In a recent critique assignment, I wrote a sentence which I knew was "borderline". Borderline in that if the sentence was interpreted maliciously, it could be considered offensive to the author I was critiquing.
On the flip side, however, if the sentence was interpreted with light-heartedness and an appreciation of elegant wit (if I do say so myself), I knew that it would make my assignment a whole lot funnier.
The outcome totally depended on the opinion of my lecturer. I hoped if my lecturer had a wife, she wouldn't nag him while he was marking my work. I hoped if he had children, they wouldn't be naughty or noisy while he was marking my work.
I hoped co-workers sharing the office with him wouldn't discuss such topics as the arrogance of undergrads or problematically over-opinionated undergrads while he was marking my work.
Don't think that I didn't do my research before writing the aforementioned sentence; I put a lot of effort into trying to discover where this proverbial borderline lay. I even went to a departmental seminar to gain some insight into the minds of lecturers (I was one of only two real students present at the lecture; the other 18 were lecturers).
It was interesting hearing the lecturers speak as though they were students; asking questions, providing comments and (subtly, politely) arguing with each other. It was even more interesting when they compared their classes; some complaining about how students come to lectures so ill-prepared, others bragging about how well-read their students are.
I consciously scanned their dialogue for hints on acquiring favouritism, but it was no news to me when I discovered that they simply like students who do their homework.
Apparently, lecturers also like it when students show some enthusiasm in class (although that's no piece of breaking-news insight, either). They seemed to enjoy sharing conversations they had had with interested students.
They were almost, I observed, competing for the best conversation with a student that day. Who had said the funniest, most intelligent, unexpected thing? In fact, it appeared that they spend much more time figuring us out than we do them.
This is probably because of a student's general assumption that lecturers are magical people who do not exist beyond their realm of specialty, but exist only to determine our future via their little red Biro pens.
I remember, in first year, seeing my chemistry lecturer in a restaurant.
Retrospectively, it was silly to be so shocked, but I had convinced myself that this man lived in the chemistry building. I had always assumed that the moment he set foot outside, he would explode like a bad reaction and simply reappear within the building again.
This notion of a two-dimensional lecturer character fades, a little, with the time you spend at university. Recognition and reverence of their power, however, continues to grow.
Each year at Otago Uni, my imagination has stretched to comprehend lecturers as people who do leave the classroom. I now realise that many lecturers have personalities, hobbies, cars, houses, families and even often pets.
This three-dimensional characterisation is inextricably linked to the inevitable bias of being human. It scares me that at the end of each semester I sit exams which I hand in and never see again. And then, months later, an electronic number unaccompanied by explanation appears on the internet, summarising my efforts on the examined subject.
We trust that our lecturers are fair people and that their borderlines are similar to ours and the societal norm's.
The majority of the time, of course, they do align. And, indeed, it is a special occurrence when perfect alignment is acknowledged and the red Biro pen comments "tee-hee" beside my potentially questionable sentence.
It is good to know not only is my assignment mark favourable, but also I have made another person chuckle.
- Katie Kenny studies English at the University of Otago.
