Clancy Brothers - The Parting Glass

Will You Go, Lassie, Go, and We'll All Go Together

A lent copy of The Economist from this past summer (of all things) brought us the belated news of Irish singer Tommy Makem's passing in August and so our household this weekend has been filled with the sounds of his voice and that of his pals, the Clancy Brothers, of whom only one – Liam – remains.

Rebel Girl is more sentimental than one would imagine, so actual tears have been shed, though perhaps like most tears, some are for Makem and then some are for those others who she doesn't let herself cry for until the time is right.

Years ago, more than 20, Rebel Girl and Red Emma saw the Clancy Brothers and Tommy Makem performing at a community college, no less. It was grand. Drinking songs. Rebel Songs. Love songs. Good Stories. Red and Rebel wore their thrift store knock-offs of white Irish-knit Aran sweaters and looked, no doubt, absurd.

But they sang along to every song. Drinking, rebelling and loving it all.

Come all you young rebels, and list while I sing,
For the love of one's country is a terrible thing.
It banishes fear with the speed of a flame,
And it makes us all part of the patriot game.

That night the Clancy Brothers and Tommy Makem concluded, as they often did, with "The Parting Glass:"

…Oh all the comrades that e'er I've had, they are sorry for my going away
And all the sweethearts that e'er I've had, they would wish me one more day to stay
But since it falls unto my lot that I should rise and you should not
I'll gently rise and I'll softly call good night and joy be with you all…
…A man may drink and not be drunk, a man may fight and not be slain
A man may court a pretty girl and perhaps be welcomed back again
But since it has so ordered been by a time to rise and a time to fall
Come fill to me the parting glass, good night and joy be with you all

Will You Go, Lassie
Tommy at the White House, 1962

Whadoo-I-do?

This is the college: Irvine Valley, Irvine. I work here. I carry a badge.

9:30 a.m.

It’s the start of the third week of the semester, a Tuesday, the day after Labor Day. I am starting my morning Intro to Philosophy class.

“OK, let’s get back to logic,” I say.

A kid’s hand shoots up. He says, “I wanna add the class.”

I stare at him for maybe three seconds. Then I say: “It’s already the third week of the semester. It’s too late to add the class.” I proceed to lecture, but the kid interrupts:

“Yeah, but I wanna add the class. Whadoo-I-do?”

I don’t want to deal with this guy. I say: “Don’t do anything. It’s too late. Like I said.”

He immediately starts to talk. I need to shut him up. I glare at him a little. I say: “Talk to me after class.”

Later in the hour, I remind students, probably for the third or fourth time, that I keep a log of each lecture, and it’s kept very up-to-date. (True.) If they miss a class, I tell them, they should just consult the Blackboard website, where the log is kept.

It’s filed under “Course Log.”

“Everything,” I tell them, “is on the Blackboard site.” Sometimes, I’ll add: “Isn’t Blackboard wonderful?”

Yes, wonderful. Am I joking? —It’s hard to say.

After class, the kid who wants to add the class is nowhere to be found.

11:00

Later, I’m in my office, turning on my computer. I hear a voice behind me: “Professor Wheeler?”

I turn around. I smile an easy smile. “What’s up?”, I ask.

“I had to miss class. Sorry about that.”

“OK,” I say, deliberately looking at the student expectantly.

Students invariably assume that instructors want to know the tiny factoids of their life that prevent them from attending class. Not so, my little solipsists. Just fuckin' show up. That's all I want.

There’s a pause. Finally, she speaks: “Did I miss anything important?”

I knew it! Instructors hear this question all the time. You have no idea. Sometimes we answer: “Oh, no. It was the usual trivial shit!” Then we smile broadly.

Feeling chirpy, I let this one pass. I tell the girl: “Go to the Blackboard site. It’s all there! I keep a log, remember?” There’s not a trace of sarcasm in my voice. Honestly. That comes later in the semester.

“Oh,” she says. There’s another pause. “But I can’t get onto the Blackboard site!” she blurts.

It’s the third friggin' week of class. Already, two assignments have been posted at the site, assignments that, in class, I have told students repeatedly to access there. “You’ve gotta keep checking the Blackboard site,” I say, incessantly. “That’s just part of taking this course,” I say.

It feels like some sort of performance art to actually say such things, over and over again, each time as though they've never been said before. I should show up wearing tiger pants. Yes.

The girl seems nice, so I don’t give her a hard time. I quickly figure out her Blackboard problem—it ain’t rocket science, believe me—and I send her on her way. Then I check my email.

Several students have written to tell me that they’ve missed class. Some politely ask me—and some tell me—to respond ASAP with an account of what they missed. To the polite students, I write: “No problem. Just go to the Blackboard site, read the course log.” Chirpy, chirpy, chirpy.

To the louts, I betray some ‘tude. I'll leave the details to your imagination.

12:45

I’m fifteen minutes into my afternoon Intro class. A student raises his hand. He asks: “What’s on the test?”

He’s referring to Test 1, to be given next week. I have prominently displayed the STUDY GUIDE for the test on the Blackboard site. I have referred to the study guide, and the test, often in class. The study guide answers every conceivable question regarding what will be on the test. Guidancewise, my study guides are helpful to the point of friggin' absurdity.

I’ve been doing this a long time.

I’m polite to this kid. I say: “Well, the Study Guide is posted on the course Blackboard site. Check it out! You’ll love it!” Am I having a little fun with this kid? Dunno. Maybe I'm just chirpy.

A half hour later, another kid asks, “Are we gonna be tested on this? When’s the test?”

I smile.

2:05

I’m back in my office, checking my email. A student has written to explain that he’s missed the first two and a half weeks of class—owing to a vacation “that could not be avoided.” But, he says, he’ll be in class this week! “So don’t drop me,” he writes.

I’ve already dropped him.

The next email is the kid from 9:30. He writes, “I need to add ur class. You said talk to you after class. Send me the code I need. Theres a deadline.”

—I smile.

I should sit on a rock off Cornwall and comb my hair.
I should wear tiger pants, I should have an affair.
We should meet in another life, we should meet in air,
Me and you.

—Sylvia Plath

This just in: One Irvine resident actually owns a book, but uses it as a missile