Then again, this implies that something has been on their mind other than IM and beer bongs. (Or, at my university, cocaine parties.) My cohort of students almost never answers the qualitative questions, at least not thoughtfully. (“How can the instruction be improved? How can the course be improved? What did you like most? What least?”) These questions are most often answered with the same monosyllabic gutterals that seep out when students are asked to respond to questions in class, when I ask them to give us something to chew on. “Nothing.” “Course was ok.” “Too much reading.” “Instructor graded too hard.” “Prof. explained things clearly.” “Prof. didn’t explain things clearly.” “Didn’t know what he wanted on papers.” “Pretty cool.” “Boring.” 

One of the only comments that has ever done me any good came after my first semester of teaching: “Teacher looks like a chipmunk.”  I therefore resolved: I will do my best not to look like a chipmunk in the future. I will read books on how to diminish those aspects of my physiognomy that are too akin to the small mammal population. How can a student learn, after all, with Alvin in the front of the classroom? I felt ashamed and dirty.

My strategy must have paid off, for since then my evaluations have lacked the passion, the thought, the integrity that went into that first blast. I can now safely say that I no longer look the chipmunk. I can only hope that my students, when they look at me, see me for what I truly am: a snake. 

The student teaching evaluation offends. It reeks of something putrescing. It lacks common sense. If the powers-that-be really want to know what’s going on in the classroom, they should open the door and come in. Take notes, if they want. Come back a second and third time. I have nothing to hide, except my tail.