"Are you busy?"

“Are you busy?”

I don’t know why this question offends me so much. It shouldn’t. It’s kind of polite, taking the time to wonder whether or not I have time to help.  However, as a teacher, unless it is during those glorious times of vacation (I hear a chorus of angels singing ‘hallelujah’ even as I just write that word), the answer is always ‘yes.’

But that’s not really what students are asking when they ask me this question. What they are wondering is if I can stop what I’m doing at that moment and help them with whatever difficulties they’re having. In other words: “Ms. Howland, am I important enough for you to care enough about me at this very moment and stop whatever you’re doing and help me right now?” Again, the answer is inevitably ‘yes.’ Because that’s my job, and I really do like helping students understand how to improve their work. (However, when you accost me in the parking lot in the morning when I’m just arriving on campus, be forewarned that you should wave a slab of chocolate or a freshly brewed cup of coffee under my nose to ease that disgruntled Grumpy dwarf who tends to inhabit my body in the early mornings and will not answer politely otherwise. It’s him, though, not me. I’m a ray of sunshine always.)

 What amazes me, though, is the students who come right before exams and ask me to teach them, for example, ‘how to write an essay.’ Um…well, that’s what half of the semester was spent on, but sure I have five minutes to give you the Cliff Notes version that will not help you in any way whatsoever but will perhaps make each of us feel better: me for not ignoring a student’s request and the student for thinking he did what he could to prepare for the exam. Yea, we’re both completely delusional, but if I constantly thought what I did was meaningless, I’d want to slit my wrists everyday. Okay, okay, I know my penchant for hyperbole can get a bit annoying, but seriously, I do get depressed when I think about how meaningless my job is compared to, say, a health care worker of any kind. So I try not to think that most of my 300 students really could care less about what I teach them. Sigh. (And writing about this now really helps my not thinking about it…just going to find me a dark corner to curl up in now.)

Seriously though, I do wonder what kind of difference I’m making on the world. What am I contributing to that great collective poem that the world is writing as it spins through time and space?  If I weren’t here, wouldn’t another person be doing my job with similar results?  Sure, I’m unique, and maybe I’m the only lecturer these students will ever have who will say, “There’s only love in this room” when I want students to share their work. And maybe I’ll be the only 8:00 a.m. lecturer who will always, without fail, be in the classroom and begin class exactly at 8, week after week, much to the dismay of three-quarters of the students who show up late. And I might be the only lecturer my students will have who gets super excited about anything to do with grammar (as everyone should!). And maybe (due to my complete stupidity?) I’m the only lecturer who will ever dare (read: be stupid) to allow her 300 students – to in fact encourage them, and in some cases require them – to rewrite their essays to improve their work and get more points added to their scores.  (Yup, 300 essays to read and grade. And then to read and grade again. And I sometimes wonder why I’m single? Duh.)

And I know at these times when I’m doubting my contribution and meaningfulness I should stop and remember the times when students have given me those little slivers of sweet compliments, such as “I really appreciate your time” and “As long as I got you [as my teacher], then it doesn’t matter when you leave after that” and “I like your style!” (For the record, he meant teaching style not fashion style, although I’d appreciate either as a compliment.)  I’m assuming my students don’t know how much those compliments mean to me. They are few and far between, but I hold onto them to sustain me through the times when I doubt that I'm making a difference.  

And to me those compliments are like smooth round stones, the ones picked up on the beach, pocketed, forgotten and then found later that night when the cold summer air forces my hands into my pockets. And as I turn the smooth stone around in my hand, I remember not only why I picked it up but also why I came to the beach in the first place, what I was thinking as I watched the ocean lap the sand, as the water turned from blue to gray and finally filled with moonlight.