My
teaching career has come to an end. From
now on, my lectures will be confined to this blog and my to long-suffering
wife, The Doc. This brings my career
full circle, since when I started teaching history, my first classes were two
and a half hour sessions on Saturday. To
practice, i used to try out these lectures on the birds in the back yard or on
The Doc. As I remember it, the birds did
not flee as rapidly as my wife did.
In
total, I think my teaching career was pretty good. All my classes “made," my evaluations
were pretty good, and, in over two decades, I did not miss one single class due
to illness. In that time, I taught 29
course titles—everything from the History of Technology, to the History of
Naval Warfare. Over half of those
classes were taught at both the undergraduate and graduate levels. It was a hell of a lot of fun, and in every
class, I learned far more than my students did.
Frankly, if I had known how much more you learn preparing to stand at
the front of a classroom—as opposed to sitting in one of the desks—I would have
skipped the student phase of my education and just started as a professor.
Still,
not everything that happened in those classrooms went as planned. There were days that I just could not get
things to go right, and, here, I’m not talking about power failures, or fire
drills during exams, or similar accidents.
I mean the times when I—all by myself—totally screwed up a lecture.
For
years, I taught the same, exact class, twice a day. For reasons that escaped me, the university
preferred to have two classes of 35 students instead of one class of 70
students. Usually, before every class, I
would spend about an hour reviewing my lecture notes, making certain that the PowerPoint
slides—if any—were synced with the lecture, and generally making sure I was
ready. You would think that giving the
same lecture twice in a row would be a no-brainer and, at the very least, the
second class would be a home run; it should go flawlessly.
Nope—It
rarely seemed to work out that way.
Usually, both classes would go well, but not always. Sometimes, despite having a well-prepared
lecture, it felt like I was speaking an unknown language: I simply could not reach the students (And it
seemed to happen in the second class about as often as in the first). I’m still not sure what went wrong in those
classes.
Then
there were classes where the problem was obvious and the fault was clearly
mine. On an exam, I once wrote a
question that asked the students to explain the dichotomy involving the Aztecs'
fascination with poetry or delicate, beautiful art, and their incredibly
violent religious sacrifices and their methods of fighting wars. Unfortunately, the test answers did not
reveal the students' knowledge of the Aztec empire, as I had intended. What the test answers did reveal was
that the students believed that the word, ‘dichotomy,’ was the first step in a
male-to-female sex change. Several
students even graphically described this gruesome form of religious
sacrifice!
In
total, I’ve given about 5,000 history lectures, and while I’m sure a lot of
them were examples of deathless prose, I’m also sure that a few of them were,
well….total shit. While talking about
the Greek Hoplite Phalanx, I described how the front ranks of soldiers held
their spears horizontally as they moved forward. The rear ranks however, held their spears
vertically and as they moved forward, would drive their spears down into the
bodies of fallen enemies to finish them off.
The rear ends of their spears had brass pointed butt spikes designed for
this purpose. Well, that’s what I should
have said. What I actually said
was: “As the phalanx moved forward over
the bodies of their enemies, with all their might, the hoplites drove their
spears downward, each spear equipped with a butt plug…”
Boy,
those Greeks were mean…
I’m
not the only professor whose mouth has operated faster than his brain. A friend of mine has told me about a few of
his "verbal adventures" in class.
He once told an auditorium full of students that “the Jurassic Period
was a long period noted for their giant orgasms.” He meant to say, “giant organisms”,
but I’m sure the students preferred the former.
This
same professor, during a lecture on climatology, once accidentally substituted
“giant warm wet air mass” with “giant warm wet hairy ass”. Only now are we beginning to recognize the
true dangers of global warming.
One
of my favorite students came to me just before class started one day and asked
if his father, who was visiting from Australia, could observe my class. Of course, I said "yes" and
proceeded to give my lecture on Argentina's Juan Peron. Only after class was over did my students
tell me that for the entire lecture, my brain had never once come up with the
word “Argentina” but had substituted “Australia” at least a dozen times. The students hadn’t said anything, because
“we knew what you meant.” Somewhere
there is one father who wishes he hadn’t paid so much tuition to send
his child to a school where they think Buenos Aires is located in Australia.
While
discussing the Mexican underground newspapers during the Mexican Revolution, I
could tell that several students were unfamiliar with the term. “Underground newspapers are unofficial papers
that the authorities frown on and would like to suppress.” I explained.
“This campus, for example usually has one or more unofficial newspapers
that are critical of the administration.
I’ve lost track, what is the name of the current underground paper?”
One
of the seniors promptly said, “Lately, it’s called Random Thoughts by Mark
Milliorn.”
In
spite of our best efforts, it sometimes hits us hard that we certainly can’t
reach every student. When I started
teaching, I was assigned lots of survey courses. These are introductory history classes usually
taken by freshmen and sophomores with the average class size between 75 and 100
students. It was final exam time, and a
student came to my office practically in tears because he had overslept and
missed the exam. I agreed to let him
take the test, but he couldn’t remember the course number of his class.
“No
problem,” I said. “If the course was
about Egyptians, Greeks, and Romans, you are in Western Civilization. If the course was about Pilgrims, George Washington,
and the Revolutionary War, you are in Early American History.”
“The
Egyptians,” he said and I handed him the appropriate test.
An
hour later, he handed the test back to me, and I was a little surprised to see
that he had scored phenomenally low. The
reason, of course, was that it turned out he was actually enrolled in the
American History class. After thinking
about this situation for a while, I finally gave him a failing grade in both
classes.
The
above examples are bad enough, but without a doubt, the worst verbal adventure
that ever happened in my classroom was done by a student. We were in an American Military History
class, and the class was deep in discussion about the French and Indian War. Several students were passionate about their
point of view and defending it vigorously.
One non-traditional student (that’s educational code for an older
student—probably retired) suddenly referred to the war with such an obscene and
racist label that it stunned the class into absolute silence. Luckily the class was about over and I let
the students escape so they (and I) could recover our sensibilities.
However,
that was neither the end of it nor was that the truly horrible part of the
problem: the phrase the student had used
had branded itself into my brain! Now
this was a phrase so vile and so hateful, that I wouldn’t run five miles out
into the desert and whisper it to a jackrabbit.
Simply speaking these words out loud would end anyone’s career
immediately. If some poor soul on the
International Space Station muttered it in his sleep, he would probably never
be permitted to land on Earth again.
But
I knew the phrase, it was in my head and refused to leave. I was terrified that at some point, those
words might escape. I discussed the problem
with a colleague who laughed at me initially, but a week later told me he was
having nightmares where he had used the phrase in one of his classes. To this day, he cannot get the words out of
his brain. For years, I still lectured
about the French and Indian War, but I always spoke very carefully...and
slowly.
Now
that my teaching career is over, I can probably relax. And my friend has announced his imminent
retirement, so he is probably safe as well.
I’m fairly sure the curse will die with us, unless….I receive a certain
amount of hate mail each week. Maybe I
should email each of those senders back.
(At least one of them has to be a teacher.)
Mark, your lectures will live with me until my untimely death in the war of 2094. You were the most honest and straightforward instructor I have observed and I regret not taking more of your courses. NMSU Fucked you over 1000 times more than Volt Fucked me over. May your adventures in admissions be as astronomical as your tenure as an "educator" (not an education graduate) has been.
ReplyDeleteMark, your lectures will live with me until my untimely death in the war of 2094. You were the most honest and straightforward instructor I have observed and I regret not taking more of your courses. NMSU Fucked you over 1000 times more than Volt Fucked me over. May your adventures in admissions be as astronomical as your tenure as an "educator" (not an education graduate) has been.
ReplyDeleteMark, my only regret is that I enjoyed all of my History classes with you as a fellow student, rather than having the opportunity to sit in the back of the room as one of your students. I remember how I used to enjoy your routine rendition of some of your favorite answers from your students' tests responses.
ReplyDeleteKeep blogging!
I seem to recall that the adminicritters told the LC Stunned News that employees transferred due to job elimination would keep their same salary. More Hadley Hall Horseshit.
ReplyDeleteOf course, you could fertilize every pecan orchard in the Mesilla Valley if you spread that horseshit around.
Thank you Mark. I took a few of your classes. My favorite question you asked us in our Classical warfare class was, "how do you stop a charging horse"? We all knew the answer, you kill it. Lol but none of us wanted to say it. We always were cautious of your response. One girl finally said it then in true Milliorn fashion you called her a hearrless person or something to that effect. It was great. Youll be missed. Have you considered writting text book?
ReplyDeleteThank you. Of course we all know the best way to stop a charging horse--take away the credit cards. Of course, the rule of the classroom was no matter what a student said, I disagreed with it. Not only did this foster great discussions, it allowed me to say some outrageous things and get away it.
DeleteI graduated 6 years ago and still comeback every week for another lecture. Hell I am writing this from Japan. Sad to hear you'll have to stop passing on the room temperature I.Q. joke. Thank you for some good times!
ReplyDeleteThat the university would accept the idea of you not being in front of a class is to me proof of the continued deterioration of American collectivist education. The old story of the king who, on visiting a neighboring king (probably a relative given he wasn't immediately stripped naked and beheaded) asked his cousin king how he managed to keep his kingdom so well in hand. Said cousin king took the first king out into a nearby field of grain and waved his hand over it. "Do you see the heads of grain which are taller than the others?" he asked.
ReplyDelete"Yes," said his cousin king noticing that some stalks were indeed taller than the others.
The successful king looked at his guards and pointed to the field, whereupon the guards drew their swords and waded into the grain field lopping off the heads of any stalk that was taller than the others. When the guards were done all that was left were the stalks of grain of equal height.
The first king nodded appreciatively. Lesson learned.
By depriving students of exposure to original thought, the university insures that the collective's shared values, ideas and thinking remains peacefully undisturbed and homogeneous.
I've no doubt you'll be missed by actual students. I hope you are able to recover your missing head and reattach it. I hear duct tape is good for that.
Tom King
Fellow headless blogger
I wanted to say thank you.
ReplyDeleteI took almost every class you taught since 2010 and graduated this last May from enema U, with enough classes from you for a supplementary major in Milliorn (if not an outright degree). I can't thank you enough. Your's were very often the only classes I looked forward to, and the first classes I ever enjoyed doing the research for. That last part was probably because you were the first professor I'd had that gave the students any freedom of choice on the subject of the research. Including, of course, the freedom to not do it and fail, or to do it the night before and barely pass.
You got me to enjoy school again despite the University's best efforts to the contrary, and through you blog and classes you brought laughs (and occasional knowledge) to not only my life, but those of my family and friends as well. Hell, just the stories of some of your lectures were enough to cause laughing fits.
You introduced us to books that the library didn't have and the bookstore would buy, but were well worth it, and far better than what was being suggested by either. You made us think for ourselves, despite our best attempts to not. You got me to complete a supplementary major that is useful because no one knows what it means, but was actually very fun. You made school fun and interesting and worth while. You made many of your students realize, some for the first time, that we had the mental capacity for original and independent thoughts, not just storage capacity for whatever the teach was saying at that moment, only to be deleted after the relevant exam.
The University has no idea the magnitude of their mistake and their loss. I think that the "room temperature IQ" joke may need to be updated to the "average freezer-temperature," as far as the "administration," is typically concerned.
As for myself, I cannot thank you enough. I can only express my gratitude, appreciation, and great respect for you through these words which seem wholly inadequate to the job.
Thank you, for everything,
Anthony Schondel
I, and the frau, enjoyed this blog, as well as your others. While never a student, it has been a pleasure being a neighbor and sharing the odd martini and historical or political discourse. Hopefully, now that you have been put to pasture, we can get together more often.
ReplyDeleteI read your blog post with great interest! What an impressive teaching career. I have very fond memories of teaching language classes at NMSU. How sad that life can't go on the same forever.
ReplyDelete