on commence....trois

Little pieces of paper with notes everywhere

From December 2019: student finishing up final exam at a desk outside my office. "C's hands trembling. Heartbreaking." Test anxiety PLUS he acknowledged that he had skipped some of the reading.

The real heartbreaker is that I can't remember the student, though I probably could if I looked at my roll from last semester, which now is on-line complete with photos.

Coming to end of teaching one way or another. The title of Jan Kott's famous essay reverberates: "King Lear or Endgame."

Starting new semester with a schedule  (worst of career) so frighteningly difficult that two of my acquaintance asked if the department head was trying to get me to retire. I don't think so. But see the academic classic "Stoner," where a chair uses a schedule as a weapon.

Picked up a long-neglected copy of Walter Benjamin's "Illuminations" in my office. Folded inside was the first page of a paper I wrote for a comparative lyric course in 1978. Before theory! Title: "'Time's trans-shifting' and the Lyric Imagination." It was on the subjunctive in poems by Spenser, Ronsard, and ????. The paper was written for Frank Warnke (who was a guest teacher in summer 1978), of esteemed and beloved memory. It received an A+. Two of my friends/frenemies asked me how I did and when I said "fine," their eyes sparkled. So I knew that FJW had sprinkled many A+s throughout the class--so there I and D! Both became quite famous, especially D in the field of literacy studies.

The paper came complete with an epigraph from Wallace Stevens. The title came from a poem by Robert Herrick.

The whole production is sooooooo 1978.

"The Argument of his Book" from Hesperides.

I sing of brooks, of blossoms, birds, and bowers, 

Of April, May, of June, and July flowers. 

I sing of May-poles, hock-carts, wassails, wakes, 

Of bridegrooms, brides, and of their bridal-cakes. 

I write of youth, of love, and have access 

By these to sing of cleanly wantonness. 

I sing of dews, of rains, and piece by piece 

Of balm, of oil, of spice, and ambergris. 

I sing of Time's trans-shifting; and I write 

How roses first came red, and lilies white. 

I write of groves, of twilights, and I sing 

The court of Mab, and of the fairy king. 

I write of Hell; I sing (and ever shall) 

Of Heaven, and hope to have it after all. 

Frank J. Warnke, a former chairman of the department of comparative literature at the University of Georgia, died Monday of injuries suffered when he was struck by an automobile in Antwerp, Belgium. He was 62 years old.

Dr. Warnke, who was still on the University of Georgia faculty, was teaching at the University of Antwerp in an exchange program.

He leaves his wife, Janice; two sisters, Ruth Lancetti of Alexandria, Va., and Margaret Macdonald of Washington, and a brother, Paul, also of Washington, a specialist on disarmament.

Things I've been Meaning to Write About

a list in no order

--The beautiful paintings I saw in San Diego--who knew there were such treasures in the small museums in Balboa Park? And the French woman in one of the museums--I admired her scarf and she unfurled it to show me an orange Savana Dance.

--My thoughts about retirement that cannot be "published" till after I retire. Coming soon.

--All the Bronte novels I've been reading--the two by Anne Bronte, trying to read Villette--Lucy Snowe, who wants to be seen/not seen

--Country Girls Trilogy--only really liked the first one.

--Northanger Abbey as a sorbet between the Bronte books.

--my encounter with Patti Smith in the Verona train station last summer. I am embarrassed in retrospect--since I tend to ignore famous people and try to pay attention to people who get little notice, much less adulation.

--roasting grapes!

--a few emotional encounters with former students (MB, D, DS, DR)

--my connection with a young European rabbi who is married to a descendant of the great-uncle who died before I was born--a link to finding out something more--the postcard still in Vienna

--how we coped with the heat wave in Paris--frozen bottles of water in front of a fan in the apartment, many outings to the Petit Palais  (free!) to listen to concerts on antique pianos (also free!).

--Florence! Rome (too short--we missed out flight b/c of storms...and lost a lot of money....), Verona, Milan (the park/school near our house--with a ruined aviary etc)

OK:  pour moi
on commence

Summer Reading: Wuthering Heights/a poem by John Donne

I had a good friend in graduate school named Steve. We ended up with similar jobs. I called him now and again. The last time I spoke to him, lying on the floor of my office at school, he sounded, I told my husband, as if he were dead: his speech was halting and slurred. He was going through a divorce. It was not his idea.

Via the internet, I checked up on him now and again. A few years ago, I read an interview with him (conducted by a student). He said that his favorite book was "Wuthering Heights"--that he reread it every year and tried to teach it as much as he could.

I filed that away and thought that I would reread it and send him an email. Last month I finally read it while I was in Paris. It is not, I'm afraid, my favorite book. Maybe I need to try again--and again. I looked him up in a google search yesterday and discovered he died last November at the age of 68. No cause was given.

His obituary, written by a colleague, was kind, noting his wit and crankiness, making mention of his superlative gardening skills and his love of cats.  That sounded about right. I saw that his divorce took place in 1992--that was the last time I spoke to him, 26 years ago.

He wrote his thesis on numerology in Donne's poetry. He never published anything from it.

We were in a class together under an extraordinary scholar who directed both our dissertations. In that class he wrote a paper on Donne's "Hymn to God, my God in my Sickness." It is a magnificent poem. His paper was so good that he received an A+ on it. It had something to do with music. His father was an organ tuner in a small town in Indiana and Steve had some technical knowledge.

I always meant to ask him for a copy of the paper. An A+ is a rare accomplishment.

SINCE I am coming to that Holy room,     Where, with Thy choir of saints for evermore, I shall be made Thy music ; as I come     I tune the instrument here at the door,     And what I must do then, think here before ; Whilst my physicians by their love are grown     Cosmographers, and I their map, who lie Flat on this bed, that by them may be shown     That this is my south-west discovery,     Per fretum febris, by these straits to die ; I joy, that in these straits I see my west ;     For, though those currents yield return to none, What shall my west hurt me ?  As west and east     In all flat maps—and I am one—are one,     So death doth touch the resurrection. Is the Pacific sea my home ?  Or are     The eastern riches ?  Is Jerusalem ? Anyan, and Magellan, and Gibraltar ?     All straits, and none but straits, are ways to them     Whether where Japhet dwelt, or Cham, or Shem. We think that Paradise and Calvary,     Christ's cross and Adam's tree, stood in one place ; Look, Lord, and find both Adams met in me ;     As the first Adam's sweat surrounds my face,     May the last Adam's blood my soul embrace. So, in His purple wrapp'd, receive me, Lord ;     By these His thorns, give me His other crown ; And as to others' souls I preach'd Thy word,     Be this my text, my sermon to mine own,     “Therefore that He may raise, the Lord throws down.”

GTD: Haiku

Once I was at a conference with GTD in Asheville. We went to a hip restaurant with a verrrry long line. We were definitely the oldest people there. I struck up a conversation with the people in front of us. They were members of a rock band. They asked me about G. I said, "He looks like a regular middle-aged guy, but he's really neat. Kind of a Zen Catholic." So taken were they with my description that they invited us to share their table.

G's favorite writer Thomas Merton also had an interest in Buddhism and Japanese culture. It is perhaps no wonder then that G went to teach English in Japan. M was his student and he fell in love with her.

I once asked him how he wooed her. He said "I wrote her a haiku." He proceeded to recite the haiku. It was in JAPANESE. He then recited it in English; it was beautiful even in translation.

One Valentine's Day, G announced to the people in our hall that he wanted to show us the card he got from M. We huddled around. It was a regular looking Valentine's Day card. When he opened it, it played Johnny Cash's "Ring of Fire."

GTD: Making Do

At the service for G aka Merton, a colleague read a piece G had written in a meeting of The Writing Project called "Making Do." G loved the project because he loved writing in controlled, timed situations. He was otherwise a great procrastinator.

This piece--which I wish I had a copy of--was the essence of G. He was one of my few truly frugal friends--and the essence of frugality is "making do." He didn't write about frugality in his short piece--the only part I remember was about how God "made do" when he created Adam and Eve.

He was an excellent writer, with the extreme simplicity that seems easy, but is not.

His favorite piece was a five paragraph essay about how one should not write five paragraph essays! I remember hearing him in conference with students telling them that they were trying to fit their thoughts into 5 paragraphs and it wasn't working. He was proud of the fact that he had written a superb five paragraph essay.

In Memoriam: GTD aka Merton

GTD, colleague and frugal friend, died on July 13. We arrived back from our trip on the 17th and went to his funeral the morning of the 18th. I had planned to speak, but then decided not to. At the service, few people spoke. His widow, dear M,  said "I thought more people would speak." I remembered a little adventure G and I had had--one of many. So I got up and recounted it.

G and I were chatting late one afternoon. Tom probably had a night class and we had office hours, It was a happy day for me when I got to move into the office opposite G--and not just because I got a rare window.

We decided to get some coffee from the Writing Center. We walked into a meeting in progress. As we got our coffee, we were asked if we wanted some cake (!). So G and I decided to stay.

The little celebration was for a group of ESL students who had just completed a program. The instructor mentioned that funding for the program was cut...so she would be leaving. The program would end.  Students were invited to speak. Many had prepared pieces about what the program had meant to them. Others read poems they had written. Still others read pieces written by others.

G and I were asked if we wanted to present something. I said OK and read Shakespeare's sonnet 73 from the Norton Anthology. Of course, I added a short explanation--a teaching moment!

That time of year thou mayst in me behold

When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang

Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,

Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.

In me thou see'st the twilight of such day

As after sunset fadeth in the west,

Which by and by black night doth take away,

Death's second self, that seals up all in rest.

In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire

That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,

As the death-bed whereon it must expire,

Consum'd with that which it was nourish'd by.

This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong,

To love that well which thou must leave ere long.

Then G got up and read from Volume 2 of the Norton. He picked Gerard Manley Hopkins's "Spring and Fall." G was very brainy--a linguist--and wore his learning lightly. A rare thing. His choice was brilliant. First of all, it picked up on the themes and language of MY poem: leaves, leave-taking, mortality. Second of all, it reflected his deep love and practice of Catholicism.  Hopkins was a Jesuit priest. My name for G--Merton--is a tribute to his favorite writer: Thomas Merton. G was so taken by Merton's "Seven Storey Mountain," which recounts his journey to monasticism, that he went to Merton's Abbey at 17 and asked if he could be admitted. The monks told him to go to college, learn Latin, and then return. He did all but return. Because of G, I read a whole bunch of Merton too and we would discuss Merton and grocery bargains. Frugal friends are hard to find.

At the service, I did not read the sonnet by Shakespeare. Much to my amazement (since I've never taught it), the text of "Spring and Fall" jumped into my head. So I recited G's poem from memory. I only missed two lines.

Margaret, are you grieving
Over Goldengrove unleaving?
Leaves, like the things of man, you
With your fresh thoughts care for, can you?
Ah! as the heart grows older
It will come to such sights colder
By and by, nor spare a sigh
Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie;
And yet you will weep and know why.
Now no matter, child, the name:
Sorrow's springs are the same.
Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed
What héart héard of, ghóst guéssed:
It is the blight man was born for,
It is Margaret you mourn for.

In Memoriam: FJW

A few months ago, I had a dream about FJW. I was so happy to see him again. He died in 1988, when I was pregnant with my first child. He was hit by a car; he was younger than I am now, FJW was a famous (as such things go) literary scholar. I told Tom that I had dreamed about F. He said, "That's wonderful. I bet not too many people dream about him any more." It was a kind and understanding comment, attesting to the short (in so many ways) life of teachers and teaching. So I was happy to have this man of infinite kindness and humanity--along with intelligence--in my life once again, even in a dream.

I met Frank in an odd way. I was on an airplane going to Portland. The plane was filled with interior decorators who had attended a conference in New York City. A woman sat down in the seat next to me, exclaiming "Thank God, someone reading a book. Can I sit next to you?" J was a woman of incredible refinement and intellect. She said "My husband would love you! Come to Seattle and meet him."

I didn't think much of this. I told a few of my teachers about the encounter and they said "He's famous! Do it!" So I took the train to Seattle and spent an afternoon with them.

Of course, I lost touch. Then, when I was in grad school, I had to take a summer course on a particular topic. To my amazement, he was the teacher--brought in as a visiting eminence! He didn't remember me, though J did. He was so amiable and encouraging, not just to me, but to everyone in a large class. He wrote me a letter of recommendation.

F and I shared a love of seventeenth century prose. He told me that he had taught Sir Thomas Browne in a class on metaphysical poetry. I said, "But it's not poetry." He said that it was the only way he could get students to read Browne--through subterfuge.

I wrote a paper on Browne in graduate school. The course was team taught. One of the teachers was remote and somewhat forbidding. The other was a young fellow, who was verbally abusive to students. I reported his abuse to my (female) mentor. He ended up not getting tenure--probably because of lack of publication and not because of my report.

F remains for me a beacon--he was among the few truly supportive of women students in those days.

I was rereading Thomas Browne--marveling at my notes and annotations, my efforts at understanding a complex text.  My paper for F was on the subjunctive mood in lyric poetry (Ronsard, Spenser, Herrick and a few others...). Still I thought of him all the while I was reading Browne.

From Religio Medici, a favorite.

Now for my life.  It is a miracle of 30 years, which to relate were not a history, but a piece of poetry and would sound to common ears like a fable. 

For the world, I count it not an Inn, but an Hospital and a place not to live, but to die in. 

The world that I regard is myself.  It is the microcosm on my own frame that I cast mine eye on, for the other world, I use it like my Globe and turn it round sometimes for my recreation.

Men that look upon my outslde, perusing only my condition and fortunes, do err in my Altitude, for I am above Atlas his shoulders.  The earth is a point, not only in respect of the heavens above us, but of that Heavenly Celestial part within us.

That mass of flesh that circumscribes me, limits not my mind.  That surface that tells the Heavens it hath an end, cannot persuade me I have any.  I take my circle to be above 360, though the number of the arc do measure my body, it comprehendeth not my mind.

Whilst I study to find how I am a Microcosm, or little world, I find myself something more than the great.  There is surely a piece of Divinity in us, something that was before the Elements, and owes no homage to the Sun.

Nature tells me I am the image of God, as well as Scripture.  He that understands not thus much hath not his introduction or first lesson and is yet to begin the Alphabet of man.

I am the happiest man alive.  I have that in me that can convert poverty into riches, adversity into prosperity.

I am more invulnerable than Achilles.  Fortune hath not one place to hit me.

In brief, I am content, and what should Providence add more?  Surely this is it we call Happiness and this do I enjoy.  With this I am happy in a dream, and as contet to enjoy a happinesss in a fancy as others in a more apparent truth and reality.

Donation Dilemma: Fake Vuitton Bag (No, I didn't buy it)

Let me reiterate: I didn't buy it. A relative bought a fake Vuitton (two, actually, one for me and one for Miss Em) in Chinatown. We thanked the relative profusely and never used them.

Now that I'm pretending to declutter, these are on the chopping block. But what to do? There are plenty of people frequenting thrift stores who would love to carry an LV, real or fake. I'd be happy to let them have the bag.

There are also plenty of people who would BUY the fake bag and sell it as authentic on Ebay, local consignment, or similar. I do not want to be part of the process.

There is also the possibility that the thrift shop would put a large price on these bags and get it. In fact, I've seen this happen. The customers were ecstatic and the thrift store got some dough. I'm not too thrilled with being part of this process either.

So...what do you advise? I was thinking of defacing the bags, by writing REPLICA on the INSIDE with magic marker. I fear the ethical path would involve cutting them to bits with scissors.

Fake Bag Anecdote. One of my students was carrying a Chanel bag.  She showed it to me. Figuring that she knew it was a replica, I remarked that it looked real. This was a booboo. I thought she would know. She got very huffy and told me that TINY TOWN, Louisiana got ALL the "seconds" of Chanel bags direct from France. She said she had paid $40 for the bag and showed me a certificate declaring authenticity in several languages. She said she happened to have put a good deal of study into the bag. She was getting really angry at me.

Since I didn't want this episode to appear on "Rate My Professor," I said, "Wow. You are really lucky!"

Again, dear readers, I await your words of wisdom.

Back to School: Frugal Bliss

I've been off in my still-frugal universe. My colleague Merton (still teaching at 72) and I were discussing financial issues. I told him that he can probably loosen up and spend more. To which with characteristic  Zen wisdom he replied: "Frugality is my life." Selfishly, I don't WANT Merton to retire. He is my only frugal colleague and he is a good mentor to me.

Aside from being back AT school, I have gone in a sense back to school. In addition to practicing my French via Duolingo, though I have been rather a slacker at that of late, I have been blissing out at Yale. That is, at the FREE Yale on-line courses.

This seems to have been an idea that came and went, since all the courses were posted in 2005 or thereabouts. If you bliss out taking in an excellent academic lecture: here is your chance. So far, I have watched courses on the Old Testament and the New Testament. It is easy enough to read the primary texts under discussion.

Even if you think these will be boring, based on your memories of college days, give them a try. I am a way better student now than I was then. There are quite a few available, by the way.

I am really dying to watch/listen to a good art history course. Does anyone know of one?
Any other good courses available?

Class Consciousness at the Thrift Store: Was I Out of Line with the Chevron Peeps?

Between end of the semester stress (still have much grading to do) and the constant temptations of holiday shopping, I needed---surprise--a trip to the thrift store. As is my new wont, I went to the Food Bank Thrift because it is only about a 3 minute drive from my house. It is also the thrift store that attracts the poorest demographic and, indeed, many customers have vouchers from the Food Bank across the street.

The overworked and harried workers! They are understaffed and the donations are piling up inside, outside, everywhere.

Today the workload was--presumably--eased by the presence of three youngish volunteers. They were in the back. As far as I could tell (the door was open), they were engaged in a gab fest and not doing anything else. The subject of the gabfest was how much money they made working for Chevron, how great their retirement  and other benefits were, how it was good to look for romance within the company because women who learned you worked for Chevron would be after your money, and on and on.  Their entitled voices carried through the small store.

How nice of Chevron to let them volunteer at the thrift store during their paid work hours! What wonderful community relations!

Two of the fellows emerged from the back and entered the store. And--I JUST HAD TO SAY SOMETHING. So I put on my teacher voice and said "I think it's really nice that Chevron is sending you here to do volunteer work for the community. But it is insensitive and hurtful to discuss your fabulous salaries and benefits in loud voices that are heard by the customers, many of whom do not shop here by choice."

The two Mr Chevrons looked chastened. I said I wasn't trying to be mean, but to alert them to the fact that they may have been inadvertently insensitive. (Perhaps I was trying to be a LITTLE MEAN.)

Then I left. I wonder what they said after I was out the door.

Was I out of line? What would you do?

Where are the pickers of yesteryear: Naomi

Ah, mixed feelings here. I met Naomi at a yard sale in Bloomington. I arrived on foot (since I had no car), started chatting with Naomi, a woman about 15 years my senior. She ended up giving me a ride home. In fact, she started taking me to sales with her on weekends.

It says something about me that I still remember two things I bought at that sale: a large woven bedspread and some fabric to cover the seat of a Queen Anne-style chair. I have both even now.

Naomi was radical politically. She had many left-wing bumper stickers plastered on her car, eliciting honks, wild hand gestures, and sometimes near collisions from the conservative drivers of the area. She was an eccentric personally. She was divorced. Her former husband was Greek and had taught in the law school. When democracy was restored in Greece, he returned to a government post. Even though he no longer had a legal obligation, he sent Naomi a check every month. Their kids were gone: the son was in college and the daughter was a dancer in Europe.

She also got money from her family. Her father had been a rather prominent architect in New York City. Her widowed mother was in poor health and lived in a big apartment on the Upper West Side. Her mother gave her extravagant gifts: a small Rembrandt etching, beautiful jewelry, and many objets. She would occasionally drag something to an antique dealer when she needed money.

She lived in a beautiful old house, decorated with remnants of her former life (elegant Danish modern furniture) and funked up with eccentric finds. As I recall, the living room was shiny black and red. She said "I only like junk now." She had a fabulous eye and was an excellent artist.

Her live-in boyfriend, Jim, was about my age. He was getting a PhD in astronomy. He slept all day and worked on his thesis all night. Occasionally, he would come greet us when we returned from a yard sale. He would always wear a brocade robe supplied by Naomi.

Well, Naomi was a little crazy at times and became totally obsessive about finding things to resell (which she learned about from yours truly). So obsessive was she that instead of consigning at the Eye of Osiris (where she also started working), she opened her own store. She did almost no business because she priced everything too high. She also befriended a waif, who repaid her kindness by robbing the store.

One day she turned to me in the car. She said, "All the women in my family are self-destructive. Don't be like me. You need to finish your thesis."

She was right. She was--with great kindness and perhaps even with some love--telling me to end my relationship with her. She knew I was easily distracted from my work. Our weekend jaunts ended. I got a teaching job. I never saw her again after I left that summer. I am so grateful to her: she pushed me to my true vocation.

Grading, Grading: Grossly Material Things

I sometimes think that as there are stages of grief, there are stages of grading.  Sadly, I often forget this and experience the stages anew each semester. Grading is a difficult task, at least for English teachers, who grade essays and papers and don't just run some multiple choice exam through a scantron machine.

First stage: irritation. Why do so many students hand things in late? Why do so many students hand in bunches of loose sheets. I have more than 100 students: try dealing with all that paper!!!
Second stage: anger. Why didn't those students listen? Why didn't they do the reading? Why didn't they read my email?
Third stage: empathy. This is evoked by all students, but most especially mine. I used to teach at a private college. In 1988, the median income of student families was $80,000/year. I now teach at a state college, where many students have their own families, jobs, and serious money issues. Not to say that my affluent students didn't have emotional and other problems. My current students have those too. But they also have financial issues that are often overwhelming.

So as always, frequent meltdowns. One student--a mother of 4--had her husband ask for a divorce right before finals (I recommended the counseling center and gave her a hug). Another student broke down and mentioned that a relative had been a victim of horrific violence (same response as to student above).  Another student sent an email about a severe medical problem that would make her late for the final. She wasn't supposed to drive, but ended up driving herself since no one else was around.

And those are just the students who tell me what's up. Most do not. Yes, I know that students will lie about disasters for various reasons (though the ones mentioned above are all true events). And that doesn't even account for students working 30 or more hours a week to support themselves, while they are supposed to be full-time students.

I read that one value of reading literature is that it helps us develop empathy. Click the link to the left for an array of articles on that topic. I have always been a reader and, of course, I've been teaching literature for many years now. And, teaching at my current place of employ, I am reminded often of Virginia Woolf's wise words, which remind us that material things can keep us from doing what we're supposed to be doing.

I asked myself; for fiction, imaginative work that is, is not dropped like a pebble upon the ground, as science may be; fiction is like a spider’s web, attached ever so lightly perhaps, but still attached to life at all four corners. Often the attachment is scarcely perceptible; Shakespeare’s plays, for instance, seem to hang there complete by themselves. But when the web is pulled askew, hooked up at the edge, torn in the middle, one remembers that these webs are not spun in mid-air by incorporeal creatures, but are the work of suffering human beings, and are attached to grossly material things, like health and money and the houses we live in.

Destressing While Grading: French Lessons

Could anything be more dispiriting than reading research papers which are a pastiche of copied and pasted primary and secondary sources? And the sources are found--sadly--on sites with names like schmoop and gradesaver. Every now and then, the sites present dubious information (like the "fact" that Shakespeare was depressed about the closing of the theaters and so wrote sonnet 29. Or the "fact" that  clowns and fools  are markers only of comedy. Really? Only? Isn't there a fool in King Lear?) Enough! My mission in life is to develop assignments that help the students learn to read the material. Alas, I am required to assign traditional research papers in certain courses, assignments that were developed before EZ COPY PASTE (should I trademark that?).

So, to take a break, I am playing with Duolingo, the language learning site I first read about on Frugalshrink. How I wish I had had this before. I last studied French around 40 years ago. One kind woman we met in France told me that she could tell the language was in there, trying to get out.

I hope so. I don't know if I could learn a language from scratch on this, but I am tearing through the lessons and will hit the more sophisticated and difficult Foreign Service lessons later.

 Today I even had to translate a frugal saying.

Acheter mieux, jeter moins.

Well sort of frugal. Could one also say Acheter moins, jeter moins? Je crois que oui.

I am so happy! Back to the grind.

Just say no to working for free...CLEP

Right after reading Duchesse's post on the important issue of "precarity" in employment, I check my work email (from home) to find ANOTHER missive from CLEP, part of the massive money-making testing industry in the USA. Last time I got one of these, I replied that responders should be paid for their time. I guess they didn't get the message.

They've got to be kidding. My children took two tests from the industry last year--totaling about $400. I would do the survey for a test coupon my kids could use. What do you think Sterling Bland gets paid?

Dear Colleague,

I am writing to you today in my capacity as Chair of the CLEP Humanities Committee. As you may know, CLEP is the College-Level Examination Program, sponsored by the College Board and designed to allow students to earn credit for college courses by demonstrating their mastery of relevant subject matter. Exams are offered in more than 30 different subjects. Students who place at or above the recommended cut-score for a particular exam can earn credit for the corresponding course(s) at participating schools. For the CLEP Humanities exam, this is generally a two-semester survey course in Humanities or in literature, art, music, or the performing arts.

In recent years, the CLEP Humanities Committee (composed of faculty from a variety of institutions throughout the United States) has been working diligently to revise and update the exam to ensure that it reflects the significant, and ongoing, changes in our field. To enable us to continue improving the exam, we need the help of our fellow teachers and scholars. Specifically, we need to learn more about how a relevant survey course or courses are being taught at your institution. If you teach one or both semesters of a relevant course (or have taught it in the last three years), we would be extremely grateful if you would take the time to complete the online curriculum survey at:

https://www.surveyresearchonline.com/se.ashx?s=7321E7ED6B3B30D2

The information gathered in this survey will enable us to make important decisions about what to include on the exam, about the kinds of skills that should be tested, and about whether modifications should be made to the overall test specifications.

We ask that you complete this survey by May 9, 2014. Please note that you do not need to teach at a participating CLEP school in order to complete the survey. If you do not teach a relevant survey course (or its equivalent), we would appreciate your forwarding this e-mail to a colleague who does.

Finally, survey participants may request a free copy of the survey results. I strongly encourage you to do so, as one of the more rewarding aspects of my work on the CLEP Humanities Committee during the past several years has been having the opportunity to broaden my own understanding of the work being done in the classroom at colleges and universities throughout the country.

Thank you in advance for your time and assistance.

Sincerely,

Sterling L. Bland

Rutgers University at Newark

249 University Ave

St Patrick's Lost and Found: Geaux Saints

As we await our certified letter's redelivery, we continue to suffer dental stress and distress. How about St Patrick's Day (and the traditional New Orleans parade the Saturday preceding) as a stress-reliever? Celebrations were marked by things lost and found, but the stress of the lost was far outweighed by the de-stress and delight of the found. This is turning out to be a year of saintly interventions: I can now add St Patrick to St Anthony (the prayer of a thrift store customer to St Anthony led to immediate recovery of my grandmother's bracelet.) As the signs and tee shirts of football fandom proclaim in New Orleans:

THE LOST: The New Orleans St Patrick's Day parade is huge and noted for its throws: in addition to the usual beads and flowers, spectators vie for cabbages, potatoes, and carrots. So exciting! A frugal parade! Unfortunately, the parade was running rather late and Mr FS and I had to head home before the big floats with the cabbage-givers rolled by. Not to worry: we had Frugal Son in attendance. He wanted cabbage for his homemade kimchi, which is not a traditional Irish recipe. But Poor Frugal Son. He had a bag of seven cabbages. He walked a few steps away for a few seconds to say hello to a friend. When he turned around, the bag was gone. NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO.

THE FOUND: As our group of four crossed Magazine Street en route to our chosen parade spot, I felt eyes upon me. I looked into the eyes of a young man. We were locked in a stare. Finally, he mouthed "Dr Frugal???" I ran over and he gave me a hug, reminding me that he had taken classes from me. I asked him to remind me of his name and he said "My name is Josh, but you always called me another name, which you said suited me better." As we walked away, I retrieved my memory from the file cabinet in my brain. Josh was a psychology major who took one of the dreaded (to many students) required literature courses. He was very smart and more interested than most. He fell in love with Paradise Lost and always vowed he would take a Milton course if it was offered while he was in school. A few years later, the course was offered and--lo and behold--there he was. He held his own with the advanced English majors too.

As we walked back from our stint at the parade, we came to Magazine Street once more. And there he was again. He came over and said "I always loved you as a teacher." And I said "I always loved you as a student." Another hug and then I remembered. I said, "Isn't funny? I always called you PATRICK."

LOST AND FOUND: A few years ago, I was whining in this very space about how I wanted a second Hermes scarf. Amazingly, a blogger with a beautiful spirit sent me one and, also amazing, it arrived on my birthday. The scarf was designed by Kermit Oliver, the only American to design Hermes scarves. When you read about him and view his artwork, it is clear that he too has a beautiful spirit. In addition to gifting the world with remarkable images, he has suffered tragedy beyond my efforts to process. Any powers of empathy I possess are not sufficient.

This scarf has come in handy. I wear it when I teach Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, whose plot hinges on the gift of a green scarf. I also wear it on St Patrick's Day. And when I looked for it in my scarf area, IT WAS NOT THERE. I looked and looked. Even though I am a certified slob, I always keep my two Hermes scarves in their place. This one is especially valued because of the giver and because of the artist.

I suffered through several hours before and after work of looking in various unlikely places. Then I found it. It had slipped from its spot (HOW???), crossed to the other side of a small closet, and ended up next to Mr FS's socks. Oh, how I hugged that precious piece of silk to me! Just like poor Sir Gawain, for whom, unlike for me, taking the scarf was a sin.

I'd say that in the LOST AND FOUND of St Patrick's celebrations, I have received much more than I lost. Frugal Son mentioned that the mom of one his friends might give him a few cabbages from her parade stash. So we may have kimchi after all.

One More Year

Stress upon stress upon stress. First of all, I am at the end of my semester: expected stress. Second, we decided to go ahead with the house for Frugal Son, commencing a grand experiment in uncharted waters. Third, UGH, we had our SIXTH yearly scare about the budget. Actually, the scare is on-going even now.

I think things are going to be OK (let us hope--some of my colleagues are pretty hopeful), but I live in a state where the only unprotected areas in the budget are healthcare and higher ed. So for 6 years, we have endured major mid-year cuts, the most drastic of which led to the zapping of the French major. But, hey, when we committed to this house for Frugal Son, I figured the budget crises were past. Many states have surpluses this year.

When we heard the scary news, I had a sense of deja vu: I first started reading Funny About Money a few years ago. She helped HER son buy a house at what they thought was the bottom of the market. The housing market promptly tanked further and Funny--with a teeny bit of warning--had her position eliminated at her university.

So what can a worry wart do? First, I ran my numbers through my new BFF firecalc. I discovered that Mr FS and I are on track for a humble retirement. Then I read around the site. One of the things these early-retirement wannabes warn against in OMY. That means ONE MORE YEAR. People fear early retirement and so keep adding OMY to their plans.

I'm using OMY differently. When I think of a splurgy or uncharacteristic purchase, I now think: would I buy this if I only had OMY? Yes: to storage containers. Yes: to travel. No: to Hermes scarf. No: to fancy handbag. Of course, that's just me. You get to make your own choices.

I feel a lot better. Wish the legislature good luck with their deliberations. Wish me and Mr FS as many OMYs as we desire...

JCP and Me: More Thoughts on Innumeracy

If you've been reading the finance pages recently, you will have noticed that JC Penney fired its snazzy ex-Apple CEO and--as Walmart says--rolled back his everyday low price policies. In fact, it's JC Penney once again, not jcp. According to the various post-mortems, customers LIKE sales, even if the sales are on artificially inflated prices. Here's an actual example from my own single jcp experience. I LIKE the idea of everyday low prices. So I bought a basic tank top, the black stretchy kind. At jcp, it was $5 or $6 dollars. I love it! Now, it is $12. Oh, but I got a coupon for 20% off. Thanks.

I wrote a few days ago about the psychology of grading points. I am going to try the 1000 point system next semester, whereby everything will be worth 10x more than now and be divided by 10 in the grand finale. Interestingly, one commenter suggested that the 1000 point system enables the students to get more points. Perhaps that's true, since there are more fine points in between. However, it works the other way too, whereby students can get fewer points. For instance, I have 20 one-point assignments. I give the students points for doing them. They are very short assignments, designed to keep students doing SOMETHING in between more major assignments.

Everyone can get 20/20--even if English is not a strong subject. That is a big chunk of a grade and can compensate for poor performance on projects and exams. I do have a small--5 point--bonus for "quality," where I look at three assignments randomly and give 1-5 points. But watch what happens when it's a 10-point assignment. While students may be more excited about an assignment that's "worth more," I would guess that I will see fewer 20/20 than I do currently. I will eliminate the extra step for me of assigning quality points. I would guess that most students will get between 6 and 8 points out of 10 under the new system. So it's more likely that students will see 70 out of 100 than 10/10. That's what happens when most people hover around the middle rather than cluster at the top.

The funny thing: when students have to divide by 10, I notice that most whip out their phones to do the calculation. That's the innumeracy I worry about.

Innumeracy: An Affliction?

As an English teacher, I'm supposed to be concerned with kinds of literacy, not numeracy. Nevertheless, I remain concerned by the lack of math savvy of many of my students. Could this be why there's a student loan problem?

Our realtor informed us--with a sly look--that he had checked out our ratings on Rate my Professor. Not surprisingly, I am liked a lot or disliked--with no middle. The more mellow Mr FS has less love, but also less dislike. Being a sensitive sort, I haven't checked out my ratings. Mr FS did though and came to me with a surprising comment.

A lot of students complain that there "aren't enough points" in my class. Because students were having trouble with the traditional ABC and then having trouble with 85% and 78% etc (because they couldn't figure out how to compute an 85% of an assignment worth 20% of their grade), I simplified. Each assignment is now worth what it is worth out of 100 points. We have a 25% exam and a 20% project and so on. Add up all the points and you have your grade, on a ten point scale. Easy-peasy, or so I thought.

I have heard mutterings from anxious students that assignments weren't "worth enough" and that they wished they could get "more points." Mr FS suggested that I multiply by 10: each assignment is worth--instead of 20 or 25 points out of 100--200 or 250 points out of 1000. I had thought that would be unnecessarily complicated, but...if that's what they want, that's what I'll try.

Is it just a psychological issue to think an assignment worth 250 points out of 1000 is "worth more" than 25 points out of 100? Or is something else going on?

Have you ever encountered similar math issues?

Words of Wisdom and Warning: Decluttering

As a messy clutterbug AND a teacher, I have a double whammy: teachers often let personal tasks pile up and get to them only after the semester is done. So, stuff and jobs have been piling up. Adding to the emergency is that Miss Em will be bringing home two people: her friend Mr C AND his twin brother, also Mr C. So, we have been cleaning. And, of course, as all teachers know, cleaning is a great way to avoid the real task: grading student work. For emergency assistance, I went to the library (note: LIBRARY, friend of frugal and messy) and checked out two books by my favorite clutter guru, Susan Pinsky. Here is the warning and, for me, motivation. According to Susan P, most of the clients who hire her for a hefty hourly fee do so for one task: to go through their STUFF and motivate them to get rid of it. She does not spend most of her time creating clever organizing systems. No: she holds up item after item and says Go or Stay? Susan P is not a big fan of frugality because she says it leads to clutter (and I gotta admit, she has a point). But I am WAY TOO CHEAP to pay someone to stand next to me and say Go or stay. So I'll do it myself. Here's the drill. Read a few pages of Pinsky. Put some stuff in the donation bag. Grade a few papers. REPEAT. How's your decluttering going? Or are you a paragon of no-clutter? If so, wish me luck.

Frugality and Poetry: Shakespeare Sonnet 29

Today I was teaching Shakespeare's Sonnet 29. Even now, I can hardly believe that a big chunk of my job consists of helping students learn to read poetry. It was slow-going. The class is at 8 in the morning, plus my dear students had an assignment due today.

We got to line 10 and--unaided by the poor notes in the venerable Norton Anthology of English Literature--I tried to explain why the word Haply is important. What do you think it means, said I. Eventually, someone ventured Happily??? YESSSS. Then I said, The word has another meaning.

This possibility was outside the knowledge of my sleepy non-majors taking a required course. So, dear Readers, I told them: It's like happenstance; it means by chance. We talked about why that was important.

Then I said, Do you know why a writer might use a word with two meanings? No idea. I pointed out that a sonnet has only 14 lines, each with 10 syllables: the writer doesn't get a lot of words! So, it makes sense to use a word with two meanings. Kind of like a buy-one-get-one-free at the grocery, said I.

This perked some of the students right up: Oh, I LOVE when you buy-one-get-one-free, one exclaimed. At least they were paying attention.

And now I know why I like all those double meanings in poetry: frugality.


When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries
And look upon myself and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featured like him, like him with friends possess'd,
Desiring this man's art and that man's scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least;
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
Haply I think on thee, and then my state,
Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;
For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.