Skip to main content

My Job

 Every week, I meet with a particular student; years have passed. We have walked through the AP World History exam, through the PSAT, through the SAT. As usual, the student is more gracious than I am. If he makes an error when joining clauses, I get slightly impatient. If I myself make an error with verb tenses, he is notably magnanimous.


My student reminds me that it's sort of unpleasant to be a junior in high school. You yourself have no interest in grammar rules, and it's at least questionable that these rules will be necessary in adult life. But you have voices in your ear, making demands. Sometimes, the SAT questions seem gratuitously tedious: Is there a Totozoquean origin for the Choctaw word that means "corn"? FreshDirect offered to open offices in Long Island City right *before* local elections. And it offered to open offices in Pittsburgh right *after* local elections. Does the timing have an impact on a standard municipal response to an offer from FreshDirect?

Why--why the FUCK--would my student take an interest in this question?

I make notes about my own parenting. American schooling is such a farce, parents can't help but ask nutty questions. "The application packet wants my daughter to describe a passionate interest of hers. How should she answer?" "This is a course catalogue for the summer offerings at Newark Academy....Which course will help to set my child on a 'success path' in ninth grade?"

I try to use a neutral tone in my reply, but I'm afraid I sound cutting. "Your child should choose the course that seems exciting to her."

I'm grateful for my students--fellow travelers in this crazy country in this crazy life--and I wish them well on the June SAT. Thinking of you, kids. It gets better.
Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel  Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in  Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's  Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...
3 comments
Read more

The Death of Bergoglio

  It's frustrating for me to hear Bergoglio described as "the less awful pope"--because awful is still awful. I think I get fixated on ideas of purity, which can be juvenile, but putting that aside, here are some things that Bergoglio could have done and did not. (I'm quoting from a survivor of sexual abuse at the hands of the Church.) He could levy the harshest penalty, excommunication, against a dozen or more of the most egregious abuse enabling church officials. (He's done this to no enablers, or predators for that matter.) He could insist that every diocese and religious order turn over every record they have about suspected and known abusers to law enforcement. Francis could order every prelate on the planet to post on his diocesan website the names of every proven, admitted and credibly accused child molesting cleric. (Imagine how much safer children would be if police, prosecutors, parents and the public knew the identities of these potentially dangerous me...
1 comment
Read more

Raymond Carver: "What's in Alaska?"

Outside, Mary held Jack's arm and walked with her head down. They moved slowly on the sidewalk. He listened to the scuffing sounds her shoes made. He heard the sharp and separate sound of a dog barking and above that a murmuring of very distant traffic.  She raised her head. "When we get home, Jack, I want to be fucked, talked to, diverted. Divert me, Jack. I need to be diverted tonight." She tightened her hold on his arm. He could feel the dampness in that shoe. He unlocked the door and flipped the light. "Come to bed," she said. "I'm coming," he said. He went to the kitchen and drank two glasses of water. He turned off the living-room light and felt his way along the wall into the bedroom. "Jack!" she yelled. "Jack!" "Jesus Christ, it's me!" he said. "I'm trying to get the light on." He found the lamp, and she sat up in bed. Her eyes were bright. He pulled the stem on the alarm and b...
1 comment
Read more