Worst Professor Ever

[Today's guest post is courtesy of The Byronic Man, another soul who's not-quite-fled the Academy for greener pastures.  You may find his bio a bit suspicious (and just go ahead, ask him about the name) but his writing is very funny. And I'm sure he's not lying when he says he teaches, lives in Oregon, and has done stand-up.  Pretty sure...]

I never became a professor, not really.  I have taught, and continue to teach, the occasional college class before as a grad student and as a professor.  What really drove me away from academia, I think, is best captured by a series of moments not from being part of the system, but as a student.  This isn’t to complain that college wasn’t fun enough and professors are mean and they crushed the beautiful, delicate flower of my intellect.  In fact, none of these instances stood out to me as problematic until later, years after the fact, when examining the system from the other side of the lectern.

Okay, so here’s the beginning of the story: I loved academics as a kid. I got genuinely excited when I found out there were such things as Think Tanks (I was an odd kid. Give me a break). When my mom asked if I wanted to go with her while she got her PhD I replied, “Do I have to wait in the car?”  But then I figured out what she meant, and went with her, and loved the college world.  I was told several times that this would be my element.  I loved creating, and I loved education.  At least the dream of it, the Platonic ideal somewhere out there, casting its shadow on the wall of our cave.

 And now here’s the end of the story: At the conclusion of my Master’s oral exams, a professor asked, “So, now that you’re done, what’s next?  Doctorate?”  I replied, “No.  Actually, I’m done with academia for a while.  I’m going to have a go at being a stand-up comedian.”

And, to fill in the gaps, here’s a few points in between.

Freshman year of college, science general ed requirement.  The professor who openly loathes students and resents being forced to teach at all (but especially a general requirement course), as teaching interferes with his research time. He tells us that it “sickens” him that our votes count as much as his.  One day, after the lecture, I ask why, if animal cells don’t have walls and thus fall apart when they become over-saturated with water, we don’t come apart if we stay in the tub too long.  Several students chuckle (which is valid – I still think it’s a funny image.  A big timer by the swimming pool.  “It’s 17 minutes!  Get out!  Quick!  Qui- awww, too late. Gross.”) The professor says, “Yeah, okay, moving on.”  I clarify that I’m genuinely asking, not being a smart-ass.  He rolls his eyes and continues as if I’ve said nothing.

Sophomore year: “I don’t understand why my test scores are often so, well, mediocre.” “You won’t stick to the lecture material.  You’re trying to advance your own ideas.” “Right.  To build on the discussions from class.  Should I not?”  “No, you need to be demonstrating that you heard the lectures.”  “So I should be summarizing and repeating back what you said?”  “Exactly.”  This would be the last time I’d receive lower than an A on an exam.

Junior Year, the “single-theory professor” everyone says find phallic imagery in everything, to the point that it goes beyond absurd and you simply have to doff your cap that she’s found another phallic image where others have failed.  I say that may be, but she’s an academic.  She is, by definition, in search of greater truths and challenging her own ideas.  She is discussing the point in a Roth text in which a mother beats her son with a coat hanger, and the phallic imagery of the hanger.  As people had warned. phallic imagery has been applied to so many things in the course: guns (sure; a bit obvious, but okay), bread (ew. I guess), lamps, fingers, cap-doffers… but a coat hanger?  I wrestle with this, and finally, genuinely confused, ask, “Have coat hangers changed shape since this was written?  Because I see them as triangular, and, er, that would seem, you know –to me – a very different image and maybe, um, the symbolism of a woman… beating a boy… with something triangular…”  She replies that perhaps when I’ve had more academic training this would be clearer.

Senior year: “You need to stop trying to introduce ideas in to your papers.”  “Am I not reasoning out my ideas effectively?”  “No, it isn’t that.  But that’s not what I’m looking for. Your thesis needs to show an understanding of the critical rhetoric.”  “I thought that’s what I was doing.”  “Basically, you need to find a published critic and you thesis should be to agree with him.”  This would be the last time I’d receive lower than an A on a paper.

Grad school, year one: A professor puts up a “Hate-Free Zone” sign in the room.  Okay, I’m all for meditation, and the concept of universal energy flow, but you know when someone, like, sends positive thoughts to AIDS-stricken regions of Africa, and believes this to be global humanitarianism on par with, say Doctors Without Borders?  That’s all I can think about as I stare at the sign.  Does the professor believe that racists will enter the room, see an object of their bigotry, then see the sign and figure, “Well, better change my ways”?  Should we parachute in folks from the UN to post those around violence-plagued areas, and periodically bark at people, “Read the sign!”?  Plus, the signs obviously don’t work, because I’m in the room, and I hate that goddamn sign.

Year two: I propose a thesis examining and challenging Nigerian novelist Chinua Achebe’s 1971 assertion that Heart of Darkness is inherently racist and should not be considered great literature.  My professor says no, anything to do with Heart of Darkness has been done to death.  I tweak the thesis. And tweak it.  And tweak it, trying to incorporate the professors’ suggestions.  Finally I agree to look at the Victorian influences on Alice in Wonderland.  Something I have almost no interest in.  “Wow,” I say. “This has come a long way from Achebe and Heart of Darkness.” “What?”  “You know, what I originally wanted to do, with Achebe and racism in Heart of Darkness.”  “Hm.  You know what you could do – it would be interesting to look at Achebe’s accusations against Heart of Darkness and examine their validity.”  I take a deep breath.  “Yes, that’s a good idea.  Thank you.  I think I’ll do that.”

So, then came the end.  I wound up being a professional comedian for several years.  There was a tremendous “truth to power” aspect to being a comedian that cannot be found anywhere else.  There are no limitations, not really, so long as what you’re saying is funny, and you can handle the absolute crushing you’ll receive if it’s not.  Often, quite often, audiences were not interested in truth (Some of my favorite comments: “You use too many big words” “Talk about your dick”), but man, those times when it works?  When you can delve in to a subject and dissect it with satire, and the audience is there with you – even though it lacks interaction on any literal scale, it is a nearly perfect environment of illumination.  You feed of them, and they off you.  And it’s a relief.  The humor in the face of knowledge is a tangible relief not just for the audience, but for the performer as well.  There’s something about humor that integrates the left and right brain’s ways of comprehending the world – almost nothing else speaks to both hemispheres quite the same way.  The left brain gets to parse the mechanics, and the right brain gets the feel, the underlying truth.  Also, your drinks are free.

Ultimately, the pendulum may have swung a little far in the other direction, during my years as a comic, but that’s another story.  Now there’s a pretty good balance between the two worlds – one I feel pretty happy with.  It’d be a good ending, I suppose, if I said that was that, never looked at academia again, “To hell with your ivory tower fooferah and argle-bargle!” and such, but the truth – as I said – is I teach the occasional college class and some high-school classes (which pays less, earns less respect, but wow, really is more satisfying).  Truth is I’ve even explored going back to the PhD.  Taken a couple of PhD classes lately.  Because that Platonic ideal, it just doesn’t die.  Because I beat on, boat against the current.  I guess some people?  They never learn.