Strange Happenings on Campus

Tonight, Mandy and I were sitting outside having an amusing conversation, as usual, when a most odd thing happened. There we were, discussing the absurdity of telling women to follow their husbands as their husbands follow God, when a stranger walked up.

Him: "Hey."
Me: "Hi. . . (?)"
Him: *Sits on bench three feet away*
Me: *Continues conversation with Mandy*
Him: "Do you think you could help me with my math homework?"
Me: *Notices Algebra textbook in his hand* "Sure."
Him: *Flips through pages* "Okay. This is my first problem. Are you ready?"
Me: "Yes."
Him: "3a. A equals 9."
Me: *Look that says "I must've heard that wrong."* "3a when a equals 9?"
Him: "Yeah."
Me: "Okay. You have 3a. If a equals 9, then you put 9 in place of a. What do you get?"
Him: "Are you making fun of me?"
Me: "No. I'm trying to help you without just giving you the answer so that maybe you'll learn how to do this on your own."
Him: "Oh." *Fidgets with pencil before writing down problem.* "So I do what?"
Me: "Put 9 in place of a."
Him: "So it's 27?"
Me: "Yeah."

Then I went back to Mandy to continue our conversation about absurd wedding vows. I want mine to include, "If you abuse me, I will divorce you. Don't ask for unconditional love because I don't believe in that. Being that I currently lack the financial resources to go to Denmark and seek out my ideal partner, you'll do for now." Then I hear,

Him: "Hey. Do you know the distributive property?"
Me: "Yes."
Him: "How do I do 3x + 3y?"
Me: "Do they just want you to rephrase it?"
Him: "Yes."
Me: "What's the common factor?"
Him: "3?"
Me: "Yes. So how could you rewrite that?"
Him: "x + y?"
Me: "No. What's the common factor?"
Him: "3 times x?"
Me: "No. You already said that 3 was the common factor. So pull that out. What is left?"
Him: *Clearly confused* "x + y?"
Me: "Yes."
Him: "So how would I rewrite that?"
Me: "You took 3 out." *Makes parentheses with hands* "What's left?"
Him: "3 then in parentheses x + y?"
Me: "Yes."

Then Mandy and I scurried inside before I was asked about the transitive property.

It was bizarre. I have no idea who that guy was. No idea. Do I have some aire about me that just screams, "Hey! I'm a math tutor!"? Because I was not aware. And frankly, I don't think I like it.

If that guy should be seeking help from anyone, it should be his high school math teachers, who clearly jipped him big time. No one should graduate high school without a basic understanding of algebra. And no one should get into a university without a basic understanding of algebra--yes, even this university.

God Bless the DMA . . . I mean, USA

For those of you who don't know what the DMA is, you are missing out. You see, the Ohio Department of Public Safety, a division of the Department of Homeland Security (one of my favorite government entities), has implemented a new measure to decrease the likelihood that terrorists will bomb the hell out of us or otherwise shower our good ol' conservative Bible belt town with chaos. (As my roommate so aptly pointed out, our cows make for a great target.)

Now surely, the Department wouldn't waste our time with a measure unless it actually had the potential to fulfill its purpose. Right? I mean, the government knows that it would make sense to enact only those policies that served a meaningful function and thereby justified the expense involved in their implementation. (Oh wait. I forgot. FEMA proved me wrong on that one with their fields full of empty mobile homes.)

Anyway, back to the point: I work in an office at a state university. That means that anyone employed by our office is a public employee. Thus, anyone signing a contract with our office (and believe me, there were tons of these people wandering into the office throughout the day to sign contracts for which their duties started today--good job on the promptness and pre-planning, guys!) has to sign a DMA.

What is the DMA? (It's quite laughable, so bear with me for a moment.) "DMA" stands for "Declaration Regarding Material Assistance/Nonassistance to a Terrorist Organization." That's right. We are making people sign a form to certify that they have never supported a terrorist organization.

Just what qualifies as a terrorist organization? Couldn't really tell ya. Hell, for all I know the Democratic Party is on the list--right above PETA. The greatest part of the whole ordeal is that no one signing the document today asked what these supposed terrorist organizations were. And it's a good thing really, because the only way to find out is to attempt navigating the Ohio Homeland Security Division's website to find the "Terrorist Exclusion list." (And just to show that the Department wanted everyone to be informed about the documents they were signing, the website isn't even listed on the DMA.)

Because I love you all so much, I have navigated said website and found said list. Take one look at the Terrorist Exclusion List and you will be reminded that we have not indeed grown past the red scare of the McCarthy era; then you'll be reminded that if the terrorists aren't commies, they must be Muslim! Don't expect to be able to pronounce the names of the organizations to which you surely contributed.

But the classic part of this whole thing, the thing that really makes me smile, is the following, an excerpt from the instructions on our lovely DMA:

"Any answer of 'yes' to any question, or the failure to answer 'no' to any question on this declaration shall serve as a disclosure that material assistance to an organization identified on the U.S. Department of State Terrorist Exclusion List has been provided. Failure to disclose the provision of material assistance to such an organization or knowlingly making false statements regarding material assistance to such an organization is a felony of the fifth degree."

Translation: Now, children, if you're a terrorist, we need you to be honest with us. Just tell Uncle Sam all about it and we'll make sure everything's okay. We might even keep you in the U.S., where you have at least a marginal chance of getting a fair trial (or a trial at all, for that matter), rather than sending you to Guantanamo. Mmk? But don't forget, if you leave a question blank we're going to assume you meant "yes" and you're admitting to be a terrorist. And if we find out you lied to us, we're going to charge you with a fifth degree felony. Now run along. We know you're telling us the truth. After all, terrorists are always forthcoming about their plots to destroy the nation.

Irony

I would like to take this opportunity, on this internet forum, to discuss activity on another, different internet forum--an internet forum that I consider heinous and thoughtless to an assinine degree--an internet forum for which I have an active account.

What forum might it be? MySpace? Fark? Facebook? Or, better yet, Match.com?

Today, my devoted readers and fans, we will be discussing that evil little mole of a website that has grown into a festering, pus-filled tumor on the face of the internet that we love so much. We will be discussing Facebook; and by "we," I mean that I will be ranting and you will be humoring me by fulfilling my narcissistic need to be listened to.

I created my Facebook account some time ago to stop a certain person, who shall remain nameless, from harrassing me about my absence from the wondrous new networking tool. (Because we all know that networking with mindless sorority girls from a state university is going to further our careers, successes, and futures. Were I attending an Ivy League school where my roommate's father could hook me up with free law school tuition, I might see the situation differently.)

Back on track though: Since creating a Facebook account I have rarely logged in without the prompt of an email saying I have a new "Friend." (Oh joy!) I have watched coworkers obsessively stalk complete strangers via Facebook. (Seriously, she thought some guy she saw in the Union was cute, so she figured out which residence he lived in, then browsed through the Facebook accounts of every male living in the building until she located his account. Then she checked for updates to his account every twenty minutes. . . rather than approaching him to say "hi.") I have also listened to conversations about how people are addicted to Facebook; they find themselves spending three hours at a time fixated on the website.

How!? It's not that damn interesting. No one is particularly clever. I don't see the point in reading individuals' profiled repeatedly. Why message people through Facebook when their email addresses are listed right there? And most importantly, why look for information about people you don't know and will most likely never know?

Now, you may be asking yourself: Why doesn't Allison just shut (the f**k) up and delete her account? Good question. I have asked myself that same question numerous times. Each time, I am left with the same answer: How else am I going to stalk my students?

By far, the most hilarious aspect of Facebook is students' complete naivete about the fact that their professors and teaching assistants can create Facebook accounts too. So every time a student rants about the evils of a professor's assigning a certain book or advocating a certain political view, that professor can see the rant. Students may as well send an email to the professor directly:

"Dear Sir/Madam,
"I, your lowly peon of a freshman student in an introductory class, would just like you to know that tonight I will be adding a comment to my Facebook account to express my frustration with your complete lack of skill in the area of pedagogy generally. It will read something like this: 'Yo, listen up everybody. Dr. ______ totally blows! S/he keeps telling us to read these damn books and then wants us to discuss them. Curse you, Dr. ______!!!!!!!!!'
"Thank you for your time and I loathe the thought of seeing you for class on Tuesday.
"Signed,
"A Student Who Obviously Doesn't Care about His/Her Grade in Your Class."

The best though--the thing that is amusing enough to make me get out of bed in the morning with a smile on my face (and that's a true challenge; just ask those who have heard my alarm clocks and thrown pillows in my direction only to get death threats in return)--that special event that makes me wonder how these people got into a university in the first place, is when students create groups for the sole purpose of bashing an instructor or a course.

No. . . No one's going to notice when there is a group called, "I Hate [Insert Subject Here]" or "[Insert Instructor's Name Here] Sucks Monkey Balls" or "Welcome to [Course Name Here] Hell." And they definitely won't notice when more than 75% of the students in their course are members of the group. Certainly won't happen. You know, if the instructor weren't such an idiot in the first place, there wouldn't be a group; so obviously there's no way the instructor will figure it out.

So yes, I have a Facebook account. And yes, I keep tabs on my students for the pure entertainment value it provides. And yes, I am currently revelling in the potential irony of this situation: A student could easily look me up on Facebook--where there is a link to this very website and this very text. If any of my students are reading, I have one question: Do you honestly think that the professor in our course doesn't know about Facebook?

We're watching. [Cue the creepy, cheesy horror film lighting and soundtrack.]

I impress myself sometimes.

Today I successfully packed all of my worthless belongings for my triumphant return to campus. I had been putting it off all week and now, with under six hours left until departure time, I am almost done packing.

Anyway, that's not why I'm impressed. I know I can pack quickly. Leaving campus pretty much every weekend for the past two years has taught me that.

So how did you impress yourself then, Allison? Good question.

As you may or may not know, I love shoes. That is to say, I love buying and owning shoes. I don't so much love the wearing of shoes. More often than not I am either barefoot or in flipflops. (I swear there's a conspiracy going on because all the cute shoes are unbearably uncomfortable. We're talking about a bleeding-blister-causing, limp-inducing, utterly tortuous level of discomfort.)

Regardless, I own a lot of shoes. And I typically take them all to school with me. You never know when you will need brown suede ballet slippers or four-inch strappy heels or plaid mules or canvas tennis shoes or any number of colors of flipflops or any endless assortment of black flats. After all, the average college student has to do something to spice up that fine array of jeans, sweatpants, t-shirts, and hoodies.

Okay, okay. I'm getting to the point. Today I actually went through my shoes and decided not to take them all to campus. Keep in mind: this event was not as momentous as the time I gave away half of my shoe collection upon returning for winter break (no worries; I still had more than twenty pairs and promptly treated myself to a trip to DSW); but I am returning to school with a mere. . .

*drumroll please*

Eighteen pairs of shoes! (Not counting slippers or the shoes that go with my suit.)

Be impressed. I am.

It's fun. I promise.



The author apologizes for behaving like a stereotypical female and vows not to do this again any time soon. If she does, you have her permission to stone her in public. Just make sure you use the kind of foam stones that would be used on a movie set as props. Real stones would hurt. And then you would have to hear her tirade about trying to cover the ugly bruises with ten different kinds of concealer, and we would just be running around in circles with this no-behaving-in-a- girly-manner-thing, huh? Good. Glad we have an understanding.