This isn't the life that was described in the syllabus

I taught college students for many years but quit teaching full time a few years ago. Some might think that being a college prof is a matter of talking at people, of lecturing and leading discussions. Today what I remember most is how much I sat and listened.

I listened to their talk about switching majors, about traveling for a year after graduation, of getting married and going to graduate school at the same time. One year the air might be filled with talk about the environment, the next year terrorism, the next year racism.

If I were still teaching today, I'm sure the air would be filled with talk of the economy.

In some ways, I'm thankful I'm not there teaching and listening to students through this Great Recession, because even at this distance I can still hear their voices.

Here's the voice of a young woman I'm hearing in my head right now. She is a product of my memory, my imagination and my conscience. She has just graduated and is looking for her first post-college job:

"So this is what it's all about: Spend $60,000 of my parents' money and another 40 in student loans, and employers look at me as if I'm a lice-infested loser from the wrong side of the tracks.

"I worked hard. My professors acted as if doing well would make a difference. So I did well. They called me a model student. Now what? The only firm offers I've had are temp jobs typing forms for a law firm. That and telemarketing."

Oh, no, replies my conscience. Not telemarketing. Could one of those telemarketers I'm rude to actually be a former student with a double major in English and philosophy?

The student voice from my conscience goes on:

"I'm third in line for a job unpacking books in a bookstore. The espresso place says I can come back next week and maybe they'll have something. I've tried to get in on a trail-clearing crew in the Boundary Waters, but there's a waiting list of 32.

"There's always the Peace Corps, but I'm too late to apply for this year. I've thought of teaching English in Romania, but the application deadline is long past. I'd deliver pizzas if I could afford a car.

"I think I'm a little old for babysitting, and all the waitresses in good places are hanging onto their jobs like they were tenured appointments. Two nonprofit organizations have offered me nonpaying internships that might lead to an entry-level job, but what do I live on in the meantime?

"I don't want to move back in with my parents. I'm a grownup. I don't want to live with roommates. I should be finished with dorm life.

"I can't afford good food. I can't afford a safe place to exercise. What I want to know is what my senior adviser meant when he said I should always be brave enough to buck the system. What system? Will somebody please tell me what the system is? Would someone please give me a syllabus?"

I don't have a syllabus for the current marketplace. Nobody seems to have one for what the country is going through right now. But the young woman speaking from my conscience reminds me that I once offered her and her peers a syllabus, of sorts -- at least an implied road map that she could follow through life if she did everything right.

It's a good thing we only implied, because we sure didn't deliver.

I'm tempted to offer comforting cliches, like, "Don't worry, you are the cream of the crop, and cream always rises to the top," but I know how phony that sounds. We taught her and her classmates to spot a phony.

For the first time, my listening skills are inadequate for the task at hand. And I'm not sure what to say.

-----

Jim Heynen is the author of several books. His short story collections include "The One-room Schoolhouse" and "The Boys' House." He lives in St. Paul.

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