Hypnotize Me [part II]
Continued from part I
10:10 a.m.
See, in the province of Ontario, high school used to go up to grade 13. I went to grade 13 myself, back in the 1980s. It was a strange system, unique to this province. The rest of the country, and, I think, the U.S., finishes high school after grade 12, then sends kids off to university at the age of 18. In Ontario you graduated grade 12 with a "regular" high school diploma, and could go to community college, but if you wanted to go to university, you had to complete your senior year. Then you were granted the Ontario Secondary School Honour Graduation Diploma. Mine, from Beamsville District Secondary School, is on the wall behind me.
Bear with me, Gentle Reader, for just a moment, so I can explain what the "double cohort" is.
10:15 a.m.
Sometime in the late 1980s the decision was made to phase out grade 13 in Ontario. The year this new rule was made, any child already in the Ontario education system would have to complete grade 13 in order to get their OSSHGD. Children entering the system the following September would only go to grade 12. The years passed, those children grew up, and, in September 2003, the last year of grade 13 in Ontario, they were ready for college or university.
There were twice as many of them going into post-secondary institutions as there had been in any previous year. That's the double cohort.
In January 2003 the Ontario Universities’ Application Centre received 47% more applications than the previous year. The double cohort hit Ontario universities in September 2003. Which means that last September they were in their second year.
10:20 a.m.
In my previous years teaching I'd had three classes of about 35 students each. I made a point of learning three names each day I'd see them, and after a few weeks I'd know all their names. I used to pride myself on being able to do that.
But last September, in my first class, on the first day, I looked out into a sea of 60 faces. I asked, stupidly, "Are you all supposed to be here?" My faculty had always capped the classes at 40, and would add sections if necessary. This year the faculty, in its wisdom, decided they'd just largen the classes instead.
They were. All supposed to be there, that is.
Goddamn.
10:25 a.m.
So this year I have three classes of 60 each. There's just no way I can get to know them. And I hate that.
10:30 a.m.
Because, the thing is, I love my students. They are interesting. They are smart. They come from all over the world, and lots of them know things I don't know. They've had experiences I've never had. They have good stories to tell, and I like to hear stories. They have a fresh perspective on marketing and advertising.
You should see some of the assignments they've done for me. They've produced movies. They've brought in their electric guitars, dressed up like Angus Young, and played AC/DC. This year, one wrote and performed an original song, called "Mass Media Advertising Is Swell," sung to the tune of "Knock Knock Knockin' On Heaven's Door."
They are terrific.
10:35 a.m.
I write. I force them to write.
10:40 a.m.
They kick and scream, like little kids going to the dentist.
No, that's not accurate. Kids understand why they need to go to the dentist. My students don't seem to understand why they need to learn to write. Why should they be forced to express their thoughts clearly, in writing, they ask me. What possible benefit will that be to their business careers? Why should they be forced, when analyzing a marketing case, to make a decision? Why should they be forced, in a short-answer question on an exam, to give reasons for their decisions? Why must they articulate a defense of their proposal? Why should they learn how to use an apostrophe correctly?
After all, they're planning to work in accounting, or finance, or human resources.
10:45 a.m.
Oh, I'm a cruel, heartless bitch.
I expect them to spell check their essays before handing them in.
I expect them, the ones for whom English is their first language, at least, to know the difference between their, there, and they're; between your and you're.
10:50 a.m.
The Chinese students don't get As just because they tried really hard, and because it's hard for them to be taking this course in a foreign language. None of my students, regardless of language or ability, gets an A because she printed her assignment in colour and put it in a fancy folder.
10:55 a.m.
I expect, on an exam, for them to answer the question that I asked. They expect that if they misread the question, or went off on a tangent in their answer, that I should give them points for whatever they wrote, because, after all, they wrote something.
Yup. I'm a bitch, all right.
11:00 a.m.
Exam question: "Consider the four major forms of advertising, and recommend whether you would use them to promote this product."
You wouldn't believe me if I told you how many students don't even bother to say, yes, I recommend broadcast advertising or no, I do not recommend broadcast advertising, and instead list the pros and cons of broadcast advertising, and think they've answered the question.
It terrifies them to have to make a decision.
11:05 a.m.
Next question: "Choose two of the forms of advertising that you recommended, and give two media vehicles for each."
They don't read the question carefully. Half the class, instead of answering with reference to the forms of advertising they just finished discussing in their previous answer will wrack their brains to come up with two other forms that I hadn't mentioned.
11:10 a.m.
They seem determined to make things more difficult than they need to be. I find this ironic in light of their inability to correctly use an apostrophe.
11:15 a.m.
I write a note on the blackboard, and call the students' attention to it. The note says, remember to discuss two forms of advertising that you recommended in the previous question.
11:20 a.m.
A student asks, "Do I have to rewrite my whole answer?"
11:25 a.m.
A student hands in her exam and asks if I have her assignment with me. I do not. I tell her she can come pick it up after the exam. She grimmaces at the inconvenience of this.
12:00 noon
We're almost done. We started late, my fault, so I'm giving them until 12:15.
Let x represent the grade of the first student to hand in his exam and leave the room. Let y represent the class average. Let z represent the ratio of the elapsed time until the first student left to the alloted time of three hours. Almost certainly, x = zy
12:05 p.m.
They start handing in their papers in groups of two and three; they're anxious to get out. They have the exam questions, two pages, stapled in the top left corner. They have one, sometimes two, exam booklets containing their answers. When they hand everything in, instead of putting the question paper inside the answer booklet, they try to put the answer booklet inside the question paper.
I have no explanation for this.
12:10 p.m.
On the exam booklet there's a field for "initials" and "surname." The idea is that if your name is Tina Louise Turner you would write Turner in the surname field, and TL as your initials. Most of my students will write Turner in the surname field, and TT in the initials field. This one, I get. They simply haven't filled out enough forms in their young lives.
12:15 p.m.
We're finished. The stragglers come to wish me a good summer before they leave. For them, the work is done. For me, it's just beginning. Marking these exams will take fifty hours.
Sometimes, they write me little notes inside the exam booklet. Notes like, "I really enjoyed the class, have a great summer!" or "Thanks for everything, I really learned a lot."
They like the word really.
And I really like them.
* * * In the next story we learn that Jack also had a student, and that Sass is a Truman guy. Later, when the fall semester starts, Sass ponders some more on why students do the things they do.
10:10 a.m.
See, in the province of Ontario, high school used to go up to grade 13. I went to grade 13 myself, back in the 1980s. It was a strange system, unique to this province. The rest of the country, and, I think, the U.S., finishes high school after grade 12, then sends kids off to university at the age of 18. In Ontario you graduated grade 12 with a "regular" high school diploma, and could go to community college, but if you wanted to go to university, you had to complete your senior year. Then you were granted the Ontario Secondary School Honour Graduation Diploma. Mine, from Beamsville District Secondary School, is on the wall behind me.
Bear with me, Gentle Reader, for just a moment, so I can explain what the "double cohort" is.
10:15 a.m.
Sometime in the late 1980s the decision was made to phase out grade 13 in Ontario. The year this new rule was made, any child already in the Ontario education system would have to complete grade 13 in order to get their OSSHGD. Children entering the system the following September would only go to grade 12. The years passed, those children grew up, and, in September 2003, the last year of grade 13 in Ontario, they were ready for college or university.
There were twice as many of them going into post-secondary institutions as there had been in any previous year. That's the double cohort.
In January 2003 the Ontario Universities’ Application Centre received 47% more applications than the previous year. The double cohort hit Ontario universities in September 2003. Which means that last September they were in their second year.
10:20 a.m.
In my previous years teaching I'd had three classes of about 35 students each. I made a point of learning three names each day I'd see them, and after a few weeks I'd know all their names. I used to pride myself on being able to do that.
But last September, in my first class, on the first day, I looked out into a sea of 60 faces. I asked, stupidly, "Are you all supposed to be here?" My faculty had always capped the classes at 40, and would add sections if necessary. This year the faculty, in its wisdom, decided they'd just largen the classes instead.
They were. All supposed to be there, that is.
Goddamn.
10:25 a.m.
So this year I have three classes of 60 each. There's just no way I can get to know them. And I hate that.
10:30 a.m.
Because, the thing is, I love my students. They are interesting. They are smart. They come from all over the world, and lots of them know things I don't know. They've had experiences I've never had. They have good stories to tell, and I like to hear stories. They have a fresh perspective on marketing and advertising.
You should see some of the assignments they've done for me. They've produced movies. They've brought in their electric guitars, dressed up like Angus Young, and played AC/DC. This year, one wrote and performed an original song, called "Mass Media Advertising Is Swell," sung to the tune of "Knock Knock Knockin' On Heaven's Door."
They are terrific.
10:35 a.m.
I write. I force them to write.
10:40 a.m.
They kick and scream, like little kids going to the dentist.
No, that's not accurate. Kids understand why they need to go to the dentist. My students don't seem to understand why they need to learn to write. Why should they be forced to express their thoughts clearly, in writing, they ask me. What possible benefit will that be to their business careers? Why should they be forced, when analyzing a marketing case, to make a decision? Why should they be forced, in a short-answer question on an exam, to give reasons for their decisions? Why must they articulate a defense of their proposal? Why should they learn how to use an apostrophe correctly?
After all, they're planning to work in accounting, or finance, or human resources.
10:45 a.m.
Oh, I'm a cruel, heartless bitch.
I expect them to spell check their essays before handing them in.
I expect them, the ones for whom English is their first language, at least, to know the difference between their, there, and they're; between your and you're.
10:50 a.m.
The Chinese students don't get As just because they tried really hard, and because it's hard for them to be taking this course in a foreign language. None of my students, regardless of language or ability, gets an A because she printed her assignment in colour and put it in a fancy folder.
10:55 a.m.
I expect, on an exam, for them to answer the question that I asked. They expect that if they misread the question, or went off on a tangent in their answer, that I should give them points for whatever they wrote, because, after all, they wrote something.
Yup. I'm a bitch, all right.
11:00 a.m.
Exam question: "Consider the four major forms of advertising, and recommend whether you would use them to promote this product."
You wouldn't believe me if I told you how many students don't even bother to say, yes, I recommend broadcast advertising or no, I do not recommend broadcast advertising, and instead list the pros and cons of broadcast advertising, and think they've answered the question.
It terrifies them to have to make a decision.
11:05 a.m.
Next question: "Choose two of the forms of advertising that you recommended, and give two media vehicles for each."
They don't read the question carefully. Half the class, instead of answering with reference to the forms of advertising they just finished discussing in their previous answer will wrack their brains to come up with two other forms that I hadn't mentioned.
11:10 a.m.
They seem determined to make things more difficult than they need to be. I find this ironic in light of their inability to correctly use an apostrophe.
11:15 a.m.
I write a note on the blackboard, and call the students' attention to it. The note says, remember to discuss two forms of advertising that you recommended in the previous question.
11:20 a.m.
A student asks, "Do I have to rewrite my whole answer?"
11:25 a.m.
A student hands in her exam and asks if I have her assignment with me. I do not. I tell her she can come pick it up after the exam. She grimmaces at the inconvenience of this.
12:00 noon
We're almost done. We started late, my fault, so I'm giving them until 12:15.
Let x represent the grade of the first student to hand in his exam and leave the room. Let y represent the class average. Let z represent the ratio of the elapsed time until the first student left to the alloted time of three hours. Almost certainly, x = zy
12:05 p.m.
They start handing in their papers in groups of two and three; they're anxious to get out. They have the exam questions, two pages, stapled in the top left corner. They have one, sometimes two, exam booklets containing their answers. When they hand everything in, instead of putting the question paper inside the answer booklet, they try to put the answer booklet inside the question paper.
I have no explanation for this.
12:10 p.m.
On the exam booklet there's a field for "initials" and "surname." The idea is that if your name is Tina Louise Turner you would write Turner in the surname field, and TL as your initials. Most of my students will write Turner in the surname field, and TT in the initials field. This one, I get. They simply haven't filled out enough forms in their young lives.
12:15 p.m.
We're finished. The stragglers come to wish me a good summer before they leave. For them, the work is done. For me, it's just beginning. Marking these exams will take fifty hours.
Sometimes, they write me little notes inside the exam booklet. Notes like, "I really enjoyed the class, have a great summer!" or "Thanks for everything, I really learned a lot."
They like the word really.
And I really like them.
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