Professor Noob's Daily Disquisitions

You know, I consider myself pretty competent at dealing with asshat students by now. Despite the threats that are aired in this online journal, I am actually quite a mild-mannered teacher: the Clark Kent of pedagogy, if you will (except that if I ever wore my underwear outside my pants, I'd be fired. And then sued for traumatizing the poor little kiddies, all of whom have had sex and not a few of whom are parents). Still, I've learned how to shut Ms. Mouth down and how to not make such a public fuss if someone isn't doing their work. It helps that my students have actually cleaned up their act somewhat and keep their sass to reasonable bounds.

Until today, when I decided to try and have an actual conversation with them. They'd just attended an assembly, during which members of the community (actually, they were all from the casino) and elders of the tribe spoke. I was fascinated by the elders' stories about the days before running water, before electricity, before spanking was verboten, before entitlement and snowflakery. The students, who have listened to their elders' sing-song voices lecturing them about respect since they were in the womb, were less impressed. In fact, it seemed to make them cranky.

So when I asked in class, "What did you think of today's assembly?" the first response I got back was, "What kind of question is that?" One that requires effort, apparently, and is therefore a Stupid Teacher Question.

The "conversation" rapidly degenerated into:

Me: [in my brisk, professional "teacher" voice]. Stop that tapping, "Mutter". I find it annoying.
Mutter: I think you're annoying.
Me: [finally snapping a little under the pressure of the continual rudeness]. You're funny. I laugh at you, you know.
Mutter: I laugh at you. We ALL laugh at you.
Me: [still smiling] Really? Why would you do that?
Mean Girl: Because you're ugly.
Me: [still smiling, because I don't know what else to do] Well, I know that isn't true.

What was I supposed to do? Beat them? Yell at them? Send them into the hallway (can't, last time I did that they blocked the hall doors with desks). Dock their grades? Write them up? Probably one of the above would be the correct response. But I, stunned by their sheer fuckwittery, by their stupid rudeness and their bitchy, fragmented, hate-driven little minds, didn't do anything except keep talking.

The talk didn't end so badly. Building on the elders' lament that so few students spoke the local language, I pitched my university to them as a college that is Native-friendly, complete with Native-language classes so they can learn their tribe's traditional tongue. A few listened. A few nodded when I asked if that had helped, bless them.

But as to the others:

I hate you. I'll still teach you and I'll still be fair to you and no, I won't write you up for stating your opinion on my looks. But I hate you. I want nothing to do with you. Does that surprise you, snowflakes? Oh, I forgot, I'm a teacher. Apparently, it's my job to suffer your abuse and still love you in spite of it. No, screw you. I'm here for your classmates, the ones who actually have the courtesy to not be complete douchebags to my face.

I sort of wish I'd said all that...

And now, five minutes ago, I did it again. I let a student who walked out of my classroom get by with just a warning. Not right, and not at all consistent, because I wrote him up last time. What the hell is wrong with me?

I think I need to pray at the shrine of Saint Snape. Oh, Severus Snape, show me the path to the dark truth of total student control. Bless me with the power of your glare, Great One, and I will wear black all my days in your honor...