So we're not even three full weeks into the semester, and I have dropped a class. Actually, I only went once.
I originally put myself down for 18 credits this semester, 6 of which come from an internship with the Democratic Party of Tennessee, and I'm earning those already. In fact, I've been earning those since early December, and I just finished a 32-page booklet layout for them last week. I have to do 240 hours worth of work total, write a bunch of blog entries and file reports. The remaining 12 credits were going to come from an Honors Tennessee History (Should be easy enough, yeah? I grew up here.) a Survey of US History through Reconstruction (an absolutely MAMMOTH-in-terms-of-student-number class taught by a bored man who has already decided I was a cynic on the 1st day and is easily impressed by classroom use of Greek and Latin), Spanish II ('cause there were so many hanging plot points after the first one, I needed to see the sequel to see how it comes out) and the eventual problem: Intro to African-American Studies.
I enrolled in the course because immersion in things I don't fully grasp is effective in terms of education for me, as it is for many. When I read the course description, it sounded great. I was then told that I would need to purchase three books for the course - one history book written by the guy who invented Kwanzaa, a book by Queen Latifah, and Decoded, by Jay-Z, which I have since read. I was a little dubious about books written by entertainers being 2/3 of the course reading list, but I soldiered on.
On the first day came the dealbreaker. It wasn't my professor's kufi or dashiki, nor was it his use of 1970s black militant slang. It wasn't his insistence on being referred to as "baba," a title he claimed he earned in Zimbabwe (and which is religiously-based, excluding me from using it ever), and would only answer to, eschewing "doctor" or "professor." It wasn't the mild overtone of sexism evident in the division of the material in the syllabus. Okay, maybe it was all of these things and more, but the big deal for me came in the form of a mandatory $150 retreat halfway through the semester.
I don't retreat. I don't see the reason for it. I've been on retreats, and they're not for me. I know that the reason for such things is meant to be stepping back, stepping away, quieting one's mind, and getting in touch with what Kevin Spacey famously referred to as one's "inner selfness." There always seems to be a spiritual element to such things, however, and I can't see myself once again getting roped into gossamer metaphysical bullshit that happens in the mountains where I'm undoubtedly seated around a fire with a talking stick or something led by a guy who fancies himself an African wise and holy man breaking down my issues with authority. I could do it, and all I would get out of it would be a blog entry. So, here you go. Here's the blog entry.
The kicker to all of this is that I emailed him after the 1st class to ask for more details about the retreat, and he never answered. Four days after I emailed, I dropped his class. He still hasn't answered, i guess now feeling that he doesn't need to. I feel manipulated, cheated, and a little ridiculous about the whole thing, but I think those feelings would have been tenfold had I stayed in Baba's Self-Analysis Black Pop Culture class.
Yeah, I'm still pissed.