There's always one. How is there ALWAYS one?
I started teaching this evening. I'm now teaching in the sociology dept. as opposed to the Human Sexuality Studies Dept. which is an interesting change of pace. Every semester there is one crazy student. This semester he made himself known immediately.
I came to class early since it's the first day and I like to get the lay of the land before the students start to arrive. One man (early 40s?) arrived about a half an hour early. The first students come in tentatively, as they always think I'm another student and not the professor. He came in and asked if I was teaching the course, and I affirmed that I was. He swept up to the front of the room and intertwining English and Portuguese, introduced himself as M. from San Paulo and--grasping my hand in both of his--told me how pleased he was to meet me.
M. proceeded to talk my ear off before, during, and after class. After the last few students who stayed to ask me questions left, he came to the front and said, "You are a wonderful teacher!" I told him I hadn't even taught anything yet; we'd only gone over the syllabus. "Oh, but I can tell. I can already tell," he said emphatically. "I was signed up for this course last semester but I dropped it. I can tell that this one is going to be unbelievable."
"Why did you drop last semester?" I asked.
"I have a lot of medical problems," he began.
"You certainly don't have to go into your private issues," I interrupted. "I just wondered if you had trouble with the course and that's why you had to drop it."
He didn't say anything, and instead began unbuckling his belt.
"What are you doing!?" I cried in alarm. He didn't answer, and proceeded to hook his thumbs into the top of his pants to push them down.
I jumped back and squawked, "Stop!"
He paused and said simply, "I want to show you something."
I started grabbing my things while saying, "Don't show me anything! Stop!"
"No, no," he assured me. "I just want to show you my surgery scars."
"I believe you. I don't need to see them. Don't pull your pants down!"
He ignored me again, and pulled his pants down far enough so that the top of his pubic hair was visible and, said, "See this scar? I have to take a lot of medication and last semester it affected my attendance. But this time it won't. I can feel it. It's going to be good." He pulled his pants back up and began buckling the belt and said, "I'm not here for the grade. I'm here because I WANT it. I want to know."
Heading out of the room--more than a little flustered--I babbled, "Well, good. That sounds good. I think it will be good. Good."
He laughed and said, "Did I mention that I was crazy?"
"I can tell," I told him.
"I kill people, too!" he cried laughing.
Then I got very serious. "Don't even play games with me. Everything you're doing and saying is completely inappropriate. I was in a room alone with you and I felt threatened. Don't joke about this stuff."
He seemed genuinely alarmed and profusely apologized over and over again. "I'll be your best student!" he promised. "I won't miss a class! I'll get top grades! I'll email you and I'll stay after class to ask you questions."
(That's what I'm afraid of.)
"You won't have any trouble with me. I'll be your best student," he promised again.