I received my first official grade today: an A. Technically, it might be an A- because it says 91% and I don’t know, exactly, what that grade is. But I don’t really care, because it was in my most difficult class — one of the most difficult I’ve ever taken.
It was a 100-level anthropology course that I took as the final requirement for my science credits, and I admit that the reason I chose that one was because the professor teaching it had a “chili pepper” next to his name on RateMyProfessors.com. The people rating him had said he was fun and the class was relatively easy. So I signed up.
Imagine my surprise the first day of class when a very young, very energetic young woman came in and began speaking with a heavy accent at about 100 miles per hour. She was probably one of the brightest people who’d ever taught a class I’ve been in, but she is definitely a specialist. The sheer volume of information we were expected to absorb was ridiculous, and I honestly thought after the first exam that I was going to get a C in this class; a B if I was lucky.
In the women’s bathroom down the hall from our class one morning, she stopped me and said how much she liked my hair. I wanted to ask if she would give me a few extra credit points if I gave her the name of my stylist. But I also never missed one class (except when Obama came to the Fairgrounds, which I notified her about in advance), and I came to the review session before our final. I think this may have helped me a little bit.
This was the class, at the beginning of this semester, I thought would be my “cake” course — I wouldn’t worry about it, my attendance, or my grades, ’cause it’d be a snap. I was wrong. It was the one I ultimately ended up spending the most amount of time on, and as a result, my attention to my other courses waned. So while I’m thrilled with the outcome of this class, I’m afraid I may have done worse than I could have in everything else.
I also realized tonight that I may end up like my dad when I have this kid. Someone was in the store tonight with an obnoxious little kid who was trying to knock our Christmas decorations around with his “pirate sword” (a plastic ruler his parents apparently let him carry). Before I knew it, I was saying, “If I had done that, my mother would have made me eat dirt.”
The kid was simultaneously perplexed and sort of scared, although his parents didn’t seem to notice one way or another what he was doing. At least he stopped.
It’s completely something my dad would say, and I started thinking about how I would respond to those typical “Why?” questions children have. Facetiously. Sarcastically. With irony and causing my child vast amounts of confusion.