Some of my students are assholes.

It’s not the norm of my day-to-day, because by and large the students I see just want to come in, take care of whatever paperwork or advising they might need, get their questions answered, and go.

Sometimes they have themselves a little identity crisis right there in my office, but even that doesn’t bother me too much, because they are generally grateful for any nuggets of wisdom I might have for them. It’s gratifying to start an appointment with a panic-stricken student and have them walked out more self-assured in just a half an hour.

Probationary students (those with poor GPA’s) are some of my favorite students to work with, because I might just be the only person they’ve talked to in the last month that isn’t telling them they are an idiot. (Really? Most of them aren’t idiots. They’ve just made poor choices, or lost their confidence, or fallen a little too in love with naps.) I look them in the eye and say, “You’re clearly not stupid. Your grades before last semester were fine. You are smart. Let’s figure out how you got into this mess, so we can get you out of it, and get you graduated.” You really ought to see how much it makes their day to have someone tell them that. They shuffle into my office feeling like stupid, miserable failures that have no power to change their fate. It is gratifying to have them walk out with their heads a little higher.

However. Every once in a while I come into contact with a student that is less than awesome to serve. Perhaps ungracious. Perhaps not as enthusiastic to receive my advising as I would prefer. Perhaps not what you would call “sober.” Or what you would refer to as “recently bathed.”

I do my best to serve these students and get them the heck out of my office, but sometimes they just won’t take the hint. (Last week I turned on my candle warmer and fan in the middle of an appointment, right after I told the student that I “used to smoke, too.” I am subtle.) I told another student that I was “pretty sure I’m allergic” to his cologne last week. Obviously, I was not. But the quantity of cologne that this young man applied was enough to make my nose burn and my eyes water.

And then sometimes, they take the hint, but they just don’t care. These students are generally the type who feel that everything that has ever gone wrong for them is someone else’s fault, and they are not afraid to hold me personally accountable for their misfortune. They flunked a class? It’s your fault for advising them to take a class that met at 8am. (“How could you tell me to take a class at that time knowing full well that it is impossible to wake up early enough to go to it?”)  They got caught cheating on a test so they are going to have a hearing? It’s your fault for telling them to take such a hard class. (“If the class hadn’t been like, so hard, I wouldn’t have had to cheat!”) They aren’t going to graduate because they didn’t finish enough hours? It’s your fault for not being aware that they, one of almost 1,000 students that you advise, dropped that 8am class halfway through the semester. (“I said it was too early!“)

Generally, I try not to get riled by these students. I remember that many of them are little more than children. Many of them have not been parented in a way that leads them to accept personally responsibility for their poor choices. And, really, don’t we all fight the temptation to blame others when things don’t go as planned?

And no matter how mad they get, or insulting, the facts of the case remain the same. There’s no relative value in getting into a pissing match with a self-centered, cranky, possibly-hung-over 22 year old.

But it takes more than I can do, some days, to keep myself calm as they hurl a barrage of insults over my desk. This morning, I had to ask a student to leave. In fact, I sort of put him in a time out.

He was railing against the “shitty advising he’s gotten ever since he walked in the door” here, and angry because he was discovering, for the first time, from me, that he wasn’t going to graduate. Of course, Mr. Shitty has never had an appointment with me, in fact has not sought out advising at all in the last two years. He remembered the advisor he met with last (“she was, like, young and really hot”) but didn’t actually do any of the things that she told him to do at that time. (We keep fairly good records over here in the shitty advising department.)

“So, I understand that you are angry, but a lot of your problems might have been solved by seeking advising before now.”

“I tried, but you’re like, never here.”

“Well, I’m here 40 hours a week, in two different departments.”

“Yeah that’s like total bullshit how am I supposed to know that.”

“Well, my office hours are on the door. With my email address. And my phone number.”

“Whatever, how are you going to fix this?“

“Well, this isn’t something I can fix. You are not going to graduate this semester.”

“Who can I talk to who can change this? Because this is fucking bullshit. You never even contacted me to tell me that I needed advising! How was I supposed to know?!?”

“I send out an email every semester to students nearing graduation. Here is the email I sent you last September asking you to meet with me.”

“Like I ever check my email! Look I am telling you that you have royally fucked up here and you need to figure out how you are going to get me out of here because I, like, cannot go here for another semester.”

And with that, I stood up, handed him his paperwork, and said, “All right. We are done here. You are welcome to come back and seek advising when your tone and your language are more appropriate. If you feel you have been mis-advised by me, here is the card for my supervisor. I will be happy to let her know about today’s conversation. It is time for you to leave.”

He protested, he apologized, and he begged to finish our appointment. I refused. I walked to the door, and said, “Your behavior has been inappropriate, and this appointment is over. You may leave now on your own volition, or I will be happy to find someone to remove you.”

He slouched out the door, all the while muttering about “bullshit” under his breath.

For all of my terror about what losing this job might mean, some days I am really happy that I’m counting down the the end of it.