| |
THE APPOINTMENT AT Behavioral Health had taken a little longer than I’d expected. I walked into the classroom right on time, which was almost as bad as being late. The whiteboard was covered with leftover notes from Rodge Cowper's Human Potential class.
Think outside the box!! was scrawled across the top of the board. Underneath was the famous drawing of nine dots run through by four connected straight lines. The rest of the board was filled with pairs of first names and positive adjectives in various handwriting styles. Heather: Helpful. Rick: Righteous. Nancy: Nice.
I wiped Rodge’s insights from the board as my students entered and got seated in their discussion groups. When I'd finally erased everything, I turned around to face the class.
“Today we’re going to brainstorm brand-new ideas for your start-up businesses. No restaurants, no sports bars. Okay? And no grumbling. Listen. You've all done the break-even, so I'm not telling you anything you don't already know. None of those businesses made it. The problem with food and beverage type businesses is they have high fixed costs, many competitors and substitutes, and a fickle market. We can’t all be the next Donnie Gonsalves. You have to pivot. When your first idea doesn't work, think of a better one."
I wrote on the board:
Technology.
Culture.
Sustainability.
"These are your prompts. I'll come around and talk to you individually. Go."
Sherry’s throaty rasp rose above the background murmur of discussions getting started around the room. “Sweetheart,” she was admonishing one of her tablemates, “you can talk about aloha all you want but when you actually look into it? Most of the time it’s a big pile of—”
I rushed over to Sherry’s table in time to prevent her from finishing her thought.
“Let’s try to keep it clean,” I said.
I try to instill professionalism in my students, and that includes using appropriate language. This dictum usually needs some reinforcement throughout the semester.
“Sorry, Dr. B. We were trying to do the culture prompt. I don’t know how we ended up talking about my control freak ex-husband.”
“Well, the culture prompt doesn’t seem like it’s working for your group. Why don’t we try another direction? How about technology? Do you remember the story I posted about those entrepreneurs in Berlin? The ones doing custom clothing fittings online?”
The group exchanged glances.
“I just sent out the link,” I prompted gently. “The customers posed with a CD-ROM disk, and from that, the entrepreneurs could calculate the customers’ body measurements?"
Their uncomprehending stares made me wonder whether any of them had read my post. I tried again.
"Forget about clothing. Here’s something that’s been on people’s minds. Privacy. Right?”
Everyone nodded, which could have meant anything from “I’ve been keeping up with the relevant news on privacy issues” to “I am nodding my head.”
“The internet has changed our ability to be anonymous. And some people have more anonymity than others. If your parents had the foresight to name you something like Kathy Ba—like Bill Smith, you’re in good shape. A search would turn up so many hits, you could never be sure you found the right person.”
“Yeah, my name’s pretty unique,” Sherry said. “DiNapoli. Sherrine DiNapoli.”
“Oh. Sherrine is a very pretty name. Anyway—”
“DiNapoli’s Italian,” she interrupted cheerfully. “Like you, right? Barda?”
“Barda is actually an Albanian name."
“Ohhh.” Sherry nodded knowingly. “Like Mother Teresa.”
I was impressed Sherry knew this. People generally assume I’m Italian because of my last name, or Irish because of my first. The first time I met Pat’s mother, she had perked up when I introduced myself as Molly and asked me what my last name was and where my people were from.
“My people?” I’d asked, naively. “Albania, I guess, originally.”
“Oh, no one knows what that is, dear.” Mrs. Flanagan immediately changed the subject to where we were going to have lunch. I had apparently made a good impression on her despite my obvious character flaw, not being Irish. Pat was kind enough to inform me that according to his mother, I was “really quite pretty, if you like that kind of thing.”
“My Ma has a picture of Mother Teresa up in the living room,” Sherry said, “next to the Pope. Mother Teresa must’ve been a big deal at your house, Dr. B.”
I glanced around the table to see if anyone else wanted to participate in the conversation. Sherry’s group members seemed content to watch.
“We did admire Mother Teresa’s work with the poor,” I said.
My parents knew who Mother Teresa was. She was a big deal at our church, no question. In private, though, my mother the obstetrician and my father the science teacher agreed Blessed Teresa of Calcutta could have done a lot more good by handing out free birth control. That’s the kind of Catholics we are. Practical.
“Has any one of you ever searched for someone online?” I asked.
“It was easy to Google you, Professor Barda," said one ponytailed young man, who I remembered was on exchange from Washington State. "I searched for the professors before I transferred over here. I read all the online reviews.”
“And you still signed up for my class? That was brave of you.”
“The thing about you being half human made me curious,” he said. “You seem pretty normal to me, though.”
“Yes, well. I make an effort to blend in.”
As the students packed up to leave, I erased the board, making sure to wipe away any stray mark. I wondered whether I was the only one who cared about maintaining a clean learning environment. Rodge apparently didn’t think it was important to erase the board after class. Maybe I didn’t need to be so conscientious about it either. One of these days, I mused daringly, maybe after I get tenure, I might leave my notes up on the board and let Rodge erase them.