Coffee heat rising

Cost of Education: Another Country Heard From

So I’m haranguing the 101s about the 102s’ having flubbed their first effort at framing a thesis for the extended definition essay, and in the middle of my rant I ask them if they know how much it costs to put 25 Arizonans through 13 years of K-12 schooling.

They of course don’t know, so it’s a SMARTPHONES OUT! moment: I reveal the $7,813 annual per-pupil spending our illustrious state commits these days and holler “multiply that by 13! Now multiply it by 25!” Forthwith, they come up with the $2.5 million figure that we have spent on the members of my English 102 section. And, for that matter, on their own section.

They’re shocked.

But one guy, a freshly returned Navy veteran, keeps calculating. Hand goes up.

“Just for comparison,” says he, “the cost of operating an aircraft carrier is $1,450,000 a day. Let’s see…my last deployment was for 10 months…{tap tap tap}…that’s $435,000,000 to send us to sea for ten months.”

We all look at each other. Silence descends over the assembled company.

Me: “uhhhh…. So, we’re spending, what…? About a zillion times as much to send our young men and women to war as we’re spending to educate them?”

Vet: “Looks like it.”

{sigh}

 

 

Holy Cripes!

You have got to read this post about what devolved from my English 102 class yesterday. It defies belief. Holy cripes, indeed.

I’m back in that place where I keep asking myself, why am I doing this? Surely I could work as a greeter at Walmart and earn as much with less aggravation. And be paid for all the time I put in on the job.

Actually, things are looking up in the Department of Making Myself Miserable. So far this week the editorial business has earned $440, and I expect to rack up another few hundred bucks today. And the new client just sent another document for us to edit. We have three clients in-house just now; taken together they’re cranking steady work for us. If we could keep this pace going all the time, 50 weeks a year, enough cash would come in to allow me to chuck the teaching gig. Or, if I chose to continue making myself miserable, to allow me to live a normal middle-class life again.

In the Department of Already Miserable, the unending bellyache bizarrely ended. Bizarrely and abruptly.

A few days ago I woke up and realized I felt better. Didn’t think much of it, though, because there have been a couple of days when the thing hasn’t been too bad, but the following day it would come back with a vengeance. But then the next day I felt more or less OK. And then the next day! This morning I feel downright normal, for the first time in over two months.

So it looks looks like this thing is passing. Thank God!

And Gaviscon.

Yes. I discovered an over-the-counter nostrum that actually works on gastric reflux.

Rifling through the hypochondriac’s treasure chest that is the Internet, I came across one of those message boards for people whose illnesses have driven them neurotic, and on it several people remarked that the only thing that had helped them was an antacid called Gaviscon.

As it develops, in addition to the usual antacids that potions like Mylanta contain, this snake oil includes an industrial chemical called algin or alginic acid. Among its many properties, algin foams up on contact with liquids. Its foam floats on the top of the liquid. The geniuses who concocted the stuff thought that if they could incorporate an antacid with the foam, it would come up against the base of the flaccid and irritated esophagus, where it would create a protective barrier. And y’know what? It works!

Gaviscon itself is expensive—ten bucks for a bottle of icky-tasting lozenges. However, Walgreen’s has a generic knock-off that sells for six bucks. The queasiness began to subside the minute I chewed up a couple of the things in the car outside the store. It took about a day and a half of swallowing the stuff after every meal and before bed-time, but shortly it took effect.

I’ve stopped losing weight, because finally I can eat something other than disgusting yogurt. Matter of fact, this morning I seem to have gained a pound.

This excellent development, however, was not a free pass out of the Department of Misery. Ohhh no…not a chance!

Three days ago, my back went out. Excruciating! This is the first morning I’ve been able to sit in a chair, and it ain’t very comfortable. At the outset I thought I was going to have to farm out the dog, because I couldn’t bend down to put food and water on the floor for her. Since my son resisted and since La Maya recently adopted a dog that deeply dislikes the Corgi, it looked like I would have to board her. How to get her to a boarding kennel was unclear, since I couldn’t drive the car—take her in a cab, I guess.

SDXB, who suffers chronic sciatica because of a couple of herniated disks, suggested laying flat on my back in bed for the better part of a day. To that, I added a heating pad. After several hours, I was at least able to stand upright and limp into the kitchen. Today it still hurts mightily, but here I am in front of the computer.

The last time this happened, I knew what brought it on: picked up a writhing 40-pound German shepherd puppy to carry her away from the rush-hour traffic into which she was trying to lunge. This time, I didn’t do anything: it just started. My father had disabling muscle spasms in his back, which he kindly bequeathed to me. Like his, mine are usually in the shoulders and upper back. They rarely happen in the lower back, but when they do, they are crippling. So it may have just happened out of the blue.

Or it may be the result of the limp the plantar fascitis has induced.

Cripes. I’m falling apart like the Minister’s One-Hoss Shay.

Why I Hate Teaching

It’s not just because it’s stupidly underpaid.

Not because you have to establish a Roman emperor’s dominion over teenagers who are disrespectful to everyone around them.

Not so much because the benighted ignorance with which American students pass out of secondary schools leaves one weeping for one’s country and for its hapless children.

Not because reading their drivel is excruciatingly time-consuming and excruciatingly boring.

Not even because spending one’s time trying to assess said drivel intelligently and trying to advise its authors in ways to write less idiotic pap is a heartbreaking waste of energy and hours.

No. Not necessarily those things.

It is because no matter how much effort you put into them, no matter how much faith and hope you invest in your students, sooner or later they will disappoint you.

And you will be disappointed not just in them but in yourself and in your profession and in the entire flicking society around you.

They cheat. They lie and they cheat. And they do it all the time. It is so routine as to be unremarkable. And it’s not the ones who are so hopelessly dense that they have to cheat to pass a lightweight course like freshman comp. No. Half the time, God help us, it’s the smart ones.

I just returned (and forwarded to the division chair) a 300-point paper that failed because a good third of it is a copy-and-paste job.

Annoyingly, the author is one of my favorite students. She’s bright and gregarious and funny and she even seems to be paying attention in class. And, even more annoyingly, she’s no young kid who might be expected not to know better. This is a grown woman, thirty-five…maybe even pushing forty. And she’s a pretty typical plagiarist: smart, articulate, and full of potential.

Why do they do this? They’re not cheating anybody but themselves. They’re not cheating me. They’re not even cheating their classmates, since every person who enrolls in a college course gains from it as much as she or he individually puts into it. Why would you pay for something and then waste your time and energy on it? Is it arrogance—are they so smart they think they don’t need to be bothered?

When I was a kid, I was too terrorized to do this kind of thing. I would get caught (for sure!), and then I would be thrown out of school. My mother would weep and my father would disown me. I would spend the rest of my life in abject disgrace. So socialized was I to believe that you could not get away with cheating, lying, stealing, embezzling, arson, or murder that it wasn’t until I reached my mid-40s that I began to realize how much people do get away with. It was about then that I met a young woman who had spent a fair amount of her adult life committing insurance fraud.

She was minting money and new cars. Even whole new houses—twice she got insurance companies to tear out and rebuild the interiors of entire dwellings! That was an eye-opener.

By then I was on a university faculty. Informed by my young friend’s revelations, I began to notice the number of colleagues who pretended to serve on committees. They’d show up (sometimes) at meetings, do exactly nothing, and at the end of the day take credit for the work two or three other people on the committee actually did.

Should I mention the associate dean who arrived at his elevated position (and salary) on the strength of a three-volume magnum opus? When you opened the covers, as apparently few of his colleagues ever did, you discovered it consisted of offprints from the Congressional Record! Yes. In three volumes, the only parts he’d written were a short introduction and a series of two- or three-paragraph headnotes: maybe 35 or 40 pages in total.

How about the associate professor who was asked, three years running, to write a proposal to establish a program for which funding and administrative intent already existed and who never could manage to choke out anything acceptable, and how the program didn’t happen until a certain non-tenure-track lecturer of your acquaintance sat down and wrote the damn thing?

The search committee that was determined to hire a minority to its faculty, even though they openly admitted that a WASP woman was by far the best of the applicants? When the single African-American applicant accepted a job elsewhere, they closed the search rather than hire a better-qualified white candidate, and they conspired to flamboozle the Affirmative Action office with a set of phony reasons for rejecting her.

Dishonesty and cheating and devil-take-the-hindmost ethics are endemic to our culture, from the kid who pastes a web page into a term paper to the merchant who sells second-rate goods at first-rate prices to the manufacturer who fills “NEW!” packaging with less product at the same price to the pharmaceutical industries that foist unnecessary and even harmful drugs on “patients” who shouldn’t even be patients to bankers who entrap borrowers in loans everyone knows they can’t repay to crusading politicians who think the end justifies the means to presidents who lie to get us into unjust wars.

No. It’s not because they’re arrogant that the cleverest students cheat. It’s because they’re smarter than I was at their age. They’ve already learned they can get away with it, because everyone gets away with it. It’s the thing to do.

That is why I hate teaching. It is, in a word, profoundly demoralizing.

Big Job…

MIA for a few days because we picked up a nice contract job from the community college district, editing an application for a large and prestigious award. As with any document written by committee (don’t know why that always happens), we started with the deadline practically on top of us. It was about 25 or 30 pages long, and our job was to edit it, turn the bureaucratese into English, and make it sound like it was written by one person.

IMHO, it turned out pretty well. If it goes over exceptionally well, the college where I teach will win a grant of about a million dollars.

That would require some serious exceptional. The school was invited to apply for this award, along with about 115 other colleges. I think they have a shot of at least being recognized for the excellence of several of their programs. Given the difficulties community colleges face under the best of circumstances—serving an absurdly diverse constituency whose motives are so various and many of whom are unprepared for college-level work, while funding is precarious and a perverse legislature labors to undermine education across the state—this particular school does an amazing job of keeping young people in school, delivering vocational programs that at least have a shot of getting them into decently paying work, and funneling a fair number of them into four-year colleges.

Anyway, we got paid decently—not quite what we regard as our natural due, but we’re willing to come down on our hourly rate for nonprofit organizations. And we are so thrilled to work with someone who does not try to persuade us that the red rocks of Sedona were put there, coded with a secret message for humanity, by the same space aliens who built the pyramids.

We have another large, interesting job coming up the pike, a third materializing on the horizon (we hope), and an application for a fourth winging toward a business publication’s editorial board.

This is the sort of work we want to get. We are both royally tired of working for outfits that think we should provide professional-quality work for graduate-student pay, with trying to humor wannabe writers who think their self-published memoirs and amateur novels will inevitably be best-sellers, and with folks who commune with the dead and theorize about conspiracies.

We’re now officially registered contractors for the Maricopa County Community College District, one of the largest college districts in the country. This summer I hope we can engage a few strategies to keep us moving in the right direction:

Join the Small Business Administration and start networking through that agency
Learn, through the SBA, how to apply for federal contracts
Look in to applying for state contracts
Engage with the college district’s Small Business Center, which offers one-on-one consulting plus networking opportunities
Join one of the chambers of commerce or start attending groups listed in Networking Phoenix

That ought to keep us busy this summer, especially given that I have a class to teach and Tina is transitioning from a paid employee of the Great Desert University to a contract employee for the Chinese government.

And speaking of busy, it’s after 6:00 a.m. Gotta run!

Proud to Be Laid Off… A job to feel well rid of

Every now and again, Lady Karma smirks. While we already know that the state of Arizona, with its wacko politicians and bizarre customs, is the perennial laughing-stock of the nation and steady supplier of Supreme Court cases, we occasionally forget how ludicrous its “educational” system is. Could the Great Desert University possibly out-do its administration’s pronouncement that the first African-American President of the United States did not have a “body of work” deserving of an honorary degree, unlike, say, Steve Allen (1982), Eddie Basha (1999), and the renowned Delbert Ray Lewis (2001)?

Well.

Yes.

Once again GDU makes its hundreds of laid-off former employees proud to be…former. Emphasis on former.

One of the university’s many teapot tempests, one that’s been brewing for quite a while, recently came to the attention of local news media, whose avatars were amazed to discover not only that a distinguished historian allegedly plagiarized with élan in his spoken as well as his published works, but that the administration overrode his tenure committee’s decision to deny a promotion to full on the basis of their view that his treatment of his unacknowledged sources (among them, we’re told, Wikipedia) amounted to plagiarism.

There’s a backstory that I’m not going to detail here, because I haven’t been directly privy to it and doubt that I could get faculty to confirm it on the record. However, the hilarity has begun. Now, if someone would please let Jon Stewart know about this…?

GDU: Defining Ugly

 

Image: Wells Fargo Arena. YF12s. Creative Commons Attribution 2.5 Generic license.

Jobs: Out of the Frying Pan

Yesterday I used my faculty tuition waiver to sign up for one of the two courses required to get a real estate license. Well…two and a half—there’s a half-unit thing on contracts you have to take before you can sit for the exam. As soon as I can get through them and get a Realtor’s license, I’m going to try to find a part-time  job as a gofer in a real estate office.

I’m not interested in selling houses—don’t think I would be good at sales. What I’d like to do is help a successful sales agent with the behind-the-scenes stuff: filling out paperwork, filing, answering the phones, keeping track of appointments. My friend who is a very successful agent tells me that state law requires anyone working in a real estate office, no matter what the job, to be licensed. He says the courses are very easy and even kind of interesting.

Thanks to the waiver, a three-credit course costs me $15. Not a bad little lagniappe: resident tuition at the community colleges here is $75/credit hour. So all-told the underpaid teaching gig should save me about $445.

It’s a pain to have to change course this late in life. However, there’s no question in my mind that sooner or later our bat-brained legislators are going to succeed in making it legal to tote a gun onto the campus. And that is just beyond the pale: no way am I going to stand up in front of a classroom not knowing which and how many students, some of whom are even crazier than the local politicians, have pistols in their backpacks and purses. That is just simply unacceptable.

These courses are offered in short sessions, so I with any luck I should complete them by the end of this summer or, at the latest, by the middle of fall semester.

I figure a 50% FTE job as an underling in a Realtor’s office can’t possibly pay much less than I’m earning teaching in the colleges, and the salary would come in 50 or 52 weeks a year. The business of getting paid eight out of twelve months—when in fact you’re filling your summer and winter breaks with unpaid course-prep work—is for the birds.

Actually, if I did sell houses I might earn as much as I do teaching without putting in a lot more than 20 hours a week. A real estate agent has to split his or her sales commission with the broker and the agency: that is, on a 6% commission, the selling agent gets 3% and then has to fork over half of that again, finally pocketing around 1.5%. So, on the sale of a $200,000 house, you’d make around $3,000 (from which you’re paying the cost of continuing ed, wear and tear on your car, phone service, etc.).

Well. At that rate I would have to sell 5.6 $200,000 houses to earn what I make if I carry the maximum load allowable for adjunct faculty.

That probably isn’t an unreasonable goal, even for a newbie.

At least this will give me a back-up plan. I’d continue to teach the online magazine writing course, if the chair agrees. But I am not going into a classroom full of armed eighteen-year-olds and nutcases.

Welcome to class!

Image: Semiautomatic pistol. Yaf. Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 Unported license