As an undergrad, there are plenty of ways to start talking to that potential love interest you keep spotting in the hallway. Pretending you like indie rock based on those quirky band patches on their beat up but-still-has-character fabric backpack, waiting until they are drunk at a kegger with decreased judgment, etc.
But perhaps the most tried and true cliché is the classic “So [insert cute discussion delaying mannerism here: fingers through your hair, biting your lip, adjusting your glasses], what’s your major?”
The “what’s your major” question serves many purposes, aside from working as an icebreaker. You’ll have an opportunity to show off your smarts, figure out if you’ll have some sort of common ground, and you’ll be able to predict if they’ll one day be well off (“Oh, so you’re working on an MBA?”) or if you’ll be supporting them (“Liberal Arts… how cute!”) later down the line.
However, as a professor, these tactics no longer work. I’m no longer a student; I’m on the other side of academia. The awkwardly cute introductions over ratty backpacks and degree decisions no longer work on my peers…
… but bragging about being a professor sure does. And when this lovely gal I’d been seeing asked to come watch me teach… well, I had to say yes. And it was her unique “auditing” of my course that led to my much adored, lenient, go-head-and-text in-class rule.
“Alright kids,” I said to my English composition students a few minutes before class began, “this beautiful woman I’m really into is going to be sitting in. So ask a lot of questions and pretend you’re into my lecture.” My students laughed, giggled, and of course, agreed.
I was busy writing on the whiteboard when she entered the room. My eyes lingered on her dancing, long brown hair as she strolled past me. I watched her take a seat in the second row, and caught the approving head nods of the male students in the room. I smirked a smirk that said that’s right, she’s with me, and began my lecture.
After about twenty minutes or so, another professor in my department knocked, walked in, and asked if she could talk to my students about tutoring. An annual and expected interruption, I said yes. While she gave her shtick, I began texting my date, my iPhone concealed behind the small, dark mahogany walls of my podium.
I watched from across the room as she picked up her phone, smiling. She began texting back, the glow from the LCD screen lighting up her face, her eyes a—
“Excuse me young lady!” The visiting professor barked. “Would you mind?”
My date looked up at the professor, horrified, as the woman leered over her, angrily gazing at her from behind thick glasses.
My date looked up at the professor, horrified, as the woman leered over her, angrily gazing at her from behind thick glasses.
“Professor Smith,” the visiting professor said, turning to face me. “I’m not sure how you handle this sort of thing, but in MY classes we don’t allow texting.” She crossed her arms and pursed her lips.
“Er…” I stammered. “I’ll be sure to um… ahem… discipline her later.” I looked around the room; my students were fit to burst, covering their mouths with their hands, their lips pressed together tightly, eyes watering. They all knew what was going on.
I flashed them a look. Be cool guys. Be cool.
“See that you do.” She wrapped up her lecture, and when she left my classroom, my students laughed loudly, my date’s face turning a dark red.
I’ve told this story in subsequent classes, when explaining my rules regarding texting. When I’m teaching and I spot a student typing away furiously in the middle of my lecture or when they’re supposed to be reading an essay, I try to remember this incident.
Maybe they’re saying hi to that girl from Statistics, or sending an emoticon face to that boy with stylized bed-head in Business Ethics. Perhaps they’ve finally built up the courage to ask that gal from Macroeconomics what her status is (since its empty on Facebook) or invite that hipster kid from Graphic Design to grab a coffee.
A little text never hurt anybody, unless the person on the opposing end says “no.” So text away, kids. I won’t call you out, so long as you pay attention and understand the material at the end of the day. Because the texts I sent during that class worked out just fine for me. She can’t wait to read this article.
Kthnxbai. <3
Eric Smithis a young part-time professor living in Philadelphia, working full-time in publishing. He enjoys coming up with wacky lesson plans, challenging the system, and beating his students in Halo. His debut novel, Textual Healing, is out now, and you can find him ranting on his personal blog and his hyperlocal geek site, Geekadelphia. Follow him @ericsmithrocks.
Love & Text: Why I Let My Students Text in Class
By Eric Smith · April 11th, 2011 · School · Comments
11 April
As an undergrad, there are plenty of ways to start talking to that potential love interest you keep spotting in the hallway. Pretending you like indie rock based on those quirky band patches on their beat up but-still-has-character fabric backpack, waiting until they are drunk at a kegger with decreased judgment, etc.
But perhaps the most tried and true cliché is the classic “So [insert cute discussion delaying mannerism here: fingers through your hair, biting your lip, adjusting your glasses], what’s your major?”
The “what’s your major” question serves many purposes, aside from working as an icebreaker. You’ll have an opportunity to show off your smarts, figure out if you’ll have some sort of common ground, and you’ll be able to predict if they’ll one day be well off (“Oh, so you’re working on an MBA?”) or if you’ll be supporting them (“Liberal Arts… how cute!”) later down the line.
However, as a professor, these tactics no longer work. I’m no longer a student; I’m on the other side of academia. The awkwardly cute introductions over ratty backpacks and degree decisions no longer work on my peers…
… but bragging about being a professor sure does. And when this lovely gal I’d been seeing asked to come watch me teach… well, I had to say yes. And it was her unique “auditing” of my course that led to my much adored, lenient, go-head-and-text in-class rule.
“Alright kids,” I said to my English composition students a few minutes before class began, “this beautiful woman I’m really into is going to be sitting in. So ask a lot of questions and pretend you’re into my lecture.” My students laughed, giggled, and of course, agreed.
I was busy writing on the whiteboard when she entered the room. My eyes lingered on her dancing, long brown hair as she strolled past me. I watched her take a seat in the second row, and caught the approving head nods of the male students in the room. I smirked a smirk that said that’s right, she’s with me, and began my lecture.
After about twenty minutes or so, another professor in my department knocked, walked in, and asked if she could talk to my students about tutoring. An annual and expected interruption, I said yes. While she gave her shtick, I began texting my date, my iPhone concealed behind the small, dark mahogany walls of my podium.
I watched from across the room as she picked up her phone, smiling. She began texting back, the glow from the LCD screen lighting up her face, her eyes a—
“Excuse me young lady!” The visiting professor barked. “Would you mind?”
My date looked up at the professor, horrified, as the woman leered over her, angrily gazing at her from behind thick glasses.
“Professor Smith,” the visiting professor said, turning to face me. “I’m not sure how you handle this sort of thing, but in MY classes we don’t allow texting.” She crossed her arms and pursed her lips.
“Er…” I stammered. “I’ll be sure to um… ahem… discipline her later.” I looked around the room; my students were fit to burst, covering their mouths with their hands, their lips pressed together tightly, eyes watering. They all knew what was going on.
I flashed them a look. Be cool guys. Be cool.
“See that you do.” She wrapped up her lecture, and when she left my classroom, my students laughed loudly, my date’s face turning a dark red.
I’ve told this story in subsequent classes, when explaining my rules regarding texting. When I’m teaching and I spot a student typing away furiously in the middle of my lecture or when they’re supposed to be reading an essay, I try to remember this incident.
Maybe they’re saying hi to that girl from Statistics, or sending an emoticon face to that boy with stylized bed-head in Business Ethics. Perhaps they’ve finally built up the courage to ask that gal from Macroeconomics what her status is (since its empty on Facebook) or invite that hipster kid from Graphic Design to grab a coffee.
A little text never hurt anybody, unless the person on the opposing end says “no.” So text away, kids. I won’t call you out, so long as you pay attention and understand the material at the end of the day. Because the texts I sent during that class worked out just fine for me. She can’t wait to read this article.
Kthnxbai.
<3
Eric Smith is a young part-time professor living in Philadelphia, working full-time in publishing. He enjoys coming up with wacky lesson plans, challenging the system, and beating his students in Halo. His debut novel, Textual Healing, is out now, and you can find him ranting on his personal blog and his hyperlocal geek site, Geekadelphia. Follow him @ericsmithrocks.