Not my Fault

“I am very sorry but I have not been in your class. I was one victim of mugging and of attempt of murder. I was hospitalized but and home recovering. I will do anything it takes to catch up. George.”
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“Dear George. I’m sorry to hear of the attempt on your life. My records show that you have missed 10 of the first 17 class sessions, beginning with the second week of class. You took no quizzes when you did attend and have not turned in any of the writing assignments. I would suggest starting a new section of this course next semester. Instructor.”


“I am Terry Smith’s mother and I want to ask about his grade. It was not his fault that he did not complete his first several assignments because amazon.com backordered his textbook. And he could not read it. Can he do the assignments late? Also, Terry has always done well in this subject with the other teachers. Why are his grades lower in your class. Let me know if there is extra work he can do to get at least a C. If he gets a D or belower he will not be allowed to take sports. Concerned Parent.”


My students are chronologically over 18: adults. Legally, I am in the same position as a health care provider: bound to observe patient confidentiality. Morally, I am in the position of wanting the students to grow. Emotionally, I wish they (and sometimes their parents) would. We’ve been working in this lesson for a long time.

The pre-K teachers listened to frazzled moms explaining, “Susie stuck the dog’s tail in the toaster, and Billy threw socks in the toilet: that’s why we’re late.” Those teachers had come from the chaos of getting children off to school themselves; they nodded understandingly. They reassured mom that things got better. Elementary level teachers listened to Bert tell them why he wasn’t the one who flushed the end of a roll of paper towels down the toilet even as they plucked the last section from his hand, and warned him that middle school teachers expected much more responsibility in actions and fewer excuses. Middle school teachers warned their classes that high school meant excuses wouldn’t work anymore; high school teachers told their classes that bosses and college instructors were not going to accept excuses.

My syllabus states “Work submitted on time will earn full credit,” and “You must meet deadlines. There are no exceptions, so please do not ask for them.” My irresponsible students say, “But I didn’t know that, because I didn’t read the syllabus.” Neither did their parents.

Their parents had no obligation to read the syllabus. We’re at adulthood. Being grown up isn’t always fun. I can spend this week’s grocery money on bakery, but then I need to tell the dog why his dish is empty. The dog’s glad his tail is not glowing, shoved in the mesh of the toaster, but he’d like supper too.

We don’t reach a time in our lives when we are happy about requirements and deadlines. Sometimes we shrug mistakes off with a laugh or a cliché (“my bad”). Sometimes we bring in updated excuses (“The guy in the car next to me was the victim of a drive-by shooting”). If we hate deadlines being imposed on us enough, we start our own company – and impose them on our employees. We sleep in on weekends. We rebel. Or we face up to the deadlines, knowing that whatever we do, there are things due ourselves and others, as well as obligations, responsibilities, consequences.