I can't complain about my job. My second job. The first being mom. I'm talking about teaching writing at colleges. I like writing, I like reading other people's writing. I like working on a flexible schedule and not having to leave my children, physically, at least. There are lots of ups.
Today I've been grading the writing portfolios of 75 of my students. As part of their portfolio they have to include a profile.
Some people choose inspirational figures: a wheelchair basketball star, Michael Phelps, and the like. Many others choose people with dramatic stories. We all have dramatic stories, by the way. Different kinds of drama. Today I read profiles on drug addicts, rape victims, teenage unwed mothers, individuals going through suicide attempts, broken families, single and struggling moms, abuse, transgender issues, etc. I really feel for each person in each profile I read and I know these issues are really important and worthy of serious thought.
There comes a certain point, however, when I have been grading for hours straight that these sorts of profiles in sequence can get to me. Some people, thankfully, write about their moms, but most of the moms have had crazy difficult lives as well. Life. I guess I shouldn't complain about reading about real life, even though I feel like a zombie when I'm through, because some people like Claire actually counsel people in the middle of their issues day after day, hour after hour, sometimes with no signs of helping or improvement. I actually held a celebration at the computer when I got a profile full of Michael Phelps and other less weighty matters.
I guess I should write a disclaimer on my syllabus like "if I get too depressed or weirded out while reading your paper you will get an F on this paper." But I wouldn't really mean it of course and I have trouble giving F's anyway, most of the time. Other times I just LIVE to give F's. Kidding.
In other work related news, the other day Miranda asked me what "fired" meant. I didn't tell her the meaning referring to pottery, but I did tell her it meant having to stop doing your job.
The next day, she came up to me while I was typing away on the computer. She said, firmly, "Mom, you're fired."
"Why am I fired?"
"So you can stop doing your job."
You can't get the truth that you are working too much and playing with your kids not enough any straighter than that. But here's to a way to pay the bills until Fernando is done with school. And I actually like reading people's writing and really believe in writing as a value, even if it means reading continually about conflict and sadness and real-life pain and adversity...but I would also be more than okay with be reading a profile on Snuffalufagus or The Statue of Liberty or Marjorie Hinckley once in a while.
3 comments:
Believe it or not, I almost went into Social Work, but in the end, decided I probably wouldn't be able to handle the "depression" of it all. Hang in there.....it's probably therapeutic for these people to get their stories written down on paper. I'll bet you're an amazing teacher.
Maybe you should put that last line about Snuffalupagus on your syllabus (or your assignment sheet)! I love that Miranda, "your fired." Precious. Yeah, yrs. ago I had to present my large paper to my writing class & I bawled the whole way through, because I chose to do it on something that I was deeply interested in knowing more about: Reactive Attachment Disorder. Had me crying like a baby. And actually, Melissa's comment about not being able to handle the depression is the reason I chose accounting instead of psychology. Psychology fascinates me, but I wasn't sure I could function.
serioulsy
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