there's a band of gold that shines, waiting somewhere.

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dateline: oZland

11 october 1996 9:27 p.m.

Turning into a part-time student is a lot like getting a year older -- it changes things on paper, but it really doesn't feel any different. After marching all over creation yesterday, I finally dropped the Class from Hell. It took a little strategy, and a willing surrender to the ridiculousness of the bureaucratic process. Step One: Get the instructor's signature. It was quick, but it took a little planning. The question was when to make the approach. Now, in withdrawing, you're essentially saying, "I don't want to be here any more." You'd figure anyone would gladly let you go -- after all, that's one less term paper to read -- but I've heard enough horror stories to not take my chances. I imagine some teachers can't help but think, "Hey, I'm being dumped here!" I had to put my instructor in a position where she didn't have enough time to think about making me squirm. So, I decided to ask for her signature a few minutes before class started. Two things, then, worked to my advantage. First, she had the pressure of starting class on time. Secondly, I talk fast and she barely speaks English. I don't remember what I said, but I dragged my excuse out long enough to push right up against the start of the period. I baffled her thoroughly enough so that when I finally stopped talking, put down the little paper and pointed at the "Instructor's Signature" line, she seemed relieved to finally know something about what was going on and happily approved my departure. Step Two: Get an advisor's signature. In a futile try to get this all over earlier this week, I already learned the hard way that I had to get to the little desk in Hawaii Hall pretty early in the morning in order to get an appointment with of the little buggers. Of course I forgot, but it just so happened that when I walked straight over from Moore Hall (a bit of a hike, let me tell you), they had just started taking walk-ins specifically for "W" escapees. My adviser said, right off the bat, "this is my first year here, so be patient." I was sure at that point that I'd somehow be a Food Science major when it was all over, but again, fate was on my side. Now, these advisers are supposed to grill you. "Why do you want to withdraw? Is it because you can't keep up or because you don't want to? Do you know what this does to your transcripts? Do you think you'll want to get into a graduate program someday?" Let me tell you, I had my bullshit glands primed and ready to go. Instead, she decided she'd sign off right away... after she did a core check ("I need the practice," she said). So she filled out a little chart to figure out what I already knew -- that I'll be a student 'til I'm supplementing my tuition with social security checks. Then, after nagging me to commit to a major and take a "JUMP" session (where they take great joy in saying, "Oooh, you still need two more writing-intensive courses and another natural science! Guess you'll have to wait another year to graduate!"), she thanked me for my patience and signed The Form. Step Three: Get it dropped. This is it... the moment of truth. This is what happens: 1. You take the form -- somewhat wrinkled but proudly bearing your name, a course number and two small signatures -- to a small window in the basement of the shiny new Student Services Center. 2. You hand it to a student worker who has her feet up on the counter, who becomes frustrated because you interrupted her right in the middle of a good part in the steamy romance novel she was reading and her coworker has to stop playing with her hair. 3. She looks at your name and the course number, types it into a computer, and hits return with an impatient sniff. The End: That was it. And I was pissed. Let me get this straight. After the university bigwigs designed a fancy three-layer form and engineered a complex process that makes it abundantly clear that you have to have a damn good reason and a lot of face-to-face "counseling" before you can drop out of a class, in the end it really comes down to whether a gum-chewing, aid-receiving freshman (freshperson? freshthing?) at a window terminal can type in your social security number right. She didn't even try to figure out which of the advisers signed my form, let alone check if the teacher's signature even looked like the name of the course instructor. I bet I could have drawn stick figures on the signature lines, or even signed one "James Tiberius Kirk," and she still would have blindly put it through. It's really ridiculous how control over so many things you trust are "fail-safe" actually ends up in the hands of the grunts on the front line. I mean, I can't remember the last time anyone ever held on to my credit card long enough to check if my receipt signature matched the one on the card. On one hand, laziness is great when you're trying to sneak food into a stadium or a theater, or when you're going out for a beer and forget your license at home. But on the other hand, it makes the whole idea of "security" seem pretty pointless. Come to think of it, I bet if I study the system long enough, I can find that one point -- the weak link, the Crucial Counter Grunt -- where a confidently-passed, official looking form will get me a degree without my having to take that damned biology lab... or paying tuition, for that matter. I don't know how I did on the Hawaiian midterm. I forgot the juice for today's party, so I just skipped the class. I think I did okay, though. There weren't any numbers on the test -- just as extra credit, and I think I might have gotten it right anyway. "Volleyball is small potatoes. You gotta root for the football guys!" -- Derek Derek and I are arguing which we would go to if a women's volleyball game and a UH football game fell on the same night. He listened to the football game today on the radio. I was watching the Wahine tonight on television. His "guys" ate it, my v-ball girls cleaned house. Wahine (Women's) Volleyball Hawai`i 15 15 15 Wyoming 2 2 5 Rainbow Football Hawai`i 8 San Diego State 58 Derek actually tried to argue that at least the football team is getting better, considering that they lost their last game on the Mainland with a score of something like sixty-two to zero. Wow. He's right. They don't suck quite as badly. My policy? Pride over pity, testosteronal alumni loyalty be damned. I rest my case.