It is the last week of the semester and, now that a major paper for one of their other classes is done, my doctoral students (finally) are getting serious about writing their research proposals. This is not at all unexpected and we’re treating this morning’s class as an open workshop session. They are in the classroom, surrounded by laptops and stacks of articles. I am down the hall in my office, available for individual consultations as needed. In between the students’ visits, I plug away at cleaning my office. I’m doing my best to tame the piles of paper that clutter all horizontal surfaces before my 1-year (unpaid) leave of absence begins in a couple of weeks.
A arrives first, visibly agitated. Perhaps A’s approach to the proposal should be overhauled yet again? It appears that I am to indicate whether this is the right course of action. I respond not with the answer, but by reviewing the key issues to be considered in making this decision. Really knowing the literature is at the top of the list. “But that will be HARD!” Yes. It will be.
B fidgets in my office door and has to be coaxed to sit down. A long and circuitous conversation reveals a plan to recruit a sample based on a criterion for which there is no extant measure. I attempt to persuade B that such a strategy would be impossible to implement. B reminds me (for at least the third time) that B’s advisor approves of the proposed study. I remain unimpressed. I remind B, with a (not entirely successful) gesture toward humor that the advisor in question won’t be grading the final paper.
C sheepishly confesses having spent zero-time on this proposal in the last 2-weeks. D also is in the same boat. Laughing, I reinforce their candor. They settle in and hammer away at their laptops for the duration of the 3-hour class period. This is good. They know where to find me when the inevitable questions crop up later in the week.
E brings me a Specific Aims draft, fresh off the printer. It reads like a dream. I walk E through the grading criteria, pointing out how I’m easily able to locate and understand each of the major required elements. We pinpoint some spots that would benefit from elaboration. But it’s icing and E knows it. E is in fine shape.
F appears just before the end of class. F’s list of questions is long, but focused and on-target. We grapple with the relative merits of dichotomized versus continuous variables, a topic that would be tough for any of my students. F comes from a culture where it’s not okay to articulate confusion to the professor; so, I monitor F’s non-verbals closely. Once the eyebrows unforrow, I’m confident that F understands.
G and H don’t stop by at all; this is an ominous sign, as they are the two students about whom I’m most concerned. I resist the temptation to go looking for them.
Few students notice—or at least few students comment upon—the strategically placed visual cues in my office. First, a mobile shaped like a question mark hangs over the only open chair. As students sit and talk to me, the question mark drifts gently above their heads. Second, two small magnets from the Wizard of Oz are stuck to the filing cabinet, placed to fall directly in my line of vision every time I look toward a student. One magnet is the Wicked Witch of the West; the other is Glenda the Good Witch. I’ve had the question mark mobile since I was a graduate student myself. I hung it in my office to remind me what an effortful and vulnerable process it is to be the one asking questions. Glenda and her wicked counterpart help me keep my sense of humor whenever I encounter a student who wants me to solve a problem for them—as if I could wave Glenda’s magic wand—rather than helping the student solve the problem for themselves (which is, of course, what good teachers do). Such students often leave, I suspect, feeling as if I’ve been rather witchy.
Office hours are done for the day. In fact, they’re done for the semester and it will be a year (or more) before I teach again. When I finish this blog entry, I’m going to take down the question mark mobile, gather Glenda and the Wicked Witch and take them all home with me. I’m pretty sure I’m going to want—and need—them in the tiny seminarian’s apartment that awaits me in Manhattan.
Of course, everyone at seminary will then want Glenda, the Wicked Witch, and the question mark once they see them. But trust me -- you'll indeed want them with you. Keeping your sense of humour will be most important! ;)
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