I've recently begun acting out my fantasies while I dream. This afternoon, I fell asleep on the couch after watching an episode of The X-Files (fifth episode in season three, if you wanted to know), and quickly I slipped back into my 8:00 a.m. classroom. My students were all there, sitting in a circle for discussion, and one student--whose name I shall refrain from divulging--was asleep with his head on the desk, his hat twisted around so that the bill stood straight up in the air. Though this is not exactly typical behavior of this particular student, it pretty much represents the energy level of the whole class, every day, for the past four and a half weeks.
Someone brought the boy to my attention. My aggravation flared up, and strode over to him, well aware of all other eyes on me, and whipped my hand across the bill of the hat to knock it off his head and so wake him up. "OK," I said, "everyone out." I stared at the boy as he lifted his head in fear, the other students hurrying out the door. Once we were alone, I said, "How are you doing, _______?" Suddenly, I was all compassion.
How typical of me! I set forth rigid policies in my syllabus, and present myself as unbending, unflinching, maybe even cold. But put me one-on-one with a student who slept in, didn't finish an assignment, wants to get back into a class he dropped five weeks ago . . . and I have pity. "What can I do for you? How can I help?" Does this say that I'm a softie? That I can't stick to my guns? Am I a pushover? Or dare I call it something nobler--merciful? Nah, that's too noble.
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