What the Business Professor Said.

As a person who is completely incompetent at any academic or professional field but the humanities, I've been guilty of sneering at business-y types who happen to have a more practical kind of knowledge. While these individuals, who understand mysterious real-world ideas like inflation and investment, are out there making tens of thousands of dollars more a year than I do (because their knowledge can, in fact, be used by corporations to make money), I watch my bank account dwindling and smugly think, "Well, at least I can understand texts and their cultural significance"--a skill that, unfortunately, has no cultural significance of its own these days. Which is why, sometimes, the business types can get under my skin.

All of this to provide background for my run-in with an unnamed business professor. This man teaches before me in the same classroom, and repeatedly breaks an unspoken academic code: he teaches for too long and then takes forever to pack up his laptop, Wall Street Journal, and other business-y accessories (it's almost like he's Business Ken or something). I was mildly annoyed for a while, but didn't really care: after all, I break codes of conduct on a pretty regular basis, advertantly or inadvertantly. So, aside from some occasional eye-rolling, I was tolerant.

Then, one day, he turned on me. I entered the classroom early with a student. Business Ken was packing up his laptop; I nodded hello and then ignored him. My student, a really nice, smart kid, asked me when I was going to return his last essay. I told him when, and we began comparing and contrasting the difficulties of grading papers with the difficulties of writing them. The student had a hard time believing that grading papers could be as difficult as writing them, and asked me what could be so hard about it. As I began to tell him that assigning grades was the most difficult part, Business Ken turned to me abruptly and began to tell me off. Rapidly and with great agitation, he condescendingly informed me that I only felt that way about grading because I was young and inexperienced, and that I had to learn to set and keep high standards whether my students met them or not.

I've never been any good at controlling my facial expressions, especially those produced by annoyance, surprise, and anger. Business Ken's unwanted lecture caused me to feel all of these things simultaneously, and I'm sure he knew it immediately. However, he continued his harangue, undaunted by my "die, bitch" expression. When he stopped to take a breath, Wall Street Journal and laptop securely in hand, I simply told him that he could ask my student (who had witnessed the lecture) about my standards. The student backed me up by confirming that they were quite tough, and Business Ken left the room.

As a vertitable infant on the teaching end of academia, I appreciate advice from experienced professors who are in my discipline and who know and respect me. I do not appreciate drive-by lectures by Business Ken, who has probably never graded a paper in his life. And I certainly do not enjoy being lectured in front of my students, whom I lecture (kinda) every other day. Luckily, my student agreed that Ken had stepped out of line. He laughed and remarked that Ken was probably trying to be fatherly, since I'm young (and look even younger). This made the situation even worse from my point of view, given my difficult past relationship with my own father. I could barely concentrate, and I had to somehow teach a class.

And so, I stumbled through my lesson plan for that day as I allowed Business Ken's voice to merge with the other hateful and demeaning voices already blaring (on a loop) in my brain. It took me all afternoon and evening to quiet the self-hating babble, which gave me a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. Mike had to remind me (again) that those voices are telling lies, and (again) to stop being so fucking crazy. Thanks to his obstinate normalcy, the self-loathing induced nausea went away.

But the general feeling of self-hatred remained. It wasn't until Sunday, when I retreated to the chapel after the Hot Metal service, that I could ask for help--and be willing to receive it. I was reminded of Peter clamoring out of the boat when he saw Jesus strolling by on the sea that night--and sinking until Jesus convinced him to get the hell over himself. So, I decided to try to do that (getting over myself, that is) once again.