(I didn't do the assignment, again, so I'll write about an event in class instead)
The method by which professors and teachers handle this strangely unyielding issue is different per mentor, and of the many I've witnessed there is not one that is inextricablly solid in stunting the crude act.
But this blog is not on my own philosophic inquiry toward the phenomena of cyber-reliance, but on the account of the act that occured in the most-recent class.
A cellphone polluted happiness.
"Could you put the phone on my desk?"
"No."
These exchanges of words bore with them the very blade that severed the unspoked gospel of 12.30 creative writing class. It was these words that vaccumed, inhaled, the unspoken-positivity that lingered upon each course since the initial-class. It was strange, so very strange.
The request was something that most people would respond "negatively" to, meaning they'd probably not obey on-command and instead try and snuggle around. It was a request that demands the surrender of an item one owns, and thus the surrendering of one's self (mildly). The primitive, genetic even, reaction to this is essentially "no," except now how in the way that it was delivered.
It was so very, very rude.
The intended means by which a mentor should handle cell-phone rudeness is, should it be affecting in a negative whatever, however, is to deal with it in a very quick manner, to avoid tension, to not allow any sort of discussion on the alien, ugly action of text-messaging whores and A.D.D. morons whom truly can't comprehend one action of sitting for a set-amount of time, which is what they paid for by enrolling to university. There is no reason the cell-phone need be so destructive and thickly present once a mentor has called out the proprieter of actions; tell them, quickly, put the phone away/on my desk/get out, and no more. Either comply or, should they not, then get out. The whole point is to make it brief, so that the action of mentor-to-single-student via negative and authoritive-like doesn't spoil the entire atmosphere and organization of that current class.
This theory on handling it didn't happen. In fact, the exact opposite happened.
"No."
When she said "no," it was a rude, smug, entirely-unnessecary "no." It was a "no" that didn't simply linger, it devoured.
I watched the silent, pleasent shade of glee above our glass ignite, and then watched as my many peers, each pacted with the silent-vow of excitement for 12.30 Creative Writing, drop.
One student stuck out primarilly, and we'll call him Mot. Mot is a low-sound, near-mumbling, very enthusiastic student and, whenever he does speak in this class, it holds this subtle, and suple, layer of ecstasy, of pure reveal, of honest intellectual-esque stigma. Mot is not the most "enlightening" in regards to creative writing, but his words are spoken with utmost-faith in the idea that this class, should he be wrong, will alert him and nurture him. To Mot, and to everybody whom enjoys this class like Mot, the real happiness that awaits at 12.30 creative writing is in the peers, in the discussions, in the readings. It is not the lesson, not so much the professor (anymore, for now that her roots are established the students will, like normal, claim ownership of a class not theirs if it is, indeed, a "good" class. *I'm saying that in a positive note*) and most certainly not so much the creative homework as learned last friday.
No, it is the unity of peers, of the equality that has, somehow, slid within us all as we sit down at our 12.30 course, that truly establishes Mot and other's enjoyment.
"No."
The color of Mot's face dropped at the word. He sat and waited for the next action of the professor's, sat and breathed the last of the fleeing-sense of home that class delivered. I watched as he turned upwards, away from the rude woman and the stumbling-thoughts of the professor and looked at nothing, his eyes and face focused on the top left corner of the room, above the door. I saw the color fade in his cheeks, the tints of red, of growing happiness, collapse, swelling chaotically back into the pit of his heart, leaving only many pale streaks darting beneath his ears and through his facial hairs.
I noticed this not only with Mot, though Mot's was vivid, real, the most pure reaction of having this hour and fiteen minute treat be suddenly crunched, coughed upon, and licked by an unwanted mouth, then handed back to him.
It was a shame how miserable it was, how truly dissapointed the girl presenting workshop must have felt knowing that today she was not going to get her peers best intentions of critique, to deliver both compliments of certain-obligation though certainly felt and of course critical-analysis well-pampered though still delivered. And the professor, how miserable one must be after being heckled so many times at your job by the sudden illusions of student's lost in their cell-phones.
It was a horrible class, all because some dumb woman whom is of the two that do not participate decided to be unnessecarilly rude. What was she truly defending by being such a pigeon? Her telephone? Her pride? Her strength? So misguided, so bloated within her own shell of existence, is this woman that she enacted by being, quite simply, a bitch, that she stole away the altruistic, and of such quality is this altruism, I may mention, vibe of the class, if only to stand on her sunken soap-box of lacking-intelligence and dispassionate sex of fifteen years and running.
"No," ruined the day. One can't help but ponder how long it's stink will float...
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