How the Extra-Curricular Activities Began -- Heather Part 1
When I began teaching at this school, I had just moved to a new state, my wife and kid had died within the previous year (that affair was far worse than tragic), and my anger, paranoia, and depression had run me straight toward nihilism. If I could tolerate liquor, I'd have simply chosen to be drunk all the time. I was a mess, but I plastered a smile on my face and went through the motions to continue life.
Happily, I found the creative outlet I needed, and between classes I penned my own thoughts. I used paper, too. Actually writing the words helped far more than typing. It took several years before I settled back into using a computer.
Most of the students in that first class worked diligently. I began with a shell of a syllabus outlining a few requirements, but I figured these students were adults and I figured they would act marginally as if they were.
I know, I know...I expected youthful idiots with raging hormones to engage with their responsibilities when fucking adults consistently refuse to do so. Even in the depths of nihilism, I fell into the classic trap of having expectations for people.
I learned a great deal that semester, too, and my syllabus grew wildly. The basic class structure didn't change much, though. The mid-term and final exams were each twenty percent of the grade, and the final project weighed heavily at fifty percent that first semester, as well. Class discussion went from ten percent of the grade to twenty-five percent in later semesters -- each exam and the project dropped five percent in value each... and this was because of Heather. This twenty-two year old grown-ass child never came to class, and she expected credit for participating when she, well, didn't.
After the first class, which she deigned not to grace with her presence, I received an email explaining that her obligations with the volleyball team necessitated her absence...from every single class I taught, and she asked for instructions on how to make up the work.
Most sports enthusiasts don't take my classes. I probably had more cheerleaders in Creative Writing than any other athlete, and I even understood that occasional absences, even regular ones, would come up. But every single class?
I checked the volleyball schedule as I had zero knowledge or interest in it. Collegiate volleyball ends in December. My first semester teaching was the spring semester. I found this...vexing.
I contacted my supervisor as well as every single one of her other teachers, and she had used the same bullshit on each of them. All the teachers suggested I let it slide because the school's volleyball coach could get...challenging, and they all used the same phrase. "Rich, seriously. It's not worth it."
My supervisor, however, called me.
"Blythe," he preferred that over Richard. Eh, Mom named me after her father. I liked it. "Honestly, you've had enough shit over the last couple years." He knew my recent history, and talked the department into hiring me, anyway. I appreciated the man. "If you challenge this, you'll technically win, and the entire School of Humanities will cheer you on silently." I smiled. That sounded like fun. "But it could get ugly."
"Oh?" My smile widened. Ugly, I had become accustomed to.
"Yeah. David Marks is a dick who thinks his team is more important than academics. And we're not talking about football where the school makes millions off it." Yeah, we force the football players to do their fucking work, too. "Rumor has it he stalked Chambers in the Spanish department. And I know he ran off Wilkins two years ago. No one could prove anything, though."
"So if I buck this, I'm signing up for a challenge from Marks."
"He's going to see it as you challenging him, and he's gonna try spiking you."
I snorted. "Okay. Well, I'll tread lightly."
"...I appreciate that."
"...but I ain't givin' away a free grade, either."
"...I appreciate that even more." He paused. "I didn't ask you here to engage this asshole, but I think you're just the man to end these particular shenanigans, so, if you want to take it on, then you have my support."
"Alright. I'm gonna suggest she drop the class, and we'll go from there."
He chuckled, knowing full well how fruitless that suggestion would be, and we ended the call. A few moments later I received an email from him with a link to a web page that outlines requirements for athletes. His only comment lightly suggested I adhere to school and department policies.
I smiled as I composed my reply to Heather.
"Volleyball season ended in December, so, according to school policy, you are not due any special privileges regarding attendance, assignments, or grading because of Volleyball commitments. If the volleyball team still requires so much of your time that you cannot attend my class, then I strongly urge you to drop my class immediately. If you would like to participate in my class and improve your writing, then I would love for you to stay in my class. Please do not waste your time or mine. Consider your schedule carefully, and let me know your decision by either dropping the class or showing up and participating in them for the rest of the semester. Prof RBH."
Within an hour, I received sixteen threatening phone calls. Heather called me. Heather's mother called me. The coach called me. The Athletic Director called me. I even received a call from the Chancellor's office. Each caller tried to explain to me that I was acting outside of the school's guidelines, but I politely refuted them with chapter and verse. I told them all that Heather should solve the problem by dropping my class. None of them thought this a suitable resolution, and as Blake predicted, David Marks took my adherence to policy, and not his creative interpretation of policy, as a direct challenge.
I began revising my syllabus at that hour. Like I said before: I learned a great deal that semester.
As I locked up my door to leave campus, someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned around to stare into the chest of a remarkably large man whose left nipple pointed distinctly through his athletics department polo. He had to be at least six foot eight inches tall, he was muscular, but lanky. He thought he was bigger than he actually was. He angrily snarled, "Are you Professor Head?"
I smiled, "I am. And you are?"
"I'm David Marks, and you..." he punched two fingers into my chest, not enough to harm me, but definitely enough to shove me into the door, and as you probably know by now, I'm a fat man of the sit-in champion variety. So he shoved me pretty hard. "Will not..." he poked into my chest again, also pushing me into my door, "fuck with my student." For good measure he launched his two fingers into my chest one last time. I could feel the bruises rise. I mean, I'm a doughy old bastard.
What many people don't seem to think about is how much muscle it takes to haul around the weight of an extra person on your frame all the damn time. Also, I had an overwhelming lingering rage built up for the better part of a year that still needed an outlet. I considered ending the encounter after he poked me the first time, but it seemed like he was just getting started. So as he poked me that final time, right in the middle of my chest, I grabbed his fingers, squeezed them together, and backwards, and rotated my fat ass ninety degrees to the right.
I crushed every bone in the fingers I wrapped my hand around, and when I twisted his hand and arm, those crushed bones moved around. When I rotated, he had to move with me. I pushed him face first into the wall, and I held him there as I pulled out my phone.
