Dear John, I walked by
your office door today as I have multiple times in the last six months since I
started teaching at De Anza. I remember
walking the longer halls of the San Jose State
faculty offices building for the English, Humanties, and Philophy departments,
my eyes glancing over pictures and fliers, posters and clippings, of all colors
and sizes. I walked those halls many
times, but now I am walking in a different building. I am sharing an office instead of just
visiting one. I am composing handouts
and lectures and worksheets in place of formal essays and presentations. Instead of writing essays in response to
prompts, I am grading essays that I have
assigned. Naturally, and especially at
the end of each quarter, I am compelled to walk down the hall and visit your door.
What
usually catches my eye first is the comic clipping you have on your door, close
to the knob. It shows a crudely drawn caricature
with his hand stretched out towards another, palm facing upward, with a drawing
behind him which states, "F---ING A--HO." The first caricature asks the other if he can
have more money for his grant to complete his work. The simplicity of the statement and the
exponentially humorous effect of it make me crack a smile every time.
One day we
talked in your office, sparked by my mentioning how much I enjoyed reading your
door. You told me of an assignment in which
the students had to critically analyze an instructor's office door material. Well, today I went back and read every
clipping on your door. From reading those
excerpts, I know a great deal about you: what makes your tomatoes (and student
essays) grow, how "vigilent" you are, how humorous you are, how low
voter turnout reflects greater issues in society, how you know your students
dread due dates, how prolific you are, and how mental illness should be
researched before ridiculed. I know that
you are a person extremely concerned about the campus, its integrity, and its
students. The wonderful but few words we
exchanged and the clippings on your door have affirmed for me that humor and
creativity are not only okay in the classroom; they actually belong there.
When we
spoke that day, I also complimented you on your wonderful resources on your
faculty website page. Skipping from link
to link, I encountered a "blog" for the first time; I was curious, so
I read a few entries. I was amazed that
these writings existed, even though they seem like the most natural, simple
step from handwritten journals to typed ones.
It was a star to my ever-wandering bark in the sea of that particular fear
which arises from believing that anything I write could be insignificant in
context of the history of the world. (I
think I gained this slanted view from reading mostly canonized works). Quite simply, a blog carries with it the
compositional ease of a journal entry, with the immortality of written words
still a perk, though they float somewhere in web-space. If anyone can write on the Internet, why not
I? Why not my students? Why not, indeed.
And now I
think back to the day I first saw your website.
I was snooping around online to see what kind of people I would be
working with. I must say I was quite
intimidated by your glowing curriculum vitae, your many wonderful links to
information and more useful links, and blog, after blog, after blog. Pleased yet intimidated, I reported to my
parents that I would be working with a virtual genius.
From a new instructor
to a wise one, I thank you for paving the Internet road with valuable
knowledge. I thank you for the obvious
impact you've made on countless students and coworkers with your passion for
learning and teaching. I thank you for
kindly sparing a few moments to chat with a newcomer. And thank you for displaying dimensions of
your life on your door for all to enjoy.
Sincerely,
Laura Raffaelli
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