Fallout from flunking students

After I flunked the two Wilsonville students, Gina and Jimmy (not their real names), I retired back to the Clackamas campus in relief, hoping that would be the end of it. I wasn't surprised, however, when I received emails from their respective program directors, minutes apart, asking me to provide evidence for my decision to flunk them. For a moment I doubted myself: did I do the right thing, flunking these two desperate students? Gina, with tears tracking her cheeks, begged me to let her pass. Jimmy told me straight out he needed a C. (Jimmy is the student who threatened to bring a shotgun to Excel class.)

I totted up the evidence and sent it off to the program directors, who thanked me and said they needed the information to give to the students' Voc Rehab and SAIF counselors. The funding parties, in other words. I get it. I hope the students will be given another chance. And I hope it isn't me that teaches them. Jimmy's program director said Jimmy would have to come to Clackamas next term to take Excel again. I can pray he gets Sheryl (my colleague, not her real name) instead of me, but I know how wacky the Universe can be. I will accept what comes.

I don't fail students easily. I agonize over it, before I submit the final grades. But once it is done, I move on. I move on so completely, I have already forgotten the names of the students I had last term. I see them in the hall—it's only been a week since they were in my class!—and I can't remember their names until 30 seconds after they pass me by. Could be old age. Then again, could be I just don't care.

Most of our students struggle to survive. Very few come from money. Many live from loan check to loan check—some of them are in school only for the money. They are single mothers with one or three kids, living at home with a parent or other relative. Childcare is always an issue. Last term I met a four-year-old named Aiden, a charming child who did his best to quietly watch his Tin Tin videos while his mother endeavored to learn Excel. Children are not allowed on campus, but what can you do, when it's late at night, the student has maxed out her absences, and the usual childcare provider is not available? You welcome the child and hope no one in authority hears about it.

Yesterday the campus was invaded by photographers, taking photos for an online View Book. Apparently to be competitive we must have a View Book that prospective students can look at to see if they want to attend our college. (There's a joke there somewhere, but I just can't conjure it up right now.) A small swarm of strangers roamed the halls, grabbing and posing students and teachers in the typical places: a doorway, a classroom, a lab. I think I might have been unwittingly captured in a background shot. I'll sure they will crop me out. I look far too weird to be in any college's View Book. I dress in black every day and wear a hat and fingerless gloves (formerly known as socks), not your typical little old lady teacher.

Besides, I don't want my picture in their View Book. My intention, slowly taking shape and becoming clearer with each excruciatingly tedious hour I spend lurking over the shoulders of sweating keyboarders, is to leave this place behind. My brain is halfway out the door. It is just a matter of time before my body follows. Where we are going, I do not know. But away from teaching, if I have my way. I'm tired of evaluating students, judging their performance, flunking a few, praising a few, forgetting most of them in a matter of days. Being on stage is grueling. Teaching the same classes over and over is mind-numbing. It's time for a new adventure.