Being a Teacher Is Weird, pt. 2

So...there I was. Teaching "The Rape of the Lock." We were talking about Belinda's guardian spirit and how he protects her from a variety of terrible disasters: losing her chastity, breaking teacups, staining her honor, staining her dress, etc. I was trying to emphasize how ridiculous these comparisons are, comparing serious moral trespasses to social faux pas like spilling food on yourself. I said something like, "I mean, it would be nice to have a guardian angel to make sure I don't drip ketchup down my shirt. I am a giant..." Wait for it. Wait for it...I was saying "slob" and changed to "klutz" because I thought it sounded better? What came out of my mouth? "I'm a giant slutz." That's right. I told my students that I'm a giant slut. What the hell? I did try to explain (between my devastating blushes) what I meant and how this slip of the tongue occurred, but I am sure all they will remember FROM THE WHOLE SEMESTER is that their teacher called herself a slut.

And then I told Dallas. He has already turned "giant slut" into my new pet name. I hate everything.

A Dialogue: Being a Teacher Is Weird

Student: “I never knew that Shakespeare was a homosexual.”

Me: “...”

Student: “I mean, ‘Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?’ He’s talking to a guy. He was gay!”

Me: “You keep saying that. That Shakespeare was ‘a homosexual.’ You should know, the word ‘homosexual’ didn’t even enter the English language until 1892, when Chaddock published a treatise on deviant sexualities and classified them as psychological afflictions, as psychopathies. Our culture didn’t feel the need to label same-sex attraction as something worth categorizing until the 19^th century. It wasn’t important, it certainly wasn’t a part of a person’s identity. It was something they did, usually classified as ‘sodomy,’ sure, but it was rarely persecuted. Think about what this means. Our culture didn’t CREATE ‘homosexuals’ as such until 300+ years after Shakespeare’s birth. You really can’t call him ‘a homosexual’ without being terribly anachronistic.”

Student: “How do you KNOW that? You just KNOW that off the top of your head?”

Me: “Yeah. That’s why they pay me the big bucks.”

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As a teacher, I sometimes find myself saying things that make me think (A) “Who the hell are you, WEIRDO!?” and (B) “Wow, Catherine. This is why everyone thinks humanities professors are crazy, left-wing nutjobs. Congratulations. You are the stereotype.” I'm responsible for teaching two classrooms full of students. I have to walk into class and coherently explain things, usually really old dirty jokes. I have to tell them how language works and why it's cool. One of my class objectives actually says something about "the human condition!"

It can be a lot of fun, and it's shown me that I know things I didn't know I know. Seriously. I started quoting a poem I didn't realize I had memorized. What is that? I corrected one of my students the other day because she said Shakespeare was depressed that the Globe closed in the 1570s and that’s why he wrote his sonnets. I wrote, without thinking, “Well…No. The Globe wasn’t built until 1599.” How do I know that? How can I tell my student the origin of “homosexual” without looking anything up on the OED? Why can I list four poems that pun on the word “quaint” without even thinking? When did I learn about Galen’s medicine? How do I know about Pasiphae, Io, Semele, and Ganymede? WHO AM I? And why, in God’s name, is someone letting me teach? ME? It may not sound all that impressive, but every time my students look at me with those shocked little eyeballs, I feel a bit validated. Whew. I do know more than they do.

The answer to all of those questions is simple, by the way. How do I know these things? Why do I get to teach? I am a grad student—I read a lot and I’m cheap labor. I’ve been studying literature (incessantly. obsessively. ad infinitum. amen.) for about six years and, really, that’s nothing compared to my professors. Nothing! That’s not even all that long compared to the more experienced Ph.D. students. It is, however, long enough that I am completely ruined for anything else. I demand that the people around me actually think critically, and nothing irks me more than people who are perfectly capable of reading but lack any sense of comprehension. They know the words in front of them, but they couldn’t tell you what the whole sentence actually MEANS. It’s maddening, I tell you. It makes me want to punch small furry creatures in their tiny squishy faces.

The other thing I’ve learned this semester is that the sole source of my knowledge is literature. I start talking about the parable of the vineyard and my students think I’m some kind of Bible scholar, but I am not! Most of them have actually spent more time studying the Bible than I have. They grew up in church. I did not. I don’t know the Bible. I know Milton (sort of) and Dante (kind of) and Donne (sometimes). I’ve read Piers Plowman. I’ve read Pearl. I’ve read Augustine. I’ve read C.S. Lewis. If it weren’t for literature, I would be completely ignorant.

True story.