Tuesday, November 28, 2006
(12:06 AM) | Anonymous:
Tuesday Hatred: If an angel were ever to tell us anything of his philosophy I believe many propositions would sound like 2 times 2 equals 13.
Today, in additional to the hatred by me to which you have over the course of this month grown somewhat accustomed, falling each Tuesday into the gentle rhythms of my prose as into a warm buoyant sea of amniotic fluid (amniotic fluid's specific gravity isn't much higher than water's, it's not particularly buoyant, but this sea is salted with tears—tears of hatred!) into which you've been shoved lightly by one of your friends who thinks you'd enjoy it, it's no big deal anyway, why would you get so upset?, because the GOD___DAMN__FUCKER doesn't realize that you're a little TENSE right now and want to be left alone/he or she just ruined your new shoes/shirt/pants/dress/wallet/money/important documents you were carrying in your shoes/shirt/pants/dress/wallet/money or for whatever other reason, and now the whole rest of the day has this unpleasant pallor on it even though everyone's being polite and no one wants to admit that you should all just go home, cut your losses, etc—in addition to that, there will some guest hatred by the lovely and talented A White Bear (I didn't check this with Adam, so don't tell him, k? thx.). It will be below my hatred, because I hate being upstaged.You won't have to wait (or scroll) long, though; my hatred's rather short this week. There are no fewer things I hate, but only one that I hate with a graceful, effortless lambency, only one thing the hatred of which casts its glow over all my life. Lemme run down the sitch for you. I thought that, next quarter, I'd be able to TA (first time TAing ev4r w00!) this course. Note how it seems like a good course and how I would be a super-awesome TA for it. However, it has now come up that I can't, for two reasons, each of which would have been sufficient on its own, but whose combination is one than which none deadlier is concievable. First, another student with greater seniority than I have was assigned to it, something about which I really can't complain. Second, its first half overlapped with the second half of one of the two courses (in the philosophy department) I really wanted to take, and its second half with the first half of the other of the tc(itpd)Irwtt. So, that's bad, and I was put on a different course. However it also overlaps with the first ottc(itpd)Irwtt, and get this—nearly every other course I've located in other departments that I'd want to take meet at such a time that they too are ruled out! I think it's a sign, I really do.
And now, the Hatred of A White Bear! She has written an interesting and very deep poem in which you might be interested if you find her hatred compelling. It has lots of, like, symbols and shit.
I hate that I love my students. I hate that they love me. I hate that, because I am a female English instructor, I basically have to love them, deeply and genuinely, or I am a bitch. I hate that, even if I were a man, I'd love them anyway.
I hate that they are bad writers. I hate that they went to bad high schools where they never wrote papers. I hate that, even though they are English majors who claim to "luv reading!!1!" they cannot be forced to read their own goddamned work before they turn it in. I hate that they live with their parents, who bust their proverbial balls about "grades" but never leave them alone long enough to do their work well.
I hate that they have never read a poem before, or that they pretend not to. I hate that they begin their papers with lies like "Throughout history, all poems have been, basically, about love," when they are fully aware that this is not true for any kind of love recognizable to them, nor any kind of poem I'd teach in my class. I hate that they call poems "pieces," that they call poetics "approaches," and that they compare two poems by writing, "These two poems are in comparison with each other. They are different, but also similar in some ways." I hate that their grandest thesis statements declare, "These two poems have in common that they are really effective at expressing the authors' emotions."
I hate that I had to give half of them C's. I hate the looks on their faces. I hate that I had to lecture on how being vague is actually bad. I hate that I had to tell them that it is not reasonable to carry a paper by the corner like a stinky turd to the professor's desk without once glancing over it oneself. I hate that I spoiled the last ten minutes of an otherwise fun discussion class by being a Debbie Downer.
I hate that my favorite student asked me to lunch afterwards, even though she knew she got a bad grade. I hate that she wasn't mad at me even a little bit. I hate that the only solid A in the class went to the kid who sits in the back pretending to be asleep, but whose daily in-class writings are genius. I hate that I don't even know what I'm accomplishing sometimes.
I hate that I spent my whole Sunday banging my head against the wall and writing hurtful (hurtful!) things in the margins of a stack of papers by twenty-one-year-olds who thought they'd impress me with their fancee stylings on Renaissance poetry. I especially hate that I still have 25 papers to grade from my afternoon section. Most of all, I hate the fact that we could all be doing something way more fun with our Monday night than fretting over stupid, bad, half-assed poetry analyses, like, for example: making pecan pie, trying that new restaurant down the block, or getting laid. We could all be leading full lives, but instead, we are all grumpy tonight, all over the five boroughs.
