SEMESTER FROM HELL

Letha Deck                           

Fall of 2002 was without a doubt my WORST semester ever!

I could go on and on about every little thing that went wrong, but what would be the point in reliving all those bad memories? I must, however, share one of my set of experiences with you because this set relates to teaching at Umass/Amherst.

Last semester I taught one of our departmental standard offerings, "International Short Story." As always, my vision of internationality is race-based; I teach African, Caribbean, African American, Asian American, Native American and Hispanic fiction along with the usual review of the elements of the short story that are covered in high school. When reading short stories written by people of color, the elements—setting, plot, characterization, and theme often become tools to express the author’s ideas about the socialization of race. Even point of view can become subordinate to the politics of theme, as authors use the voice of the powerful to narrate. Consequently, much of what is discussed in my classes is based on the ideologies and realities of race, with nationalism running a close second.

Lately  recruitment strategies have changed and the campus at Umass/Amherst has become even more-- hmm, how shall we say it? homogenous?  Teaching about African Americans, Hispanics, and Asian Americans has become more challenging. The rumblings from some of the white students began when I began, but after a brief period of ebb-and-flow in ALANA students,  I experienced two semesters in a row with classes of all-white students who continually questioned why race is such a big deal.

 

 

"It isn’t just me. It is the authors," I argued. " You have bought about a foot of pages in books by a number of writers from different heritages who have found something to say about race. They are the ones writing what I am teaching. The question needs to be why do THEY feel a need to write about race," I cautioned them. "Would you have asked me such a question if we were reading only writers like Maupassant, Poe, and James? Would you have asked me why everything is so white, so European?"

I tire. It is hard to stand there, alone. It is hard to justify to such a crowd that knowing the stories of as many different people as possible is our social responsibility. It is hard to explain that their education should include points of view that they have never considered. It is hard to experience them denying such a visceral element of our culture. It is hard to prove that their humanity is the real issue.

This past Fall of 2002, was the worst semester of all. First, it was a 100-level course chock-full of seniors.  Obviously, mine was the previously neglected required humanities elective.  You can't find a more motivated group than that. Second, in that class I had a student with an excellent vocabulary,  and a reasonable undergraduate's understanding of concepts like postmodernism and deconstruction, combined with a conservative perspective that would have put Trent Lott to the test. A little bit of knowledge can be a dangerous thing in the hands of someone bent on disruption. My student was able to twist meanings and deliberately misinterpret statements that I made. In addition, he corrected my pronunciation, groaned, made faces, and always sat directly in my line of vision. This devilish young man would ask tangential questions that took fully two minutes to be spoken, the answers to which were equally irrelevant. Worst of all, perhaps, is that when other students offered their opinions or tried to establish a discussion, he would remark that he can’t "begin to comprehend what kind of an idiot could possibly think" such a thing in a voice that Rush Limbaugh trained.

I knew that I was in big trouble when I was lecturing on the politics of publishing, and how stereotypes can be created and promoted by those with the power to choose what is to be published and what is not. As an example I used gangster rap music. I suggested that the images of African American men and women promoted by rap music are not representative of the majority of the black community. Yet, the proliferation of the music could suggest otherwise and foster harmful stereotypes. I mentioned classical musicians and composers who are African American, including my best friend’s son, Maurice Belle, a sophomore at Manhattan College of Music, and the Principal Bass with the New York Youth Orchestra. These blacks are not on MTV or the radio, so for those who don’t know the reality, the popular images distort the character of the people.

At this my prize pupil responds with something like: "Are you suggesting that all African American music, from the beginning, is immoral and reprehensible? Because if you are suggesting that African American music is just filth without any artistic merit, I think that is an unfair assessment. How can you condemn all African American music from the dawn of time?"

What can you say to that? Of course that is not what I said or suggested. Yet,  there was a notorious smidgen of truth.  A dash of truth that would take at least one class-time to historicize and teach, even if it were in my curriculum. What the student said did represent the thoughts of certain groups of people regarding the blues, some R&B, and rap, but neither jazz nor the spirituals. There was no easy answer beyond "That is not what I said or implied." My class was not on music. Somehow, my point on the politics of publishing had been turned into a racist remark, attributed to me. You see, this student had a way with rhetoric.

His rhetorical skills and commitment to disruption was my bane. Other students in the class reported that his behavior was consistent in other classes. They said that he liked to take the class off course and try to frustrate the professor. They described it as a power-struggle. For me-- it was just a pain.. I was trying to write my thirty-page exam, and finish editing my rationales. I was trying to advance my doctoral program. The last thing that I needed was a student who not only wreaked havoc on my material, but who also forced into silence the rest of the class, who feared his cruel tongue. Then there was the way that he worked on the borders of topics to distort meanings in  alignment with his agenda. Such a skill was particularly effective in a class that treats racial issues. People ceased to do the readings, because they planned on the Disruptor. The little politician's use of stereotypes, racist ideas, and truth made others feel empowered to criticize the themes of the course until at last, there was nothing to talk about. I could not hold their interest to the ideas that the authors I chose found relevant.  Such ideas held no interest for a class cowed into silence that believed that race wasn’t an issue and never would become one, anyway.

Paolo Caliari (1526-1588) Moise sauve des eaux (1580)

With six classes to go, I surrendered. I realized that just as my class didn’t know my culture, I was ignorant of theirs.  How could I hope to connect my material to them, if I couldn’t make out their shapes? How could I make them care if they weren't connected?  How could I teach them when our languages weren’t even the same? The last several classes, I did a most unorthodox thing. Rather than beg, threaten, and cajole them for responses, rather than watch them watch the clock, rather  than teach them about cultures in a world that they don’t know or care about,  a world that they well may never see, I let them teach me about theirs. I heard Celtic Punk from Boston, radical lesbian rock music from Seattle, as well as blues and modern African American folk music selected with the thoughts that it might please me. I saw a presentation by a theatrical group from Boston that pantomimes battles in a style similar to the Japanese Power Rangers television program  that has attracted a large following of affluent teens and young adults. I heard about a group foster home in Amherst that was losing its funding. I saw a student’s still life art and watercolors. I heard a guitar duet play  and sing original compositions. I saw two short films by Communications major. I learned that a mosh pit uses human beings as the container as well as the contained. I asked for some of their culture, and I got it. The Disrupter won, but so did I.

It was still a semester from hell. Grading was a complete nightmare. I wouldn’t recommend this strategy to anyone. I would never, ever do such a thing again. I can’t even say that it makes a difference in teaching to ‘know’ students. My experience in "International Short Story" Fall 2002 is one that I shall never relive. Next time, I get a Disruptor, I am telling him or her to take another class instead of mine. Watch out.

copyright OGSCL 2003