So I have this kid coming to my office today to “talk about a few things.”  Because I am psychic (and because I have dealt with him all semester), I already know that he wants to talk to me to either complain about a grade or ask how to get a higher grade.

I don’t really know what to tell him about this.  The dude already makes B’s and some B-plusses, and I just don’t see him doing any better than that.  He’s fine on getting the assignments done in an adequate-to-good-ish fashion and meeting all the various requirements, but his writing style is in the not-so-good space between confusing and boring.  There are word-choice errors and syntax problems that aren’t such big deals, but they render the writing a bit confusing.  But then, I don’t feel like really trying to resolve my confusion because the material is so dry that I cease to care.

I can’t really tell him this, though, can I?  I mean, boring writing is a problem A LOT of my students have exhibited over the years, and I have never come up with a diplomatic but effective way to discuss it with them.  I usually settle on “make every word count.” Not so helpful, right?

Other things to note: This is a guy who asked for (and received) a one-day extension on his last essay.  I don’t mind granting these when someone is either sick for a long time or has a pile-up of assignments from other classes.  I usually only do it once per student per semester, and only if they ask.  However: I am already a little  peeved with him because he is always checking his math homework in the beginning of my class and I have to ask him to put it away every day.  Like, he’s already prioritizing other classes over mine before he even asks for an extension so he can get his other class’s paper done.  He really doesn’t deserve sympathy at all.  But I doubt he’ll bring up these issues in our meeting, and I’m wondering if I should even bother.

Maybe my advice on how to make a better grade should not focus on making his writing less boring, but rather on asking him to pay better fucking attention in my class and put the fucking math homework away.  Maybe I should just punch him in the neck.  What say you?

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UPDATE: My drop-in hours for today are ending in seven minutes and Dude has not shown up yet. He still could show up to my hours Wednesday (I told him either/or would be fine but he said he’d show up today) but at this point I am FED. UP.

Dear boys –  my dear, dear boys,

I’m not sure how to begin this letter.  I still feel that there’s so much I don’t know about you.  For starters, I don’t really even know what your faces look like.  For the first eight or so weeks of class, I had two of you mixed up.  In my defense, those two of you are both of medium height, medium build, and have medium brown hair.  More than that, though, it’s the fucking hats.  They cover at least 60% of your face when you wear them like that, you know?

I’m sure you do know, actually.  I’m sure that’s why you wear them that way.  You don’t want to be here and the pain and torture of having to even look in the general direction of me or your fellow students is too much to bear.  And eye contact — the thought of that must send shudders to the deepest places in your souls, if in fact you have souls.

It would normally be enough to make me feel deeply sad.  You’re all (well, most of you) clever boys and you could do really interesting things in this class.  You’re perceptive and witty — I notice all this, see, when I hear you talking about your weekend plans, your moms, or any number of other off-topic things.

But you seem not to care what you could accomplish here, with my help and your own commitment to the class, so you shield yourselves with the hats, carefully coordinating the camouflage prints on them with those on your hunting jackets and the mud on your boots, and, in a move that belies your countrified senses of fashion, you pull out your cell phones subtly (not subtly enough) under the desk and txt away furiously during class.

You know you’re not supposed to — hence, I’m sure, the covert behavior and sneaky, slump-shouldered posture — so why look so shocked and appalled when I ask you to put the phone away?  Why — when at this moment you finally deign to look toward the front of the room — fix me with such a murderous glare?

Like I said, we really don’t know each other that well, so I have to ask.  I only know the few facts I have managed to gather via my awesome powers of detection (and the fact that I once overheard a relatively lengthy portion of the conversation one of you had with your mother when she called during our workshop and you actually answered the phone and proceeded to speak to her during class, during fucking class).  Are you a bunch of violent criminals, embittered by your years spent “on the inside” who view your liberal arts classes as a further extension of the long arm of The Man?  Is it just that your parents forcing you to go to college, threatening you with taking away your huge trucks?

I’d just like to know, see, so that next time one of you sends those daggers of ill will out of your otherwise hidden eyes, I will know whether to run and hide or just nail you to the wall with my words. Because I am done trying.

Love and kisses,

The Name’s Not Ms.