I was assigned two freshmen composition classes at Syracuse University in 1986, fifty students total, with no training other than “Keep records” and “Smile.” I was 29 and had never taught anything. First semester not so good. Second semester I began to love teaching and the students. Was disgusted by the ineptness and smugness of the supervisors, and they knew it (no use finessing my feelings because people have always seen right through me anyway) so when a huge impromptu party happened one evening in the largest adjunct office, with anti-supervisor graffiti Magic-Markered up the walls to the ceiling – Rankovic was a prime suspect. Yet all witnesses told investigators that the little pit viper had not been present. The traitors were in fact their finest Yes-men and Yes-women. Guess it happens that way a lot. Moral of the story: --Do you have a moral for this story, that'll sum it up?