#sometimes you take a risk and your mentor dies‚ or half your party does‚ or you fail to stop the beginning of the end of the world | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

bettsfic · 5 years

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We spend a lot of time appreciating you as an amazing writer, but even just from online interactions, it's obvious that you're also a great teacher. If you feel like sharing: any good teaching stories that made you feel great about undergraduate teaching / reminded you of why your work is important?

at the end of my first semester, a student, i’ll call her jessica, sent me an email saying how much she enjoyed the class and how she was planning to be a teacher some day, and she wanted to be a teacher like me. i printed the email out and put it in my journal. it was the first kind email a student had sent me, and i read it over and over.

a couple months later, at the beginning of the next semester, just an hour before i met my new students, i found out that jessica had died over break. it was alcohol and drugs, a party where she left and no one followed her back to her dorm to make sure she was okay. she was nineteen. i looked at her instagram, where her final post was a selfie with two friends, and the caption read, “i love college!”

it’s hard to say exactly how her death affected me, but i think about her all the time. i think about how fragile life is, and about the toxicity of college culture, and all the pressures and expectations put on students, and how they’ll graduate with mounds of debt that will take decades to pay off. i think about how hard and hopeless it is to be a young person today. i think about the surprised, grateful faces i get when i show students the smallest shred of kindness or empathy.

this is my fourth year teaching and i’ve now had around 300 students. i have yet to meet a bad one. i’ve met students who have been pushed to their limits, who are exhausted, who are in the wrong place and have no idea, who have unchecked trauma, who are utterly terrified, who are lonely, sad, overworked, or just plain overwhelmed.

once, i did a Q&A for a practicum of new creative writing teachers. i’d given them my syllabus prior to the class. they were surprised to read my lax policies, and one of them asked what i do when a student does the bare minimum, or maybe even less. creative writing is an “easy” class. inevitably you get the “lazy” students who sit in the back and work on homework for other classes, and hand in five dr. seuss sounding poems at the end of the semester.

to that i said, any student who doesn’t want to write is either overworked, afraid, or both. being overworked can’t be helped. college students are working to master their time management skills in an environment that doesn’t allow them to fail. but fear can be faced and conquered. i base my entire class around fear. they have one major assignment: write your biggest risk. i firmly believe your biggest creative risk ends up being your greatest reward. sometimes students aren’t up to the task, but if you build an environment in which they’re eager to show you the dark, ugly parts of themselves because they know you will receive them eagerly and openly, they tend to make amazing things.

i start each semester with probably over half my students utterly apathetic or even flat-out disgusted by the idea of creative writing, and i end the semester with a stack of self-assessments and evaluations talking about how much the class helped them not only see their own creative potential, but also to be less afraid to take creative risks in other environments.

i had a student, we’ll call him alex, in my composition course last year. admittedly i put less effort into comp than creative writing, mostly because it’s not my curriculum or my primary field of study. alex sat at the back of class the entire semester, asleep, on his laptop, or talking to the people nearest him. he did not participate. he did not do the reading. he did not turn in his homework. he didn’t even know my name. on the second to last day of the semester, he turned in several assignments at once, and came to me before class started saying he’d done most the work, and could he come to office hours so i could get him caught up on the rest?

no, i said. i was too busy working with students who had been seeking my help throughout the semester. he took it well, and said thanks anyway, and in the end scraped by with a B-, mostly due to my lack of a late policy. if i’d had one, he would have failed.

i was surprised the next semester to see him on my roster for creative writing. it was clear he didn’t like or appreciate my comp class. on the first day of spring semester, he came to class high. at the end of class, i have all of my students fill out a notecard with their name and other pertinent information, and on the back i have them draw a picture. when alex turned in his card, he had only scrawled his name across the front, and on the back he drew a bird smoking a giant blunt.

the next class, i announced that anyone who came to class drunk or high would be asked to leave and they would lose their attendance for the day. i didn’t want to call him out directly. honestly, i didn’t know how to handle the situation. my mentor told me to deal with it head-on, but i didn’t heed her advice, and i wish i had.

alex kept coming to class high. he didn’t do the reading. he didn’t participate in small or large group discussion. he didn’t do the prompt-fills or turn in any assignments. when he’d behaved this way in comp, i wasn’t bothered by it. nobody really likes comp. but this was creative writing, a class i put 200% of myself into and which i expected students to appreciate in kind (and for the most part they really do).

midway through the semester, i ask students to schedule a one-on-one conference with me. it’s required. they get a grade for showing up, and another for doing a write-up of what we talked about. alex, like the prior semester, did not show up for his conference, or even write a risk draft for me to comment on. he sent me an email an hour later apologizing and asking if we could reschedule. the kicker: he began the email “liz.” i ask my students to call me by first name. i tell them at the beginning of the semester and again in week 5 when they inevitably forget. so alex had now been through 4 of my “the name you need to call me” lectures. and he still called me liz. and he had the audacity not to show up for his conference with no notice, wasting a half hour of my time, and then ask to reschedule.

my mentor was right. i should have dealt with it sooner. i shouldn’t have let myself get as angry as i did. but i replied to his email with a laundry list of things he’d done wrong, and i told him he was out of chances. i wasn’t rude, but i was very firm, and expected him to forward the email to his parents and the department and try to get me fired.

instead, a couple hours later when i arrived in class, he was sitting in the back of the room with his hood over his head. i was surprised to see him. it was the last day to drop classes and i expected him to be gone. he approached me as i was getting set up, and he was weeping. like blubbery, snot-nosed weeping. my first thought was that he was manipulating me somehow. boys who don’t get their way do desperate things sometimes. he told me he turned in all the assignments, and did the reading, and he’d do better from them on, he promised, and could he come to office hours? would i give him one more chance, please?

i told him to see me after class. during discussion, to my surprise, he raised his hand for every question. he was extremely off-base on most of his comments but i appreciated the courage it took not only to show up to class a weepy, tear-filled wreck, but to actually participate through it. after class, he apologized for having lost his shit earlier. he asked how he could make everything up. i told him i’d give partial credit for what he’d turned in, but he needed to come to a conference.

a couple days later he showed up at my office. i asked if he had a rough draft for me to look at and he said he didn’t, not because he didn’t try but because he didn’t know what his biggest risk was. i asked him to write an essay about how he’s struggling in college, and to use it as an opportunity for self-reflection.

up to this point, alex had been a bad bullshitter. before, when i’d confronted him about not doing the reading, he said he couldn’t because he hurt his knee. i asked what a knee injury had to do with reading, and he blubbered through an answer. he even feigned a limp, but later that day i saw him walking normally to another class. he had ridiculous excuses for everything. so when he sent me his essay, i was expecting more of the same.

what he wrote was not bullshit, but a blunt and honest account of all the problems he was having, sans whining or pity-seeking. the boldest statement he made was that he was extremely lonely. i searched between the lines for ways he was trying to manipulate my sympathy but found none. he was flat-out admitting the truth: he felt like college wasn’t right for him, he was far away from home, he thought he would make friends but he hadn’t made any, and his girlfriend was still a senior in high school and he missed her a lot.

“it feels weird not having a happy ending,” he told me. “i kept wanting to find a positive note to end on.”

“sometimes things just suck. an essay doesn’t have to answer the questions it poses,” i said.

suddenly i got a different picture of alex’s life: he was depressed and alone, self-medicating with weed and who knew what else, and slipping through the cracks of all his other classes, where he had professors who, like me the prior semester, paid no attention to him.

he told me he really liked the class, and liked me as a teacher, and he would spend the rest of the semester trying to be better. i’d had students say similar things just to placate me and then didn’t follow through, but alex did for the most part. he still struggled with due dates, but he kept an open line of communication with me, and owned up to his failures. he did all the reading and participated in every class. by the end of the semester, he was a different person. he told me his girlfriend had gotten into our school and that she was coming to visit him soon. he revised his essay several times, got an A in the class, and gave me a hug at the end of the semester and thanked me for my patience and understanding.

i think this story stuck with me so much because it’s about my own failure. i do my best to reach out to struggling students, but most of the time if you lend a hand, they don’t take it, and there’s not much you can do. i should have tried to help alex sooner, or be more firm with him earlier on like he apparently needed. i need to learn to be more comfortable with confrontation and own my authority in the classroom. but mostly it reaffirmed my belief that everyone is hurting, and “bad behavior” is nearly always the result of a bigger picture that sometimes we can’t see.

#pedagogy #writing advice #Anonymous

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ellanainthetardis · 7 years

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prompt: effie knows that haymitch has a thing for brunettes so she considers dying her hair, but haymitch stops her and tells her that he does actually like brunettes but they don't compare to her and that he really loves her blond hair

Here you go [X]

Friendly Opinion

Effie sipped her champagne slowly, aware thatshe needed to stop now before she became downright tipsy. Haymitch had beensteadily knocking down glass after glass and, if he was yet to show any sign ofdrunkenness, she wasn’t ready to risk both of them being intoxicated at once.

She crossed her legs deliberately slowly – forthe benefit of the sponsor who had been eyeing her for half an hour – wishingthose stools were less tricky to maneuver. She could have moved over to a tablethough, she was sure finding someone she knew at that party wouldn’t have beenhard… The club was buzzing with too loud music, it was the latest place to beand she usually enjoyed it well enough, but that night it was packed withpotential sponsors and Games’ teams on the hunt for money.

Sitting at the bar alone, looking available anda little bored, had seemed like a safe bet. She had caught the attention of afew men and women but, truth be told, people were more interested in chattingher up than offering their money.

Her eyes toured the building, passing over thecrowded dance floor with its pink and green blinking neon lights to check thefirst floor’s walkways. Haymitch was still where he had been standing for thelast hour, as far from the speakers as he could physically get. Chaff haddeserted him though. He was staring at something – or rather, as she quicklydiscovered, someone – and she followedhis gaze to where Alina Grave was making a quick but efficient job ofrecruiting sponsoring offers.

Eight’s victor had come back to mentoring acouple of years earlier and Effie still wished that this particular Districtwould rotate mentors more often.

She looked back at Haymitch to find him stillstaring and she pouted, taking another sip of her champagne. She studied Alinafrom afar. She could see the appeal, in truth. She was around Haymitch’s age,in her mid-thirties or so, and she looked verygood. She was attractive, very attractive,and the tight dresses Eight’s stylists always had her wearing were definitelyworking for her. Her stomach wasn’t as flat as one could have wished, true, butthat was what you got for giving birth, Effie figured. All in all, she could have been tempted so shecompletely understood Haymitch’s apparent fascination for the woman. Alinacertainly had the spirits he liked in women.

Plus, they hadhad some sort of affair she didn’t quiteknow the specifics of.

She wasbeautiful.

However, Effie was too.

The only thing Alina had going that Effiedidn’t – aside for the very small matter of the two them coming from the sameworld when she belonged to a placeHaymitch hated – was the hair color. She had noticed before. And she had piecedit together from the various comments he and his ridiculous best friend hadmade over the years.

He liked dark-haired girls.

And Effie was very much a blonde.

He was adamant he hated the wigs and loved herhair but it left her puzzled. How could he love her hair if she was blond andhe was into brunettes? She wasn’t fond of her natural hair to begin with. Hermother would have had it dyed permanently in her teenage years if it had beenleft to her and, for once, that was probably something Effie could have agreedon. Her hair was awful. Unpracticalwild curls of an insipid color.

She liked wigs because it allowed her to switchhairstyles and hair colors every few days without any damages but she did liked dying her head a vibrant pinkor purple sometimes. Never when Haymitch was in the city though. He would havemade fun of her and it would have probably been one of those times when he wascrueler than she wanted to deal with.

He didn’t like pink or purple.

He liked dark hair.

He was always eager to have his way with her whenshe had dark colored wigs on and he never asked her to remove those. He wasparticularly fond of the black one trimmed with gemstones cut into a short bobthat made her look impish.

He likeddark hair.

And shedidn’t have dark hair.

And he didn’t like her keeping her wigs whenthey were having sex.

She couldn’t help but draw a parallel as to whyhe was staring at another woman with dark hair he had slept with in the past.

She pondered the question as she fished acigarette out of her clutch and wedged it between her green painted lips – adark shade that went very well with the crimson wig tied into a puffy side bun,if she did say so herself. She didn’t have time to look for her lighter. Thesponsor who had been eyeing her lit it for her before she even reached for herpurse again.

He remarked it was a shame for a lovelycreature like her to be sitting alone.

She countered that the bar was where the mostinteresting people were, case in point.

And just like that the flirting was on. Shesmiled and laughed and said every right thing she needed to say, everything hewanted to hear.

He was old and wealthy and he had actuallypledged himself to Twelve once over three years earlier – because, shesuspected, he had a soft spot for her – but they never had any opportunities touse his money because their tributes had died too soon. She didn’t actuallysecure a sponsor offer but he promised to think about it if she promised tothink about having dinner with him. It was a proposition she wouldn’t run pastHaymitch, knowing full well what he would have had to say about it. As for taking it now… She would think aboutthat later.

Her cigarette had long been crushed in theashtray the bartender had pushed in front of her with a worried look for hisgleaming counter and she searched for another one as soon as the sponsor wasgone.

“You keep saying you’re quitting.”

Her lips stretched into a smile and she gaveHaymitch a small shrug as he commandeered the stool the sponsor had justvacated.

“I am a stress smoker.” she claimed.

“Must be stressed all the time, then.” hesnorted, lifting his voice a little to be heard over the music. He gestured thebartender over, ordering a whiskey and a margarita. She was a little impressedhe knew what sort of drinks she wanted without her having to specify. “OldVinian’s eyes were glued to your boobs, sweetheart. Careful. You don’t want to givehim a stroke or something.”

“He might sponsor us.” she informed him.

“Yeah, and pigs might grow wings and start to flytomorrow.” he mocked, grabbing his glass and pushing hers closer to her.

“At least,I made some contacts.” she sighed, wishing the music wasn’t so loud. It wasperfectly alright for a fun evening out but it wasn’t at all practical for theplanning they needed to do to chase after sponsors. “Who did you secure?”

It was a gibe more than anything and he didn’teven pretend not to get the joke. He hadn’t gone out of his way to talk tosponsors, that went without saying.

“Deana still wants a piece of my ass.” hecommented, nodding to a woman who was far too old to be wriggling on the dancefloor the way she was doing. “That counts or what?”

“Unnecessarily crude.” she chided him, wincinga little. “I do not need that visual, Haymitch.”

“Jealous, are you?” he taunted.

She was unfortunately unable to answer thatbecause of her untimely sipping of her margarita. They drank for a few minutes,foregoing conversation. He kept checking his watch every thirty seconds.

She bore it as long as she could. “You are beingrude. One does not make a lady feel like they are bored or not worth theirtime. If you have plans with someone else, simply apologize and be on yourway.”

He lifted his eyebrows, irritation flashing onhis face. “Just wondering how long it’s gonna take you to finish that drink sowe can leave. That’s my plan.”

“Oh.” she said, her cheeks burning withembarrassment. “We cannot leave yet. Everyone else is still trying to findsponsors…”

“We’re never getting sponsors and our kids arenever making it out even if we do.” he spat, somber.

“You do not knowthat.” she retorted, annoyed by his constant pessimism.

“Nineteen years of experience say I do.” hedeadpanned, downing the rest of his drink. “Look, stay or go, I don’t care.Keep the car. I’ll walk back.”

He was gone before she could even blink. Shewas slower in getting up – because her dress was short and unpractical althoughvery pretty, and her clutch wouldn’tclose properly – and thus she only caught up with him at the end of the street.

She didn’t want to call out to him like afishmonger so she had no choice but to walk fast – almost at a run – which wasnever easy on towering heels. She had all the troubles in the world looking dignified.

“I hope you know I never run after men.” shehuffed once she was standing next to him.

She suspected he had slowed down his pace soshe could actually catch up.

“And I hadto be the exception.” he grumbled. “You couldn’t annoy someone else.”

He didn’t protest when she looped her arm underhis, which told her he wasn’t really mad, just a bit drunk and probablyfrustrated. Their tributes’ odds didn’t look good if the first couple of daysof training were anything to go by.

“You will miss me when I get promoted and youknow it.” she teased with a bright smile.

That promotion she had kept talking about sincethe very first year, the one that would neverhappen. As they were both aware.

She was too good at her job, too good athandling him. He had been goingthrough an escort a year before she had walked in, either harassing them intoquitting or sleeping with them and then acting like a jerk. He had beenimpossible, a real pain for the Head Gamemaker, and Twelve’s paperwork hadnever been done on time. Then, she had been hired and everything had changed.He was still impossible but she had her tricks to make him behave a little moreproperly. He was still a pain but he tended to annoy her and not the Gamemakersbecause he found it funnier. As for Twelve’s paperwork, it had long become her responsibility. She did most of hisjob in addition to hers, this way they were up to spar and everyone was happy.She was too good. They would never promote her and risk going back to the wreck Twelve had beenbefore.

When Haymitch was furious with her – or theworld – he liked tossing that in her face. But sometimes, he humored her.

“Picked your next District already?” hechuckled. “’Cause I heard Three’s retiring soon…”

“I was thinking about Eight actually.” shecountered. “Their team seemed to be doing really well tonight.”

She guided them deeper in the city, throughsmaller pedestrian streets that would hopefully cut the walking time in half.What a ridiculous idea to walk whenthey had car with a driver at their disposal. Her shoes would kill her longbefore they reached the Center. They were masterpieces. They weren’t meant tobe walked in.

“Maybe.” he shrugged. “Didn’t pay attention.”

She pouted at the obvious lie. “Alina lookslovely.”

“Subtle.” he snorted, as they were reachingMain Square. He steered them toward streets that paralleled the square – sothey wouldn’t get caught in the middle of a crowd who would request autographsand pictures, she presumed.

“For someone who was not paying attention youlooked at her a great deal.” she huffed. “That is all I am saying.”

And that was plentyalready.

“So what? You spied on me the whole night?” hescowled, hurrying his pace and forcing her to lengthen her steps to keep up.The City Circle was in sight and she would be relieved once they would reachthe Games’ compound, her feet hurt.

“I happened to notice you were staring at her alot.” she deflected. “I checked that you were not getting drunk, I was not spying.”

“Kind of falls into my definition of spying.” he muttered.

“Well, then. I will happily buy you a newdictionary.” she retorted. “You do not need to answer me since it is clearly asensitive topic. I shall never ask about Alina Grave again.”

“Good.” he snapped. “’Cause that’s none of yourfucking business, Trinket.”

“No need to be rude.” she hissed.

She had trouble keeping up with his strides soshe unlocked their arms and went at her own pace. He walked on for a minute orso and then stopped, hands buried in his pockets, waiting for her. He offeredhis arm again once she reached him, not once looking at her. She took itwithout a word, happy to notice he slowed his steps to accommodate her.

“The sponsor she was talking to was handsy.” hemuttered once they reached the middle of the City Circle and the Training Centerwas looming ahead. “She could have broken that guy’s wrist, sure, but she’s gota family… I’ve got no one they can punish for punching a Capitol. She’s myfriend. I was looking out for her, that’s all. Not that it’s any of your business.”

She relaxed a little but kept her featuresschooled into detachment. “I said Iwould never ask again.”

“Yeah, well… You didn’t ask, I offered.” hescoffed.

“She is very attractive, though.” she hummed.

He rolled his eyes. “We’re not doing this.”

“Doing what?” she asked, sounding every bit aspuzzled as she wasn’t.

“Comparing.” he spat. “That’s bullshit, Effie. I ain’t going to feedyour ego.”

She eyed him from under her fake eyelashes,trying to read him. “My ego does notrequire feeding.”

“Finally,we can agree on something.” he taunted. “Warn Caesar. He can probably squeezeus into the morning special.”

It was lucky for him they reached the Centerjust at that moment. There was a group of people at the doors, like always, and,for a moment, she lost herself in the necessary act of waving, smiling, andsigning.

Haymitch was in the lobby well before shemanaged to make her escape. She barely had time to slid between the closingdoors of the elevator or he would have gone up without her.

“You could have waited.” she rebuked.

“Thought your ego would need an empty elevator,sweetheart…” he mocked. “It’s so big.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, lips pursed, andtilted her head to the side, giving a pass to the crude joke he was obviouslyexpecting. She patted her wig instead, keeping her gaze riveted to the flashingnumbers that indicated the floors.

At eight, she cleared her throat.

“May I ask your opinion on something?” sheinquired.

“Sure.” he shrugged.

“Without you making fun of me?” she insisted.

His smirk should have been outlawed. It was fartoo sexy for something so smug and disrespectful.

“Now, I’m curious.” he confessed. “Shoot,Princess.”

She rolled her eyes. “I was simply consideringa new hairstyle earlier but I cannot forthe life of me decide if it is a good idea or not.”

“Hairstyle?” He made a face. “You mean yourreal hair?”

“Yes.” she nodded. “I was thinking…”

“No pink.” he almost begged. “And don’t cut it.Not that I care. Or have an opinion.” He rubbed the back of his neck,embarrassed and uncomfortable with the conversation. “’Cause I don’t.”

It was lucky she was such a good actressbecause keeping herself from grinning was difficult.

“I was thinking about becoming a brunette.” shedeclared.

If possible, he winced even more. “What for?”

“Why not?” she replied cheerfully. “You do like dark-haired women, don’t you?Wouldn’t you like it better if…”

“We don’t do that kind of stuff.” he cut heroff, just as the elevator chimed to signal they had reached the penthouse. “Iain’t shaving for you. You don’t need to dye your hair for me.”

“It would not be for you.” she answered flatly. “I am asking for your opinion as afriend. I have had the same boring hairstyle since forever and…”

“What’s wrong with it?” he grumbled. “I like yourhair.”

“But it is blond and you like brunettes.” shebreathed out with frustration. “Shouldn’t you…”

“It looks reddish with the right light.” hemumbled. “And it’s real. I don’t like fake anything.”He rolled his eyes. “I like yourhair.”

He looked upset at the thought that she woulddestroy it with black dye so she helplessly lifted her hands and then droppedthem. “Alright then. I simply wanted your opinion. As a friend.”

“Well, that’s my opinion.” he scowled.

“Good.” she nodded, pushing the button thatwould open the doors that had long closed, given their hesitancy to step out,and then gesturing in the vague direction of her room. “I will go to bed.”

“Yeah. Good.” he acknowledged, not looking ather. “I’m gonna hit the liquor cart.”

She was neither surprised nor alright with thatbut she didn’t try to stop him.

She was too busy running to her room, fightingoff as smile.

#hayffie #effie trinket #haymitch abernathy #prompt #games time #funny one #no wig no make up #effie & cigarettes #coconuts friends #jealousy #alina

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