“I oughta just take a shotgun to it,” he muttered, positioning his hands in the universal sign of I have a shotgun, get out of my way. He was having trouble with some pesky functions. I laughed uneasily.
Clearly, failing a test is a big deal to him. Nothing I said seemed to help. I was stressed out, too, because I may have mentioned in a previous rant that the Academic Coordinator had interrupted the class to do the student evaluations. It was just a bad day all around. You know what they say: Don't let them know you are afraid. They smell your fear and they'll tear you apart.
A day later, while I was at the other campus (where I have a desk, a full-size computer, and friends who like me), I was musing over the entire experience, and it occurred to me that this was not the first time Jimmy has threatened to resort to a shotgun to ease his frustration. Images of Columbine and Virginia Tech started marching through my brain. Nah, I thought to myself, he's just barking out his butt, much like I do when I'm stressed out. But wait, do I really know this man? I don't. I like him. But I don't know him.
So I sent a carefully worded email to the Facilities Director at the other campus, as well as my two bosses. Wow, talk about lighting a fire. Whoosh, my inbox lit up almost instantaneously with missives from all the bosses on up to the VP of academics (or whatever his title is these days, I can never remember, they seem to change titles like underwear). They forwarded my email to everyone, and some copied me on their responses, so I got to see my message scorch a path up the chain. Whoa.
We haven't had many violent students in the nine years I've been working for the college. Usually our illustrious students perform their misdeeds after they graduate. I know we have at least two murderers. (Great publicity for the college. Not.) Only a couple times that I know of have students actually brought their anger to campus in the form of a weapon. One time it turned out to be a paint gun, brought for a speech class and displayed to inspire shock and awe. It sure looked like a rifle, but no worries that time. One time the gun was in the car, but that was enough to get the kid led away in handcuffs. We never saw him again. One time (so I heard), someone chased someone else down a hallway with a knife (total hearsay).
For a tiny podunck career college, with fewer than 2,000 students, does that seem like a lot of violence, or a little?
Jimmy got a talking to today. Shortly after I arrived, his program director led him down the hall past me, saying, “We need to have a little chat.” And then the program director patted me on the back. Awkward. I guess now everyone knows I'm a snitch? I fully expected to find my tires slashed. But later Jimmy came to class and gamely did his best on the Excel test, occasionally asking me for help with no attitude or resentment. So, either he was fine with the talking-to he got, or he didn't know that I was the catalyst for it.
In the Access class today, the three paralegals who missed the test on Tuesday breezed into class at the same time as the Academic Coordinator, who was intent upon proctoring their student evaluations. Argh. They lollygagged on the evaluations (while I sat fuming and twiddling in the hall—again), so they got started late on their tests. All three women had issues: one had a headache and had to go out of the room to take an Excedrin. One told me she was being evicted and went to court for a money-related matter. She started crying. The third one, who usually hates the other two, is a high-maintenance person who reinforces every stereotype you've heard about blondes. During the test, she repeatedly threw up her hands. “I can't do this. This is stupid! I'll never need to know Access.”
I hinted and helped far too much, and she earned a solid D+, fair and square. But she's not getting it, and she blames me. If the school continues to judge faculty performance by the evaluations we get from students, I'm toast. Oh well. It was good while it lasted.
So I get home and my kitchen is swarmed with ants and fruit flies. It's warm. I compost in my kitchen. I should know by now, after watching the paralegals take the test, that you can't interfere in the the natural order of things, whether that is in the kitchen or in the classroom. I shouldn't try to stop an academic disaster, if that is the natural consequence of a student's actions. And I shouldn't mess with mother nature. Heat and rotting food equals critters. As long as I don't have roaches, I don't really care. Ants, fruit flies, moths, spiders, and me, we're all part of the food chain. I feed them, and I eat them, and the wheel turns. Eventually they will eat me. Bring it on down to Critterville!
