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The Death of Fiction
- University Press of New England
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46 p p p p p p p p p p p p p p p p p thedeathoffiction I have never understood why students feel obligated to concoct fantastic stories regarding absences, missed tests and assignments , and the inability to meet deadlines. Do they fear my reaction if they were simply to say, “I’m sorry I was absent. Can I give you the assignment today?” The compulsion to explain one’s circumstances is not limited to the classroom. I was in the bank the other day and stood behind a woman speaking to a teller. She asked to withdraw five hundred dollars. That’s where I would have stopped; but for some reason she seemed chagrined about this request, lowered her voice, and confided to the teller, “I don’t usually take out this much money, but my son is short this month. He has a good job, though, and when he repays me I’ll deposit it again.” The teller nodded passively as he counted out the bills, but the customer looked uncomfortable, as if she were doing something unorthodox, like facing the back of a crowded elevator. She conveyed the distinct impression that it was the bank’s money she was requesting and that they might be judging her for her lack of self-control. Likewise, I was once riding the city bus when it stopped to allow an elderly man to get on. He deposited his fare and then sheepishly explained to the driver that he realized this wasn’t the bus he usually took and that he would get back on track with his usual bus in the morning. I think college students are similarly afflicted. What is it about college that brings out the apologist in them? Where do they get their ability to craft such glib narratives? After all, these are people who generally don’t read books for pleasure and look upon writing as an artifact from the age of cuneiform. Let me give some examples, moving from the mundane to the sublime. The Death of Fiction p 47 At the end of the spring semester of biology, I routinely inform my class that I will give the final exam only once and would not come to school during the summer to give make-ups. Any student who missed the final would have to wait until the end of the fall semester and take the test with the next class. Despite this, one student, Matt, made himself conspicuous by being the only absentee. I dutifully recorded an “I” (incomplete) for his grade. Two weeks later he came to my office. “I missed the final,” he said. “Yes,” I confirmed. “The class was greatly upset.” Whereupon he commenced his monologue. “You see, I woke up early, because I didn’t want to miss the final, because biology is my favorite class. But when I saw that it was raining I rolled over and went back to sleep.” I put my hand on his shoulder. “Matt,” I said. “I have to compliment you on your courage. I’d be ashamed to admit that to my teacher.” In Maine, the winter always provides a ready excuse for missed classes or assignments. Such was the case when a student rushed into the classroom fifteen minutes late. “I’m so sorry I don’t have my assignment,” she said, panting. “I was running out of the house with it, but I was in such a hurry that I dropped it and the man snowblowing my driveway . . .” “. . . sucked it up with the snowblower,” I interjected. The student looked at me, relieved at my understanding. “How did you know?” she asked. “That’s the way I would have ended the story.” One more. A young woman missed a laboratory exercise she needed to keep her grade in the passing range. She eventually showed up a few days later. “You’ll never believe what happened ,” she said. “You had to withdraw five hundred dollars from the bank because your son can’t manage his money?” She looked at me. “My son is three,” she said. “Go on, then.” [54.205.179.155] Project MUSE (2024-03-19 13:16 GMT) 48 p c l i e n t e l e “Well, I was rushing to class, driving up the hill in Charleston. You know the hill?” “Of course.” “Well, at the top of the hill I ran out of gas. I got confused and the car rolled back...