I'm officially one of the world's worst bloggers, since I haven't posted since the summer. Yes, I suck.
But now I'm compelled to share what I see as a bit of an ethical dilemma. Maybe it's an ethical dilemma. I'm not sure. Maybe you can tell me.
I teach at a university. I don't friend students on FB, but if they friend me, I accept. This semester quite a few students friended me at the beginning of the year. Now, my university has a strict attendance policy which I adhere to. A certain number of absences and I can drop students for non-attendance--even if they were legitimately sick. There are no official excuses except for university-related events.
A few students exceeded their allotment (which is generous--six days for a MWF class) and I dropped them. They claimed a variety of illnesses, but because they friended me, I could see they were well enough to hang out, post pics, and go to dinner with friends.
I didn't mention to the students that I could see their activities, because, duh, they friended me. But I wanted to say something like: You were well enough to go to the park on Thursday and pose with the sun in your eyes and a fall flower in your hand, so why not class?
And this is where FB gets tricky. It's an intersection of their private lives and their role as students (or employees or daughters or spouses). I would feel like a jerk if I brought it up, as if I'd been stalking them or crossed a privacy line. But we all know FB isn't private and I don't have to stalk them to see their posts. They just show up on my wall. That's kinda the point.
Would I have been more inclined to cut them some slack if I hadn't seen their activities? I don't know. Maybe. Maybe not. Would you?
The best advice for students is quite simple: Don't friend your profs until after the class is over.
Showing posts with label teenagers. Show all posts
Showing posts with label teenagers. Show all posts
Super-Cooled Quantam-Blog Poems
I came across this poem while perusing the inaugural issue of the Toad Suck Review (website in progress, otherwise I'd link). It's by Perrin Carrell. I love it and I'm hoping that whoever this poem is addressing will find it here on my blog. And that he'll love it too
Blogosphere
Someone I hate has a blog.
I used to love him so I follow
it. Sometimes I read it
and I hate him more. Sometimes
I read it and wish he were in
that chair again, skinny boy
drinking and smoking like a man
wallowing in one thing
or another. Sometimes I read it
and see how we are not so
different. We still love
the same things. We still love
the same people. The great tragedy
is that one of us will die
before the other, and the one
left alive will regret it. The greater
tragedy is that he would have loved
to have read this and never will because I
don't have a blog.
Blogosphere
Someone I hate has a blog.
I used to love him so I follow
it. Sometimes I read it
and I hate him more. Sometimes
I read it and wish he were in
that chair again, skinny boy
drinking and smoking like a man
wallowing in one thing
or another. Sometimes I read it
and see how we are not so
different. We still love
the same things. We still love
the same people. The great tragedy
is that one of us will die
before the other, and the one
left alive will regret it. The greater
tragedy is that he would have loved
to have read this and never will because I
don't have a blog.
It's the small kindnesses you remember
I have a memory that keeps coming back to me. It's a small memory. No big drama or tears were involved. Even though it was 24 years ago, it persists. I thought of it just now while doing dishes and decided to set it down in writing.
It was 1986 and I was 19, living in an apartment in West Philly, although I spent a lot of time hanging out in a squat occupied by a bunch of punks. One evening, a cute boy from the squat invited me to his friend's apartment. I don't remember the boy's name, only that he had a dark brown mohawk and was wearing a thin pink t-shirt over his bony torso.
He and I had a great time walking to the apartment, laughing and flirting. At one point he gave me a piggy-back ride and I rested my head against the back of his neck, relishing the small intimacy.
Once we reached our destination, however, I shut down. Two men lived in the apartment--they were in their thirties, which seemed impossibly old and sophisticated. But more than their age intimidated me: they were successful artists and their apartment was filled with paintings and record albums and instruments. One was a photography professor at Drexel; the other a musician.
They were like no one I'd ever met. I'd only recently moved from my parents' home in New Jersey. My dad worked in a factory and my mom was a grocery store checker. No one we knew made art--why would they?
The men gave us beer and we talked. Or they talked. I said nothing. I sat there silent as a ghost. I can't remember what they discussed, but I remember how I felt. Young, stupid, uneducated, unwashed, just some lame punk with dyed blonde hair hanging in one eye (both were lined with thick black eyeliner), too-tight jeans and Converse. As if that costume could make me smart. As if that costume could make me cool. I wasn't going to college. I wasn't making art. I worked at an ice cream parlor in University City for Chrissakes. I had nothing to say.
At one point, after we'd been there an hour, mohawk guy turned to me. "You haven't said anything," he said. "You've just been sitting there and haven't said a single word."
It was clear from his tone he was embarrassed by me. He'd thought I was cool enough to bring to his friends, but he'd found me out. I wasn't cool. I was awkward and working class.
One of the men in the apartment looked at me. "She's just checking it out. Right?" he said, smiling. "Just checking out the scene."
I looked down at my hands and smiled and nodded, happy to have a reason for my silence. And that was the end of it. Shortly after, we left.
To this day, I am grateful to the man in the apartment. I never saw him again, never saw mohawk boy again either, but I remember clearly the compassion in the man's voice. He understood I was scared and confused and gave me a plausible excuse. I wasn't intimidated into muteness. I was simply getting the lay of the land. I wasn't some poseur in my band button-laden denim jacket. I was checking it out.
It's weird that I remember this small incident, weirder still that it pops up when I least expect it. But when it does, I'm flooded with gratitude. And hope for humanity, corny and grandiose as it sounds for such a trifle. So thank you, whoever you are! Know that your small kindness, your empathy, has stayed with me and bolsters me still.
It was 1986 and I was 19, living in an apartment in West Philly, although I spent a lot of time hanging out in a squat occupied by a bunch of punks. One evening, a cute boy from the squat invited me to his friend's apartment. I don't remember the boy's name, only that he had a dark brown mohawk and was wearing a thin pink t-shirt over his bony torso.
He and I had a great time walking to the apartment, laughing and flirting. At one point he gave me a piggy-back ride and I rested my head against the back of his neck, relishing the small intimacy.
Once we reached our destination, however, I shut down. Two men lived in the apartment--they were in their thirties, which seemed impossibly old and sophisticated. But more than their age intimidated me: they were successful artists and their apartment was filled with paintings and record albums and instruments. One was a photography professor at Drexel; the other a musician.
They were like no one I'd ever met. I'd only recently moved from my parents' home in New Jersey. My dad worked in a factory and my mom was a grocery store checker. No one we knew made art--why would they?
The men gave us beer and we talked. Or they talked. I said nothing. I sat there silent as a ghost. I can't remember what they discussed, but I remember how I felt. Young, stupid, uneducated, unwashed, just some lame punk with dyed blonde hair hanging in one eye (both were lined with thick black eyeliner), too-tight jeans and Converse. As if that costume could make me smart. As if that costume could make me cool. I wasn't going to college. I wasn't making art. I worked at an ice cream parlor in University City for Chrissakes. I had nothing to say.
At one point, after we'd been there an hour, mohawk guy turned to me. "You haven't said anything," he said. "You've just been sitting there and haven't said a single word."
It was clear from his tone he was embarrassed by me. He'd thought I was cool enough to bring to his friends, but he'd found me out. I wasn't cool. I was awkward and working class.
One of the men in the apartment looked at me. "She's just checking it out. Right?" he said, smiling. "Just checking out the scene."
I looked down at my hands and smiled and nodded, happy to have a reason for my silence. And that was the end of it. Shortly after, we left.
To this day, I am grateful to the man in the apartment. I never saw him again, never saw mohawk boy again either, but I remember clearly the compassion in the man's voice. He understood I was scared and confused and gave me a plausible excuse. I wasn't intimidated into muteness. I was simply getting the lay of the land. I wasn't some poseur in my band button-laden denim jacket. I was checking it out.
It's weird that I remember this small incident, weirder still that it pops up when I least expect it. But when it does, I'm flooded with gratitude. And hope for humanity, corny and grandiose as it sounds for such a trifle. So thank you, whoever you are! Know that your small kindness, your empathy, has stayed with me and bolsters me still.
