last class of the day, 6-to-almost-8pm, i'm tired, my students are tired, & this is the batch that tends to make progress the most slowly and with whom i have the most ennui to fight (which is still so much less than what i'm used to that it makes me giddy): E, my heckler for his section, who always sits at the back of the room, has been complaining (albeit somewhat good-naturedly) about the details of the assignment he's working on each time i wander back to where he and his cronies sit. halfway through the period, maybe more, i make my way back there again, and he glares at me over the paper he's diligently writing on.
"this class is hardcore," he says, gesturing at the several things he's written during this meeting already. "i know," i answer cheerily. "it's a writing class. that's what we do." the next time i come back there, he's got a different comment to offer:
"i'm still having trouble starting that history paper," he says. "got any advice?"
yes, of course i have. we have lots of advice when we're hardcore.