Hypnotize Me [part I]
April 25, 2005, 9:15 a.m.
My students have just begun writing their final exam. In three hours, it'll all be over, and everybody'll Wang Chung tonight.
9:20 a.m.
The course is introduction to marketing. It's a required second year course for both faculty of business students and business communications students — two different programs of study. I teach marketing to both groups. Today's exam is for the biz comm majors. In theory, their communications skills should be superior to the regular business students, who feel that "business writing" is somehow different from "real" writing, and who can't imagine a situation in their future careers in which they might be expected to communicate effectively.
9:25 a.m.
We're in a large theatre-style lecture hall with a steep set of stairs leading from the door down to the front of the room where I sit, watching them, ready to respond to a raised hand. The overhead lights are fluorescent. The white light is so bright I'm hypnotized.
If you hypnotize yourself — apparently this is possible — how do you snap yourself out of it?
9:30 a.m.
It's hypnotic, sitting here for three hours. In past exams I've tried bringing along something to read, but it's no use, because I have to keep looking up for raised hands. There are 104 students writing this exam. Odds are, a hand will go up once every three minutes.
Let x be the number of students writing the exam. If x > 30 I will not be able to sit down for the duration.
9:35 a.m.
I decide that the lecture hall, no matter how cavernous, is preferable for exam sitting to the gymnasium, that great, eldritch echo chamber. In the gym there's a sort of white noise that somehow amplifies the constant rustling of papers. There are smells: sweat, and dust. Here, it's very quiet. Just me and them. So I write.
9:40 a.m.
I'm doing, right now, what I told them during our last class together to do when writing their exam: Spend twice as much time thinking as you do writing. Put your pen down intermittently. Look at the ceiling. Organize your thoughts. Then pick up your pen and write them down. I hope they listened. I wish they were mature enough to take my advice. I'm sure they wouldn't believe this, but nothing would make me happier than to give them all As.
Percentage of blonde girls born in 1985 named Jennifer or Kimberley, based on empirical evidence: 20
9:45 a.m.
A student asks, "What do you mean by forms of marketing communication?"
9:50 a.m.
But they don't listen. They don't take my advice. They think to themselves, yeah, yeah, what do you know? I'm twenty years old, I know all I need to know about life, the universe, and everything. I've written lots of exams; I know how to do it. I don't need any advice from you, lady, just tell me which chapters the exam covers and let me get outta here.
Percentage of boys born in 1985 named Kyle or Jeremy, based on empirical evidence: 12
9:55 a.m.
A student asks, "Can I include examples from different types of products?"
What do you mean, like furniture? Cars? The question asked about breakfast cereal.
10:00 a.m.
I want to give them As, but I won't give them As just for showing up. Or for being cute, or funny. This is university, not a blind date.
10:05 a.m.
As I look up at their eager, enthusiastic faces it pains me that I can only name a dozen of them. Oh, I recognize their names, first and family, from the hours of poring over the class lists; performing administrative minutae that only other teachers understand. And I recognize their faces, that is, if I run into one of them in the mall this summer, I'll smile and say hello. I'll recognize that the face one sat in my classroom, but I won't be able to recall which classroom.
I hate this.
It's all because of the double cohort.
To be concluded tomorrow
My students have just begun writing their final exam. In three hours, it'll all be over, and everybody'll Wang Chung tonight.
9:20 a.m.
The course is introduction to marketing. It's a required second year course for both faculty of business students and business communications students — two different programs of study. I teach marketing to both groups. Today's exam is for the biz comm majors. In theory, their communications skills should be superior to the regular business students, who feel that "business writing" is somehow different from "real" writing, and who can't imagine a situation in their future careers in which they might be expected to communicate effectively.
9:25 a.m.
We're in a large theatre-style lecture hall with a steep set of stairs leading from the door down to the front of the room where I sit, watching them, ready to respond to a raised hand. The overhead lights are fluorescent. The white light is so bright I'm hypnotized.
If you hypnotize yourself — apparently this is possible — how do you snap yourself out of it?
9:30 a.m.
It's hypnotic, sitting here for three hours. In past exams I've tried bringing along something to read, but it's no use, because I have to keep looking up for raised hands. There are 104 students writing this exam. Odds are, a hand will go up once every three minutes.
Let x be the number of students writing the exam. If x > 30 I will not be able to sit down for the duration.
9:35 a.m.
I decide that the lecture hall, no matter how cavernous, is preferable for exam sitting to the gymnasium, that great, eldritch echo chamber. In the gym there's a sort of white noise that somehow amplifies the constant rustling of papers. There are smells: sweat, and dust. Here, it's very quiet. Just me and them. So I write.
9:40 a.m.
I'm doing, right now, what I told them during our last class together to do when writing their exam: Spend twice as much time thinking as you do writing. Put your pen down intermittently. Look at the ceiling. Organize your thoughts. Then pick up your pen and write them down. I hope they listened. I wish they were mature enough to take my advice. I'm sure they wouldn't believe this, but nothing would make me happier than to give them all As.
Percentage of blonde girls born in 1985 named Jennifer or Kimberley, based on empirical evidence: 20
9:45 a.m.
A student asks, "What do you mean by forms of marketing communication?"
9:50 a.m.
But they don't listen. They don't take my advice. They think to themselves, yeah, yeah, what do you know? I'm twenty years old, I know all I need to know about life, the universe, and everything. I've written lots of exams; I know how to do it. I don't need any advice from you, lady, just tell me which chapters the exam covers and let me get outta here.
Percentage of boys born in 1985 named Kyle or Jeremy, based on empirical evidence: 12
9:55 a.m.
A student asks, "Can I include examples from different types of products?"
What do you mean, like furniture? Cars? The question asked about breakfast cereal.
10:00 a.m.
I want to give them As, but I won't give them As just for showing up. Or for being cute, or funny. This is university, not a blind date.
10:05 a.m.
As I look up at their eager, enthusiastic faces it pains me that I can only name a dozen of them. Oh, I recognize their names, first and family, from the hours of poring over the class lists; performing administrative minutae that only other teachers understand. And I recognize their faces, that is, if I run into one of them in the mall this summer, I'll smile and say hello. I'll recognize that the face one sat in my classroom, but I won't be able to recall which classroom.
I hate this.
It's all because of the double cohort.
To be concluded tomorrow
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