Recently a student of mine nearly punched me in the head over Shakespeare's Globe Theater.

Allow me to explain:

Every so often, I give failing seniors extra credit assignments as a chance to redeem themselves as academic aspirants. Since the statewide initiative was put into place mandating that schools "teach through all modalities," extra credit assignments can now be delivered in various ways: written, oral, visual, or interpretive dance. This particular student chose to build a miniature replica of the Globe Theater. On the day the assignment was due, he, with obvious pride, placed his creation on my desk.

"What's this?" I asked.

He gave a politely restrained snort. "What do you think it is?" he said.

"I don't know. That's why I asked."

"It's the friggin' Globe Theater, dude!"

(Students nowadays really do call their teachers—even teachers over 50—"Dude.")

I stared at the thing. It was round, more or less. It was made of Popsicle sticks. I saw remnants of the original flavors all over the "theatre" walls. I counted lemon, lime, grape, raspberry, cherry, chocolate, and orange among the construction materials. Possibly boysenberry.

"It's just a bunch of old Popsicle sticks arranged in a circle," I said. "For all I know it could be Stonehenge—or Gumby's house."

"Could I get credit for that, too?" the kid asked eagerly.

"You haven't given it enough thought. You haven't even washed the sticks."

"Dude, I worked on that for an hour!" the kid said, affronted. "Do you know how many Popsicles my family had to eat so I could make Shakespeare's condo or whatever? We all got cold headaches."

For a little while we argued back and forth. Finally I executed my professional prerogative to make a judgment. "I am not giving you extra credit," I said. "In fact, I'm pretty amazed that you would even think of submitting this for a grade."

The kid turned purple with outrage. "If—if you weren't a teacher, dude, I would punch you in the head!" he nearly screamed. Then he added in a wounded tone: "You are really hurting my self of steam, man."

I looked at him. "Your what?" I asked.

"My self of steam!" he shouted. "Are you deaf, old man?"

Several years ago I made a startling discovery. My students really like themselves—a whole lot, in most cases. But they don't want people like themselves to represent them in court. Or operate on them. Or do any work for them that might require real proficiency.