insanityWyatt had not re-enrolled at Techno. His parents reported to the office of the college vice president of customer satisfaction that Wyatt had moved to Des Moines and had enrolled at a community college there. Eventually, over the next several months, the urgency and alarm of the incident at Techno diminished, swept under the tide of new detail, new demands, new problems, new tests, new meetings, new students, new grades. A, B, C, D, with my new number-two pencil I filled in the tiny bubbles beside the student names on the new official final grade roster. This inhuman sorting and grading was an ugly, onerous duty, and it seemed this time unusually false, meaningless, and disagreeable. On the last instructional work day before the ten-day break between this quarter and the next, my friend and colleague Jack showed up to prepare for the new quarter to come. An instructor in the math department, Jack had been on leave and had known nothing of Wyatt and all that had occurred until this very morning when his associates had regaled Jack with their now well-rehearsed accounts of the farce. So Jack appeared beside my office cubicle, grinning wickedly, unable to stifle his laughter even until I'd said hello. He leaned over and got right in my face.
"What's all this!" he demanded.
There was no need for him to say more. I knew immediately from his hilarity and the look of joy on his face exactly to what he was referring. Jack was perhaps the most cynical of the cynics at Techno. What Jack considered the utter and complete lack of academic standards at the college and the absolute meaninglessness of the school's grading system had been for years the daily subject of Jack's practiced sarcasm, humor, and wit. His comedy contained just enough truth to entertain and amuse his colleagues and associates. Tales of injustice were legend. For his low scores on the quarterly anonymous student evaluations of his performance Jack had once been reprimanded by his supervisor. Though chairman of the math and science division, the man had little education, training, or experience in math or science. Ed. D., he was and always had been an academic generalist, a non-teaching educator.
"I expect the score of every instructor in this department to be above the departmental average!" he had told Jack.
The student evaluation scores Jack called the happiness index. Jack pretended to be a tireless advocate of accommodation to what he claimed was the college administration's highest priority—happy students and satisfied customers—and also therefore the faculty key to good evaluations, organizational awards, and long tenure at Techno.
"Give lots of praise and lots of A's!" Jack advised.
"Praise and A's!" like an academic evangelist he reminded me often, whispering confidentially and smirking as we passed in the halls of Techno on our way to class.
It became his refrain. Jack had often remarked that in his ten years at the college he had heard five thousand speeches on the importance of customer satisfaction and on the centrality of the student learner and not one word on the importance of setting and maintaining high academic standards. To Jack, the grading system at Techno was and always had been a ruin, a travesty, and a joke. Like me, Jack had been a student before and during the war in Vietnam, when college professors announced at the first class meeting that only half the class would pass, modeled their grade distribution on the bell curve, and posted final course grades beside students' names outside their office or classroom doors. Now Jack was at my cubicle, laughing, chuckling, taunting, teasing, and grinning from ear to ear, his entire physical demeanor proclaiming I told you so.
"What's this?" he demanded again. "What's this I hear!"
An unhappy, melancholy man, Jack was happy now, so happy in fact that I too felt glad. His amusement was contagious. He listened raptly, hardly able to contain his glee as I told him my side of the story of Wyatt and filled in the blanks or corrected minor details in versions Jack had already heard. Soon I arrived at the crux of the matter—from Jack's point of view at least—my changing Wyatt's grade.
"What did you give him?" asked Jack.
"B," I said, stating what I thought was the obvious.
"Too bad," he said, frowning.
"Why?"
I thought I knew why, of course, but I wanted to hear exactly how Jack would articulate his own disapproval of what I assumed he, too, like others whose critical opinions had been reported to me through the organizational grapevine, considered my pusillanimous capitulation to the system and to Wyatt. Jack had lowered himself into the captain's chair provided for students who visited an instructor's office cubicle.
"You should have given him an A," he said.
I laughed.
"I'm serious."
Jack sat smiling at me. He folded his arms contentedly over his chest and contemplated the ironic genius and perfect absurdity of his suggestion. I smiled back. The more I thought, the funnier it got.
Yes, I wished I had.
....................................
INSANITY to be continued
"What's all this!" he demanded.
There was no need for him to say more. I knew immediately from his hilarity and the look of joy on his face exactly to what he was referring. Jack was perhaps the most cynical of the cynics at Techno. What Jack considered the utter and complete lack of academic standards at the college and the absolute meaninglessness of the school's grading system had been for years the daily subject of Jack's practiced sarcasm, humor, and wit. His comedy contained just enough truth to entertain and amuse his colleagues and associates. Tales of injustice were legend. For his low scores on the quarterly anonymous student evaluations of his performance Jack had once been reprimanded by his supervisor. Though chairman of the math and science division, the man had little education, training, or experience in math or science. Ed. D., he was and always had been an academic generalist, a non-teaching educator.
"I expect the score of every instructor in this department to be above the departmental average!" he had told Jack.
The student evaluation scores Jack called the happiness index. Jack pretended to be a tireless advocate of accommodation to what he claimed was the college administration's highest priority—happy students and satisfied customers—and also therefore the faculty key to good evaluations, organizational awards, and long tenure at Techno.
"Give lots of praise and lots of A's!" Jack advised.
"Praise and A's!" like an academic evangelist he reminded me often, whispering confidentially and smirking as we passed in the halls of Techno on our way to class.
It became his refrain. Jack had often remarked that in his ten years at the college he had heard five thousand speeches on the importance of customer satisfaction and on the centrality of the student learner and not one word on the importance of setting and maintaining high academic standards. To Jack, the grading system at Techno was and always had been a ruin, a travesty, and a joke. Like me, Jack had been a student before and during the war in Vietnam, when college professors announced at the first class meeting that only half the class would pass, modeled their grade distribution on the bell curve, and posted final course grades beside students' names outside their office or classroom doors. Now Jack was at my cubicle, laughing, chuckling, taunting, teasing, and grinning from ear to ear, his entire physical demeanor proclaiming I told you so.
"What's this?" he demanded again. "What's this I hear!"
An unhappy, melancholy man, Jack was happy now, so happy in fact that I too felt glad. His amusement was contagious. He listened raptly, hardly able to contain his glee as I told him my side of the story of Wyatt and filled in the blanks or corrected minor details in versions Jack had already heard. Soon I arrived at the crux of the matter—from Jack's point of view at least—my changing Wyatt's grade.
"What did you give him?" asked Jack.
"B," I said, stating what I thought was the obvious.
"Too bad," he said, frowning.
"Why?"
I thought I knew why, of course, but I wanted to hear exactly how Jack would articulate his own disapproval of what I assumed he, too, like others whose critical opinions had been reported to me through the organizational grapevine, considered my pusillanimous capitulation to the system and to Wyatt. Jack had lowered himself into the captain's chair provided for students who visited an instructor's office cubicle.
"You should have given him an A," he said.
I laughed.
"I'm serious."
Jack sat smiling at me. He folded his arms contentedly over his chest and contemplated the ironic genius and perfect absurdity of his suggestion. I smiled back. The more I thought, the funnier it got.
Yes, I wished I had.
....................................
INSANITY to be continued
