Grading papers is boring.
Early in the year, the teaching staff was pulled out of the classroom to attend a seminar with Carol Yago as the presenter. Yago was going to reveal her method of lessening the grading work. I hate having to leave my classes with a sub, but if Carol Yago really had an innovative method of grading, it would be worth it. She didn’t.
Her advice resembled all the local news tips about avoiding hangovers on New Year’s Eve: Remediation! That’s the secret! Just pace yourself and limit your drink intake! Drink water! Don’t forget to eat! Remediation is the key! This isn't good advice or news. It's the same as saying, Don't want a hangover after New Year's Eve? Stay home, do nothing!
In Yago’s seminar, we learn that in order to keep the paper stacks down, we have to grade a little every night. Just plunk yourself down and grade a few papers a night. Sit somewhere without distractions and just grade. Have a glass of wine when you do it! She joked.
I find myself more productive when grading at The Library. Did I mention The Library is a local pub near the university? It’s comfortable to grade papers while being served food, drinks, and have the occasional small talk. Weekly, I’ll venture to The Library with the intentions of grading and bring along my buddy. He also has papers to grade and ideas to write, but usually uses the time to pick up the waitress or any college girl that happens to look like fun. This is the real f’ing secret to grading.
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Walking into a pub with a stack of papers attracts attention. I sit and put my red pen to work. My buddy scans the room, analyzing the prospects of adventure. Meanwhile, I die a little inside as I circle a misspelled word on a typed essay; they misspelled “you” by spelling it “u”.
“So, are you like a professor or something?” the waitress inquires to me. They always ask.
“YES! Yes he is!” my friend decides to answer for me, always trying to be my benevolent wingman.
“No, no I’m not. I teach high school.” I correct him and the waitress’ smile fades. “English and Creative Writing”, I offer up since I knew that would be her next question.
“Oh… that’s too bad you’re not a professor… I just started in the nursing school…”
“Yeah, I suppose, heh…congrats… can I get another Boyd Street Wheat?”
“…Coming right up.”
I move to return to my work when my buddy interjects “Wow. What the fuck is wrong with you, Flores? Why didn’t you just tell her you were a professor and keep her attention?”
“…”
“News flash, Flores: chicks do not exactly fall head over heel for guys in the teaching field! Especially a high school teacher because most of them grew up hating high school and want nothing to do with those who remind them of that time in their life” and then he laughs. Laughs at me, not with.
I’m grinning while flipping him off, knowing full-well his point was valid. I wasn’t about to acknowledge this verbally, though.
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