, but the bulk of the memories of my younger years include cans of Olympia beer, the discarded pull tab and the way Grandpa would make a funnel out of his curled up first finger and pour salt into the small opening on the top of the can. Often before he added the salt he would give me a very small amount of beer in my own glass, and I would shake salt into mine once he was done seasoning his can. I was only allowed a very small amount of beer, and of course it was many years before I understood the reasons for my small ration.

By now my attention was ping-ponging back and forth between my husband and the man behind him. I threw caution to the wind and approached the stranger. I excused myself and explained that I noticed he had put salt in his beer. He smiled, gestured toward his glass and asked, "Do you want some of my beer?" I laughed. Grandpa had also been quite a flirt. Even lying in a hospital bed hooked up to tubes and monitors he could make the nurses giggle. Born and raised in Arkansas, Grandpa left home in 1941 to join the Army Air Corp. and never lived at home again. Even outside of his home state, he could certainly turn on the southern charm.

I explained that no, I did not want any of his beer, but that my grandfather used to put salt in his beer as well. I wondered how the man had learned to season his beer. I told him about the small rations I was allowed to have as a child, and how I was often bereft at the parties I went to in my youth when the beer was plentiful but the salt was nowhere to be found. He laughed at that. He explained that his father and grandfather had put salt in their beers, so he simply followed what he had learned as a youngster. I asked him where he was from. He hesitated for just a moment; I could see him struggling to explain where he lived now, or where he lived before, but he ultimately settled on, "I was born and raised in Arkansas." There it was, the defining connection between the stranger in front of me and my beloved grandfather and their shared love of salty beer. We spoke another moment and I sat back down.

Grandpa's southern accent had faded over the 60 years that he had lived in California. I struggled for most of my childhood to hear the accent that my friends and family claimed he had. When I think back on the brief and pleasant encounter with the stranger in the Mexican restaurant, I realize that I heard no accent in his speech. I suppose that his voice, like his beer, was only lightly seasoned.

Increased Tensions

I am going into my fourth year of teaching at the community college level, and each semester the tension in the weeks leading up to the first day of classes is ratcheted up more and more. So much so that it now spills into the first two weeks of classes. Because of budget cuts and reduced class offerings, there simply are not enough seats for all the students who need classes.

Back in August at CCC, many more students were sitting in my classroom than were enrolled. Imagine walking into a classroom with 40 or so chairs, every one is filled and yet people are still trickling into the classroom for most of the class period hoping to add. Several times class was disrupted because someone opened the door an hour in and asked if there was room in the class. The cap is 30 students, and my roster was full, plus there were 10 people on the waiting list. I had been fielding emails from students for most of the summer who wanted to add the class. Most of the students were polite in their requests, a few were a bit more demanding.

The first day of class becomes a game of sharing standard lines. They say:
"By the end of the semester a bunch of people will have dropped."
"I really need this class."
"Without this class I can't transfer/graduate."
"I won't miss a class; I'm a great student."

My responses include:
"If I add more students than my limit I could get in trouble with my department, or fired."
"I understand, the situation sucks all the way around. This is happening to too many students."
"I can't give feedback on that many papers each week."
"Pedagogically speaking, there should only be 20 students enrolled for everyone to be able to pass."
"I was told if I add more students, the powers that be might very well cut more sections."

In the past there have been some conversations that became somewhat heated because I refused to add students and over-load the class. That led to students complaining to the dean and head of the department about me not allowing them to add an already full class. Yes, the administration backed me.

This semester was different. There was less anger and much more angst. One student in my night class offered to pay me $10 each week if I added him (I refused). Another in the day class tried to bribe anyone with $40 if they dropped the class so he could add. He upped the ante to $60, but there were no takers and I wouldn't support the transaction anyway. Some stayed after class and cried as they related their particular stories as to why they weren't able to register during open enrollment. Some returned for several days hoping that even one person would drop the class. One young woman stopped me in the hallway outside my office and began crying as she told me how not getting into my class would effect her educational goals.

Keep in mind that I am only relating the stories of the students who already live in economically depressed areas. Poor students are offering bribes. Poverty stricken students are desperately trying to claw their way out and are using education as a tool to improve their lives. I went to the dean to suggest the necessity of adding more classes only to find out that the school is already running in the red and the VP is asking the school to cut more sections.

Why don't I add them, you ask? Because if I took all the students who wanted to add, I would have more than 150 papers to grade and give feedback on every week. At an average of 15 minutes per paper, that is 37.5 hours each week (and that assumes that there is only 1 assignment per class per week) of just grading. That leaves no time for lesson planning, or teaching. My effectiveness as an instructor would diminish dramatically. It ultimately wouldn't matter if students added my class or not, they wouldn't learn what they need to move on. I would be undermining their education and my career all at once.

Maybe I'm too empathetic, but saying no over and over again is very difficult. Dealing with their anguish and frustration is traumatizing.

I thought the coast was clear in week three, until a student showed up at the end of one class asking if I would add her. I started to offer a standard line about not being allowed to have too many students, and she told me that "the head guy" sent her over to talk to me. When I asked for clarification about the name of this "head guy" she copped an attitude and stormed out. *sigh*

Week four begins tomorrow and I'm hoping I can spend my energy just teaching.

Time to Check in, Not Out

Each week I receive a report from a free site that follows the number of folks who land on my blogs. I can see which provider each visitor uses for internet access, what country, city and state they reside in, how much time they spent on my blog and how many pages they scrolled through.

I can also see which urls said visitors began at before clicking onto my blog. Some of those are weird. The Facebook links make sense, as do the ones that move directly from my website. But the "travel blogs" are odd. I can't even figure them out well enough to explain what I mean by "travel blogs," but there seems to be some random connection.

In my roundabout way I am admitting that I know that some folks check my blog fairly regularly to see if I have posted something new. A few wonderful folks check as often as a couple of times each week. I understand this because I am that kind of person myself; I will check for updates on certain sites often (i.e. several times each day) if that place offers something I find interesting. What is of interest to me can be as simple as the happenings in the life of a friend.

So, in order to honor the folks who are diligent about looking for new information, here is an update:

The new semester is upon me. I am teaching four classes. In the Fall I was teaching five. That last one did me in. I am hoping that taking the stress down a notch will enable me to write more often. This posting is a toe in the water.

I have still heard nothing from my sister. I do have the choice of dropping by the apartment where her mother-in-law lives, and I may pursue that. For now I refuse to commit; I am waiting for a sign. It feels closer than it has. We shall see.

Now that I can see beyond student papers, I am able to make some observations about the world around me. I'll try to keep those interesting.

I am still waiting to hear from the lit journal that agreed to publish one of my essays. In theory I should have a hard copy in my mailbox by the end of the month. (fingers crossed)

I will be applying to three schools this semester for full-time teaching work that will begin next fall. I'll let you know how that goes.

My toe feels fine. I'll make every effort to check back in soon.

Thanks for reading.

xoxoxo
Ginny