I'm not as cruel as I used to be; or, maybe, I'm just as cruel as in the past, it's just that in the past I didn't realize how cruel I was being. I think the Fake Asian Accent may fall into that category.
As I said, in the very first class I taught, I faked a thick Asian accent for about 10 minutes, just to scare the students. Oh, there was a worthwhile lesson in there -- that they should ask questions if they were confused -- but it was perhaps a harsh way of getting the point across.
Still, it made for a good story. When I was in graduate school, several TA's and I were sharing war stories, and I told them how I did the Fake Asian Accent. They thought it was hilarious (guess they were just as cruel as I), and a Physics TA suggested that we replicate the experience for his "Physics for Poets" class (basic physics without much math) -- in fact, he suggested we go one better ...
The plan was this: I would come in and pretend to be the TA for the "Physics for Poets" class, and he would pretend to be an ordinary student. So the day arrives, and he's sitting in class; I walk in, wearing a borrowed T-shirt that read "Best Beer of Korea". Once again, I wait a few minutes, enough for the silence to become uncomfortable; then I introduce myself: "Ah, harro crass, my name is Kyong Bok-Soo." (I don't know where I got the name, it just came to me; if there is a real Kyong Bok-Soo out there, I apologize.) "Ah, this is, my first time as TA." The students glance nervously at each other, and I continue, "but, ha ha, is okay, is first time you HAVE me as TA!" I chuckle again, alone. If you've seen David Brent in "The Office", you have a feel for what the classroom felt like.
"So, ret's begin recture," I say. "So: how many in here watch cartoon? Bugsa Bunny?" A few students raise their hands. "So, Why E Coyote try, raunch himself cross criff. Big criff. Rong way down. Why E Coyote use catapurt." (I was proud of this little example; I had deliberately tried to find a sentence I could mangle as much as possible, and this was the result.) "So, Why E Coyote path follows Newton's Tree Raws of Motion. We sorve, using erementary differentiar equation!"
I turn to the board and start writing down some made up differential equation; remember, this is a class designed for people without math, so they are understandably upset at seeing a sudden proliferation of Greek letters and equations. The real TA leans over to the cute blond seated next to him and asks something; he and I had coordinated in advance, so I knew what he was asking: "Do you understand what he's saying?" I see her shake her head no. He leans over to the guy in the baseball cap to his right, asking something; he emphatically shakes his head no as well.
The real TA raises his hand. "Excuse me," he says, "but I don't think the professor covered this in lecture." A chorus of people chime in, "yeah", "uh huh "me either!"
I reply, "Oh, but this so simple, Newton Tree Raws of Motion."
The TA points to the book. "I've looked through the book, there's NOTHING like that in here." The crowd grows louder and more enthusiastic in their support for him.
I say, "Oh, but, is so tribiar. Erementary differentiar equation!"
The real TA raises his voice, "this is ridiculous!" Then he delivers the zinger that we have agreed on: "You know, I bet *I* could do a better job as TA than you!"
The crowd literally gasps. You can almost hear their collective panic -- what has this guy just done?!
I slam the chalk on the table. "Fine!" I shout. "YOU be TA!" I storm out.
The real TA told us over dinner that night that had to spend out fifteen minutes calming down the class: "No, really, I'm the real TA, ha ha," he told them. "It was just a little joke, ha ha." He was alive to tell us the story, so I guess the students were too relieved to beat him (or us) in a fit of righteous anger.
As I said, I didn't realize how cruel this was at the time. Just I didn't realize how cruel it was when I did for a third and final time, with an even more evil twist, to an Introductory Electrical Engineering class; but that's another story ...
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Saturday, March 20, 2010
Unorthodox Teaching: The Fake Asian Accent, part 1
This is all Kyle's fault, really. He was the one that started me on the path to the Dark Side.
It started back when I was an undergraduate. My friend Kyle came back from Calculus class, fuming. "My TA's accent is ridiculous," Kyle grumbled. "His lectures are like, 'oh, take-a the rimit, sig-ama go impinity.'" Kyle is Caucasian and was a dead ringer for Axl Rose at Halloween, so to hear him speak with such a thick Asian accent was hilarious to me. "You HAVE to teach me that accent," I implored him. It wasn't hard, really: replace l's with r's; mangle a couple of verb tenses, add in hesitant filler "uh" and "um".
A new semester was about to start, and I was scheduled to be the lecturer for Math 1443, a freshman math course; I decided to try out my newfound accent on my students, as a joke. I knew I didn't have to get the accent exactly right, either; being Asian myself, I LOOKED the part of a Chinese TA struggling with the language, and the Math Department sadly DID have students from China who were gifted mathematically but for whom English was not their first language. Still, I prepared, trying to come up with an introductory talk that would make the most of my mangled "Engrish."
The first day of class arrives, and I show up to class about 10 minutes early. Students are already starting to file in, some looking at me curiously. I give them a nervous half-smile, but I don't say anything. The class fills up, about 40 students. I glance at the clock: 1:30. Show time.
I pull out my wallet, as if checking a scrap of paper I had left in there. "Ah, harro, crass," I say in a high pitch voice. "Is this, ah, math-uh-matic four-teen forty tree, Finite Mathematics?" The students were startled; some nodded hesitantl. "Ah, good, good," I smile. I start passing out a syllabus and attendance sign-in sheet. "Prease to take copy of syrrabus," I continue. "Prease to sign rorr sheet."
At this point, I see some students literally pulling out their yellow drop forms and start to fill them out.
I ask, "Ah, how many you, this on-ry math crass you take?" A few students guessed what I was asking and raised their hand. "Ah, and how many you, pran, pran to take business car-cur-us?" A few other students raised their hand. "Aha, have fun business carcurus!" I laugh, nervously, as if this were a good joke. No one else laughs. The tension is palpable; there's nothing more awkward than the uncomfortable silence after a failed joke.
At this point, I'd guess that about 80% of the class is in despair. About 20%, though, are starting to already plan insurrection. I could practically hear their thoughts: "hey, we don't understand a word he's saying; which means he's not going to understand a word we're saying; we're going to OWN this class." I see the students snicker to each other.
"Ah, uh, ret's begin recture," I say. "Ah, before I begin, how many peo-purr, my accent, be trou-berr?"
One of the would-be troublemakers raised his hands. "What did you just say?", he drawled.
"I say, uh, how many peo-purr, my accent, be trou-berr?"
He smirks. "I got a problem with it." His buddies nod.
I hold his gaze for a second, and then I reply, in perfect English, "Fine, I'll work on it." I turn to the board. "Section 1.1, solving mathematical equations."
There is a momentary pause, and then 80% of the classroom erupts in relieved laughter. The other 20% -- the wanna-be troublemakers -- are chagrined, wondering just how crazy their professor is.
I tell the students, "Okay, look, you didn't understand a word I was saying. *I* barely understood what I was saying, and I was the one speaking. And yet none of you stopped me. Why didn't you stop me? If you don't understand what I'm saying, please interrupt; it's not going to do either of us any good if I give a lecture and you don't understand a word of it. If you don't understand what I'm saying, stop me."
That was going to be my defense, in case I was hauled before the Department for unprofessional behavior; I was going to plead that "well, I admit it was an UNORTHODOX way of encouraging the students to speak up, but I think it was EFFECTIVE", and then I was going to throw myself on the mercy of the Court. I need not have worried, though; the Department thought it was pretty funny, so I dodged a bullet there.
In fact, it went over so well that I decided to try this trick again when I was in graduate school in California; but that's another story.
But none of this would have ever happened if Kyle hadn't taught me the accent. If the un-PC-ness of all this offends you (and this story certainly is un-PC), blame Kyle.
It started back when I was an undergraduate. My friend Kyle came back from Calculus class, fuming. "My TA's accent is ridiculous," Kyle grumbled. "His lectures are like, 'oh, take-a the rimit, sig-ama go impinity.'" Kyle is Caucasian and was a dead ringer for Axl Rose at Halloween, so to hear him speak with such a thick Asian accent was hilarious to me. "You HAVE to teach me that accent," I implored him. It wasn't hard, really: replace l's with r's; mangle a couple of verb tenses, add in hesitant filler "uh" and "um".
A new semester was about to start, and I was scheduled to be the lecturer for Math 1443, a freshman math course; I decided to try out my newfound accent on my students, as a joke. I knew I didn't have to get the accent exactly right, either; being Asian myself, I LOOKED the part of a Chinese TA struggling with the language, and the Math Department sadly DID have students from China who were gifted mathematically but for whom English was not their first language. Still, I prepared, trying to come up with an introductory talk that would make the most of my mangled "Engrish."
The first day of class arrives, and I show up to class about 10 minutes early. Students are already starting to file in, some looking at me curiously. I give them a nervous half-smile, but I don't say anything. The class fills up, about 40 students. I glance at the clock: 1:30. Show time.
I pull out my wallet, as if checking a scrap of paper I had left in there. "Ah, harro, crass," I say in a high pitch voice. "Is this, ah, math-uh-matic four-teen forty tree, Finite Mathematics?" The students were startled; some nodded hesitantl. "Ah, good, good," I smile. I start passing out a syllabus and attendance sign-in sheet. "Prease to take copy of syrrabus," I continue. "Prease to sign rorr sheet."
At this point, I see some students literally pulling out their yellow drop forms and start to fill them out.
I ask, "Ah, how many you, this on-ry math crass you take?" A few students guessed what I was asking and raised their hand. "Ah, and how many you, pran, pran to take business car-cur-us?" A few other students raised their hand. "Aha, have fun business carcurus!" I laugh, nervously, as if this were a good joke. No one else laughs. The tension is palpable; there's nothing more awkward than the uncomfortable silence after a failed joke.
At this point, I'd guess that about 80% of the class is in despair. About 20%, though, are starting to already plan insurrection. I could practically hear their thoughts: "hey, we don't understand a word he's saying; which means he's not going to understand a word we're saying; we're going to OWN this class." I see the students snicker to each other.
"Ah, uh, ret's begin recture," I say. "Ah, before I begin, how many peo-purr, my accent, be trou-berr?"
One of the would-be troublemakers raised his hands. "What did you just say?", he drawled.
"I say, uh, how many peo-purr, my accent, be trou-berr?"
He smirks. "I got a problem with it." His buddies nod.
I hold his gaze for a second, and then I reply, in perfect English, "Fine, I'll work on it." I turn to the board. "Section 1.1, solving mathematical equations."
There is a momentary pause, and then 80% of the classroom erupts in relieved laughter. The other 20% -- the wanna-be troublemakers -- are chagrined, wondering just how crazy their professor is.
I tell the students, "Okay, look, you didn't understand a word I was saying. *I* barely understood what I was saying, and I was the one speaking. And yet none of you stopped me. Why didn't you stop me? If you don't understand what I'm saying, please interrupt; it's not going to do either of us any good if I give a lecture and you don't understand a word of it. If you don't understand what I'm saying, stop me."
That was going to be my defense, in case I was hauled before the Department for unprofessional behavior; I was going to plead that "well, I admit it was an UNORTHODOX way of encouraging the students to speak up, but I think it was EFFECTIVE", and then I was going to throw myself on the mercy of the Court. I need not have worried, though; the Department thought it was pretty funny, so I dodged a bullet there.
In fact, it went over so well that I decided to try this trick again when I was in graduate school in California; but that's another story.
But none of this would have ever happened if Kyle hadn't taught me the accent. If the un-PC-ness of all this offends you (and this story certainly is un-PC), blame Kyle.
The Time I Almost Started World War III
Back when I was an undergraduate, back in the mid-1980's, things were different: the US was in the middle of the Cold War, the news was filled with ominous stories about if the U.S. was going to deploy nuclear missiles in Europe, and if so how the Soviets would respond, etc. Computers were much more primitive back then: there was a mainframe, to which various terminals were connected; at each terminal, there was a plain text login screen, where you typed in your login name and password to log onto the mainframe; once logged in, you typed in your commands to "compile program X" or "remote login to site Y"; and then, once finished, you logged out. There were no fancy graphics, no mice to use; just plain text. Still, it's amazing what kind of havoc you can wreak with a plain text screen ...
So my roommate (a computer science major) and I were enrolled in an introductory computer science class; because we were enrolled, we had computer accounts on the mainframe. There was also another computer science major -- call him M -- who always acted like he was superior to the rest of us. And maybe he was -- I didn't know him that well, maybe he was a hotshot computer programmer for all I know -- but when he'd talk to me, his comments were always of the form "well, I'M a computer science person, and you're not as smart as I am", and his attitude annoyed me.
About halfway through the semester, my roommate figured out a way of "faking" the login screen: he wrote a computer program that LOOKED like you were logging into the mainframe, but in fact you were running HIS program. My roommate showed me his program one night at the computer lab, and he said that we could use it to trick people into typing their passwords. (What we would do with the passwords, he didn't say, and he probably didn't have a plan; I think he just liked the idea that we could fool people.) I told him that capturing passwords was thinking small, that he needed to think *big* -- "Here," I told him, "let me take your program and make a few changes." So I took his code and then started adding my own program to it ...
So here we are, in the computer lab, at about 10pm at night. There are only four of us in the lab at this point -- me, my roommate, M, and a woman from our class who was staying late to finish her assignment. My roommate secretly logged into one of the terminals and then put our computer program on the machine; it LOOKED like an ordinary terminal at this point, but it was actually running our program. I then went up to M and said, "Pssst, my roommate and I figured out a secret website to the Pentagon! Let's all try to log in; I'll take THIS machine" -- taking up a terminal next to the "special" terminal -- "and why don't YOU take THIS machine" -- of course pointing out the terminal that was running the secret program. "Let's all try to log in," I continued, "and let's see what happens."
So I sit down, and pretend to try to "hack in"; meanwhile, M is at the "special" terminal, also trying to log in. I had actually set his terminal so that it would automatically reject the first login attempt he tried -- it would look suspicious if he got in on his FIRST try -- and it was set up to automatically accept his second login attempt -- I didn't want him to get frustrated and give up before the trap was sprung. So it was just a matter of waiting ... and so I sat, pretending to type, waiting, waiting, when suddenly ...
"Guys! Guys! I got in! I got in!" M exclaims loudly. I pretended to be shocked. "You did? How did you do it?" He leaned over conspiratorially. "The password is REAGAN -- all caps." "Wow," I said, "good thinking!" (We are never so confident as when we're explaining something, even if we are wrong, and so his boasting about figuring out the password just cemented in his mind that, yes, he outsmarted all of the computer geeks at the Pentagon.)
So now the computer displays a (fake) command prompt. I say, "here, let me try something, I've seen the film Wargames." I typed in, ">initiate tango delta". The computer replied, "Command authorization not found. Access denied." Of course, this was staged; the computer would have rejected ANYTHING I typed the first, because that's what I told the program to do. Likewise, the computer was designed to accept anything I typed the second time ...
I mumbled, "no, wait, I forgot the authorization code" and typed in ">initiate tango delta access=alpha". And the computer, as it was programmed to do, responded with
"Command authorization accepted. Warm-up sequence started on systems Titan, Minuteman, Jupiter."
M freaks out. "Oh my God! THOSE ARE MISSILE SYSTEMS!" I feigned shock. "They are?" (As if I hadn't been paying attention to any of the daily news reports.) I asked, "Did I launch?" "No," M explains to me, "it's just the warm-up sequence, see?"
The computer waited a few seconds and then -- as programmed -- displayed "Unauthorized access node detected. Logging out." The original plan was to try to get M to log back in, but he was seriously freaking out right now. "Oh my God," he mumbles, pacing back in forth in front of the computer. "Oh my God. Ohmygod."
My roommate and I can barely contain our laughter. We even share a laugh with the woman in the computer lab: everytime M turns his back, we point at him and whisper, "Can you believe he's falling for this?" I had visions of taking this joke further: I mentally started writing scripts about "Initiating preemptive autofire of chemical weapons targeting Berlin, C3I failsafe initiated, launch in 30 minutes unless deactivation code sent" and then watch him panic as he tried to log in to stop the launch. But it was getting late -- it was probably midnight at this point -- and I thought, okay, I've had my fun, I have computer class tomorrow, I'm calling it a night. My roommate and I left.
The next morning, I'm in class. The woman from the computer lab leans over and asks me, "Did the FBI really call you?" I was shocked. "What? No, there was no FBI call, the whole thing was a joke! Why would the FBI call?" Well, it turns out that M was freaked out; REALLY freaked out; so freaked out that he apparently called the State Department (?!) to apologize for starting their missile systems(?!?!).
And I was told that there was a pause on the other end of the line, and the gentleman on the other side said, "Son, you been had."
So that's how my roommate and I convinced a classmate that we nearly unleashed nuclear armageddon on the world. And maybe we almost did end the world ... if I had done the whole "chemical weapon pre-emptive strike" scenario I had envisioned, maybe he would have freaked out worse and phoned NATO HQ; or maybe even the Kremlin to apologize for the impending attack. I can only imagine how THAT would have gone (the Soviets had put their subs on alert when Reagan joked about "bombing Moscow in five minutes"; maybe they would have done the same thing if someone called warning them about an imminent chemical weapons strike on Berlin...)
As it was, though, we didn't end the world in a rain of nuclear fire. The only tangible result was that M didn't speak to me for the rest of the semester.
So my roommate (a computer science major) and I were enrolled in an introductory computer science class; because we were enrolled, we had computer accounts on the mainframe. There was also another computer science major -- call him M -- who always acted like he was superior to the rest of us. And maybe he was -- I didn't know him that well, maybe he was a hotshot computer programmer for all I know -- but when he'd talk to me, his comments were always of the form "well, I'M a computer science person, and you're not as smart as I am", and his attitude annoyed me.
About halfway through the semester, my roommate figured out a way of "faking" the login screen: he wrote a computer program that LOOKED like you were logging into the mainframe, but in fact you were running HIS program. My roommate showed me his program one night at the computer lab, and he said that we could use it to trick people into typing their passwords. (What we would do with the passwords, he didn't say, and he probably didn't have a plan; I think he just liked the idea that we could fool people.) I told him that capturing passwords was thinking small, that he needed to think *big* -- "Here," I told him, "let me take your program and make a few changes." So I took his code and then started adding my own program to it ...
So here we are, in the computer lab, at about 10pm at night. There are only four of us in the lab at this point -- me, my roommate, M, and a woman from our class who was staying late to finish her assignment. My roommate secretly logged into one of the terminals and then put our computer program on the machine; it LOOKED like an ordinary terminal at this point, but it was actually running our program. I then went up to M and said, "Pssst, my roommate and I figured out a secret website to the Pentagon! Let's all try to log in; I'll take THIS machine" -- taking up a terminal next to the "special" terminal -- "and why don't YOU take THIS machine" -- of course pointing out the terminal that was running the secret program. "Let's all try to log in," I continued, "and let's see what happens."
So I sit down, and pretend to try to "hack in"; meanwhile, M is at the "special" terminal, also trying to log in. I had actually set his terminal so that it would automatically reject the first login attempt he tried -- it would look suspicious if he got in on his FIRST try -- and it was set up to automatically accept his second login attempt -- I didn't want him to get frustrated and give up before the trap was sprung. So it was just a matter of waiting ... and so I sat, pretending to type, waiting, waiting, when suddenly ...
"Guys! Guys! I got in! I got in!" M exclaims loudly. I pretended to be shocked. "You did? How did you do it?" He leaned over conspiratorially. "The password is REAGAN -- all caps." "Wow," I said, "good thinking!" (We are never so confident as when we're explaining something, even if we are wrong, and so his boasting about figuring out the password just cemented in his mind that, yes, he outsmarted all of the computer geeks at the Pentagon.)
So now the computer displays a (fake) command prompt. I say, "here, let me try something, I've seen the film Wargames." I typed in, ">initiate tango delta". The computer replied, "Command authorization not found. Access denied." Of course, this was staged; the computer would have rejected ANYTHING I typed the first, because that's what I told the program to do. Likewise, the computer was designed to accept anything I typed the second time ...
I mumbled, "no, wait, I forgot the authorization code" and typed in ">initiate tango delta access=alpha". And the computer, as it was programmed to do, responded with
"Command authorization accepted. Warm-up sequence started on systems Titan, Minuteman, Jupiter."
M freaks out. "Oh my God! THOSE ARE MISSILE SYSTEMS!" I feigned shock. "They are?" (As if I hadn't been paying attention to any of the daily news reports.) I asked, "Did I launch?" "No," M explains to me, "it's just the warm-up sequence, see?"
The computer waited a few seconds and then -- as programmed -- displayed "Unauthorized access node detected. Logging out." The original plan was to try to get M to log back in, but he was seriously freaking out right now. "Oh my God," he mumbles, pacing back in forth in front of the computer. "Oh my God. Ohmygod."
My roommate and I can barely contain our laughter. We even share a laugh with the woman in the computer lab: everytime M turns his back, we point at him and whisper, "Can you believe he's falling for this?" I had visions of taking this joke further: I mentally started writing scripts about "Initiating preemptive autofire of chemical weapons targeting Berlin, C3I failsafe initiated, launch in 30 minutes unless deactivation code sent" and then watch him panic as he tried to log in to stop the launch. But it was getting late -- it was probably midnight at this point -- and I thought, okay, I've had my fun, I have computer class tomorrow, I'm calling it a night. My roommate and I left.
The next morning, I'm in class. The woman from the computer lab leans over and asks me, "Did the FBI really call you?" I was shocked. "What? No, there was no FBI call, the whole thing was a joke! Why would the FBI call?" Well, it turns out that M was freaked out; REALLY freaked out; so freaked out that he apparently called the State Department (?!) to apologize for starting their missile systems(?!?!).
And I was told that there was a pause on the other end of the line, and the gentleman on the other side said, "Son, you been had."
So that's how my roommate and I convinced a classmate that we nearly unleashed nuclear armageddon on the world. And maybe we almost did end the world ... if I had done the whole "chemical weapon pre-emptive strike" scenario I had envisioned, maybe he would have freaked out worse and phoned NATO HQ; or maybe even the Kremlin to apologize for the impending attack. I can only imagine how THAT would have gone (the Soviets had put their subs on alert when Reagan joked about "bombing Moscow in five minutes"; maybe they would have done the same thing if someone called warning them about an imminent chemical weapons strike on Berlin...)
As it was, though, we didn't end the world in a rain of nuclear fire. The only tangible result was that M didn't speak to me for the rest of the semester.
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