Wednesday, May 17, 1995
It is now three-forty-two, and I sit, typing away on my home Mac. Am I at home? Noooo. I'm in good ol' room 29, supervising Academic Detention. And I'm getting pissed.
Reasons are multitudinous.
One. I don't want to be here. Academic Detention. What I had started as both a help and a punishment (a helping time period and a quiet place in which students could complete work, and a punishment for those students who refused to turn in work) has now become, more often than not, a punishment for me. Today, fifteen students did NOT attend, so I have to write up referrals on them. The half dozen or so who did show are either slugs or bitchers. No one leaves until their obligation is fulfilled: they are caught up when they leave. Some have to attempt a piece of work a couple of times, but by the time they leave, the work is complete AND correct. Michelle, little hardgirl bitch, doesn't see why I ask that work conforms to manuscript format (she is missing over half the assignments in class, many for not following format procedures, others as "Do Overs"). She has bitched throughout. Javier, who has yet to turn in a single piece of work in four and a half weeks, shows up, hoping I will cut out early, letting the crew go before he actually has to do some work. WRONG. Today, he is staying until I see some work. Fall term, I stayed until six one night, but I got a piece of work. My feeling is this could be another long afternoon.
Two. I'm typing on my home computer. I had to bring it in so that my 4/4H's could input their QuickTime movies and their sound files for their Electronic Portfolios. There is not a single computer on campus with the audio/visual capabilities to get the job done. Fucking pathetic. So I bring in my computer, leaving it here overnight (fearful of robberies), just so my students can create their projects. Of course, I can't get any computer work done at home, but--hey--that's dedication.
Three. It took half a week, but the bullshit has covered over the flowers again. This job stinks (even the beautiful flowers of the seniors working on their portfolios are covered with shit).
Four. O'clock.
Javier just left, with Michelle. Michelle didn't finish her work, just bailed, saying, "Can't you just give me an F?" Why, certainly, and it's so different than the grade you've earned. Javier never turned any work in. I'll refer them tomorrow, but what good will it do?
The bile also rises.
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