I Miss My Students Already
At first, upstate students they seemed like aliens. By the last ten years, they reminded me of my kids.
I miss my students already. And it hasn’t even been a year.
At first, coming up from Brooklyn, the upstate students seemed like aliens. They were not the New Jersey-Long Island-New York City students I’d had before.
They didn’t grow up on good pizza.1
They swam in lakes and still went to church.
I just couldn’t figure out my students’ deal.
By the end, those last ten years, they resembled my own children, albeit years older—earnest, curious, insecure, expecting to discover themselves in small moments.
There was the student who was late every class but lived across the street.
The student who was early every class who lived in Utica.
There was the student who thanked me as she walked out of every class and the student who brought me coffee every class until I said they didn’t need to.
There was the student who brought an egg salad sandwich to class the first time I was ever observed and it stunk up the room so much I breathed through my mouth for the entire period.
There was the student who loved Third Eye Blind so much she wrote 6,000 words on their music, and our class convinced her to enter into the Miss Tulip contest that year so she could meet Stephan Jenkins when Third Eye played Tulip Fest that May.
There was the student who told me the first day that she couldn’t look at my face because it moved too much.
There was the student who, in 2007, wrote a research paper about the medical benefits of small doses of LSD, something called “micro-dosing,” and how it should be legal—and everyone, myself included, thought this student’s views were insane.
There were the students who tried to recruit me into their churches.
The student who knitted X-rated underwear for friends during class.
The student who only wrote about the Buffalo Bills.
The student who only wrote about the Dave Matthews Band concerts in Saratoga. The other student who only wrote about the Dave Matthews Band concerts in Saratoga. The other dozen students who only wrote about the Dave Matthews Band concerts in Saratoga
The student who fell asleep every class and now lives in Japan and is a VP of private equity for an investment bank.
The was a student who wrote a blog exclusively about 80s albums by The Moody Blues.
The student—actually many students—who showed up in the middle of the semester and wrote emails asking what they missed.
There was the student who memorized every one of her poems for her performances when she didn’t even need to, but challenged herself because she was a fan of slam poetry and wanted to learn how to perform for her students when she became a teacher.
There was the student who never laughed at my jokes but then told me years later that I was the greatest teacher they ever had.
There was the student who dealt pot to other students before class and then wrote about it, in the third person.
There was the student who played seven-string guitars and never heard of Steve Vai.
The student who did a perfect imitation of me and even went so far as to wear the same off-brand Western-style shirts I wore then for one of his poetry performances in my voice.
There was the student who once made a TED Talk-style presentation about the drama and controversies surrounding her ex- and friend group at her senior prom at Shenendehowa East High School, complete with slides with charts of all the people involved, that lasted 22 minutes and held the class in rapt attention the entire time, followed by an in-depth Q&A session.
The student with a 50% attendance who filed a grievance with the dean to get a B+ and the dean told me to just give it her the B+ and I did, but then I filled out change of grade forms for every student in my class who got less than a B+ that semester and changed their grades of every other student to give everyone the same grade.
The student who, before taking roll on the first day of class, asked me if I knew about the shock gross-out rock singer G.G. Allin and how he sprayed his colostomy bag out to the audience.2
There were students, so many students, who wrote essays on words and things I’d never heard of before, or otherwise would have to wait years to hear about as an older person—selected slang and neologisms including but not limited to shart, dafuq, Edward Fortyhands, dope, wicked, bro, bruh, broseidon, bossbro, biddy, biddies, betch, betches, bossbitch, body shot, ballin’, pre-game, try-hard, pick-me, swag, intersectional, customer, fangirl, fanboy, friends with benefits, fuckboi, lap error, hot with one t, hot with two t’s, ratchet, bougie with a g, boujee with a j, creep, creeper, thirsty, white girl wasted, THOT, thotty, salty, crusty, MILF, basic, fetch, and making fetch happen.
There was the student who wrote to me after my mom died to tell me that she was sorry and she must have been so proud of me since I was such a great teacher.
The students who only wrote about their boyfriends.
The student who only wrote Kesha.
The other student who only wrote about Kesha.
The student who only wrote about unicorns. The student who only wrote about unicorns that had penetrative sex with each other.
The student who only wrote about unicorns and Kesha.
There was the student who wrote love poems all semester about a cat and in one workshop a classmate said that it didn’t seem reasonable that the cat would be so mean to the speaker of the poem, which led to the author saying loudly “The cat is a boy! The cat is a boy! The cat is a boy!”
The student who told me he never read any of the books in any of his classes.
The student who brought their mom to our midterm conference.
The student who brought tea and crumpets to our midterm conference.
The student who brought in clouds of pot smoke to our midterm conference.
I already miss my students.
Sorry I haven’t posted lately.
I have been delinquent writing lately because the world of this Substack has taken on an IRL/in real life of its own.
Which is a good thing!
In mid October, The Writer’s Chronicle published its new issue, with my essay as the cover story, “Here’s Where the Story Ends: Scenes from the End of a Teaching Career.” The piece blended material from this here Substack with some more in-the-weeds passages regarding academia’s mad dash to the bottom via consultant-speak and forgetting its core missions of not blowing money on glass buildings like a drunken sailor.
The new editor of The Writer’s Chronicle, James Tate Hill, had written to me over the summer to see if I would be interested in writing about the closure of my college. While I felt free writing about All This within the confines of a Substack, bringing it out in a publication made me a little nervous, especially in the publication arm of what is the preeminent association for creative writers, teachers, and publishers.
The fact that my career blew up for all the world to read still stings, frankly. But James is a superb human being, and working with him was a dream.
Another update is I’ve been doing a couple of readings, a lot of it has started out here in the Substack. It’s funded by the Arts Thrive and Grow grant I got over the summer.
To say it’s been intense to be doing this in the wake of the re-election of Cheeto Mussolini would be an understatement. But nevertheless we persisteded.
Last November 7, a mere 48 hours after the horrible election, we had one of the scheduled readings up here with former students. I read with a former undergraduate student, Brett Petersen, and a former graduate student, Sarah Michelle Sherman. Even more former students, some of whom I hadn’t seen in over a decade, showed up. Colleagues and actual strangers showed up as well.
We rented out MopCo, an improv comedy theater in Schenectady, where I’d taken improv classes there in the months running up to my college announcing its closure. I could tell things were going south but also didn’t want to think about things going south, and did improv to get out of the house and do something badly onstage. I knew I'd be terrible at it, and I was.
I also took notes, from other students as well as Michael, our excellent teacher.
One quote: "Dare to be mediocre."
Another: "We get reinforced for our bad habits."
A third: "Everything is an Offer."
The improv class was more than a distraction for me--it felt like a cross between church and therapy.
As for the college and the job? Well, we all know how all that played out.
We got some press for the readings as well! A cool email newsletter called The 518, The Daily Gazette’s new vertical Nippertown, and the public radio behemoth WAMC did a whole segment.
Again we have the tug and pull of writing about my career and job ending for all the world to see, writing about it, and also all of those photos of me, ugh. But it got the word out about the readings, so yay!
It’s always a thrill some new writing, but that first reading was different.
For one, I tend to write on the funny and nerdy side of things. As I told Ameara, a reporter and former student, in the story in Nippertown, “I usually write about Freddie Mercury.”
For another, turns out my advice to my students was correct: writing deeply about yourself is one of the best ways to make connections with others.
We’re doing it again in a few hours, tonight, Saturday November 23, this time in Albany. If you are local, I’d love to see you.
If you’re not local, wish me luck. I’m going to feel a lot of feelings.
Thank you for reading, as always. I apologize in advance for any typos. They drive me crazy when I spot them after I send this out.
Or maybe just buy me a coffee.
I said what I said.
I had heard of GG Allin, and even had one of his album, but told him in front of the class that I had not heard of him.
This is wonderful. And I'm bookmarking your Writer's Chronicle piece. (Icymi, I'm currently...not happy...with AWP: https://bit.ly/AWP5YearsOn. But I agree 1000% w/your assessment of James Tate Hill.)