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The girl in the floppy hat at the back of the room sighs loudly and turns her chair forty-five degrees so she’s facing the window instead of the front. Her sleek brown hair falls down her back from under her hat and her black eyes squint down at the book she holds in her lap. I know she’s upset because she doesn’t think she should be in this class. She came to talk with me on the first day of class and said she knew all this material already. But the university’s policy is for all freshmen to enroll in Freshman Comp. It’s not up to me. “Besides,” I told her, “a little extra practice never hurt anyone. Pick a research topic that interests you, and you’ll enjoy the class.”
But apparently she’s determined not to. If I could remember her name, I’d call on her right now, as the rest of the students are looking to me to see what I’ll do about her turning her chair away. I should ask her what another criteria is. What’s her name? It might be Becky, but I can’t be sure.
So, I ignore her actions and address the class in general. “I expect everyone to come to the next class with a research topic that meets all the criteria.” There’s an edge to my voice now, letting them know I mean business. “If you’re uncertain about any of the criteria or have questions, then I expect you to come see me during office hours.”
No one comes. I’m sure some of them have questions, but they don’t take the initiative to find answers. I sit through my office hours, fuming, and I decide that Monday’s class will be a lecture on critical thinking. I spend the weekend preparing for it, and I give the same lecture to all six of my classes.
I end the lecture with a summary of the importance of it. “Critical thinking skills enable you to go below the surface,” I tell the last class. “You won’t blindly accept what you’re told. You’ll analyze information and come to your own conclusions. You’ll think more deeply and clearly about things. You’ll think for yourselves. That is very important.”
The class stares back at me. The girl whose name I think is Becky keeps her chair turned away.
“Do any of you agree? Is it important to think critically?” I wait. The guy in the UMD sweatshirt shrugs. I wait some more. No one says a thing. “Anyone? Isn’t critical thinking what college is about? Isn’t that why you’re here?”
Silence. I sigh and look around the room at all the diverted eyes. No one wants to participate in this discussion. So I wait, letting them think about it, hoping that a light bulb or two will go off. Nothing.
Finally, I ask, “Do any of you actually want to be here? That’s something to think critically about.”
They're all silent. Some of them look around at each other.
“Really,” I repeat, “I want to know if any of you want to be here.”
A minute passes. I just get blank stares in return. Finally, straight faced, the guy in the UMD sweatshirt says, “Not really.”
I hand out sheets of blank paper and tell each of them to hand-write their reason for being here if they don’t want to be here.
“I’ll be interested to know why each of you is somewhere you don’t want to be.”
But in truth, I already know why. Scott told me how it is: school’s just what you do. You graduate from high school, take out student loans, and spend four years in college. It’s just part of the path that has already been laid out for you. And somehow, after all these years and all my efforts, I’ve ended up a part of all this. I cancel the rest of my classes for the day and go home to spend time with Scott and Morgen. It’s a wonderful temporary solution.
The weeks roll by and things remain the same. The girl’s name is Becky, I discover, but knowing her name doesn’t do much good. She keeps her chair pointed away and reads a book rather than participate in class, and I don’t do anything about it. As the semester winds down, I stay late grading papers and come home after Morgen’s already in bed.
One night, Scott’s waiting for me. “My old supervisor called,” he says. “They’re hiring at Customs again. They want to know if I’m interested.”
“No way!”
“It pays well,” he says. “The starting wage is more than what we’re making now, and it has full benefits and constant raises.”
“Yeah, so? It paid well when you finished college, too. We didn’t accept it then. Why would we accept it now?”
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