TALES OF TENNESSEE
The Worst Student Ever
Singing the blues from Tennessee’s Taylor Swift to South Pacific’s Nellie Forbush
She starts bitching on the second day of classes. And no, I don’t mean the second class meeting. She starts bitching on Day 2 of the semester before class has even met a second time. She claims that I have discouraged her. I have simply introduced the course requirements as every professor in the world does on the first day; she decides to take that as a personal attack.
It’s absurd, but I have to take this seriously. I’m a black female professor. Research shows that we’re at the bottom of the academic ladder, the part that’s stuck in the mud, regardless of experience or credentials.
Qualified enough?
(Keep this in mind: I graduated magna cum laude as an undergrad in a state university in Tennessee that had only recently desegregated. I got a master’s degree in Boston from one of the top conservatories in the nation, to which I’d auditioned on tape. Then there was that doctorate at a top research university in California. In addition, I had far more peer-reviewed articles and reference book entries in international publications than most colleagues and designed more successfully enrolled courses.)
We were both unicorns
Deans and other upper level administrators are more likely to get complaints from students about black women, regardless of the actual truth. White male professors who curse at students, come to class late, and take weeks to return papers, sometimes returning them well after the comments could have helped students for the test they just took, are viewed merely as eccentric. And to add insult to injury, students are not only more likely to complain about us, they’re also more likely to demand much more of our time outside class, as well as deadline extensions, and other accommodations, sometimes quite unreasonable.
I remember my first acquaintance with these truths: A black female student came to my office every day after class. She was one of only a handful of black students on a Southern campus that had existed literally before the end of slavery. I was the first black female hired tenure track on the entire campus, a campus initially intended for white male military officers in training who brought their slaves with them. I was the first black person of any gender to be hired in any capacity by my department. I was also the first woman hired by my department. Whew. So basically, the student and I were both unicorns on the blackhand side. As my boy Bill said, “heavy is the head that wears the crown.”
I realized at the time, that this student just needed to touch base with someone comfortable, so regardless of my exhaustion at the stresses of that environment, I sat and talked with her as long as she needed. Every day. After every class meeting.
She never made an appointment, just kept coming: Day 1, Day 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12… but on Day 13, I kid you not, the bad luck number itself, a faculty committee meeting had been planned on the other side of campus. I explained this to her, offering to meet with her later in the day. “That’s okay,” she said and left. She never returned. I didn’t think too much about it, just assuming she had made friends or gained enough confidence to let go of her security blanket.
Turns out, she was part of a student demographic I would come to meet rarely, yet repeatedly, throughout my career. The demographic that took out all its rage and insecurities on the safest target, the minority female faculty member.
Now, this was back in the days when students hand-wrote their evaluations and I accepted handwritten work (ughrrr), so I recognized her handwriting on the end-of-term evaluation when she made the bold-faced (as in “bold-faced lying”) statement that I “never had time for students.” At the time, no research had been done in the area of women in academics, especially those in non-traditional areas like music theory and analysis. I just thought “Wow, there must be something wrong with her. Why else would she be so unfair? Or maybe just immature.” I thought she was a one-off.
Turns out, she was part of a student demographic I would come to meet rarely, yet repeatedly, throughout my career. The demographic that took out all its rage and insecurities on the safest target, the minority female faculty member. Many of these students have figured out that department chairs and deans (mostly white and male) are very likely to feel uncomfortable with black female faculty, especially those with superior credentials. The students then use that discomfort to extort the faculty into higher grades with threats of “I’ll tell the dean.”
Interestingly, I’ve found that the students most likely to employ these tactics on women are women, both black and white. This saddens me because I know what women go through to get ahead. I don’t know why it’s usually different for male students, but it seems to me that they tend to be so nonplussed at having to account to a female in authority, one who can affect their GPA, they are stunned into silence, especially after I’ve corrected the “Miss” or “Mrs” they inevitably use, despite my introducing myself as “doctor,” writing it on the board, and typing it in the syllabus. I joke that my dad, a career soldier, is so proud I earned my doctorate that I can’t be held responsible if they decide to call me something else and he hears about it. We all chuckle together and the guys and most of the women, get with the program. But every so often there’s the one.
One of my more recent students would come to crown the pantheon of students who expect nothing of white male professors, but expect the moon, stars, and associated nebulae from black female profs. I was teaching a “canned” course, one designed by a faculty committee for students whose scores on reading comprehension tests are so poor they are required to take this supplemental course in conjunction with an English Comp or other very basic first-year classes. The intent is to make sure consistent basics are achieved.
(Also bear in mind: by this time I had since gone back to school and earned an Ivy League MFA in writing and had twenty years of experience in teaching first generation college students.)
I knew she was trouble
Usually I detest dealing with canned courses, because committee-constructed courses are usually drenched in demanding amounts of busy work that is more like elementary school than college. Since many of our students have jobs and families, the course workloads border on the unreasonable, especially for students like this one whose skills are abnormally poor. The one micro-mini upside is this: If students complain about the requirements, I can make it clear I am not responsible because the course requirements were constructed without my input.
Yet. After the first week of class, she threatens me, saying perhaps she should complain to the Dean, my supervisor, and move to a different section of the same course. Little does she know, but I quit caring what deans thought after leaving my tenured full professorship a few years before. I quit caring what students thought when I was tenured a few years before that. And by “quit caring” I mean, I offer individual appointments with each student at midterm, when there’s still time to work with them to salvage or improve their semester, and commenting on my efforts. But I no longer read the anonymous student evaluations at the end of the term. Better for my blood pressure, to be sure.
Meanwhile, however, my fingers and toes are crossed that she will leave, because, to quote Taylor Swift, “I knew she was trouble, oh….oh — trouble, trouble, trouble.” I tell her the requirements are the same, no matter where she goes, because everyone has to teach the same course with the same materials. She stays in my section. Should have kept my mouth shut.
Then she complains that I won’t use her nickname Doo-Doo (yes, like feces). I try to explain to her that it is not my practice to use student nicknames. The farthest I will go is a shortened version of their actual name, like Mike for Michael or Cathy for Catherine. I prefer a more formal atmosphere in the course, especially because many of our community college students are first generation college students, so their most memorable education is middle school with Miss Nancy as their teacher. Many aren’t used to working without handholding or constant smiles from women, or following instructions, or doing homework, or preparing in advance for class. A more formal, but welcoming environment provides a new context for the new skills they will be learning. It’s been a successful strategy.
After this explanation, which I see as reasonable, she goes to the Dean. She takes it as a personal attack. I explain the same thing to the white female faux-liberal dean who thinks that since she, the dean, calls me by my middle name at my request, I should call this student Doo-Doo at hers. I have to explain to this grown woman that my middle name is my actual name, not a nickname or shortened version of my name. Should have kept my mouth shut.
Two-thirds of the way through the semester, after months of abusive non-stop bitching, staying online after class every single day — shades of that earlier student in the former Confederate school — the student decides to ask for special accommodation due to a disability she has apparently had all term. She has anxiety. (Hmmm, I had no idea that was contagious, but she certainly has passed it on to me, like a psych version of coronavirus). In my decades of experience, and on every syllabus known to humankind, students with disabilities are asked to contact professors at the beginning of the term so that plans can be made. She didn’t follow this practice. When I ask some questions about the accommodation so as to meet her needs as best as I can, she complains to Disabled Student Services, who complains to the dean.
Before even listening to me, the dean has clearly planned to read me the riot act in our private Zoom meeting. She rants for 20 straight minutes, saying she has no time to listen to me, I just need to change my ways. Once she’s done, she realizes she has 10 minutes left. I explain the misinterpretations of my words and point out the student’s misplaced actions; all she can say is “oh.” She knows she’s wrong.
Back to T. Swift., I knew this was trouble, trouble like Amy Cooper in Central Park. Black birdwatcher Christopher Cooper (no relation) reminded her to leash her dog, as required. She called the NYPD, telling the birdwatcher she was going to tell the police that he was threatening her; she planned to instigate potential murder by proxy. Just because he reminded her she was wrong. Now here I was with my own Amy Cooper situation, academic dean version, I’ve reminded her she was wrong. I knew she would lash out at me if I didn’t handle this delicately.
Before even listening to me, the dean has clearly planned to read me the riot act in our private Zoom meeting. She rants for 20 straight minutes, saying she has no time to listen to me, I just need to change my ways.
Gentling my voice, as you might for a mare that was beginning to look a bit wild-eyed in fear and trepidation of taking their first leap over a fence, I pointed out how the student claims to be “intimidated,” but argues at me over fractions of points during almost every class, then stays for private questions after almost every class, where all she does is argue that her lack of understanding something the rest of the class understands is completely due to my incompetence. In her words I “don’t know what [I’m] doing.”
She also sends emails with hostile complaints every single week. By the end of the term she has sent fourteen emails, compared to five from the next highest student. By the way, that five-email student was keeping me updated at my request about his new job requirements that would temporarily disrupt his school work. We were working together to make sure he didn’t fall behind.
“If she’s so intimidated, don’t you think she would hesitate to address me disrespectfully both in and out of class, verbally and in writing?”
“You’re right,” says the dean, as if she has known it all along.
Knowing the white dean has the missionary complex and wants to help us poor dark heathens — seeing no difference between a nearly illiterate black student and an Ivy-League educated black professor — I point out that the student might be in stress because of her condition and is just acting out. “Perhaps she is more to be pitied than censured,” I coo.
“I sympathize,” I continue, “and if you view the recordings of our online class meetings, you will see that I use a calm gentle voice with her (the same kind of voice I’m having to use with you, heifer, I say to myself), and answer all her questions no matter how many times she asks the same thing, or argues about the same grade, or accuses me of mistreating her. I stay after class every day until I have heard her out, no matter how long it takes.”
From a computer folder of evidence, I show her a transcript of one communication from the student.
“Oh my,” the dean gasps. “Her writing is very poor. I had no idea.”
“Yes,” I agree. “She is not unintelligent, but is woefully underprepared. And the problem is she thinks any mistake she makes is my fault, calling it a personal attack on her. That makes it hard to convince her to make the necessary corrections.”
I have quickly decided that if the dean needs to feel sorry for someone, I’d try to turn the spotlight in a different direction, letting her feel as if she were helping me, not the disastrous Doo-Doo. (I needed my part-time income because caregiving for my elderly parents meant I could no longer work full-time.)
“Her constant unfair complaints feel like bullying and I feel as if I am in an abusive relationship.”
“Do you want me to put her in a different section?” the Dean responds. “Would that make you feel more comfortable?”
Bingo! I’ve flipped the light switch on. Now, time to turn on the high beams.
“Helping her is more important. I’m a professional. I can handle it, although it is hurtful. Ask her if she wants to leave. If she does, I’m fine with that. If she doesn’t, that proves none of this is as big a deal as she makes it out to be.”
“That sounds like a good idea. I appreciate your kindness toward this student.”
“I’m just following your lead in showing concern for both sides of this situation. Like you, I want all my students to succeed.” I almost gagged, but it worked. Or so I thought.
At the beginning of the rant, the dean had said she planned to visit my class to find out what I was doing to these poor students. By the end, she’s decided she doesn’t need to do that and anyway, she lies, “The visit is not about punishment, I just love teaching so much I love to watch others do it.” I nearly have an aneurysm keeping my eyes from rolling like championship bowling balls. At the time, I feel so thankful to Thomas Connellan, who wrote Bringing Out the Best in Others. His advice has helped me defuse the situation as it stands.
This may all sound cynical, but it’s actually true. I do feel for the student, I do think she is acting out, but I also know that she is a bully and that her lies can derail my work prospects and keep her from learning the skills she desperately needs to successfully negotiate a college education. I’ve taught many students over the years who used bullying to get grades they hadn’t earned out of weak-minded colleagues.
The Dean contacts the student. Perversely, but not unexpectedly, she decides to stay. Damn! For two weeks, said student is on good behavior. By that I mean, she misses two classes, so she isn’t there to disrupt or stay afterward.
The next two classes, she stays but remains quiet and leaves with the rest of her classmates. But then she winds up the bitching wheel and starts spinning more yarns. (It must have been in the shop the prior two weeks.)
All I can think is: It’s the end of the term. I’ve only got two more weeks. Two more weeks. Four class meetings. Six hours.
Keen is the scent of the slaveholder; like the fangs of the rattlesnake, his malice retains its poison long. — F. Douglass
Damn! We’ve had our last class meeting and she’s still bitching. She thinks the C she got on one writing assignment is unfair and accuses me of lying about the requirements. I point out the numerous spelling, grammar, organization, punctuation issues, in addition to the misrepresentation of parts of the readings to which she was supposed to be responding. She ratchets up her complaints. In real time, I start to respond, but she logs out when I am mid-sentence. “How rude,” I remark to myself, but still, I’m glad because I can now close the session.
Oh, shit! She’s written an email asking for more explanation of her grade on that C-essay. I send a detailed explanation. Going point by point, sentence by sentence, comma by comma.
Another email! She accuses me of saying one thing in class and one thing in my email response. Meanwhile, she wants six hours to take a final exam that could be completed in fifty minutes. The request comes through disability services. This is not normal, but this student is not normal.
Thank goodness this is an online exam and I do not have to be there. All I have to do is create a separate portal for her to access the exam. Once she finishes it, I can turn in her grade and to paraphrase Nellie’s song in South Pacific, “I’m gonna wash that gal right out of my hair and send her on her way.”
The aftermath
I’m not rehired the next semester. There had been no other complaints, but perhaps I was too clever for my own good or perhaps nothing I did would have mattered.
I’d been an adjunct there for three years, even teaching college courses to bright dual-enrollment high school seniors who begged for me to come back and teach more sections. But as Frederick Douglass said in My Bondage, My Freedom, “Keen is the scent of the slaveholder; like the fangs of the rattlesnake, his malice retains its poison long.”
I knew I had embarrassed the Dean, so it’s no real surprise that payment was due. One of my former teaching assistants, with no significant credentials, experience, or achievements, was given classes I had been promised.
Didn’t matter that the Dean was wrong. Didn’t matter that the student was a lying bully. Unlike Amy Cooper, who had also been wrong, the Dean didn’t have to call the metaphorical academic police. She’s the Chief of Police. There is no recourse for adjuncts. Doo-Doo has done her business on my reputation. I get the blame. The stench lingers.
I despair of women I’m trying to help remaining so attached to societal disdain of women that they undermine their own success as well as mine. Holding onto my standards as I try to raise hers resulted in a 50% drop in my already meager income. But then, in addition to program notes I write for classical music concerts and freelancing as a musician, I’ve been invited to become an arts critic for a local arts magazine startup. It’s not a lot, but every little bit helps and my freelance work is much less stressful, so there’s that. But sometimes I wonder as I wander what will happen to her, what will happen if other professors cave, denying her the education she needs. I wonder.
Other Tales of Tennessee:
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