Day: January 28, 2005

Worst. School. Ever.

I worry about those kids at the Xavier Institute. What kind of an education are they really getting? Yes, they learn to embrace their uniqueness and fight like ninjas, but what about math? Unless they’re exempt from the New York State Regents Exams (I was, but I was taught by Jesuits — I don’t know if Xavier gets the same breaks), they really ought to be boning up on their writing and algebraic skills.

Let’s face it, their faculty is — at best — overworked, and frequently unavailable for office hours. Isn’t Wolverine part of about 50 teams right now? That doesn’t leave much time for him to administer the Presidential Physical Fitness Exam to his students. Who’s chair of the foreign languages department, huh? Is there any arts curriculum? Northstar has all but disappeared from view lately, so maybe he’s been devoting a lot of time to teaching his economics classes instead.

Scott Summers apparently has a graduate degree from the Institute, but what was his major, anyway? No wonder he’s such an emotional cripple: he’s basically been home-schooled his entire adult life. And I don’t think the rest of them are likely to turn out much better.

I started thinking about all of this when I was applying to graduate school this past month. As I filled out paperwork and gathered up my transcripts, I began wondering who helps the kids from other countries deal with their student visas and TOEFL scores? Is there an admissions interview, or does Xavier just give them a telepathic once-over and see how many extra body parts they have? You get the impression that Xavier handles all the administrative duties at the school, but couldn’t he use a secretary or an assistant or something? I don’t mean to bring up old scandals, but he does tend to disappear or go all evil now and then. In his current absence, I somehow doubt that Scott and Emma are processing paperwork or doing any college counselling.

Basically, the Xavier Institute is just another charter school run amok. The kids are running wild, the faculty is running wilder, and there seem to be no standards or accountability whatsoever. Next time they dip into the endowment fund to rebuild the Danger Room or the Blackbird, is anyone likely to bitch about the funds being taken away from the library’s budget? I doubt it.

All this just makes me love Kitty Pryde even more. She rose above this nonsense and went on to a regular college to get a decent education and learn everyday social skills. She didn’t let those hacks at the Xavier Institute keep her from making the most of her academic gifts. Now that she’s back at the mansion and running classes of her own, I hope she turns out to be part of the solution, and not just another part of the problem.

It’s Expat!

I’ve left the country! No, not for good. But Glenn had a free airline ticket up for grabs and I have no job, so I figured I’d take a brief retreat to Montreal for a few days — someplace cheap and close where I can hole up in a small room or in coffeehouses without distraction from TV, constant internet access, and the damn cat. I’m trying to write up lesson plans for this next semester (somebody IS thinking about the children!) and make a dent in some tedious coding projects that always seem less important than a nap or Gilmore Girls when I’m at home.

The plan has been working so far, but I have a new appreciation for New York’s smoking ban. These Canucks really like their cigarettes, and my itchy eyes and smelly sweaters are the proof. Since I’m passing a lot of my time in coffeehouses, I’m surrounded by smoldering tobacco on all sides. Yes, smoking makes you look cool (Kids, I hate to admit it but it’s true — at least if you know how to hold a cigarette properly), but that shit really does stink. Also, lung cancer! Don’t forget the lung cancer. (This PSA was sponsored by viewers like you.)

Most of the time that I travel, I’m horrified by the idea of a city having a “gay village,” a place where all the gays hang out since that’s where all the gay bars, restaurants, and boutiques are clustered. Since the temperatures in Montreal are hovering somewhere above absolute zero, though, I have a new appreciation for the gay village phenomenon. It’s comforting to know that I never have to travel further than five blocks to find food, hot beverages, eye candy, or someplace to cut the rug for an hour or two. It may be an upscale ghetto, but it’s also a model for the kind of urban experience I like — a variety of services within walking distance, people who know each other everywhere you go (luckily, the gays barely notice you if they don’t think you’re cute, so the solitude of my retreat remains unsullied), and thriving businesses holding their own against the encroachment of big chain stores. Maybe the threat really posed by the gays isn’t to marriage after all: maybe we pose more of a threat to Wal-Mart and Starbucks.