Tuesday, August 21, 2007

Summer Greek

Although Dr. Moss would probably categorize Summer Greek class as a special kind of torture--reserved only for sadists, the incredibly stupid, or those bereft of the decision-making skills God gave field mice--I'm going to really miss it when it's over. Sure, "free time" has been a foreign concept these last five weeks, but so has "multitasking." Why aren't all classes given in intensive one-at-a-time segments? Summer Greek covers the 120 hours of two entire quarters in just five weeks. However, Greek is the exception; the average 10-week course can be completed it just one single week during summer session. Given that humankind, in all its collective wisdom, has discovered this clearly superior format, why do ten-week classes still exist, to say nothing of the God-forsaken 15-week semester courses at some schools? When given the option between one week of soul-sucking labor or ten, what fool says, "Ten, please! Oh, and during those ten weeks, can I take three more classes?"

Adding to its unspeakable awe and wonder, Summer Greek takes no prisoners. It claimed its first victims within the first two weeks. As a result, the six of us who were left banded together like a group of trauma survivors, whose lives were drawn together by the shared experience of being lost at sea, forced to eat a sickly companion to stave off the hunger. Now, I'm no great hater of the students who scrape the bottom of the grading scale, but there's something to be said about the potential velocity of a class whose academically-challenged members have ever-so-wisely fled for dear life.

Moreover, the class has been fun. In fact, it's the only fun class I've had at Ashland, and transitioning from Summer Greek to working full time is certain to have all the joys involved in falling out of a seven-story window. Thankfully, time, God, wife, and a man named "Stafford" have afforded me the opportunity to hand in my two weeks notice the day I return--something I plan on doing with no regret. The thought occurs to me that perhaps my hatred of my job and subsequent love for Summer Greek is only an indication of a more deeply-rooted character defect--laziness, depression, or irresponsibility--but frankly, I couldn't be bothered to care.

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