Another Student Story

A long time ago I started a series on funny student stories, and even though it’s been awhile, my experiences of the last 24 hours have made it necessary to resurrect this series for your amusement. Our story begins three weeks ago, when, out of the kindness of my heart, I elected to make an extra credit opportunity available to the students in my professional writing class. I distain waste-of-time extra credit assignments (and extra credit in general—but until you have tenure, you are a slave to student evaluations and must give the little people what they want to some extent), so when I do offer such opportunities, I try to design the assignment in such a way that the student will 1) have to do a fair bit of work, and 2) will learn something in spite of themselves. In this case, I had them find any piece of professional communication and write me a 500-word report analyzing the design of the document. But that’s not the amusing part. Not even close.

This week I reminded them that the deadline was Thursday, and that I would accept the extra credit during our class period (in the morning) or during my office hours (from 10:00-11:30). After 11:30 on Thursday, they were out of luck. Seems pretty clear, right?

So, at 10:00, right at the beginning of my office hours, I get an email from one of my lower-performing students. We’ll call him Stan. Stan writes:

Could you tell me where you hold your office hours. I cannot find TR anywhere on the campus map. Please be very specific.

Now, as Katie pointed out, the very fact that he has no idea where I hold office hours at this late date in the semester speaks volumes. More amusing, however, is the fact that TR is a common abbreviation on this campus for Tuesday/Thursday, with which he must be familiar because our class has met on TR every week of the semester. I should also point out that the very top of my syllabus contains this very clear notice: “Office Hours: TR 10:00-11:30: Art Museum Angles Café and by appointment.” Unfortunately for Stan, I was meeting with groups of students during my office hours and not checking my email. So I reply at 11:30:

Hi Stan,

TR refers to the days of the week (Tuesday and Thursday). My office hours are held in the Art Museum Angles Cafe (the building with the large orange circle in front of it, across from Woodburn Hall).

Stan replies a few minutes later:

Thank you, but your office hours are now over. It would be great if you could wait for me there or let me know where you will be next. I will be checking my email about every thirty seconds. Please respond as soon as possible.

So, feeling bad for this student who has ostensibly been wandering the campus looking for the mysterious “TR” building, I cut him some slack and tell him I’ll stick around until noon to wait for him. But after that, I have meetings and my own work to do, so I’m leaving (I said this much more politely, of course). Stan doesn’t show up, so I eat lunch and head off to the library.

At 1:30, I receive yet another message from Stan:

Wow, I feel like such an idiot. First I try to meet you at the Tuesday Thursday building and now I've been freaking out for the past hour because I sent my last email to the wrong address. Please respond as quickly as possible. I will do anything within my power to get this assignment to you.

He also forwarded that misdirected email for my reading pleasure:

I arrived at the art museum as quickly as I could. My cell phone read 12:08 upon my arrival at the cafe. I realize that you try to stress the importance of punctuality. However, I am going to need more than fourteen minutes to make it from my apartment on East 20th Street to the other side of campus. I do not know how I could have made it to the art museum any sooner. I am sorry if I am inconveniencing you in any way. Please let me know as soon as possible where I can meet you to turn in my extra credit.

That is actually my favorite of the messages, for the way he implies that it is my fault that he waited until the last possible moment to submit his extra credit (how could I be so inconsiderate?). I am also at this point amazed at the level of effort he is putting into submitting this extra credit assignment, which is worth a mere 1 or 2 percent of his grade. If he had put half of this effort into doing his actual work for the class, he would be an A student. But I digress.

For me, the matter is closed. I gave the students 3 weeks to submit the assignment, I made the logistics of submission crystal clear, and I even waited around an extra half hour for Stan. For Stan, however, the game is not yet lost. Apparently, he tried to look up my address (information that is not available to him from the University), and found a listing for me at the apartment complex where I lived more than 2 years ago. I know this because I received an email from the apartment manager around 5:00:

Andrew-

Stan just dropped off some items for you, thinking you still lived at Meadow Park Apartments. We did not catch it until after he had left. He tried to call you but got no answer. Please call him or us as soon as possible so one of you can pick up the items.

Katie and I arrive home at 5:30, and find 5 messages on our answering machine. Who could they be from? You guessed it: my best pal Stan. Now, if I wanted my students to call me at home, I would put my phone number on the syllabus. If I wanted my students to show up at my home (or former home) unannounced, I would put my home address on my syllabus. I do neither, and am starting to get annoyed with Stan. Sometimes, you just need to let it go.

This, however, is not in Stan’s nature. Around 7:30, Katie and I are at home when an extremely loud truck drives up our street and seems to stop in front of our house. It’s dark, and we don’t know who it is. But we have an idea. We are also starting to question the mental stability of Stan (how much do I really know about this guy who shows up late to most of my classes and sits quietly? Is he just a well-meaning, but misguided, kid? A serial killer? An insurance salesman?), and don’t really want to have an evening conversation with him about his late assignment. He knocks on the door. We’re upstairs, so there’s no way he can know that we’re home. We don’t go to the door. He rings the doorbell. We elect to stay put and let him solve his own problem—outside of our house. Then he walks back to his car. The phone starts ringing. It’s Stan. We don’t answer. Stan leaves a message on the answering machine letting me know that he thinks he found my current address and is leaving his assignment in my mailbox. Crazy. Then he drives away.

My advice for Stan: instead of investing several hours and driving all over town for the possibility of a 1 or 2 percent increase in your grade, pour all of that effort into the regular work for the semester, and you’ll no longer be a D student. And don't be so creepy. Teachers don't respond well to stalking. Just a thought.