Sexual Harassment

Yesterday I wrote a blog post about misreading signals from men. It seems innocent and frivolous.
Today, it feels much more like the railroad crossing gate didn't come down, and I'm blaming myself for getting hit by a train.

http://nicksuydam.photoshelter.com/image/I0000nP1cQuR19aU

My stomach was churning when I woke up at 5:30. I could feel my student's big arms struggling to wrap around me as I pushed against him and said, "No! That isn't appropriate. No!"
My hands pushed ineffectually at the rough material of his cotton coat as my eyes searched the empty hallway beyond the door,  hoping someone would be outside.
As the professor, I had the power in the classroom situation, yet his physical strength trumped whatever authority I might have.
Still, politeness prevented me from calling out for help or screaming at him. I didn't kick him or hit him. I maintained my civility, as I'd been taught. And when he stepped away, I held my hand out to shake his, showing him the proper way to indicate appreciation for a professor.

http://i.imgur.com/1MigC.jpg

I called my husband on the phone before I stepped out into the darkness of the parking lot, and I didn't confide how shaken I felt by the encounter.

I had written yesterday's blog post in class. After an initial lecture, I gave students the opportunity to catch up on their work before the final exam next week. I'd graded all their papers. As students worked, they asked questions or requested that I help them with an assignment, and slowly they finished, packed up their things and left. Except for the one student who'd made me uncomfortable all semester.
Wondering whether I was making more of his comments than I should, I wrote the blog post "Subtle Signs." I published it before the final encounter, the forced hug, the deliberate disdain for my words that said: "Stop!"
When I got home, I edited my blog, adding the section about the student grabbing me and hugging me against my will. But it's there in the middle. It's importance hidden like a Russian nesting doll.
My body let me know this morning that his actions do matter.
Instead of writing at 5:30 a.m. I went for a walk, hoping activity would calm the sick feeling that fluttered through my middle. I bought a white mocha, comfort food, but it tasted bitter as I trudged home over the ice-covered sidewalks.
I got dressed for work and thought carefully about what I would wear. I planned to talk to the Dean. I didn't want him to think I dressed in a provocative way that might have encouraged the student. I slipped my wedding ring on my finger, another talisman to ward against evil.
Halfway through dressing, I realized that I'd fallen into the societal judgment of women, that something I had done, some way I had dressed, some jewelry I had worn, might have caused the incident.
At the back of my throat, I felt the dryness that arrives right before vomit fills my mouth. I swallowed and urged my body to get a grip.
I planned to talk to the dean after I'd finished teaching for the day, but when I had a break, I grabbed my phone and called him. I thought reporting the incident might settle the queasiness in my stomach. It didn't.
The dean responded suitably. He talked about the student growing up in another culture, but agreed it was no excuse. The dean assured me that he and another faculty member would talk to the student to let him know his action was inappropriate, and that he couldn't continue at school if he didn't change his behavior.
I should have felt relief, but my heart continued to skip within my chest -- those arms coming tightly around my shoulders, my hands pushing against his shoulders to get him away.
I grabbed my bag and walked to the cafeteria. I ordered fries and doused them in ketchup.
After my other classes, I took a quick trip to Trader Joe's. On the way, I called my friend Janine and told her all I was feeling. We talked about how society has taught us to respond by wondering what we did wrong. "You didn't do anything wrong," she reassured me, and I felt better. I bought a small hyacinth plant to cheer me, and some chocolates. Nothing seemed to calm me.
I worked out at the gym, lifting weights, throwing my shoulders and stomach into the rowing machine as I leaned back then pulled forward again.
Finally I came home to write this.
I'm still surprised how big this felt, and truthfully, it was nothing compared to what other women go through.
I guess I didn't expect to feel so helpless. I'm a strong woman. I'm an older woman. I feel secure in myself, but it only took that one incident to reduce me to a quivering Victorian woman reaching for her smelling salts.
But if it happens again, I hope I'm ready to yell, to curse, to fight, and not worry about being polite. And I need to teach my daughter, and all those other young women who feel strong, but might react with politeness when they should react with fierceness -- creating the world we want, not the one we inherited.

Student Forebodings

I've been teaching college for more than ten years now, so I've had a wide array of students. But I have to wonder if other teachers have had students predict doom for their children.
That's just strange.
Four years ago, I wrote about a student who emailed me to tell me that he'd had a dream that one of my sons was "harmed" and I received a $300  million payout from the company responsible. Of course,this threw me into a tizzy. I assumed the dream must have meant that one of my sons was

killed, otherwise I wouldn't be receiving a payment from the company that "harmed"  him.
Imagine how surprised I was when a student approached me this week with a similar message. "I don't know you well personally, but is everything okay?" she asked me.
I thought she referred to my attitude in class that night, so I told her that I got peeved at the class before she arrived late.
"But is everything okay with your son?" she asked.
"Do you know my sons?" I asked.
"No, but I get hunches about things and I wanted to know if everything was okay with your son."
Then she left.
And there I sat. remembering when Muhanned had written to me about his dream. His at least had some details, none that I could act upon. Hers was incredibly vague.
I texted both boys and they responded to me.
Now I'm just paranoid about everything. Something could happen to my sons. They could walk out of the house and get hit by a car. They could get sick. Do I need to increase the amount I worry about my children, is that what the message means?
Like last time, I'm going to assume that there's nothing I can do to make sure they stay out of harm's way. They're adults who drive cars and go out with friends. I can't lock them in my basement to try to keep them safe.
All I can do is make sure my relationship with them is good, that they know they are loved, and hope for the best.
But there is something I would like to say to those soothsayers who contact me about a foreboding feeling. THAT'S NOT HELPING!
Unless you have details, like, "Don't let your son drive on Broad Street on February 13," or "Your son should have his thyroid checked for cancer," then your prediction does nothing but make me paranoid.
Should I take the boys for total body scans and then lock them up for safety?
Life is to be lived, and if I'd locked them up four years ago after the first dream, then they'd have missed out on a lot.
So I'll continue encouraging them to explore the world and how they can make it better.
And the next student who has a strange feeling or dream, better come with some details.

Saturday Snapshot -- Student Success

To participate in the Saturday Snapshot meme, post a photo that you (or a friend of family member) have taken. Then leave a direct link to your post on West Metro Mommy. Photos can be old or new, and be of any subject as long as they are clean and appropriate for all eyes to see. How much detail you give in the caption is entirely up to you. Please don't post random photos that you find online.
For me, as an adjunct college professor, the hours are long and the rewards are few.
Lucky for me, I have a husband with a good job and health insurance. So the work as an adjunct means a paycheck to help send my kids to college. Lately, things have taken a turn for worse. We used to be able to teach 15 hours per semester then work as tutors up to 15 hours more. That gave me a nice paycheck.
Blaming the new health care laws, the college is now restricting those hours to 11 teaching hours and no tutoring hours. And, they are counting the teaching hours as double -- 22 hours, even though they are paying us for 11 hours. They say they have to limit part-time workers to a total of 22 hours instead of 30.
Obviously, my salary this year is dropping, but my kids' college payments are going up. I feel like a fraud standing in front of my classes and telling them that education will help them make it in the world. I have a master's degree and I'm still getting the shaft from the system.
But this morning, I got an email from a former student that boosted my spirits a bit. She sent along a photo too.

Nubia was in my English composition class last fall. One of the assignments was to write a paper analyzing an athletic ad. Nubia chose an ad with a stationary bicycle that has a computer screen attached to help the riders envision bicycling in California or the south of France. The next paper, Nubia had to choose a new career or hobby to write about. She decided to investigate what it would take to complete a triathalon. And this photo shows me that she did just that. 

I told you that  I was going to send you the pictures of me at the end of the triathlon.
I did it. I had fun and Im very proud of myself. It is funny but everything started with the paper from your class :)

 So this morning, I'm feeling better about being a teacher. I may not be able to pay my kids' college bills, but that's what parent loans are for. And for some students, I do help change their lives.

Talent in the Eye of the Beholder

Talent is an amorphous thing. What I see as talent others may not, and vice versa.
We started talking about art and talent at work the other day. The Writing Center where I tutor college students is located in the library. Along one wall of the library, on the walk toward the bathroom, a student artist currently displays her paintings. And frankly, most of them are bad.

I don't think the student is young, since many of the paintings have dates on them from the early 2000s.

"Maybe if she painted only landscapes," I suggested to the other teachers in the Writing Center.

"No," my friend Vivian said shaking her head. "Someone just  needs to take her brush away."
We all laughed, but it's true. Someone, somewhere encouraged this person to keep painting and try to make a career of painting.
"It's just a shame someone wasn't honest with her to begin with," Vivian said.
But talent is like that. Someone thought she was good at painting and now that's what she is.
The dogs in the one below especially bother me.

What do you think? Would you be honest with your friend, child, sibling if he/she didn't have talent in the art, music, writing, photography field?

Reputations

I'm not inspired to write a clever or funny blog post. I've kind of just ignored it the past few days.
I've had a long week.
I know I can't complain compared to real trials in other people's lives.
The biggest stress was at work. Last Friday, I had a disagreement with a student. He raised his voice, I told him he could not be rude to me, and he filed a complaint with Human Resources claiming that I was culturally intolerant.
So, even though I knew I hadn't done anything wrong, I got called in to HR to explain myself. That's intimdating and nerve wracking.
Now, I know some of you are imagining what this student must have looked like. He's a tiny white guy whose culture is some sort of new age philosophy that is antiauthoritarian, which is why he refused to apologize for being rude. Last year, he told me it was against his religion to use personal pronouns -- you know: I, me, my, we. Whatever, we just roll with it.
After he was rude, I asked him to apologize; he said it was against his culture, and we continued to work together for half an hour -- even though I wasn't happy about it.
But the complaint he sent to HR talked about his German Jewish heritage. What? I was anti-Jewish or anti German when I told him not to be rude?
He talked about his perception that I didn't agree with his Pantheism. I didn't know he was a pantheist, but some of my friends are Wiccan and I definitely don't have a problem working with students of any religion.
In the end, the raised voices were only about treating people rudely. And asking someone not to treat me rudely doesn't connect with a specific culture.
The HR person agreed with me, but nearly a week has gone by with me wondering if it's possible for a student to make up things about me and endanger my job.
I think the answer is yes.
If other people hadn't been around, he could have claimed that I said anything, and I would only have my word and reputation as my defense.
I returned to some parenting advice that I gave my kids when they were younger, early teens, and had  done or said something they regretted. I'd tell them that their friends don't judge them on one event. Friends take it into context of all the other things we've said and done.
And hopefully, my entire teaching career would be considered when wondering whether I'd been intolerant of someone else's culture.
Hopefully, this incident is behind me, but I've seen the lies that students can weave and know I'm not safe from them.