The “Assroom,” or We Don’t Need No Education…
by Domini Hedderman
Twenty-six faces stare me down as I discuss the dire importance of clarity and conciseness in writing workplace documents.
“So, basically, this author tells us that clarity is a function of the words and grammatical structures you use, of the organization of your information, of the logic and cohesion of your arguments, and of the way you present your message to your audience.”
As I speak, I look around the cream-colored room at the vacant, bleary eyes and notice that one student has finally given in to dream-land and is resting his head on his desk. Some of the others students sit with their heads in their hands and watch the guy sawing logs. Another student is valiantly trying to stay awake. His eyes roll to white under his baseball cap and spin like a slot machine. I keep waiting to hit lemons.
My students sit in a grid of life. While it is true that they unite in a solid block of baggy jeans and bookbags, gazing at me, the common enemy, it is also true that the room is divided into segments of personality. We have the Back-of-the-Classers, of course, who are smart but snide. Then there is the block of Kisser-Uppers, who would clap my erasers if that practice had not died along with the idea that going to college is a privilege. And last are the Neutrals, who offer nothing–good or bad–in the way of participation, and whose names I don’t even know.
“Clarity refers to clearly wording and developing your writing so that.”
“I have a question,” Blonde Jock Boy proudly pipes up from Kisser-Upper section, after wildly waving his arm in the air for the last thirty seconds of my dry monologue.
“Yes.” I swallow a sigh. Has it been fifty minutes yet? “What is it?”
“How many points are on our quiz?”
Leave it to Blonde Jock Boy, high on Mountain Dews and video games, to bring it all down to points. As an adjunct instructor of technical writing, I didn’t even want to have tests and quizzes, but then realized during my virgin run a couple of semesters ago that students won’t even buy the textbook unless you somehow grade them on their knowledge of its content. Most of my students are male; most study engineering, and most don’t think they’ll need writing skills in their jobs. I might as well be instructing a bag of potatoes. One told me that he wouldn’t need to know how to communicate effectively because he was planning to join the Navy and work as a nuclear engineer. God help us all.
Another student thinks it is really cool that he could take my class because he is hoping to use the skills he learns to help him write song lyrics for his grunge band. I look over at Rock Star as I think about this and notice that he and his band are snickering about something. We don’t need no education.
I offer an answer about the number of quiz points to the inquisitive student and forge ahead. As I talk, I realize that a few students are actually paying attention, so I focus on them and pretend the bored ones aren’t even in the room. I must trick myself into believing that these people are sitting in my classroom because they want to learn, because they see themselves as being responsible for their own educations and because they care about building the skills that will serve them well in their future workplaces.
As I blabber about creating a rough draft, my eye falls on The Plagiarist. Here’s the guy who turned in a paper that came from the Internet. And then he argued that he didn’t do anything wrong. Quotation marks? They are those little dingles at the end of a sentence, Bubba. Learn how to use them.
The clock ticks slowly as I sip at my cooling coffee. Someone in the room coughs–two barks of a dog. I think it’s the guy who was “happy to have met [my] acquittance” at the beginning of the semester. I begin to wind down. Even without looking at the clock, I know that exactly 30 seconds remain in the period because students start fidgeting, capping pens and stowing notebooks.
“Robert Cormier says, ‘The beautiful part of writing is that you don’t have to get it right the first time, unlike, say, a brain surgeon. You can always do it better, find the exact word, the apt phrase, the leaping simile.’”
The last few words of my quote, which I chose for its sensitive and forgiving tone, are lost on the horde of unsmiling pupils who stampede their way toward the podium, turn left and exit the room.
A student remains behind. One of the Neutrals. After latching his eyes to my chest, he says slowly, “Missus Hedderman? I was just wondering? Did I happen to yell out or start singing during class today?”
I stare at him. I almost choke on my coffee.
“I mean, sometimes I have a tendency to yell out or sing or you know do something like that. Did I do that?”
I find it hard to speak. I’m trying not to laugh.
“Uhm, no. No,” I say. “I didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary.”
“Thanks.” The student makes his way to the door and I look after him.
I quickly pack up my bag and then erase the chalkboard. I brush my hands free of the white dust and leave the room, turning to look at the plaque next to the door as I go.
I read the sign for the twentieth time. Some enterprising student deemed it appropriate to remove the “C-L” from my “Classroom” sign. So now I teach two upper-level college courses in what my students wish to be known as an “Assroom.”
I hurry down the hall. I can’t wait to get to my car so I can laugh my way down Interstate 90. Assroom, indeed.
