COLUMN: Reflections of a first-year Aggie
It will probably come as a shock to the majority of my English 1010 students that I am not the seasoned veteran instructor they assumed I was.
It will probably send odd chills up their spines to learn that this was my first semester at Utah State and that I, like them, was a miserable rookie. So as the semester draws near a close, I feel compelled to record some of my observations as a first-year Aggie — a brand new member of the Utah State fraternity.
From fall semester, I will carry a distinct sense of pride at having managed to integrate Monty Python, The Ramones and Woody Allen into my lesson presentations, all with completely legitimate academic applications. I’m sure many 1010 students were convinced their instructors would gather in their offices on the fourth floor of Ray B. West and use a dart board and entertainment magazines to create our lesson plans while we listened to Pink Floyd, but that assumption couldn’t be further from the truth. We listened to Barry Manilow.
Being a graduate student has placed me in a bizarre state of limbo with regard to the university social structure. While I am basically the same age as the undergraduate student body, my position has led to strange reactions at school sporting events.
It was a bit odd to have one of my students referee one of my intramural volleyball games, particularly when he consistently ignored my continual stream of threats to his grades if he didn’t start calling the game our way. When I see most of my students at football games or other activities, I usually get the kind of looks you gave your fourth-grade teacher when you saw them at the grocery store.
It dawned on me recently that the day before this column runs will be the 10th anniversary of my very first date. If that sounds like a strange thing to remember, keep in mind that I also remember the exact circumstances surrounding my first trip to see “Return of the Jedi” with my father and best friend Steve in May of 1983. As an American Studies major, I am part of a distinct social subgroup that has a peculiar knack for remembering obscure, worthless dates and details.
While I do enjoy certain aspects of the single life, such as Red Baron pizzas, at times I do wonder why my married friends are anxiously engaged in the process of buying homes, obtaining exciting domestic appliances, and repopulating the planet while I am faced with the mind-numbing, weekly decision of whether to go bowling or to play lazer tag on a date. This frustration is enhanced whenever I pass a downtown Salt Lake bus stop and see lunatics holding hands.
“If the loonies can find love,” I ask anyone within earshot, “then why not a suave, intelligent young man like myself?”
The answer, I fear, lies in the atrocities of my youth. In particular, the answer concerns the very Christmas dance that inaugurated me into the dating world 10 years ago. It would be pointless and shocking to indulge in the details of my insensitive and heinous actions that December night (most of which were brought on by the fact I was hopelessly infatuated with another young woman at the time who had neglected to ask me to the Christmas dance despite the fact I had spoken at least 14 words to her in the previous four months).
Let me simply say I have long felt the need to apologize to the hapless young girl who was unfortunate enough to ask a clueless, tactless 16-year-old to that dance. Beth*, if you still curse my name to this day, you are justified.
Other memories this semester will be fond, like debuting my band (tentatively titled either The Box Elder Holy Alliance or Groin Pull) at the annual English Department Luau, or seeing the “A” lit up in blue to commemorate the successful presentation of my first conference paper. But most of all, I think I will remember the epiphany I had one day after my 1010 class had cleared out and I faced a sea of empty chairs. It was at that moment I realized I, a neurotic aspiring writer with a strange affinity for tacos and William Shatner, was teaching at a major university.
Viva America!
*Her name has been changed to protect her innocence (her real name is Stacey).
Joshua Alan Terry is a graduate student in the American Studies program and teaches English 1010.
Glowing comments can be sent to jterry@english.usu.edu.