And so the semester has just ended–I’ve just submitted the grades of my students this Wednesday and the required [personal] research paper for my MA degree yesterday. There’s this sentimental emptiness again, that certain feeling when purpose has been stripped away. Not that I’ve done something badly, but I’ve, well, successfully finished it.
Sembreaks, ah, such a good time to catch up with all my readings and personal writings. I look at the stack of books on my table and, damn, I don’t know where to begin.
As a teacher I have to confess that it does hurt whenever I give a student a failing grade. It makes me think “what went wrong with my methods?” or “maybe I should have tried harder.”
But I have to be fair. I have to rely on justice.
Perhaps things would have been easier if I had let the student pass the subject. But who am I deceiving here? The student? The system? Me?
I’ve given much considerations but my records still state that the student’s efforts were never enough. Never enough.
And so both of us suffer the consequence[s], and on the second time–like rewriting a rough draft–we hope to become better people.