Thursday, September 13, 2007

Professional Experience Optional

I love my teaching job. Really. My students are bright and inquisitive and ask really difficult questions. It's easy to see that many of them are engaged with the subject. Of course, I have a few slackers and wanna-be dozers as well, but most days I feel more akin to them—thank you, insomnia!—than those students who always raise their hands and want more information.

What I’m utterly sick of, however—and mind you, it’s only the third week of classes—is the shitty secretarial/clerical pool who can’t seem to do one fucking thing except sit on their asses and scold you for something completely out of your control. I still don’t have a key to my classroom. I was hired last April, but the key request wasn’t submitted until after the fall term began. And the one person on campus who duplicates keys took the past week off for vacation.

So I calls the gurl who should be able to get things done and am told I needs to just contact the campus police via the emergency phone to have someone sent up. My first thought was to simply pull the emergency alarm—feigning ignorance and misunderstanding—and fuck up the entire campus at least for a few minutes.

Of course, campus police feel they have more important things to tend to—and they really should; no argument here—but my class and I sit in the hall until about a quarter past before someone appears with a key. And I have to show my faculty ID, blah blah blah, because I look “like just another student” to the trained professional campus security force. Funny how some back-assward compliments tend to just piss you off.

Yesterday my email account stopped working, so while on campus this morning I called IT to solve my problems. Instead I’m confronted with Bitchy Bitchison. Now I don’t want anyone reading this to think I don’t like bitches. That’s just not true. Some of my best friends are bitches. But if she didn’t sound so completely laughable with her deep southern accent when she scolded, “Wahn thang atta tayme, now!” my head would’ve exploded right then and there.

I understand your jobs are shit. And seeing your plaques that read “In Honor of 5 Years of Service,” “In Honor of 10 Years of Service,” “In Honor of 15 Years of Service,” and “In Honor of 20 Years of Service” above your desk everyday has got to just rub you as raw as your inner thighs when you think back to a whole constellation of bad decisions that got you this far in life. But you have insurance—I don’t. Your paycheck—despite my almost Ph.D. compared to your Associates of Secretarial Training (I’m not making this shit up!)—is much more than mine since you’re fulltime and I’m barely part-time.

Is it too much to ask for a little respect? If not for my degrees, professional demeanor, maturity, functionality, then at least for the fact that once, a long time ago, I too served as a secretary/clerk, but that I used my secretarial powers for good and not evil. And that I got out of the secretarial pool to evolve into the super boy-genius you see before you. And I probably type just as fast if not faster than Thou. So fucking do your job and stop telling me how to do mine!


  1. To One of My Favorite Super Boy-Geniuses:

    It would appear that even Amitriptyline wasn't protective against the moodiness and incompetence of clerical folks living through an unending winter of discontent. I'm not sure that there are many things in life much worse than working at a place that is a constant reminder of missed opportunities and dedication of time to people who did nothing but steal your power and knock you up.

    I hope the Amitriptyline provides some relief from the insomnia, but I'm guessing your MD told you it might take a few days or so for it to take effect. Believe it or not, Sophie's vet prescribed it to her for her anxiety (I of course, got NOTHING) and it took a week or so to really kick in. I'm wondering if your appreciably cheerier mood one morning after the first dose reflects a kick-ass placebo effect, or if this is your true self coming out?

    Dr. Evil

  2. Super Boy Genius I LOVE you for this entry!

    The worst is when the Bitch police "card" you suspicioiusly for your copies in the xerox center when you need your goddamn handouts!

    I'm feelin' you sister. . .

  3. Picture this: my so-called 'true' self as an overweight Black-Latina lesbian from the wrong side of the tracks and the Amitriptyline as the Ivy League-educated rich white suburban white-collar professional: there's no way that bitch is taking over my job! She WILL sit at the back of this bus, and she WILL NOT drink from the same water fountain. I wonder if there's a pill that will take care of both of them....

    And Miguel: I'm glad I'm not the only super boy-genius out there in the world of academia who the Bitches are tryin' to keep down. Sistas gotta doos it fo theyselfs!