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Vindication

I’m never going to graduate, and here’s why: during my third semester at Columbia, I took Screenwriting I. Being that I have a concentration in screenwriting, it was the first step (actually the second, but the first important step) toward that concentration. Essentially, the goal of the class is this: write three 10-15-page short scripts. One’s documentary, one’s narrative, one’s experimental. In order to move on to other screenwriting classes, you must pass the first one with a B or higher.

I got a C.

Why’d I get a C? I want to be a screenwriter, one could argue I’ve vaguely cut out for the job, but suddenly I have this ghastly C tarnishing my record.

Is it because I didn’t do any of the work, or I did it poorly? No. I did every assignment, and I did it to the best of my ability. Apparently my best, in the opinion of my professor, was mediocre.

Is it because I blew off the class? No. We are allowed three absences; I missed class once, and it was a dire circumstance, and I put my assignment in her box hours before class began. And since she canceled class one day so she could move, I’d say that technically I have no absences. Tit for tat.

Is it because I didn’t participate enough? No. Trust me, I do hate being around people, and I hate acknowledging the existence of others even more — but that’s trumped by my love for the sound of my own voice.

Is it because, even though I tried my hardest, I’m incompetent and untalented as a writer? Possibly, but (and here’s where I start to brag, so skip to the next paragraph if you don’t want to vomit) the many hard-earned A’s in my other writing and/or film classes — including the A the second time I took Screenwriting I — that would indicate otherwise.

Is it because on more than one occasion I got so frustrated with my professor that I yelled unkind things at her? It’s the most plausible theory so far, and while I’m sure that factored into it, I doubt it’s the sole cause.

Really, the problem was the professor. I often complain about the general incompetence of professors at my school, especially in the film department. Mostly, they’re part-timers who are either jaded and cynical because their careers never took off, or they’re even more jaded and cynical because their careers did take off and then flopped.

My original screenwriting professor was one of the latter, and while she seemed affable at first, as the weeks wore on she began to exhibit less ability to control the students, and finally she would just get frustrated and scream at us. It was very creatively stimulating, like sculpting or acupuncture.

I didn’t get frustrated by her lack of control over the students. I didn’t even get particularly frustrated when she kept me waiting for over an hour — with a line that stretched around the corner of the hall — for an individual conference, even though that was the first of three occasions I took it upon myself to shout at her. Really, what bothered me was her inability to do her job.

She followed the syllabus to the letter. We did all the exercises we’re supposed to do in the class, which are supposed to get the creative juices a-flowin’. But nothing was connected to anything else. There was no clarity as to why we were supposed to be doing these creative exercises — in fact, at the time, none of us realized they were creative exercises. They were just things we did, and the professor was fairly apathetic about them. She was coasting through the class.

Things got so muddled as far as due dates and her returning work to us that the revised draft of our narrative script was due on the last week of class, along with the first (and only) draft of our experimental scripts.

Guess what else happened on the last day of class? We got back the first drafts of our narrative scripts. That’s right — we were turning in final drafts without having any constructive feedback on our first. Well, we had feedback from other students in the class, but we’re all in the same boat — Screenwriting I, where everybody (including me) is trying to write a complete feature in 15 pages. None of us had any idea, until much later, that our screenplays were so schizophrenic from the time-crunch that they made no sense to anyone, including ourselves.

In short (pun intended), because we had no basis for teaching other than the many, many features we’ve seen all our lives, none of us were writing short scripts. We were all just trying to write tiny, non-sensical feature-length scripts. It’s a subtle and possibly confusing distinction, but I’ll get to that later.

After the class, though — after I got the C, I should say — I tried to petition the grade. I filed a formal petition with the dean of students, I scheduled a meeting, and he told me: “You’re screwed.” He was not as blunt, but it would have been less time-consuming if he had been. I spent several weeks trying to battle this, just to be shot down. And I had to wait for yet another semester — because by the time it was resolved, add/drop was long over — to re-take Screenwriting I. Hence, a year behind.

Flash forward another semester. Here I am, in all my Stantacular glory, taking a class with — guess who? — a co-chair of the screenwriting department. She’s very nice to me, she doesn’t completely dislike my work, and she knows everything about the school. She is a handy ally to have.

I went to see her today about registration, which is fast approaching. I was wondering what she, in her expert opinion, thought I should take. She reviewed my academic history, and she noticed the repeat Screenwriting I. She asked why I did that, and I told her it was because of the C.

“You know who could’ve fixed that?” she asked.

“You,” I sighed.

“Right,” she responded.

But, see, here’s the thing: I didn’t know that until last Wednesday, when she came into class and told us that, if we felt it necessary, she could waive certain requirements for us. Advisors can’t do it; she can. This is something advisors don’t tell you. This is something the school handbook doesn’t tell you. In fact, it doesn’t say this anywhere in any of the school literature, except possibly in very small handwriting in the toilet stall on the fifth floor of the library.

I told her as much, and she grew frustrated and asked me who I had for Screenwriting I.

I told her.

She rolled her eyes at the very mention of the woman’s name, which filled me with a sort of glee, even though it was way too late to waive the requirement and the A I got the second time expunged the C from my record.

She told me, “Nobody writes a good script in Screenwriting I. Nobody should get a C in that class, unless they blatantly don’t do the work.”

I couldn’t help but agree with her, and I secretly hoped this would somehow affect my former screenwriting professor’s job in some way or another. It’s good to know people.

The truth is, though, even if I had known who to go and see right away about waiving that requirement, I probably would be worse off in the long run. I learned nothing in Screenwriting I, which wouldn’t be a big deal except I thought I knew everything. I didn’t know shit. I still don’t, but I know enough to know I don’t. Two years ago, I didn’t even know that much.

So, let’s say I’d gotten the requirement waived. I’d feel vindicated, because somebody agreed with me that I didn’t deserve a C. I’d move on to Screenwriting II, and let’s say I happened to have the same professor for that that I have now for Screenwriting II.

You know what I’d be learning? Nothing.

Then, I’d get into the more difficult classes with the harder-nosed professors — the permanent faculty, made up of people who want to be there. I don’t think I’d flunk out or anything, but I’d probably end up getting nothing but C’s in those classes. I hadn’t learned humility, and I only learned that as a result of the academic track of the past year.

Part of the experience even came from the consequence of that C and the trouble I had dealing with it. If I had gone straight to someone in the department and had it fixed, it would have left me feeling cocky as ever. I needed to be taken down a notch by somebody who absolutely did not give a shit about me one way or the other, only to be embraced (metaphorically, you sick fuckers) by several who mentored me and help me hone my craft and, basically, realize I didn’t know shit.

And in learning I didn’t know shit, that meant I had to actually learn things, starting with how to write a short screenplay. Not a 120-page feature I wanted to condense to 15 — an actual short, designed from the ground up to work as a 15-20 minute film. I did that, and while I don’t think it’s any masterpiece, I kind of want to show it to my current professor and see if she reevaluates her position that nobody writes a good script in Screenwriting I.

I spent a year trying to re-learn a craft that, it turns out, I didn’t actually know to begin with. This, and my experience with the grandiose apathy of the administration, and my misery in my first session of Screenwriting I when compared to the sudden understanding of my second bout with the class — all of them helped me to become a better writer and a better person (yes, believe it or not, I used to be a worse person).

I wouldn’t trade that experience for the extra $6000 that I will end up spending (out of pocket, no less) on a spare year of school.

Tags: bad grade, blame, Callie, control, creative juices, documentary, due dates, experimental, Fall 2003 semester, graduation, incompetent, narrative, prerequisite, professor, retake, Screenwriting I, Screenwriting II

Posted by Stan on November 25, 2003 10:00 PM  | Permalink | School Rants | Digg It