"You Should See What I Do With Lincoln Logs"

"Una Mas Mindy"

The new semester looms, and while I attempt to ramp up the performance energy that is required to stand up in front of 25 dull-eyed under-the-table texters and actually get them to look towards the front of the room occasionally, I find myself missing last semester's crop of students already. I mean, I was used to them; I knew their stories. I knew Jake was mad at his mom for selling his quad (for those of you in the crowd who lean more towards Sarte, Mendelssohn, and cross-stiching than environmental destruction: a quad is a four-wheeled all-terrainish vehicle that is very loud and mud-inducing and not at all something Sarte and Mendelssohn would have ridden tandem on, even though their even attempting that would have required Jean-Paul to participate in a grave-digging caper under cover of darkness, during which he and a pick axe would have worked through the night to exhume Medelssohn's decaying corpse from Trinity Cemetery in Berlin, and really, if we're being frank, I tend to think Sartre would have been too paralyzed by existential angst to carry out the deed; one shovel full of earth, and he'd have been whining about all endeavors being "on principle doomed to failure." Plus, he was a puss of the highest order and had virtually no upper body strength). I knew Elsie was finding happiness now that she'd left the ballet, a place where "community" consisted of everyone sticking their fingers down their throats in unison. I knew Katie and her mom were still sharing a bedroom at her uncle's house. I knew Chris had shaved his head, gotten a black eye, and peed in his own closet while drunk (events that comprised "October" for him). I knew underground-punk fan Ross had had his car broken into and all his music stolen. Oh, yea, and his textbooks. But mostly, he wanted his Kill Mosh F*** Destroy bootlegs back. I knew Obe hadn't spoken to his father for five years. I knew Jon had gone to court in November because he'd "broken some stuff"; I knew this same Jon had recently been elected a student body senator. I knew Brianna used to be on swim team but now thought she was fat. I knew Amy liked only her boyfriend and Burger King since returning from two tours in Iraq. I knew Tamara volunteered at an elementary school's kid connection program.

These were my peeps. We talked about thesis statements and ribbed each other and peer reviewed papers and gave each other rides home. We were cool.

Now, next week, I face tromping into a classroom full of an entirely new crop of 25 dull-eyed under-the-table texters. Certainly, I'll wear my tap shoes and full Vegas showgirl headpiece, but still. It's hard to break through their studied indifference. I know a couple of weeks in, when I've mocked myself and them enough, we'll loosen up and slide into the "coherence through use of transitions" party zone.

Until then, I'll miss the room full of last semester's weebles. One in particular.

You know who.

Mindy.

She squeaked through my class with a C, and she's not taking the next level of composition, which relegates her to the ranks of the other 5,000 students I've had in my teaching career: a fond memory. Fortunately, because Mindy herself was so vivid, my memories of her will be, as well. One of the last times I saw her, we had this exchange:

Mindy: So my boyfriend, the butthead loser, is going to jail.

Me: Oh, that sucks. Do you need a "file-in-a-cake" recipe, so you can bust him out? I have a great one, handed down from my grandma.

Mindy: Huh? I don't even have a stove since the landlord took it, plus I cut off all my nails, so I don't have to file them anymore. I kinda spice them up now, though, with these little glitter stickers that I put on each finger. You likey?

Me: I do. I do. You should send some of those to Posh Spice. She'd appreciate the fashion upgrade. So what's up with your boyfriend again?

Mindy: He got pulled over again and nailed for all his driving without a license tickets that he never dealt with. They arrested him, and the judge is sending him away for a minimum of 30 days, but it might even be 60. At least it won't be two months. That would've just been nasty.

Me: Wow. So that's going to really stress out your relationship, I'd guess. I mean, hasn't he been driving you to school and taking you to drop off your daughter at her daddy's grandma's house for babysitting and stuff?

Mindy: Yea, he drives me sometimes, but mostly he goes out and buys $300 track suits and watches cable all day while he gets stoned. He gets so pissed at me when I yell at him for not getting food again. And the big thing about his going to jail is that they won't let me see him, and he had our rent money on him. So how am I supposed to pay the rent this month?

Me: Really? Can't you just go in and explain the situation and see if maybe the nice coppies would slip you a few hundred out of your boyfriend's wallet? Isn't that how the judicial system works?

Mindy: Nope. I'm screwed.

Me: Well crud, honey. And of course all of this is coming down right during final exams.

Mindy: Okay, I totally shouldn't say this, but I'm actually kind of relieved that he's gone. It's like, I actually want to be in my apartment now. I actually like hanging out with my daughter. It's so much easier when he's not around. I can't wait to clean the place and make some mac and cheese. Truth is, I hope the judge gives him the 60 days, so my vacation can last longer.

Me: I hope the judge gives him 90 days, and in that time, you find a new apartment and a way to pay for it and leave no forwarding address.

Mindy: Wow, that would be harsh. Then he couldn't find me. He's my boyfriend. That would just be wrong. Oh no, my baby's gotta come home to me.
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As the next semester starts to swing, and a new crop of students and I launch ourselves into the swirl of apostrophes and brainstorming and developing paragraphs, my secret hope is that Mindy recalls a few of our classroom discussions about logic, applies them to her own life, and wraps her waiting arms around herself instead of the recently-sprung loser butthead.

And on that note, wiping a quiet tear from my eye with one of her essays--the one she wrote about how it's better to live with someone than live alone--I raise a bong of tribute to Mindy.

Me (inhaling): May you (cough cough) have a (choke gasp) better year (hark gargle) in 2009 than you did (flagglequacken) in 2008. And if (exhaling dramatically) you can't find the tits to dump the loser, may you at least get your fuel pump fixed (pounding chest).

To Mindy.

"Who's Your Daddy?"

Back in the 1980s, I did the college gig all traditional-like. Squirming and chafing in Montana, I hit eighteen and began the countdown to flight. When the time came to start college, I viewed the 1,000 miles separating my new campus and my hometown as "a headstart on a life where I don't work in a bowling alley."

1,000 miles away from my high school, I learned to wear scarves and listen to REM and dance to Soul Asylum and subsist on the salad bar and listen to convocations featuring distinguished speakers like that old curmudgeon Garrison Keiller and stalk physics study group sessions in the hope that the word "torque" would ever mean more to me than being the last name of a member of the 1960's faux-musical group The Monkees (Peter Tork) and attend a production of Sam Shepard's True West and climb the water tower about an hour after putting the keg's tap directly into my mouth and,

well,

I think you get the picture.

So I have that experience in my life that represents "college."

However, now I teach at a community college, which often feels more like a move of social justice than a career choice.

Because, you know, there are reasons why students are attending the community college. Certainly, there's convenience; there's affordability; there's the personal touch. Additionally, though, students often find that the community college is a place to go after--or while in the midst of--personal crisis: divorce, job loss, rape, rehab, mental illness. Our students, in short, aren't living their educations. They are tucking their educations in and around their lives, flitting to campus for class and then booking away again the minute the Anatomy & Physiology lab is done, tearing to daycare to pick up the twins.

Thus, community colleges often lack the traditional "college culture." They are commuter campuses, by and large, so our students miss out on the experience of checking their mail for care packages from home or riffling through their roommate's drawers while she's at Abnormal Psych, looking for weepy journals, sex toys, dime bags, packages of Pork Ramen. They pop in to "learn" and jet away to "live." Rarely is there a marriage of the two.

All of this explains why I so love the end-of-term student art show on our campus. For three quick days, the place almost feels like--has the vibe of--a college. When the art show is hung, I feel like shouting to the students, "If you think this is good, you should know places exist where professors take you outside for class in the Spring, and you all sit and lean against trees--YES, there are trees!--and talk about Kierkegaard. And sometimes after class you go play frisbee, and after that someone will play a guitar and sing Cat Stevens off-key. During all of this, you feel more comfortable than you ever have before and simultaneously kind of queerly alone--yet certain that your life will never be more vivid. This, dear community college students, is what you should extrapolate from the art show. Scurry now. Do that. Extrapolate." (then, being where we are, I define "extrapolate")

This semester, the art show was particularly fun because Groomeo has been cashing in on my free credits and taking some art classes, so his work was displayed, too, AND he got to pour glasses of Pepsi at the opening night reception. Me? I got to skip around and clap my happy hands in front of any piece signed "Jocelyn's Husband."



I also got to warm up my snarky sotto voce comments for the dreck that festooned the place. As it turns out, I possess happy hands and sotto voce comments in equal measure, so I went skipping and bitching and mocking and twirling until I was finally forced to collapse back at Groom's Pepsi table and order a double.

Much revived by the carbonation, I headed back out to witness more of "the learning curve made incarnate" that decorated the walls and tables. Of course, personally, my best artistic abilities involve stick figures, sock monkeys, and my own urine, so I couldn't be too condescending.

But.

Come. On.





I. Mean. Really.

And I haven't even included photos of the myriad works featuring Tinkerbells or clay seals playing basketball.

What I learned from my art trolling with the kids was this: five-year-old boys rewy, rewy think paintings of Captain Hook and cigarette-smoking chimpanzees wearing visors are soooooooo cool. I also learned that my husband does a damn good job--so good, even, that when his first assignment in Drawing class this term was to create something on a scratchboard, as a way of learning technique, and the teacher recommended animals as a good subject for this medium, he was able make that untenable assignment sing. Initially, when he came home from class and told me that there might be kitties involved, I recoiled and gasped out, "You mean...create an animal? Like, on purpose? Must you?" Cringing right along with me, Groom said, "Well, textured subjects work well on scratchboard; there's no way to erase, and there's nothing but black and white, and so fluff translates well. But never fear: I'm going to think on it."

For one wild day, he considered doing a picture of a dandelion gone to seed. I was able to get behind him on that notion. I knew the alternative.

But then he decided to listen to his teacher and take this basic assignment and do, yup, something basic. He announced he was going to scratch out a sheep.

Greeting his declaration with more than a minute of silence, I eventually left the room to re-group before returning, resolved, able to tell him my love would withstand this one test, but if he ever painted a unicorn, it would be over, and he'd need to be out by Monday.

Crikey, though, look what he did with the Baa-Baa:


Dude made my jaw drop at a sheep's head. Previously, the closest I had come to this was dropping my trousers in the loo at a pub called The Boar's Head.

With this bowl he threw in Ceramics class, my years of muttering about "this pain-in-the-arse piece-of-crap-we-serve-beets-in" came to an end.



This wall displays three of his 2-D digital designs, one for movement (him on a unicycle), one for radial balance, and one for rhythm. Maybe you all should send me gifts now, so I can send you a little thank-you card, featuring one of these on the front. I like books, espresso, and dangly earrings.

Here's Girl, viewing her pappy's self-portrait. The instructor took his photo, off of which this drawing was based, on a particularly greasy-headed hat-hair day, which means I now get to tell him all the time that he has a seriously ginormous forehead. I'm tempted to get him all steamed up and fry an egg on it.


Cutting in closer to that portrait, I find my happy clapping hands coming out again.

I mean, look. He's just nice (...even though I'm not quite sure where his eyelashes went; did they never grow back after the bacon grease fire of 2005?).

Seventeen years ago, His Groomishness graduated from a pricey place that offered up the traditional campus experience. Now he's mixing it up a little and making me all shivery.

Indeed. Every night, I get to hop into bed with those peepers--those kind eyes that have staked out residual territory just below the ginormous forehead of a community college student.

"Can't Read a Face by Its Book"

I've considered getting myself all Facebooked. Heaps of folks whom I like and admire, from George Will to Pat Buchanan to Ann Coulter, are on Facebook, and the idea of being able to poke them before spreading graffitti all over their walls holds no small appeal.

But then I remember I have a blog already and wonder if I need to create yet another "life by proxy" site for myself. The answer, so far, has been nope. I can't imagine finding the oomph to maintain one more thing in my life, especially when I already have a fair number of plucking, exfoliating, and moisturizing regimes already in place. If I added any more responsibility to my daily list, I fear something would have to give, most likely remembering to pick up my daughter from Girl Scouts (rest easy, responsible parents: it's a mere 6 mile walk home, and she's a wiry little thing).

My reluctance to go Facebook was further fueled when I eavesdropped on a student after class one day.

Her name was Mindy.

You may have heard of her.

Mindy was chumming up to an unsuspecting classmate--one of her favorite past times--and opened with,

"My mom is so gay."

Fellow classmate, lacking an adequate comeback: (incredulous silence)

Me, stepping in for the save: Well, if she's found love, that can never be bad, right? Does this mean you have two mommies?

Mindy: Huh? I said she's so gay, not, like, a lezbot. Sometimes, Jocelyn, I don't know what you're talking about. She's so gay because she joined Facebook. And she's ancient, like 37, which makes it pathetic. I mean, who wants her mom trying to "friend" her?

Me: Hey, c'mon, people of all ages use Facebook! It's a great way to find people you used to know and, um, see what they're doing and where they're living so you can go through a bunch of angst about how your life isn't glamorous and hasn't panned out in the direction you'd have hoped back when you were 20, but because you want to keep doing kind of a queer and creepy semi-friendship but mostly engaging in an ogling voyeurism of these past acquaintances, you act all smiley while secretly hoping they're going to announce their divorce (you always knew Sean from your biology class was a rat bastard, so a little misery serves him right) and have to change their romantic status back to "single." Indeed, Facebook isn't just for you half-formed striplings! It has a rightful place in the lives of petty and bitter people of all generations, right?

Fellow Classmate, who has been sitting agape the whole time: Naw. It's just sad when old people get on Facebook. Even Tom Petty.

Mindy, shaking her head ruefully without ever actually having encountered the word "ruefully": Totally. My mom's all saggy and only has this lame boyfriend, and she's been keeping clean since she got out of rehab, so why does she have to go and be all tragic on Facebook? Seriously, she has about three friends on there, and I'm one of them. I'm kind of all, "Mom, maybe go back to the bar, or get a hobby or something." She's completely going to want go start going out with me on the nights when the mom of my baby's daddy's other kid watches my daughter. She'll probably (dramatic, put-upon sigh) start asking to borrow my jeans, too. I mean, GAWD.

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So, for now, even though I know heaps of y'all are ancient geezers and proud members of the Facebookian world order, I'm going to continue to resist creating the sad and pathetic presence I would contribute. Like Mindy's mom, I'm doing pretty well at those things all on my own.

Just me, my rainbow-covered poncho, my John Travolta tote bag, and a borrowed pair of Mindy's jeans.

We ride the bus sometimes.

"Dear Jeebus and Pilgrims Who Are Dead: I Am Thankful For Teaching That Is Never Dull"


A follow-up to my previous post.

After a few days of putting out feelers, I managed to hook up Mindy with an office on campus that helps with things like food and cars and telephones. Now, dauntless, even in the face of an STD, Mindy continues to spread her witless charm throughout the Land of Freshman Composition.

Mindy Moment #2:

After class last week, she began chatting up a classmate that she knows vaguely, someone more interesting than most:

Her: Are your parents tall, like you?

Him: No, not really. I'm trying to remember--I was always small and scrawny, but then we moved somewhere, and I shot up. It was traumatic. Hmmm. Where did we move? I think we moved to Indonesia, and then I was starting a new school--

Her: Wait? What do you mean, like, Indonesia? I've heard of that continent! Why would you move there?

Him: Just my parents' work. It was just their jobs.

Her: What is their job?

Him: My dad's a diplomat, but it's not a big deal; it's just his job.

Her: WAIT. A diplomat? So you're all rich?

Him: No, not rich. My dad just works. He has a job, and part of it is that we moved around.

Her: OH. MY. GOD. He's a diplomat? That's, you mean, like, he's the duke to the king?

Him: (incredulous silence) (then a beat) (more incredulous silence) I, bwah...derflup...huh?


Me: (stepping in for the save; reaching out and patting Mindy's shoulder affectionately) Yes, Mindy. That's right. His dad is the duke to the king...of the United States of America. The duke to our king. It really is a great honor. Maybe one day, you can work for the king, too, holding his mirror or combing out his wigs. Reach for the stars, Peanut.

"Can I Talk to You After Class?"

In the middle of a rousing class session, during which I assigned the persuasive essay and outlawed the topic of abortion (never a good subject for a two-page paper written by untried students who still live at home), a 19-year-old student named Mindy came up and asked me if we could have a private moment after class. Denying my impulse to shout "NOOOO, for you see I have a date with 8 ounces of raspberry yogurt up in my office at roughly 12:04 p.m.," I assured her my every breath would be applied to realizing that future meeting.

Twenty minutes later, when the room had cleared, she came bopping up.

"What I have to tell you is...well, this is hard to say to you because you're, like, who you are, but, um...I think I have herpes."

Since I don't, and I'm only her English teacher and therefore--shout out to the Marquis de Sade, Oscar Wilde, Anais Nin, Henry Miller, and Erica Jong--am only vaguely equipped to diagnose STD's, I wasn't exactly clear as to why Mindy had stayed after class to provide me with this information. Was I to hug? Apply cream? Create an Excel spreadsheet tracking her outbreaks?

The subsequent conversation unfolded thusly:

Me, after some mulling: And, so, is that why you didn't have your rough draft today?

Her, dodging the question in a rush of "logic": I went to the doc last week to have her look at it, but when I got to the clinic, no one was there. I only have an OBGYN now that my other doctor died--did you hear about that? It was in the paper. So I can only see my OB, and if she's not there, I'm done. So anyhow, I have no phone, no computer, and the fuel pump went out in my car, so I can't drive to school right now. Sure, I can catch rides with my boyfriend, but that's actually keeping me from dumping him, and he was on a one-month plan with me, and then he was going to be out. Now he's trying to find me a new fuel pump, but last time he got me a car repair, he hired a crackhead who was so high he didn't put in any calliper screws, and the car was even worse after he fixed it, and I eventually had to push it into a different place and pay, like, three times as much, and now my boyfriend has found me a $20 fuel pump, which I bet is made out of Mt. Dew cans and Skoal. Did I tell you I'm afraid my three-year-old is going to get kicked out of daycare right now because I can't pay--is it too late to apply for a state daycare grant thing for next semester?--so my baby's daddy's grandma is watching my daughter today, but the kid is all gross and dirty when she gets picked up from Nana's house, and so do you ever offer extra credit in this class?

Me, squaring shoulders and unfloobernoodling my brain: I, so, well, um, what? Oh, yes. I can see how herpes makes it hard to get daycare. So, hey, you're very good natured in the face of all these stresses. I'm sorry I'm laughing, by the way, but you're making this all kind of funny. There's something kind of charmingly carefree about you, as you relate your woes.

Her: Ah, f***, I was raised like this. We never had any money or anything, especially after my dad left, so everything's always a fight. Hey, I want to learn Spanish. Will they teach it here next term? I have a good Cuban friend and a good Puerto Rican friend--I met them when I lived at the YWCA in the Young Mothers' Program--and I learned some good cuss words from them in Spanish, but I want to learn more. I actually know quite a bit from Dora and Diego. My daughter learned to count to twelve from those shows, and now I've taught her to count to thirty in Spanish. So can I take it here? Next term?

Me: Yes, it's offered pretty much every...

Her: I actually want to learn Spanish because I want to go to San Juan, you know, like in Puerto Rico, and get my butt done.

Me: (incredulous silence)

Her: You know, they take the fat from your stomach and inject it in your butt so that it looks all perfectly round. I looked it up on the Internet. It costs $3,000. I mean, I want to have one more baby one day, and it makes sense to wait to do the butt job until I'm done having kids, so I have time to learn Spanish while I'm waiting, right?

Me, further unflagemallatinging my brain: Well, I guess it's all about priorities. Learning Spanish is a good idea, no matter your motivation. But how about dealing with what's on your plate right now? When can you go back in to deal with the herpes? I think we have some programs on campus that offer emergency assistance to students in need; would you like me to contact some people and see if we can find you the money to get your car fixed, so you can get to the doc more easily?

Her: Huh? Yea, that'd be okay, or whatever. I just wanted to know if I can do some extra credit.

Me: Oh? Oh. I got all distracted. You know your life is quite the soap opera.

Her: I know. I only ever watched one soap opera, and they cancelled it.

Me: Well, now. It seems you just can't win this month, doesn't it? Here's the deal: I don't offer extra credit, as that smacks of high school to me. College is more about doing the work to your best ability in a consistent fashion. Plus, as I look at your grade here, I see you have--against all odds--a B. That's great, so stop worrying. Just get your paper written by Wednesday. Do you have a topic for it yet? Remember, I always urge you to find a topic that you have experience with and that relates to your own interests and life so that you can draw your examples from what you've actually lived.

Her: Yea, I've got a topic, and it's a good one: alcoholism.