Grading: Deranged

November 25, 2010


I know.

One month until Christmas.

Don't remind me.

You don't have to.

 

For the world outside the ivory tower, getting excited about Christmas a month beforehand is in all likelihood, something to celebrate.

A good thing.

Joyous.

Exciting even.

For the world inside the ivory tower, getting excited about Christmas is still a long time coming.

Panic.

Fear.

Anxiety creeping upwards from the very depths of your soul.

At least for me.

Yesterday marked the beginning of the last two weeks of classes for this term.

And when I think about what has to be accomplished between now and the end of the term, and from the end of the term to December 24th, I want to get in the car, fill the tank and drive west until I run out.

Where ever I land is where I will stay until January.

Even if it means staying in a small, run down, unheated, unlighted fishing shack in the middle of nowhere Quebec, where the nearest neighbour is 50 kilometers away on either side, but it wouldn't matter anyway because I don't speak French, meaning there would be no conversation even if they were closer because the only phrase I know in French would land me either a slap on the face or an acceptance of an offer I didn't intend to make in the first place, and where the nearest grocery store is in Montmagny.

No worries, though, because you can buy liquor in convenience stores in Quebec.

Alas, such a fantasy is beyond my reach.

Not because I wouldn't want to stay in an unheated and unlighted fishing shack.

But the maternal ties connecting me to my children are simply too strong.

I can hardly believe I was even able to contemplate escaping without the anticipated telepathic electric cattle prod jolt, a result of their frightening Vulcan mind meld capabilities.

Further, Stephen would garner the collective power of the RCMP and the Surete de Quebec, rangers from some Canadian wildlife service, CSIS, FBI, CIA, the Secret Service and scariest of all, Frankie.

Guess who would find me first?

That's right.

Emily.

Because that child has a grip on me tighter than a too tight bodice reinforced with steel and duct tape.

She can find me even when I can't find myself.

In utero, she implanted some GPS tracking device to ensure she maintained her expert knowledge of where I am at all times.

Smart, really. 

Cause who could possibly find it?





So it's useless for me to dream of running away and returning only when the madness-of-the-month-before-Christmas-end-of-term-Christmas-conspicious-consumption has ended.

But I can dream.

What is it about this time of year that is so overwhelmingly stressful?

The panic.

Sitting around the table of my seminar classroom yesterday, I noticed my four incredibly bright, overachieving seminar students are bearing an eerie resemblance to the zombies in The Walking Dead.

Although, and thankfully, without the gnashing of teeth and the desire to rip the raw flesh from bones.

And without that awful gurgling/moaning sound that is supposed to replicate communication.

But they were close.

Grey pallor, red rimmed eyes, eyelids fighting to stay awake.

They are suffering from an ailment that is overtaking students all over campus.

End of termitis.

Angst-ridden, overburdened, overworked students will populate the campus, mere shadows of their September anticipatory, excitement and wonderfilled selves.

All in the span of less than 4 months.

Gone are the carefree, jovial days of late summer/early fall.

Replaced by the cold, harsh days of late November, early December.

Far away is the deceptive "I-have-lots-of-time-to-do-this" axiom.

Changed to the all to real "How-the-hell-will-I-get-this-done-before-the-due-date" cry.

From this panic will sometimes emerge it's sister, breakdown.

Breakdown is piles of giggles.

It usually occurs when you least expect it, like in the middle of a meeting with your professor, when your asking benign questions about a forthcoming assignment.

And then it happens.

Eyes well up with tears.

Lower lip quivers.

They sit back in the chair.

The full fledged breakdown commences.

I just sit and wait for it to run it's course, providing tissue, which I always have an abundance of during this time of year.

Once it seems as if the tempestuous storm has passed, leaving in its wake the sniffles and a red nose, I remind the exhausted, overwrought student sitting in the comfy chair that they will prevail. They will finish. And whether they believe it at the time or not, they will want to come back in January.

But at this time of the year, its hard to convince anyone that they'll make it to tomorrow.

Especially when I'm not sure I'll make it tomorrow.




The marking.

Unfortunately, I have standards.

And these standards don't allow for the mid-term-final paper-final-exam formula that many professors use.

Which means that walking hand-in-hand with my high  standards is a love of self-torture.

This can be the only logical explanation for syllabi that outline the myriad of papers and projects and presentations I have diabolically developed to make the life of my students a living, breathing, alive and present here on Earth, hell.

Right?

While the rest of the world bakes, visits, wraps, shops, decorates, travels, I will be underneath a mound of marking that rivals the heights of Mt. Everest.

And because I had the poorly timed misfortune to be sick near the end of the term, the marking has doubled.

Perhaps even tripled.

50 introduction to criminology papers, 10-12 pages.
45 introduction to qualitative methods participant observation assignments, app 20 pages.
45 introduction to qualitative methods final exams.
11 introduction to qualitative methods semi-structured interviews.
8 advanced qualitative methods semi structured interviews.
10 advanced qualitative methods final papers, 20-35 pages.

This does not take into account reading drafts of my honours student's thesis.

Or the book edits I have to complete for this coming Wednesday.

Or the Christmas baking I'm supposed to do. . .shortbread cookies, in particular.

And this year, my father has passed the reins of the gumdrop cake making to me.

Christmas shopping. . .not even a stocking stuffer has yet to grace my in house hidey holes.

The tree? Lights? Decorating?

Last Christmas, Em decorated the tree while I sat in the kitchen and marked.




At this point in my career, you'd think I would know better.

But I don't.

I keep hoping that through the assignments I develop my students will learn something and that nugget of knowledge will shine through in their paper.

I keep hoping.

Hence, the marking.

The search, the quest, the crusade. . .

For hope.

That I will get through this next month with some of my faculties in tact.

Or at least feign the appearance of in tact.



Title Lyric: Grading: Deranged by Decline of Conformity