What is it with these two little words? Apparently, I love them. Just can’t get enough of them.

I’ve just reread some of the blog posts from the past year, and it seems that I have an odd obsession with using “And so…” One post in particular, I had it in there as a transition three times. (Of course I have since edited them out.) But it’s almost like they were my salt and pepper, sprinkled on to add flavor or something.

Actually, I despise verbal (or in this case, written) clutter. Verbal clutter — you know, those superfluous words that get thrown around in communication (written or otherwise) to sound fancy, more intelligent, or to simply take up space and embellish the word count.

“Very” is another one of those words. Rule of thumb: anytime you’re tempted to use the word, don’t. Think about it. How is “very cold” different from “cold”? Either it’s cold or it’s not. Even better, get specific and use details to describe exactly how it was so cold that the simple act of breathing alternately froze and thawed your nose hairs (inhale, freeze; exhale, thaw).

Perhaps, though, written clutter has its own peculiar time and place. See, as annoying as it was to go back and read “and so…” every paragraph, the words still served a purpose for a time. They were place holders. They stood in the gap as temporary transitions, allowing me to get through the piece until I came back to it and figured out a better way to say what I was trying to say.

And so, I guess what I’m trying to say is that whatever works to get a draft down, it doesn’t really matter because writing is all about rewriting anyway.

Little else upsets me as much as untapped potential. Except for maybe laziness, because the two often come together like a pair of Siamese twins joined at the heart, the most fragile part of the body, thus making separation next to impossible.

Today was the last class period of the college comp class that I’ve been teaching at Sacramento City College. Today was also the day that the students’ final portfolios were due.

Zipping over to campus on Scottie, I was eager to collect the portfolios; eager to get my mitts on their collective blood-sweat-and-tears from our semester together; eager to have a tangible representation of their processes. From what I’ve observed in class and in their early drafts, a lot of work has gone into these portfolios — and that’s an understatement. They’ve stressed, wrestled, whined, questioned and powered through everything I threw at them — from Shitty First Drafts to mediocre subsequent drafts and stellar almost-there drafts.

From day one I tell my students that writing is a process, one that evolves over time. One would think that it works to my advantage that I have 16 weeks to drive home the point. I tell them that we are basically going to be rewriting their essays all semester long until they turn everything in to me in a final portfolio — and if they don’t turn in a portfolio, they don’t pass the class.

More than one student came to me uttering the words, “I can’t…” and I looked each one of them in the eye and said, “Yes, you can.” I’ve been their cheer leader and coach, rooting for them from the sidelines while offering guidance. I have coaxed them into thinking and exercising their God-given brains, even when they didn’t want to. I’d like to think that because of my cajoling, several of them (I am thinking of two in particular) have uncovered another dimension of their layered and complex selves — their creative component.

Imagine, then, my disappointment today when two students simply don’t show up; when one student shows up late and it’s my policy to not accept late work; and when one student shows up, but says to me, “I just want you to know that I’m here only as an observer today.”

“What does that mean?” I asked.
“It means I’m just here to observe.”
“So you’re not turning anything in?”
“No, I’m not turning anything in.”
“You’re not turning in your portfolio?”
“No.”
“You realize that if you don’t turn in your portfolio, you can’t pass this class.”
“Yes, I realize that, and I’m not happy about it.”
“Well, then why are you not turning it in?”
“I don’t have it.”
“How do you not have it? I just met with you last week and I saw your essays; you were working on them.”
“I know. I know I was working on them, and I have them on my flash drive, but I couldn’t get them printed out.”
“So you’re not turning it in?”
“Probably not.”
“Well, it’s due today, so if you’re going to try to turn it in, you better go print everything out right now.”

He leaves. Class starts. Students begin presentations. Part of their Creative Research Project. Student returns. In the middle of student presentation. He glances frequently around room. Must be looking for something. He turns head back and forth, away from student presenting. Student presentation ends. He leaves. Next student presentation starts. He returns. In the middle of a student presentation. Again. He has stapler. He staples papers. During presentation. He gets up and leaves. Again. Then returns. Again. Presentation still going on. Class ends. He turns in papers and takes off. Flip through pages. Not even close to meeting requirements.

WTF?

The kicker is that we spent a good 20 minutes during the last class period — two days ago — going over the portfolio requirements in specific detail.

On the ride home, I found myself so upset that I physically felt it in my clenched jaw and tense shoulders. The more I replayed the incident in my mind, the more frustrated I got. Why do I do it? Why do I stand up there all semester long, pouring myself into that class and those students only to have them blow me off? Why do I take it so personally? Why do I care so much when the students obviously don’t?

I tried to talk myself out of the downward spiral with positive rationalization like, “It’s only one student” and “think of the others who are going to pass, and pass well” and, as a good friend of mine said, “The thing about college is that you are there to help people who want to learn. If they don’t want to learn…F ‘em.”

But I couldn’t shake it. I rode Scottie down 21st Street, past Zelda’s and Pieces and tears started to stream down my cheeks, making the cold sting. I better be PMSing.

What is wrong with me? Why am I so upset? I’m not just upset, I’m angry. But why? Why am I angry? I’m angry because I feel like I’m wasting my time. But I’m not wasting my time. There are students in my class who have excelled this semester. But I still feel like I’m wasting my time. And I’m angry. Why? Why am I so angry? Because I’m trying to teach people how to write and they don’t want to learn how to write. Because I’m teaching these classes to make a living. And all I want to do is write. In the class room, I make money, but I don’t write. I give my time — myself — to these students, and not to writing.