At the end of my first day as a teaching assistant, I asked, "Any questions?" Sabra's hand shot up.
"Where's the Education Building?"
I didn't know.
Later that afternoon, a colleague who was trying to decipher her schedule asked me if I knew what AOB 4 meant or where it was. These questions stymied me as well. Fortunately, I didn't need to know the answers that first quarter. I had it easy; my class was located in Olson, a two-minute walk from my Voorhies office and right next to Sproul Hall, which houses my department. I spent 11 weeks on time, cocky, mapless. I assumed my schedule would always be that simple. I was a fool. After the winter holidays came the quarter of the pigs.
My class was scheduled in TB 3, or Temporary Building 3. I finally found it on the map, making me wonder about the time frame to which "temporary" refers. How "temporary" can a building be if its location is printed on campus maps? Searching for it, I wove past the engineering buildings, crossed a parking lot and stopped. I had known theoretically that Davis was an agricultural school; here was the concrete proof--a hog barn with adjacent outdoor pens inhabited by a number of large pigs. To the right were three white mobile home-type structures, and I knew immediately they were Temporary Buildings One, Two and Three.
My class in TB 3 was the only one I've ever had in which no one ever suggested taking a break. A break only meant five minutes to contemplate and smell the pigs. That quarter it also rained almost every day, and the building's heating system worked only sporadically. My students sat in coats and scarves, looking as if they were ready to bolt at any moment.
The following term took me even farther from the main area of campus. I taught in a computer lab in Tercero, a dormitory. For me, it was a 25-minute walk from my office. For my students, it was a stumble down the stairs from their rooms. Many would come straight from bed. Some would change out of their pajamas; some wouldn't.
That first year I learned how important a class's physical location can be. Just as a class at 10 a.m. may go well (no matter what the students wear) while the same material bombs at 3 p.m., so too where a class is held can significantly affect its dynamics. For example, I've found students (and instructors) are often late to classes in Wellman; the nearby Memorial Union seduces them into thinking they can grab a quick cup of coffee on the way, and they end up standing in a gridlock formed by dozens of other people with the same idea.
Having been at Davis for several years, I now know where AOB 4 is. In fact, I've even taught in it. I didn't like it. My room was full of electronic equipment, and it made me nervous. A room of microphones, video machines and expensive complicated machinery intimidates me. I feel I should be using the equipment, flicking switches and turning knobs, rather than simply standing, talking and tossing chalk in my hand.
I've taught in a variety of other classrooms as well, such as the windowless ground floor boxes of Hart where I spent part of each class battling claustrophobia. Although I've grown to like being sent to unfamiliar areas of campus, and I especially like teaching in "science" buildings, in part because the rooms always seem to have more chalk than those in the humanities, I admit that I'm most comfortable back in Olson. It's a simple building so free of distractions that the textbook is the most interesting thing in the room. It's close to my office, and as an added bonus, the heating works in the wintertime.
-- Joe Mills, Ph.D. '98
