I’m [a] PC

Last week most of my classes were discussing religion in the modern world. Many of our conversations touched on or even revolved around the US Constitution – particularly the Bill of Rights – probably, in part, due to the fact that we read one article by Supreme Court Justice Antonin Scalia, who some of my students assumed was a lady – I don't know why.

In that process, we also came upon a number of questions about how far one citizen's rights go, whether that right is to practice religion, "bear arms," free expression, or what have you.

I, of course, being an English professor, part-time journalist, and occasional writer, am most interested in the questions of free speech or expression.

In fact, looking back, I'd guess that I've attempted to steer about 80% of my classroom discussions towards that topic at one moment or another. (Often it's while we're discussing obscenity.)

But I didn't have to do much steering while we discussed an article about the French "veil law," which restricts students in French public schools from wearing obvious religious clothing or symbols. On its surface, this law is about freedom of religion, but there are some deeper connections to freedom of expression as well (insomuch as practicing religion occasionally requires expression).

At some point, a student questioned why this restriction of religion/expression was so strange for students in public schools considering it's essentially required of their teachers. The answer is multi-faceted, but suffice it to say that I do not, as a teacher at a state-funded university, have what I would consider "free speech."

But I'm not alone. For multiple reasons, American free speech is curtailed every day.

Larry Johnson presents a good example. His NFL career is essentially over because of his free expression of his thoughts – in this case a gay slur and insubordination.

Ultimately, the restrictions on free speech are myriad, and very few people possess truly free speech.

Mark Cuban seems very close. It's tough to be pro-steroids – or even ambiguous about steroids – in our current discursive community. But I'm betting he pulls it off.

In the end, it may be that approaching truly free speech requires either a wealth of importance or a wealth of unimportance.

Beyond Cuban and just a few other exceptions, the only people I've heard talk openly about the potential triviality of steroid use in sports are the meaningless, unimportant fans.

Quote of the Week:

"Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances."

First Amendment

Sometimes a Slimer is just a Slimer.

It must be a slow sports day when Sportscenter leads with a soccer story, recycles a two-week old feature about Drew Brees' pregame antics (which I can't believe I can't find), and comes up with a bullshit excuse for a "Top 10."

Even though it's a slow sports day, I still want to write a blog, so I'm going to write about a dream I had the other morning.

The dream happened Monday morning and was interrupted by my alarm clock. (It's a clock radio.) I very rarely remember any of my dreams, so when I do wake up mid-dream, I usually spend my first ten to fifteen waking moments recreating and cementing the dream's details, like apples in fruitcake. I'd guess this process occasionally leads to some half-truths and embellishments, but at any rate, here's how I remember the dream:

I was holding individual student conferences, which I did just last week in my waking hours. Essentially, I meet with each of my students – usually in my office – on a brief but individual basis in lieu of teaching class for a couple of days.

But, instead of being in my office or anywhere on campus, for that matter, the conferences were taking place in my childhood bedroom in my mother's house. I was even in my childhood bunk beds, though I didn't notice if they were rocking my Ninja Turtle sheets.

Here's a few other details I remember about the dream:

• My mom was there and would pop her head in to announce students on occasion.
  
• I was using a cell phone with Blue Tooth as another means to announce students' presence. But it wasn't my phone because it was a flip phone and mine's a slider. I've also never worn a Blue Tooth earpiece in my life except, now, in my dreams.
  
• It took place over two separate days. I distinctly remember having some conferences, then going to sleep, and waking up for some other conferences. For this practice, the bed was particularly convenient. Waking up in dreams is curious, at least, and is often used in sci-fi movies, etc. to symbolize our own tenuous relations with reality. (We can blame Descartes for that, as well as for superscript.)
  

I awoke "for reals" fairly quickly after waking in the dream, but I did have time for one conference on the morning of the second day, which is, of course, the one conference I remember the most.

This particular conference was with Slimer – from Ghostbusters. I know it was Slimer because he called me before coming to my room, and the Ghostbusters logo popped up on "my" phone under his name.

But, when Slimer got to my room, he wasn't Slimer. He was just a really big dude dressed in all-white with a white Batman-ears mask on – not the whole mask, just the ears. But this guy obviously thought he was Slimer because he kept trying to walk through walls. In fact, when the dream ended, he was just bouncing around in my doorjamb like some sort of video game character who found the outer edges of the programmed game world.

And then I woke up.

I think every good dream story starts out kind of normal, then gets progressively weirder, and finally ends with "and then I woke up."

I suppose they could also end with a trip to a psychologist.

I'm guessing a Freudian psychoanalysis – though those hardly exist anymore – would probably explain this dream as an oedipal representation of my fear of inadequacy as a teacher, especially considering my mom, herself a teacher, was there but only fleetingly, and I was, for lack of a better term, trapped in my childhood, since I couldn't leave my bed.

Or a Lacanian psychoanalysis – which might be slightly more in vogue – would probably say that the dream represents my desire to forego my responsibilities as a teacher in order to return to some sort of childlike fantasy world, where ghosts dress up like Batman, but neither they nor, again, my mother can actually be reached, since neither can get through my doorway.

I'm not particularly keen on overwrought dream analysis, particularly considering they can be interpreted in any number of ways. I prefer to simply blame the dream on what was on my mind at the time:

• My student conferences because they just happened last week.
  
• My childhood room because I'd just stayed there last weekend, after which I brought home my fish tank, which shared that room with my bunk beds for years.
  
• My crappy slider cell phone because it keeps buying things from my pocket since the keypad lock works like a high school curfew.
  
• And a poorly rendered Slimer because I'd spent Sunday morning watching a large portion of Michel Gondry's Be Kind Rewind, in which rapper-turned-actor Mos Def dresses in a makeshift Slimer costume to stage an amateur re-filming of Ghostbusters.
  

Quote of the Week:

"Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar."

This quote is often attributed to Freud, though there's a lot of debate – at least on the interwebs – as to whether he actually ever said it.

A is for abacus

I wish I was a math teacher.

It's been so long since I've had a legitimate math class that I'm not entirely sure how they work anymore. (Seriously, what the hell could you talk about for 75 straight minutes?) But I do know math teachers don't have to grade hundreds of essays every semester.

Here's a quick math lesson:

I have almost 125 students (since a few have left for greener pastures). Each of my 125 students will write four different essays before this semester concludes. Each of my 125 students' four different essays will go through at least two drafts. Both drafts of my 125 students' four different essays will be at least two or three pages long.

So, at a bare minimum, I should have read at least 2,000 pages of fantastically crafted student writing between International Beer Day and Christmas.

Let's have even more fun with numbers:

Each of my 125 students has been charged with writing a blog. I expect those 125 students to write an average of two blog entries per week. Each of my 125 students' two blog entries per week is supposed to be about 250-words – or one Microsoft-Word-page – long. These same 125 students are responsible for two page-long blog entries per week for the better part of one 15-week long semester.

So, considering the average student-slacking ebb and flow, I should have read approximately 3,750 pages of weekend adventure recaps, exam-week cram-session reports, and long-distance-relationship sob stories between bikini and parka seasons.

If I add in the low-ball-estimated 1,000 pages of in-class writing assignments and 250-pages worth of student emails that I expect to read this semester, I should have read a very-roughly-figured 7,000 pages of student writing between Charles' birthday and Bryan's.

And, if I happen to manage my time a little better, I will have written more than these two complaint-ridden pages of blogging between my previous entry and the December-tenth last day of the semester. But, for now, this will have to suffice.

Event of the Week:

In lieu of teaching classes this week, I'll be meeting with each of my 125 students on an individual basis to discuss the essays that they're currently working on. While this means that I'll have to do a lot of the aforementioned reading in the next few days, it also means that I get to see all of my students in a little more personal setting. Individual-conference weeks are usually some of my favorite of the semester.