And it really hurt my feelings.
I've long been a fan of Jerry Seinfeld. And his latest project, the web series Comedians in Cars Getting Coffee, has brought more to my life than just further appreciation for the comedian.
It's given me a sense of belonging.
Seinfeld begins every show modeling a classic car he's picked out to represent the comedian he's about to go pick up for a coffee date. He provides an in-depth description and visual inventory of a cool vintage automobile, while offering a candid and poetic reason behind its metaphorical representation of his comedic colleague. My favorite was when he picked up Louie C.K. in a bright orange Fiat Jolly. The similarities still keep hitting me.
Numerous cameras harnessed in the car allow viewers to witness a very genuine conversation between two professionals in the same field, as they make their way to a coffee shop. The two comedians discuss various things like child-rearing and life on the road. And as beautiful footage of foaming milk and coffee pouring in slow motion rolls, the comedians talk about their life in the field of comedy.
It is within this dialogue, I feel at home.
Now, this isn't to say that I think of myself as a comedian. Or even all that funny. I don't aspire to host a talk show, or write a hit sitcom, or have a small part as a funny best friend in a chick flick. But I do find myself relating entirely to the job of a comedian.
What other profession allows for hoards of people to anonymously judge one's professional ability on an extremely routine basis?
None that I can think of.
Except the professor.
I've never done stand up in a dark night club in front of a crowd of drunks. But I regularly stand in front of a room full of people and try to get, and keep, their attention.
For both the instructor and the comedian, the goal is to appeal to the most number of people in the audience. Both have to entertain, challenge and inform. Both try not to alienate anyone. And both have to keep the audiences coming back. The comedian, so he can pay the bills; the instructor, so she can prepare them for the midterm.
But perhaps the biggest similarity between the comedian and the professor is the extreme way in which the professional is scrutinized.
Scrutiny that is both immediate and delayed. Both helpful and hurtful.
As the comedian stands in front of the silent crowd, he can immediately tell he's bombing. Days later, he can read the review of his act, or movie, or television show, in a critic's belabored review in the paper, a magazine or online.
Every semester, a few weeks before final exams, college students get to evaluate their professors. They get to answer a series of questions in which they rank each professor on teaching style, course content, personality and grading fairness. They also get a comments section in which they can write any amount of feedback they feel necessary.
Student evaluations can be a wonderful thing. They give students a great amount of voice and power over an experience for which they are paying. Professors can use this feedback to improve their courses. And the university can judge the effectiveness of the professors it employs.
On top of student evaluations, professors undergo peer evaluations, in which a fellow professor sits in on a colleague's class to observe the teaching style. Then, every year a professor submits numerous documents, which include their student and peer evaluations, for their annual performance review.
This semester, every class period was an immediate critique of my craft. Like the comedian, I have to read the room. Some days I walked out of class after dramatically dropping the mic, with the glint of sweat on my brow and the sound of uproarious applause following me out the door. And other days, I ended class curled up under the lectern while students lined up to have me clarify every single thing I had said over the past hour.
And when student evaluations come in, and they do a week or so after the semester has ended, there is the long-form critique of everything I did or said or implied over the past semester.
This semester, by all accounts, was a good one. I taught more classes, and had more students, than I ever have in all my years of teaching. I stuck to my promise of returning student emails the day I received them. I worked tirelessly on lecture notes and classroom activities. I returned all graded assignments within two weeks and I memorized and used everyone's names.
The last day of the semester I drove home feeling as if I had given my all and truly felt there wasn't anything I would have done differently.
And yet, a week later when the evaluations came in, my stomach tightened.
The report generates a numerical value to show how I performed in all the areas evaluated. It also shows me how my score compared to the other faculty members. I breathed a sigh of relief to see my value was as high as I would have ranked myself.
But then there is the almighty comments section.
And that's where I tend to lose my shit.
I opened the comments section to find a screen full of dense text. My eyes skimmed furiously to see negative phrasing, criticism, judgement and disdain.
I quickly closed the document and sat very still at my desk.
I searched for a distraction. I opted for the Comedians in Cars episode featuring Chris Rock. And that man has had his share of negative feedback.
After the episode ended, I forced myself to read every word each student wrote. Fortunately, most every comment was positive, complimentary and gracious.
But then came those that weren't so glowing. That demanded faster turn around time on grades. That desired a harder midterm exam. That wanted longer lectures. That needed me to talk slower. Talk louder. Talk softer. Talk less. Provide more PowerPoints, provide less PowerPoints, help explain what a PowerPoint is. Grade tougher. Grade easier. Stop assigning grades and just get to know the student as a person.
Every day we are evaluated on a million decisions and actions we do. How methodically we parent, how well we treat our friends, how much we tip our waiter. We face feedback on our actions in a variety of ways: we might be paid a compliment by a stranger, waved at by a friend, hugged by a child, kissed by a lover, high-fived by a co-worker.
But among all the positive feedback lurks a negative comment. That person sitting in the audience who isn't laughing. The student who isn't learning. The friend who feels neglected. The waiter who is cheated.
The negative feedback we get from our actions, from our behaviors, from our abilities, are painful for one simple reason: it's something we already know about ourselves.
If a student ever called me a racist--or heaven forbid, boring--I'd brush it off as radically unfounded. But when a student remarks that I'm not a strong lecturer, or I don't explain certain things thoroughly, or that I'm sometimes forgetful or disorganized, or points out a part of my personality for which I already feel insecure, it hurts down deep.
I prefer to walk around thinking my flaws, my weaknesses, my insecurities, are hidden well beneath my Spanx. And are my little secret. So when they are all pointed out to me by others, who can see them so clearly, I feel vulnerable and exposed.
Because no one wants to have their weaknesses confirmed.
It removes the small glimmer of hope that they really don't exist.
In nearly every episode of Comedians in Cars, the guest will admit to bombing in front of an audience when just starting out in the profession. They talk of the frustration and the heartbreak of not getting laughs in the early years.
It's the equivalent of adjunct teaching.
They talk of the constant feedback from the audience. The absurd need to please the crowd, and the humility--and resentment--that comes with that.
And yet the comedian and the professor are also the kind of professionals who can't seem to find their place in any other line of work. Which makes me wonder if perhaps, just maybe, both sought out a profession that continually puts them in a position to be judged. Is there some need they both have to be constantly evaluated, and to therefor be constantly evaluating themselves? While I'm not entirely sure how the comedian would respond, I would imagine he or she would say exactly what I would:
No comment.
I can relate.
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