Right Wing Nation

Miss B*nc* and I had our first encounter the first day of class — as in the first day of class, in the first week of the semester. She sat with her chin in her hand as she looked out the window, and every minute or so she would let out a very loud sigh.

Even though the other students were annoyed by the time class was over, I figured if she was that bored, she’d drop the class. So I put up with it.

Drop and add came and went, and Miss B*nc* sat in the same seat, her chin in her hand as she looked out the window, and made those very loud, very intentional sighs every minute or two. The class met three days a week, so this would have been the seventh time everyone had been subjected to her — and I was sick of it.

She sighed again, and I stopped mid-sentence. I said nothing for a few seconds, because nothing grabs Americans’ attention like silence, then said, “We will continue when Miss B*nc* is done making her disgusting noises.”

Miss B*nc* blushed. I thought that would take care of it, but no, it didn’t. Well, it took care of the “I’m so BORED!” act, but there was worse to come.

Official policy, as in what was on the syllabus, was no late assignments accepted, ever, for any reason, do not ask, you get the idea. In fact, if someone did have a reason, I would have accepted his assignment late — but you never tell them that, unless you want nearly all late assignments.

One assignment, perhaps the most mickey mouse assignment, was a 500-word max essay, assigned each Monday and due on the following Friday, over whatever topic we covered the week before. Not that week. The week before. It was a gift, free points.

After class one Monday, Miss B*nc* came up to the desk, and said:

“I’m going to hand in my essay a week from Friday because I can’t come to class Friday. I’m going shopping.”

“Uhm, then you can hand it in Wednesday, or put it in my mailbox anytime before Friday.”

“I’m going shopping.”

“That’s nice. I won’t accept your assignment late.”

“But I’m going shopping!”

She was clearly getting upset. But I dug in my heels.

“You can hand it in Wednesday to me, or put it in my mailbox anytime before class is over Friday.”

She exploded.

“I’ll have you know my daddy is a doctor and an alumnus of this university and I get what I want!”

“You can hand it in Wednesday to me, or put it in my mailbox anytime before class is over Friday. But I will not accept it after class Friday.”

And I walked out.

Friday came. Miss B*nc* did not. Nor had she given me the assignment, or put it in my mailbox.

Monday, then Wednesday. Miss B*nc* was in class, but said nothing about the assignment. I figured she’d given up.

Oh no.

Friday — a week after it was due — Miss B*nc* walked up to the desk after class and handed me a piece of paper.

“What’s this?” I asked. I had already collected the assignments.

“My assignment from last week.”

“I don’t take late assignments,” I said, and let it drop into the trash can.

She stomped. She cried. She screamed. And she threatened to have her daddy get me fired. I gave her my business card, and invited her to have her father call me, then walked out.

He never did call.