As regular readers of this blog know, Curmie is a retired
theatre professor. He is virtually
certain that he’ll never return to the classroom except, perhaps, as a one-day
guest. He’s no longer a member of any
professional organization except one specifically linked to his PhD alma
mater; he has three writing projects started, but he’s lost momentum on all
of them, and it’s considerably more likely that none of them will ever be
finished than that more than one will.
But there is one area of the job where he’s still rather active. Five former students in the last couple of
months have asked him to be a reference for them. Four are applying to grad schools; one is
looking for jobs as a teacher. We’ll
just call her “SA,” as Curmie doesn’t want to hurt her job prospects just
because he can be an asshole from time to time.
It’s SA’s case that spurs this post. Over the years, Curmie has discerned a rather
disturbing phenomenon. Whereas virtually
every grad school or theatre company that has taken a serious interest in a
student who’s listed him as a reference has made contact one way or another, public
schools in Texas (at least) pretty much don’t care. Curmie has lost count of how many former
students have applied for jobs teaching theatre in a high school or junior high;
it’s in the dozens, at least. Most of
these folks got a job; that’s the good news.
The number of schools that contacted Curmie at all totals perhaps 15% of
that number. Perhaps other references
were so positive that the mere fact that Curmie agreed to be a reference was
enough. More likely, administrators just
couldn’t be bothered to do their jobs.
It’s reasonable not to bother to check references if a candidate clearly
isn’t going to make the cut. But it’s
unconscionable not to do so before hiring someone as a teacher.
One of the students for whom Curmie wasn’t a
reference was what we call a “paper major,” i.e., someone who takes all
the required classes for a Theatre major, but works on shows only to the extent
specifically required by coursework: no auditioning, no volunteering
for crews, none of that kind of stuff that might actually provide relevant
experience. She got a job as a technical
director for a high school, because the person you want to show other people
how to work a counterweight system or use power tools is someone who’s pretty
much never done it herself. ☹ Oh, but she went to that high school, so that’s OK,
then.
But whereas those schools that don’t even bother to check
references are the greater problem, those that do are almost as bad. Now we come to the first rec I get to write to
support SA’s quest for a teaching position.
They don’t want a letter; there’s a form to fill out. We start with some questions with drop-down
responses. A couple of them are
reasonable: things like time management, willingness to assume responsibility,
etc. Others are clearly variations on “can
we push the applicant around (please say ‘yes’)?” Curmie will pretend he doesn’t understand the
subtext and answer what the question literally asks: about “ability to follow
instructions,” for example. His former student
follows instructions very well, thank you.
But she’s clearly a lot more intelligent than whoever designed this
questionnaire, and might just rebel a little if “instructed” to do something freaking
stupid. That is precisely why Curmie agreed
to recommend her.
Alas, there are worse examples. First question: “What is your relationship to this candidate?” If that’s a fill-in-the-blank kind of query, it’s a logical way to start (assuming you’re too lazy and/or dim-witted to want an actual letter of recommendation). But remember that this is a drop-down, and there’s no option that corresponds to the faculty/student relationship we had when she was an undergrad. The only choices: “Supervisor,” “Peer,” “Friend,” and “Other.” Supervisor? Well, sort of, but it’s not like I was her boss or something. Peer? No. Friend? Well, yes, now, but that’s not what they mean.
By the way, if there’s no professional
relationship, what the hell use is the recommendation of someone who’s simply a
friend? “We were apartment-mates junior
year, and she always did the dishes when it was her turn, and got out of the
way when my boyfriend came over” might make her someone to go have a beer with,
but it’s hardly a relevant concern in assessing her suitability as a
teacher.
Curmie supposes that makes him “Other.” (He can hear those who know him personally
snickering something like “Ain’t that the truth.”) It’s just weird that Curmie (and her Master’s
program supervisor) are relegated to “otherness,” but “friends” are given their
own category.
The other question Curmie struggled with was about SA’s “teaching strategies.” The closest Curmie has ever come to seeing SA’s “strategies” in action was when he advised her production of a 10-minute play a couple of decades ago. And it’s not like Curmie remembers details of that show; even if he did, we can reasonably assume that she’s learned some things in the interim. “I don’t really know” is the honest answer. Nope, not allowed on their divinely inspired form. What to do?
Well, SA has been living abroad
for several years, successfully running a company that integrates ESL with
theatre work. This is a strategy that
was very much foregrounded in Tudor England (except that the language in
question was Latin instead of English), and was the driving principle behind
the “French plays” Curmie saw and participated in when he was an
undergrad. Making that work for any
period of time requires both creativity and pragmatism. In the absence of evidence to the contrary,
Curmie is calling that “excellent” and moving on.
Curmie’s initial thought was that this school’s form—farmed out
to some company at taxpayer expense because either wanting actual letters or
creating the school’s own form might take a few minutes of the administrators’
precious time that could be better spent playing solitaire on the office
computer—was the stupidest he’d seen, against some very steep competition. But then he thought back a little
further. One of the first such forms
Curmie filled out for a former student does indeed take the Too Fucking Stupid
to Believe Grand Prize.
It’s been a long time, so Curmie can’t remember all the
details, including (luckily for them) the name of the school; he’s only
reasonably confident he remembers who the student in question was. If it’s who he thinks it was, she was truly
remarkable, and has become a very successful teacher in a different district
than the cretinous yahoos who distributed the form. For this school, there was a list of something
like 20 statements, with a drop-downs ranging from “strongly agree” to “strongly
disagree.” The very first question,
presumably what the school cared about the most, was “Applicant is well
groomed.” Yes, really. Curmie remembers that one. There followed a series of prompts about the candidate’s
being “obedient” (yes, Curmie remembers that specific word), “respectful,” and
similar code words for passive servility.
Finally, about Question #16, we get to something about
knowing the subject material. There was
one other question—Curmie can’t remember what it was, exactly—that was actually
relevant to whether an applicant would be good at the job. The rest, by far the majority, were all about
looking nice and being inoffensive.
Those readers who know Curmie personally know what Curmie thinks of
those priorities; the rest of you can no doubt guess.
The problem, as it so often is, is that the people who make hiring decisions—principals, etc.—are, as a class, even lazier than they are stupid, and that’s saying rather a lot. Our public education system has been turned over not to competent professionals but to stolid bullies who care more about their own authority than about educating students. They have degrees in educational administration but no damned sense. All principals, superintendents, and similar folk? Of course not. But the word “most” has surpassed “many” in Curmie’s contemplation of this issue. That’s not a good thing.
