Good or Cool? What's More Important?

"This is from the heart," Raj insisted, tapping his chest. He was explaining why I was the finest instructor at the college. I listened patiently, uncomfortable with the gush of praise delivered in the hallway. I didn't want to hear that I was "so unlike" the other, presumably bad professors that Raj had taken after his semester of freshman composition with me.

I am not so modest that I can't listen to compliments. The problem was that Raj was the student delivering them.

Raj is Indian or Pakistani, older than I, probably in his late 40s or early 50s. He already has a university degree from his home country, one that isn't honored here in the States, so he has returned to school to pursue the credentials that will allow him to work again as a pharmacist. When Raj was in my class, he was a model student. He was smart, punctual, and prepared. He understood social hierarchies and respected them, beginning each question he asked with a British-inflected "Ma'am." But Raj was far from cool, and his comments bothered me that day in the hallway because he had caught me right after a class with the Show Dog.

The Show Dog is tan, tall, and surferesque but not a surfer. I can tell that his dedication is to the stylist who can streak his hair so beautifully, not to the next wave. He exudes wealth—and not from parents strapped with huge credit card debt who buy him whatever he wants as bribes. No, his parents have real money, and lots of it. I just know that he drives a much more expensive car than I do, and he knows it too.

I assume that he is taking freshman composition in the spring because he flunked out of an expensive 4-year school last semester, probably after four months of heavy drug and alcohol abuse. He has that world weariness that comes from too much high drama early in life. I'll bet that his parents want him close to home so that they can easily return him to rehab, if necessary. Respectable grades during a semester at the local community college might be all the university needs to readmit him next fall, what with the endowment Dad has promised.

The Show Dog is a decent writer but has no interest in improving his skills. He never says a word in class, yet everyone is aware of his presence and behavior. He won't take notes. He sits the entire hour and fifteen minutes with his arms crossed, awake but bored. He is not sullen, just passively tolerating the restrictions on his freedom. Usually when a student doesn't participate—doesn't talk, doesn't take notes, doesn't do the optional bonus-point assignments—the others in the room dismiss him. Their suspicions that the nonperformer is a loser are confirmed when I return heavily marked essays or low quiz scores.

But the Show Dog is so charismatic in his wealth and ennui that I notice my good students mimicking his behavior by putting down their own pens and attempting to replicate his inscrutable face. The Show Dog isn't instigating this minor rebellion—I can tell that he finds all of us so beneath him in money and experience that we hardly register—but my students act as though they are in the presence of a celebrity, and the only way to get his attention is to imitate him.

Now if the Show Dog had stopped me in the hallway to praise my teaching, I would have enjoyed the compliments—although such behavior certainly isn't the Show Dog's style. If I just caught the corners of his mouth upturned in the start of a smile during one of my witty moments in class, that would do. But my humor must be so unsophisticated or safe by the Show Dog's standards that I can't break the stoic blankness of his features.

And here's the self-revelation I'm not much liking: It doesn't matter to me that hardworking, good Raj, whose life has been nothing but challenges and obstacles, appreciates my style and skill as a teacher. I would rather have confirmation that the pampered Show Dog thought I was cool.

Maybe I know that the Rajs of the school are easy to impress; they require only that I have a professional demeanor and an organized class. The Show Dogs, meanwhile, need a level of hipness that I no longer have [and maybe never did]. I don't believe that I will ever get this Show Dog to connect with what I'm doing in class. His refusal to meet me halfway—something the Rajs are all too happy to do—is part of the problem. But that I wasn't able to spark an exception from him means that I am getting too old or too tired to be good and cool.

Out with the Camera Again—Finally!

I haven't budgeted much camera time lately. The weather, for Florida, has been cold, which I don't tolerate well, and winter isn't the season for insects, my favorite subjects. Plus, I had a nice stash of hoarded photos to post at the photostream in January and February, since I knew opportunities for new work would be slim to none.

Yesterday, however, I decided to go out. I wasn't expecting any good pictures this early in the year; I just wanted to see if the dragonflies had begun to make their return.

I started at Mead Garden. Perhaps the day was too cloudy and windy, but when I sat quietly at the lake shore, at first no camera in hand, just observing, I didn't see a single dragonfly skim over the water. I did, however, get a reasonably good shot of a snowy egret:


Next, I drove over to Leu Gardens. There were bees and an occasional butterfly, but I found myself drawn more to flowers. I remember shooting soprano daisies last year but always being disappointed with the results. These, though, I do like:




I also managed one good shot of a sweat bee who was busy in a flower I don't recognize. I love when my big human existence dissolves, and I get to see the world that the little bug inhabits from his perspective.

Do You Need That Emotion Today?

Elizabeth and I met a friend for lunch. Eventually, Lynda regaled us with tales from her hiking adventure over Christmas break. But first we sat through a long series of complaints: her mother's unrealistic expectations, her boyfriend's refusal to get married, her colleagues' incompetence, her limited income as a single woman in a couple's world. She seemed tired and unhappy, and spring break is still weeks away.

But eventually, Lynda began to recount her trip to Mexico, which included burro riding, all kinds of limit-testing challenges, and beautiful scenery. She stayed at a nice resort in the mountains, and each day her group followed a no-nonsense guide on hikes of various difficulty. Each evening during dinner, the guide would explain the next day's outing, detailing the distance, altitude, level of challenge, and exposure. For Lynda, exposure was the concern; she explained that her fear of heights was something she could control if the trail was wide enough or had natural railings on both sides. But she feared losing her footing and tumbling down the mountain if the trail was narrow and exposed.

One evening, as the guide discussed the next day's challenges, he mentioned that there would be frequent exposure. If any of his hikers thought that they would have a problem, the guide wanted to know immediately.

Lynda went right up to say that she was using this trip to work on her fear of heights, but after his description of the upcoming hike, she thought that she would just relax at the resort.

"He looked right at me and asked, 'Do you need that fear tomorrow?' Like it was my choice. And you know, when he asked me that way, I believed that it was my choice. I thought a second and told him, 'No, I won't need that fear tomorrow.'"

Lynda seemed to get the lesson about fear but didn't see its carryover to other emotions. I wanted to imitate the guide and ask, "Do you need the unhappiness about your mother today? Do you need the disappointment with your boyfriend and colleagues today? Do you need the worry about your finances today?"

Even though I understand the guide's lesson, I'm sure that I don't apply it either. Do I need this impatience with the computer ignorant today? Do I need this boredom with my life today? And on and on.

Why is it that we see that other people have clear choices, but we don't see our own?