Summer is in full swing. The summer camp is in session, so we’re
all pretending to be more or less normal in case the campers see us,
and I hardly get to see June because she’s busy running the camp. I
teach a couple of workshops for the kids, and I’m also teaching a
full, semester-long class this semester—my first one.
It’s
the one I told you about a while ago, about the school’s various
pro-environmental systems and practices and why they are how they
are—I mean not only the five-minute explanations, like reclaiming
gray-water for irrigation reduces overall campus water use by 56%,
but why is it important to reduce water use? Why is energy efficiency
important? Why is locally-produced food better, and is it
better? Where are the legitimate points of controversy? I’m
covering a lot of the same material as Charlie’s Environmentalism
for Dummies, because, as he acknowledges, “a lot of the dummies
pay no attention.” This way, they get a second chance to absorb
the material, and it’s from a different, more concrete, angle, so
maybe it will interest different people.
Only
five people signed up. Usually, the threshold is ten. There’s no
threshold for talks and seminars, but they don’t like to let
faculty members commit themselves to super-small classes all semester
long, so if too-few people sign up, they’ll cancel the class. But I
got special dispensation because it’s my first time and because I
structured the class so that each unit is semi-independent so that
additional students can drop in for a couple of class meetings as
though it were a series of seminars—but those five who signed up
for the whole course have a term paper to write arguing either for or
against some alteration to campus practice, and so the course as a
whole is a greater educational opportunity, and carries more credit,
than all the “seminars” put together.
Rick
is visiting, and I told him about all of this after my first class
meeting.
“So,
you’ve lost your teaching virginity now?” he asked.
“There
are so many things wrong with
that metaphor,” I told him.
I
have seven and a half months left as a candidate, if all goes well.
At the end of that time, I plan to walk into a job interview and
argue that I am qualified to belong to the Six, not that I expect
ever to actually join, but that’s the way it works. You have to be
eligible to join the Six in order to earn your green ring. Doesn’t
seem like a lot of time to do something that still seems barely
possible—there are days when I still very much put the masters on
pedestals—but when I break it down into distinct tasks I’m really
almost done.
I’ve
completed 52 Elizabethan sonnets about my spot in the woods, one
corresponding to each week of the year, and Charlie and I are moving
into the publishing process, now.
I’ve
used what I learned in grad school to develop workshops, talks, and
classes that are relevant to what students are doing here.
My
workshops and talks are well-attended and I get good reviews.
I’ve
interviewed over half of the people I want to talk with about the
school’s history and how it works.
A
lot of students are coming to me for tutoring with writing.
I’m
gaining much more confidence in my ability to guide and support
Steve, and he does appear to be making progress with my help.
Which
brings up a question: Steve isn’t planning to get his ring this
year, so the work I’m helping him do won’t be done by the time I
hope top be ready to face that interview—how do I tell whether I’m
done when he isn’t?
No comments:
Post a Comment