"Look Who's Teaching at CUNY…?"
Ming Fearon
Issue date: 9/2/09 Section: Opinion
I have no eloquent opinions on the minor requirement, but the topic is somewhat connected to a fundamental issue that I, and I am sure many others, grudgingly hold against our school. When the minor was eliminated, I wanted to find out if I could still easily complete mine. I wandered the empty halls of my minor department until I encountered a sole person in his office who was able to immediately help me. A week later, I struggled with class registration in the same department. Upon returning to the same office, my question was again answered with great competence. As I left his doorway, my happiness at consistently receiving help subsided as a rude voice pierced the air.
"Excuse me," a woman at a desk said, "what do you think you're doing?"
"I had a question about registration, and-"
"Why do you think we're sitting at these desks? So that you can just walk by us? That was the department chair. You can't just talk to him without going through us. He has better things to do than answer your questions."
"I'm sorry, I-"
"Next time, make sure you talk to us," she hissed.
I felt compelled to ask how crucial her job was to the department if neither she nor her cohort had been present to tell me this when I had unwittingly visited the chair's office the week before. But since I was unsure of my future involvement with the department, I felt it wise to refrain, since she seemed very excitable.
My issue with Hunter is this: the place is full of staff who appear determined to provide students with as little help as humanly possible. And if they have succeeded in being truly unhelpful, they often are pugnacious as well. While I've had great classes and met incredible people at Hunter, my relationship with the school is a largely troubled one.
When I began work at a café this summer, my co-workers asked me where I went to school and if I liked it. I discovered that my manager attended Hunter when he nearly jumped out of his chair in fury. "You go to Hunter?" he asked me, his eyes wild. "I hated that place!" He then proceeded to speak badly about the school every time the subject came up: "You're a student. You're there to learn. You pay them to teach you. And they treat you like garbage."
"Excuse me," a woman at a desk said, "what do you think you're doing?"
"I had a question about registration, and-"
"Why do you think we're sitting at these desks? So that you can just walk by us? That was the department chair. You can't just talk to him without going through us. He has better things to do than answer your questions."
"I'm sorry, I-"
"Next time, make sure you talk to us," she hissed.
I felt compelled to ask how crucial her job was to the department if neither she nor her cohort had been present to tell me this when I had unwittingly visited the chair's office the week before. But since I was unsure of my future involvement with the department, I felt it wise to refrain, since she seemed very excitable.
My issue with Hunter is this: the place is full of staff who appear determined to provide students with as little help as humanly possible. And if they have succeeded in being truly unhelpful, they often are pugnacious as well. While I've had great classes and met incredible people at Hunter, my relationship with the school is a largely troubled one.
When I began work at a café this summer, my co-workers asked me where I went to school and if I liked it. I discovered that my manager attended Hunter when he nearly jumped out of his chair in fury. "You go to Hunter?" he asked me, his eyes wild. "I hated that place!" He then proceeded to speak badly about the school every time the subject came up: "You're a student. You're there to learn. You pay them to teach you. And they treat you like garbage."
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