I've had a pretty rough spring semester this year. The difficulty began almost immediately: I had a very smart but very lazy student in two of my classes, a student who didn't like to come to class and couldn't seem to get there on time under any circumstances--and who didn't understand why this was a problem for me. This students is of the "I'm paying for these classes; I shouldn't have to show up unless I want to" variety. My only response to that, usually, is a quick point to the syllabus, which makes it very clear that we have different attitudes on the question of attendance.
None of this would be an enormous issue if not for the fact that the student was scheduled to graduate in May. Note the use of past tense there: was scheduled. Not anymore. As you might imagine, many people are unhappy about this. So I've been dealing with associate provosts and provosts and parents for the last month, trying to explain why I don't think it's unreasonable to expect students to show up for class, and why I drop students from my classes if they don't attend. In this particular case, I've been explaining how I warned and warned and warned the student what was going to happen, and how those warnings were flagrantly ignored. People on campus have supported me; people in the student's family are, as you might imagine, not my biggest fans at this moment.
If I taught courses in another discipline, I might feel differently about the question of whether it's important to come to class. Perhaps it's possible to read the biology textbook on your own and get from it what you need to pass; I don't know. I don't teach biology, so I wouldn't presume to say what is or is not possible. What I do know is that, in my classes, I'm not teaching the contents of a book. When you take a test in one of my classes, I'm not asking you what happened and to whom (or, not only that--obviously, you need to know those things.) I'm asking you to work through specific questions about the text using specific tools. Theories. Techniques. You'd have to be in class to get those tools, and to learn how to use them.
But even if that weren't the case--let's consider, for a moment, the possibility that I only tested my students on the content of a text. If you read the text on your own and understood it, maybe you wouldn't need to come to class. But what it you only thought you understood it? (I can't tell you how many times students have completely missed an author's social commentary or sarcasm.) What if you missed a symbolic motif? What if you understood the text through the lens of your own contemporary experience, but not as a representation of its own time period--then did you really understand the book?
But let's say you understood it just fine on your own. What if the only people who came to class were those who didn't understand the text, or didn't read it? What, exactly, would be the purpose of a class meeting with that group of people? Other than providing time to read, I don't know what I could possibly do with them. You can't discuss a book with people who haven't read it carefully. Students who get the reading are essential to a good classroom discussion.
Juxtaposed with this student is another--an excellent student who's been facing some very serious health problems since mid-February. In spite of the fact that this student is struggling with mobility issues and barely able to move around independently--and in spite of the fact that she commutes half an hour each way to campus--there hasn't been a day when she's arrived late for class. For that matter, she's missed only one day this semester. And that was before her health problems began, when she had to take care of a completely unrelated medical procedure. This student values her education so much that even when I tell her it's okay to take it easy, she refuses to do that. She wants to receive everything I have to give.
Students like that are why I teach. Because they make me realize that what I have to offer is of value--such great value, apparently, that some of them are willing to put their own pain aside in order to receive it. Students like that make me a better teacher.
Many years ago, in graduate school, one of my professors told the story of a student who'd gone through some financial struggles and become homeless for awhile--a student who'd done his reading under streetlights and slept under bridges, but still never missed a day of class. "He made me a better teacher," my professor said, "because I wanted to be worthy of the sacrifices he was making for his education. And now, every day, I remind myself: teach for the students who are sleeping under bridges to be here."
It's hard to keep this in mind when you're faced with a student who's throwing away the privilege of a college education. But I thank the student who helped me keep my balance this semester--the one who compelled me to follow her example and do my very best work every day, who kept me humble and, above all, counting my blessings.
